Writer's notes:
The author of this story gave me the permission to continue it. She said she won't be writing on wattpad anymore and that I am free to write this story as I wish.
I
"But nothing I have seen in the world has supported your pronouncements that love is more powerful than my kind of magic, Dumbledore."
-Tom Riddle, HBP
"What was that light?" asked Riddle abruptly, looking down at the goblet of wine from which he had just taken a sip.
"I thought and thought about how this meeting of ours should go. Finally, I decided that this was the right thing to do..." asserted Dumbledore calmly, pointing to the chalice. Voldemort angrily placed the golden goblet on the table and stood up. His worn-out face, already pale, had turned even whiter.
"What does it all mean, Dumbledore?" asked Riddle sourly, "what have you done?"
"One of the creepiest stories I've heard about you, Tom, has to do with the small Muggle village Biertan, located in the Transylvanian woods," explained Dumbledore in a hushed tone, while observing, from over his half-moon glasses, Riddle's glacial expression.
"I don't know what you're talking about," remarked Tom, narrowing his eyes.
"I think, on the contrary, that you know very well what I'm talking about, Tom," continued Dumbledore unperturbed. "You see, I too found it hard to believe the rumours about the 'Muggle hunt', until an old acquaintance of mine, who, unbeknownst to you and your 'friends', witnessed that havoc, handed me her memories," said the old wizard, pointing to some transparent vials, neatly arranged in a cabinet. "I must admit that in all my life, I have never seen such atrocity," Dumbledore concluded with his mouth twisted in disgust. The two wizards stared at each other for a little while and the tension in the air became nearly palpable.
"As I've already told you, I don't know what you're talking about," hissed Riddle angrily.
"Let's skip the part where you think I believe the words coming out of your mouth," asserted Dumbledore slowly, staring at Riddle with such intensity that the latter was forced to look away for a few seconds.
"What was that light?" asked Tom for the umpteenth time, wrapping his fingers around the wand inside his cloak.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you. We both know that would be a mistake," Dumbledore suggested, fixing his azure eyes on Riddle's pale hand.
"What was that light?"
"It was an Interchanging Spell, called the Fatal Nexus."
"Never heard of it," Riddle said dryly.
"I have no doubt about that. It's not, so to speak, the kind of magic you're interested in," Dumbledore clarified, smiling. Riddle raised an eyebrow. "The Fatal Nexus spell binds the destinies of two people forever." Riddle, about to say something, opened his mouth, but the words failed him. "I have bonded your life to that of a Muggle, with the hope of teaching you something about what you underestimate the most: love." On hearing that speech Riddle erupted into a roaring laughter.
"This is ridiculous. You're a fool," said the Heir of Slytherin, shaking his head in disbelief.
"From now on, you will not be able to live without her Tom," commented Dumbledore in a serious tone.
"Albus Dumbledore, the great defender of Muggles, plays puppet master with a Muggle's life. Do you realise what you have done? If what you say is true, I'll have to get rid of the poor wretch."
"Here comes the most extraordinary part of this magic, Tom. Your life, from now on, hinges on the life of that young woman. Should she perish, you will perish too."
A grotesque expression disfigured the face of the Slytherin, who now extracted his wand and pointed it at the headmaster. Dumbledore remained motionless and continued to smile. At that very moment, someone knocked at the door.
"Come in," said the headmaster. Two tall, lumpy Aurors entered the office, both of them glaring at Riddle's wand.
"Now, Tom, if you don't mind, I have very important matters to attend to," the wizard dismissed him, pointing towards the exit. Riddle gave him one last threatening look, slipped his wand into the inside pocket of his travelling cloak, and left the office, slamming the door behind him.
· .
That same night, Tom couldn't sleep a wink and kept wondering whether or not Dumbledore was bluffing. He had never heard of Nexus Fatale. At that moment, the Slytherin would have given anything to have the Hogwarts library at his disposal to learn more about Interchanging Spells. Unfortunately, Riddle Manor, where Tom resided with a couple of his Death Eaters, was crammed with useless Muggle books.
If it was all true and Dumbledore had indeed linked his existence to that of an ordinary Muggle, it was imperative to settle that matter promptly. Although Riddle had at his disposal four Horcruxes, he still did not want to risk losing his corporeal form over such a silly inconvenience. To resurrect would have been an arduous and time-consuming task. Time that he had to devote to his rise to power, not to a stupid Muggle.
What he would not have given to kill Albus Dumbledore that very morning, but he knew full well that trying to kill the headmaster of Hogwarts would put him in the spotlight all too soon. His plans called for keeping a low profile in England for at least another year.
And now he was forced to track down that Muggle woman and keep her as safe as possible, at least until he figured out a way to untie their fates.
But how to find her? Where to look for her?
· .
Evelyn Thorpe jolted awake in the middle of the night. Drenched in sweat and out of breath, she lay in bed staring at the ceiling, listening to the crows cawing in the darkness of the cemetery her room overlooked. Tremors pervaded her from head to toe as she thought back about the nightmare that had awakened her. The grotesque, pale face of the stranger who had chased her in the darkness had been branded into her irises.
Evelyn got out of bed and walked towards the jug of water placed on the dresser. She filled a glass and drank, trying to concentrate on something other than that dreadful dream. She opened one of the wardrobe's doors, trying to make as little noise as possible, and pulled out a second nightgown.
As she changed the mottled robe, her gaze rested upon the clock on the wall; it was four o'clock in the morning and she most definitely had to go back to sleep, as in a few hours she would have had to face a very long day at work.
For almost two years Evelyn had been working as a waitress at the Black Eagle, which was the only pub in Little Hangleton, a small village located in Yorkshire. It wasn't the best of jobs, but it allowed her to support herself and send her savings to her mother, who took care of her brother, left paralysed from the waist down and confined to a wheelchair because of the war. And the grand plans Evelyn had had for her future before wartime, to study and become a doctor, had come to nothing.
The pub was definitely an unsuitable place for a girl that had just turned eighteen, but her lack of work experience made her the ideal candidate for that job. Evelyn had quickly become accustomed to the long hours of the shifts, the sore feet and the cackling of the customers. But the one thing she really couldn't stand were those regulars who, after one beer too many, would start making advances to her, at times resorting to vulgar terms, at other times to physical actions, such as clutching her around the waist or grabbing her by the arm. And young Evelyn, out of fear of a bitter landlady who pretended nothing was wrong and out of anxiety of losing her job, continued to work hard, without causing any fuss, secretly hoping that someday, somehow, her life would change for the better.
· .
That same day, during her lunch break, Evelyn's attention was caught by a loud chatter coming from one of the pub tables.
"Did you hear that they have finally sold Riddle Manor?"
"Really? To whom?"
"It would appear that the new owner is a lord."
"I bet old Frank won't be too happy about that, now that he can no longer pretend to work, and he'll have to roll up his sleeves."
"Let's hope he doesn't take this owner out too."
"Are you talking about Riddle Manor?"
"Yes, they sold it to a lord."
"I saw him this morning!"
"Who?"
"The new owner. I was out for my usual walk and caught a glimpse of him through the fence. A tall man with black hair and a strange, very pale face."
"Strange in what way?"
"I wouldn't know how to word it. It was as if... as if there was a wax mask on his face. And he's also very arrogant."
"Arrogant? Why?"
"He didn't return my greeting. He stared at me directly in the eyes, turned on his heels and strolled back into the house. And I just stood there, with my hand in mid-air."
"How embarrassing!"
"Tell me about it!"
Evelyn finished eating absent-mindedly. She cleaned up the table and thoughtfully headed to the back of the bar to get ready for her second shift.
Only once prior to that afternoon had Evelyn heard of Riddle Manor, and that story had left a bitter aftertaste in her mouth.
It was the landlady of the pub who had told her all about the murder that had happened so many years ago in that magnificent mansion. The Riddle family had been killed on a summer night in 1945, the cause of death was never found, and Frank, the gardener, suspected of having committed that atrocity had been jailed, but then, to the surprise of the whole village, released soon after for lack of evidence. Many still believed that Frank was the culprit and that the police, as usual, had done a sloppy job.
Evelyn wondered if the new owner was aware of that chilling anecdote. She, surely, would never have dared to live in a place with such a history. Given that the only supernatural thing she believed in was ghosts, she was certain that due to their tragic end, the spirits of the Riddles haunted that residence.
· .
Around ten o'clock in the evening, three elegantly dressed men walked past a couple of girls, who were smoking outside the Black Eagle. The straw-haired man winked at both of them.
"I miss our 'Muggle Hunt'," Ace Mulciber told the other two, as soon as they were well away from prying ears.
"Give it time, Mulciber. In a year, England will be our 'playground', and you will be able to hunt whoever you like," asserted Tom Riddle, in a heavy tone, massaging one temple. All that thinking about Dumbledore and the Interchanging Spells had given him a headache.
"I, on the other hand, could use a stiff one," asserted the third man, Artem Nott, looking back at the Black Eagle. Riddle stopped and the other two did the same and fixed his icy eyes on Nott.
'Me too,' Riddle said finally with no emphasis. And changing his direction, he headed for the entrance of the old pub.
The three of them, as they entered, attracted several curious glances. Everything about them, from their expensive clothing to their important bearing implied that they weren't used to frequenting such dives. A few astonished glances rested on the unusual features of the tallest of the three. Concited whispers erupted throughout the place.
"I wonder what happened to his face?"
"He must have been caught in a fire."
"No, fire damages more than that."
"That's him! He's the new owner of Riddle Manor."
"Who? The lord?"
"Yes."
Unaware of those assumptions, Riddle, Nott, and Mulciber took their seats at the only vacant table and talking quietly amongst themselves they waited for someone to come up and take their order.
Evelyn Thorpe cautiously dodged a drunk customer as she carried two pints of beer to the table adjacent to the newcomers' one.
Evelyn's grip on the tray loosened, and a loud clatter of broken glass cut through the pub's chatty atmosphere as her eyes locked with Lord Voldemort's. It was him. The man from her nightmare.
That very instant, Riddle felt something he could swear he had never felt in his entire life, a pressing feeling in his heart. A maniacal smile appeared on the Slytherin's lips. He didn't know why and how he was so certain about it, but he knew it was her. His Muggle.