Chapter 7:
Those he's Wronged
Tom glowered at the ceiling from his lonesome hospital bed.
The other students - cute, annoying, enraging and loud though they may have been - were released a week prior thus leaving him alone with his thoughts. He hated to admit it, but he missed them. To the point that refreshing on past coursework, which had always been so cathartic to him in the past, held no interest for him. This uncharacteristic disinterest in school work was compounded by the rising summer heat and feelings of anticipation towards summer break that every student in the school was putting off in a miasma so thick that it seeped through the walls, and simultaneous so light that it glided up from the grounds below to tantalize him in his prison of white linen.
And if all of that wasn't bad enough, a funeral was being held today on the Hogwarts grounds. A funeral he wasn't invited to. Despite knowing this was for the best he still felt a sting at being excluded. Shouldn't he be allowed some kind of closure as well? Shouldn't he be allowed to embrace the solemn sight of Ginevra and Harry being lowered into their graves? The only two people ever allowed to be put to rest into the soil consecrated by the four founder's so many centuries ago?
"Bollocks to all of that."
His decision made, he flung the covers aside and marched towards the massive oaken doors that seemed so much like prison bars before. His was a simple plan; Sneak up to Gryffindor tower, snag Harry's cloak, sneak down to the funeral as a silent and unseen observer. He had all of Harry's memories so hopefully the password was still caput draconis... Wait, no that one was old. Really old. Pig snout? Flibbertigibbet?
He'd dredge the correct answer up on his way there.
Tom checked to see if Madame Pomfrey was preoccupied(she was) and hovered a hand over the door to check for the telltale sensation of a detection ward(absent.) With a self-satisfied smirk he wrenched the door open and made a runner.
... Right into a hard wall of leather and fur.
"I reckon ye ain't getting past me Tom."
"I reckon you might be right Ruby." Tom retorted without skipping a beat.
"Don't you be callin me tha!"
Tom shut the door before his first ever friend - in both lives - could finish his sentence. Then again, with his tendency to truncate words he might have actually been done talking anyways.
"Plan B then."
He crossed to the bathroom, realized he actually had to go pee and relieved himself before his journey, and then spoke the password to the secret passage that Fred(or was it George?) had revealed to him less than a week earlier.
"Boo!"
Tom would never admit it, but he might have screamed like a little girl as the transparent, bespectacled ghost leapt out at him. He would happily admit to the manly 'oof' sound he made upon landing flat on his ass after slipping on the damp bathroom tiles though.
Myrtle cackled, snorted and hickuped repeatedly in what passed for laughter for the girl.
"Did Dumbledore recruit you to guard me too?" Tom asked as he rubbed his backside. "Seems a little cruel and psychologically unhealthy."
"Mmmmnope!" She slurred. "I volunteered. He refused my help. I came anyways."
... He deserved this. He was getting everything that was coming to him. Yes, he was. Didn't mean he was giving up, though.
He marched out of the bathroom to the one window he knew for certain - from hours of experimentation - could be wriggled open wide enough to squeeze through. He unclasped the hinges, opened it to it's maximum width and then used a nearby lamp to wedge it open even wider.
Not for the first time he found himself thanking his blessings for being so scrawny - again, in both lives - and squeezed through. He was pretty high up but the ledges around the windows were just wide enough for him to fit. If he could shimmy the few meters needed to be above a buttress close enough for him to leap down to, then he was golden. From there he'd just have to count on luck alone to figure out a way down to the ground safely.
"Going somewhere, playboy?"
Tom turned slowly towards the sound of the oh-so-sultry voice and was unsurprised to find a ghost keeping guard around the windows. He was surprised to see it was not in fact Myrtle Warren, but the Ravenclaw House ghost herself.
God if the Grey Lady wasn't beautiful though. And as such, intimidating.
"Errrr." He said dumbly as he assessed the situation.
He glanced between the visibly enraged spirit and the foot he had hanging over the ledge, and let the lie flow naturally.
"Course not. See, with this heat I've been sweating in these shoes, so I figured I'd air my feet out before developing an offensive odor and..."
"Get back inside." She barked.
"Yes ma'am!" He squeaked.
He squeezed back through the window into the infirmary and racked his brain for any interaction he'd had with the Grey Lady. For the life of him he couldn't think of a time where they'd so much as spoken before, so what had her hating his guts? Ruby and Warren made sense. He betrayed his friendship with one and killed the other(accidentally, but still.)
"Who shoved a stick up her cun-"
"Tom!" Minerva's voice came booming into the hospital wing as she marched through the doors.
His memories as Harry Potter must be having a stronger effect on him than he thought, because the idea of being caught using such foul language in front of Minnie actually made him jump and cower slightly. Even without his new memories he never would have been caught dead dropping a C-bomb in front of any lady. Let alone Minnie.
"The headmaster has summoned you." She said as she came to a stop in front of him.
For a split second he braced himself for the uncomfortable sensation of being accio'd, despite knowing it was impossible to summon living things - which included him. But with men like Dumbledore magical laws were more akin to guidelines than hard-coded rules.
"Oh! Okay. Lead the way."
And she did. Her high-heeled boots setting their pace with each clack of metal on stone and they passed through the double-doors, past Ruby and out of the hospital wing.
He racked the new memories he inherited from Harry, and for the life of him he couldn't recall her ever wearing heels. Not that it was something little Harry would ever have noticed. His other set of memories, on the other hand, held plenty of examples of a younger, redder-haired Minerva wearing high heels. Usually when she wanted something from him, because even at seventeen she knew it drove him crazy the way they sculpted her backside.
But that was then. Heels on this older woman didn't do anything near what they did on the young woman he remembered. So if she was wearing them hoping they'd soften him up she was dead wrong.
They continued in silence for several floors. Each portrait and ghost conspicuous in their overzealous monitoring of his movements. Dumbledore really wasn't taking any chances, was he?
"Sooooo." Tom broke the awkward quiet as they neared the headmaster's office.
Minerva turned her dour expression from the path before them and focused the glare squarely on him.
"... Did we ever reconnect after you graduated?"
The question stopped her in her tracks and made her turn fully towards him. Her expression remained stern and sour as she stared him down in utter silence. They stayed like that for a full minute as she seemed to contemplate her answer.
"No." She answered simply.
"No?"
"No." She almost growled.
"Did... did we ever try to reconnect?"
"No." She gritted out.
"No?"
"No, Tom!" She exploded in her usual way. "We, never tried to reconnect. I did."
Ohhhh. So that's where it was going.
"Mountains of letters sent and promptly returned unopened."
"Hey, If it was during the summer I was forbidden from receiving owl post by the orphanage!"
"And then!" She went on as if she hadn't heard him. "A few years down the road I learn that the prodigy of Slytherin was working for that sorry excuse of a pawn shop and I think to myself 'Oh. Maybe I should visit him. Get some closure. Maybe reignite that flame' and what happens when I walk into Borgin and Burke's?"
Tom kept silent as this new information was revealed to him. His past/future he hadn't experienced or heard of.
"I find this... thing, wearing the face of my old boyfriend. With a smile that was just too wide. Teeth just too bright. Mannerisms and speech just off enough to make my skin crawl. Like the soul of the boy I loved had been sucked out and something else, something wrong, had crawled into the empty shell left behind. Something that could only pretend to be him. And it made me want to shower in battery acid to imagine sharing a bed with such a thing as I once had."
The accuracy of what she was describing sent a shiver up Tom's spine and it took all of his discipline not to shudder.
"The worst part? Nobody believed me when I tried to tell them that this thing wasn't Tom Riddle, that or there was something wholly wrong with you and you needed help. Lo they never shut up about how baffling it was to see such a rising star wasting away in a dead-end job when he could have been doing greater things. Only for you to disappear again. Funny enough, the next time you appeared, everyone saw what I saw in that monstrous visage. But by then it was far too late."
The awkward silence from before returned, and Tom had neither the strength nor the inclination to try and break it. And even if he wanted to, what could he say to breach this decades wide chasm between them? He didn't even have the details of how and why he had hurt her, unlike the many times when he'd done so before and tried to make it right.
Head bowed, he acquiesced to continue being lead to Dumbledore's office.
The silence of their walk was broken upon their arrival at the gargoyle to the headmaster's office by a rather heated screaming match. No sooner had Minerva spoken the password (butterscotch toffee) than did they hear the shouting.
"And if that abomination remains free of an Azkaban cell, or unkissed by a dementor, then so help me god you can find yourself a new potions master you old coot!" Snape's voice ricocheted off the walls of the spiral staircase he and Minerva were ascending.
The sound of something hitting the ground and splintering rang out and it was soon followed by the sound of a door slamming open. Moments later Snape stormed past them, and in the brief moment his glare passed over them Tom got a good look at him. The utter hatred and revulsion in and around his eyes were almost frightening enough to distract from the rest of his appearance, but not quite. His skin was sallow, clammy and so greasy that Tom could only conclude Harry's potion teacher hadn't showered in at least a week. He certainly hadn't shaved in that time, if his quarter inch of beard was any indication.
He didn't so much as pause as he swept past them, but that split second of eye-contact was enough to tell Tom that if Minerva hadn't had her wand out, Snape would have cast a killing curse on him in that brief moment.
It was also long enough for him to catch the man's smell and confirm he'd definitely not showered recently.
Minerva hurried him the rest of the way up the stairs into the familiar office where he saw the damage Snape had done to Dumbledore's desk. He had apparently flung it against the wall with such force that it shattered.
"Trouble in paradise, sir?" Tom couldn't stop the smartass remark from escaping his lips in time and slammed his hand over his mouth as soon as he realized what he had said.
Dumbledore, for his part, chuckled.
"Seeing a grown man so overcome with emotion as to have a burst of accidental magic is a rare, and terrible thing to behold." Dumbledore said by way of greeting. His back was turned to them as he was kneeling down to look over the remains of his desk. "All the more terrible to know it was I who caused him such pain."
"And indeed. Trouble is a good word to describe things. It seems I am short two professors and a head of house for the coming semester." He said
"Ooh! And all three are kinda my fault huh?" He said. "I mean, I know from Harry's memories that I personally cost you the last two defense teachers."
Dumbledore chuckled again.
"More than you know Tom. More than you know." He turned his attention to Minerva. " I know it's asking much, but..."
"If you think I'm going to waste my breath, let alone my evening trying to console a man whose only purpose in living, let alone working here, has been stripped away from him thrice now, you have another thing coming." Minerva interrupted. "I could sooner cast fiendfyre and a patronus wandlessly and simultaneously than convince that poor soul to carry on."
Her reprimand had more of an effect than even she probably expected, because Dumbledore's only response was to state off into space. Tom had never seen such a haunted look on... well, anybody. And the privateness of whatever was going on with this Snape fellow made him feel highly uncomfortable, in that way you could only feel when overhearing a stranger's personal issues.
Minerva excused herself and Fawks took her leaving as reason enough to vanish in flames himself, leaving Tom and Dumbledore alone.
"You called for me, sir?" Tom asked, adopting a straight, respectful posture.
"I did at that. With my role at the wake completed, and with the open casket still on display, I thought it wise to provide you with distraction. Lest you get yourself into trouble."
Damn him and his ability to predict his motivations. It always got on his nerves. None of the other teachers could, it was only ever him.
"And so, I invited a guest to help you re-equip yourself for the coming trials I fear we may be facing soon. He should arrive momentarily. Until then, do you have any pressing questions?" Dumbledore asked.
It wasn't every day Dumbledore gave carte blanche to ask any question with the veiled promise of absolute honesty in return. Tom asked the first question to pop into his mind.
"Did I really end up working for Borgin and Burke?"
Dumbledore actually lost his composure and snorted at the unexpectedly light-hearted question.
"Oh yes. You did. It surprised all of us too."
"But why?"
Dumbledore frowned.
"I have two theories. One only occurred to me much later." He pre-empted. "Are you aware of your mother? Merope Gaunt Riddle?"
Tom shook his head. His research into his heritage had only brought up the name Marvolo Gaunt. He had set his sights on investigating the man this coming summer... Er, fifty summers ago.
"She was a witch, and a parselmouth from a long line of parselmouths. The daughter of Marvolo Gaunt and sister to Morfin Gaunt. When her brother and father were arrested for assaulting Muggles, she absconded with a Muggle man by the name of Tom Riddle. Senior, upon your birth. Although I understand you were already aware of that fact?"
He was indeed. Tracking down phone books from different towns and cities for mention of people with the last name "Riddle" was a chore he had suffered since before entering Hogwarts. Narrowing down which Tom Riddle was his father was a failure until this most recent lead of the Gaunt family.
"Well, it's a dark story, but it ends with Merope penniless and dying on the streets of London, where she eventually wound up pawning a priceless family heirloom to Caractacus Burke just before Christmas. An heirloom that was rightfully yours." Dumbledore explained.
Tom was managing to follow along with the story, but he couldn't quite see where it was going. He did, however, spot a single, gaping pothole.
"Wait, if she managed to pawn something so valuable then surely, she would have been able to afford proper housing and medical attention. But I understand she showed up to the orphanage in rags and dying on the 31st?"
Dumbledore nodded.
"And I have no doubt that she did. Because, as horrible of a deed as it was, Burke paid her a pittance for the famed locket of house Slytherin."
Tom felt his blood run cold. He was very familiar with the stories of that locket. And he was very curious as to how angry he should feel towards this Caractacus fellow.
"How much?"
"Excuse me?"
"How much did he give my mother for one of the most valuable objects in all of the United Kingdom?"
Dumbledore looked at him pitiably.
"Ten entire galleons."
Tom couldn't stop the look of horror from showing on his face. That wasn't even enough to live off of at the leaky cauldron for a month! And the leaky cauldron was on the cheap side. He didn't bother masking the hate in his voice with the next question.
"How did he die?" He asked, already suspecting the answer.
"Under highly suspicious circumstances during your tour working for him." Dumbledore answered without skipping a beat.
Tom nodded in satisfaction. He embraced the schadenfreude at this new information and the fantasies it brought with it.
"Good."
"Perhaps. I have never condoned murder, and certainly never any if yours. But in this one case, I can understand your actions. And I cannot bring myself to condemn them." Dombledore consoled. "Again. In this one instance."
Tom was grateful for this little bit of closure on the mystery of his origins. A mystery that had always haunted him. He wanted to ask more about the Gaunts and Riddles, but decided it was best to save that for later. This was enough information for now.
"My other theory is that you had an unnatural lust for ancient artifacts, such as the locket, and were using your position at the shop to hunt them down." Dumbledore continued. "But perhaps it's a bit of column A and column B."
With column A being premeditated homicide in the name of revenge. Yeah. Tom wondered if Burke had been the first of his premeditated victims.
"Any further questions before our guest arrives?" Dumbledore pressed.
Tom racked his brain. With the morbid path their conversation had taken Tom couldn't help the cacophony of questions whose answers he loathed to hear. What was his kill count? - being the leading one. But he actually settled on the one he'd been trying to work out the answer to himself ever since he came to the epiphany of why he had Harry's memories. A question whose answer eluded him.
"Why was Harry Potter a Horcrux?" He pleaded.
The color drained from Dumbledore's face so fast that Tom was genuinely concerned the frown that came with it was the drooping warning sign of an oncoming stroke. The old man opened his mouth to respond - but whether with an answer or a question Tom didn't know, because just then the fireplace erupted in emerald green flame and out stepped, of all people, Ollivander.
The old wandmaker - who had somehow gotten even older since Harry last saw him - took one look at Tom and seemed to understand the situation entirely.
"Ah. That explains quite a bit, actually." Said the younger old man before trying to lift a suitcase from the fireplace.
Trying, being the operative word
"Mister Ollivander? What are you doing here?" Asked Tom.
With a grunt he managed to get the trunk unstuck from the fireplace and into the room proper. He glanced around at the shattered desk, shrugged, and dropped it into the center of the room.
"Because of one temporally displaced rising dark lord is in need of a wand." Ollivander said theatrically before kicking his trunk.
The container bloomed into a cascade of drawers on levers extending outboard like a tree until it practically scraped the ceiling. Each drawer was filled with cavities shaped for scrolls, but within which contained wands of various shapes and sizes. Each wand was painted white and wrapped tightly along the shaft with thick cotton, leaving only the handle visible.
"I'm sure you don't need me to walk you through the process of testing wand affinities for a second time, so go ahead and test each until you find a good match. Mark whichever one feels close enough to a good match with this." Ollivander instructed before handing him a red sharpie pen.
Ollivander bowed and went over to chat with Dumbledore as Tom set to work. They didn't even bother keeping their voices down. It was almost as if they didn't care if he overheard them rudely discussing his situation in his presence without including him in the conversation.
"So is he a time traveler doomed to return to the past? Would be interesting to learn the creation of he-who-must-not-be-named was his own attempt to ensure he didn't create a time paradox, or an attempt to change the future even if killing him now to prevent that eventuality is off the table "
Tom snorted at the ridiculous fantasy the younger old man had come up with as he moved his hands among the drawers. Merely touching the hilt of each wand with his palm was enough to feel any extremely negative or extremely positive reactions. By keeping his touch light he ensured any negative ones wouldn't be so extreme as to necessitate Dumbledore waving his wand - which he had conspicuously drawn.
He suspected that Dumbledore and Ollivander might not completely trust him with a wand of his own. That or both were familiar with the less than peaceful wand-matching both he and Harry had gone through.
"Oh no, that would be too simple. The young man before us is a homunculus reborn from the memories the real Tom Riddle stored in a Diary, along with some highly dangerous soul magic and bizarre happenstance." Dumbledore explained in a bit more detail than Tom was comfortable with.
Ignoring their conversation, Tom went back over the wands that elicited anything akin to a welcoming warmth or coolness, taking care to avoid the ones that had stung him with sparks of magic that felt like being shocked by a door handle on a dry summer day. He marked the ones that felt positive with the red marker and made to grasp the first one.
But when he pulled on it the damn thing remained firmly wedged into it's so let.
"Ah! Done narrowing them down already?" Ollivander pressed before leaving the protection of Dumbledore's bosom to examine which wands Tom had marked.
"Hmm. Yes. Very small selection to choose from, with a few unexpected matches. Let's have a looksie then."
He tapped the first wand with his own and released whatever magic kept it in place, before handing it to Tom. He waited for Ollivander to tell him the wood and core types, but the man simply stared at him expectantly.
"Er. Accio quill?" He gestured at one of the fallen quills near Dumbledore's desk.
Instead of summoning a quill the wand made a sizzling sound and the white cotton wrapped around it's edge created a small burn pattern that vaguely resembled a rune of some kind.
Ollivander snatched the wand back from him and examined the pattern curiously before returning the wand to its hole. He repeated his earlier process of releasing a second wand and handed it to Tom.
And so, the routine repeated as they worked through the few dozen wands that hadn't outright rebelled against Tom's touch. Only one had anything close to a useful affinity to him, but it was placed to the side in the hopes they would find a more perfect match. Eventually, they came to the final wand, which Ollivander handed him with a strange amount of nervousness in the gesture.
Tom took it hesitantly, but felt his knees buckle as the utter perfection of the wand's magic merged with that in his body and sang in agreement to him. He barely managed to hold back a groan of pleasure as the wrappings around it's length brightened from white to gold - which Tom assumed was the indicator of a perfect match.
"Wow. I think you really outdid yourself with this one, sir." He complimented as he glanced up at the wandmaker.
Only to see him wearing a frown of disappointment with no small amount of remorse thrown in.
One peek at the headmaster showed a similar grimace on his face.
"What?" He asked. "Is something wrong with the wand?"
In lieu of an answer Ollivander waved his wand at the first one to have nearly accepted him. The white paint melted away from the handle and the cotton along it's shaft faded into dust, revealing a small length of yew with a double spiral pattern alone it's handle. It was a wand he recognized from his time possessing Ginevra.
Ollivander repeated the action for the wand in Tom's hand and he looked on in horror, feeling his face contort in disgust as it's true nature was revealed.
"Eleven inches." Said Ollivander. "Holly, with a Phoenix feather as its core."
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