ccxcvi. i am lord voldemort
Albus Dumbledore watched Harriet as she withdrew from his office, her back a straight, hard line with misery riding hard upon her raised shoulders.
The door slammed shut behind her.
Severus went to jump from his seat and follow, but Albus tempered him. "Leave her be," he said, and the Potions Master stiffened as if he hadn't realized what he was doing. "Let her go. She wouldn't appreciate being coddled, Severus. Not now." Albus knew how deeply such grief could cut when it turned to anger, and he didn't wish that upon Harriet or Severus.
He blinked, and then his lip curled. "I've never coddled anyone a day in my life," he retorted as if being convicted of kindness were the worst sort of slander. "I simply fail to understand why you would allow her to disrespect you like that and strut from the office."
"I think you'll agree with me that Harriet deserves more license than most."
"I will do no such thing."
He lowered his unhappy gaze to the floor, alighting upon the remains of the prophecy. His expression didn't change, but he stepped forward, and Albus heard the remaining glass crunch beneath the heel of his boot.
If only it were so simple, Albus thought as Snape twisted his foot, and the broken slivers ground to dust. Often, Albus was of two minds; the first grateful that fate decided to place an old doddering wizard such as himself in Aberforth's pub at the right moment to hear the prophecy, the second always wishing the damn thing had gone unheard, relegated instead to blissful obscurity deep in Madam Lincroft's Hall of Prophecy. If no one had ever listened to the prophecy, would it have come to pass? Would Harriet Potter still have her parents? Would Lord Voldemort still be in power?
He never fell from power, Albus mused with a brief, self-deprecating smile.
Sometimes, he could admit to himself he wished Mr. Longbottom truly was the destined child—and not because he felt Neville was stronger than Harriet or more capable. No, sadly, Albus was of the opinion the poor boy lacked a certain quality of character needed to withstand Tom Riddle—but Albus' selfish heart could not help but wish it'd been him sometimes. Him who needed to shoulder the burdens that were slowly, indelibly breaking parts of Harriet's spirit.
He pictured what her life could have been if Tom Riddle had been nothing but a bogeyman instead of her destiny. Perhaps she would have gone to Beauxbatons when Nicolas first suggested it as a possibility. Perhaps Nicolas and Perenelle would still be alive. Perhaps Harriet would not bear quite so many scars, and maybe her smile wouldn't have grown quite so rare.
But, it didn't do to dwell on dreams and forget to live.
The Potions Master retrieved his wand and Vanished the ruined prophecy, having to repeat the spell to get the remaining granules.
Magic prickled against Albus' ear, soft as a butterfly's wing. He straightened and exhaled. "We're about to have company, Severus."
Not a moment later, the office door opened, and Professor Slytherin came inside without invitation. To say Tom sauntered in wouldn't have been an inaccurate description in Albus' opinion, and he had a sneaking suspicion he knew what had put that particular smugness in the wizard's step.
Those few distraught glimmers of self Severus had allowed to surface vanished in an instant, replacing the unhappy young man with a flat, bored persona better suited for a professor unwillingly summoned to his employer's office. He affected a gracious half-bow in Slytherin's direction.
"Professor," he said with all the loquaciousness required to say 'My Lord.'
Slytherin fluttered his hand in Snape's direction as if shooing a persistent footman. "Be on your way, Severus. I have words for Dumbledore."
Again, Severus bowed, saying, "Of course, Professor."
He turned to depart, and Albus called after him. "Professor Snape," he said. "Please remember what I've said."
Snape paused in his retreat to look at him, and Albus took a moment to appreciate the sheer depth of the man's Occlusion. Oh, Albus might have been a fool for many reasons, but he wasn't a fool enough to trust what he saw, not when years of experience had given him a better understanding of the wizard before him. Severus looked disinterested, almost contemptuous, and was anything but.
"Yes, Dumbledore."
The Potions Master departed, and Tom slunk into the guest chair, sprawling like a king upon his throne. He laughed—and it was an arrogant, breathy sound Albus used to hear the boy use among his besotted peers.
How easily he drew them in. How simply.
"Ah, Severus. Always such a bore. To whom do you think he really belongs, old man? To you?" Riddle smirked. "Or to me?"
Albus met his derisive stare with measured calm. "I'm sure Severus knows his own mind." He said the words, and yet Albus knew a simple truth Riddle didn't; Severus belonged to no man. If he belonged to anyone at all, it was to a young, green-eyed woman upon whose shoulders the fate of the Wizarding world had come to squarely rest.
He knew that if serving Tom Riddle would spare the girl, then Severus would turn. Grudgingly, unwillingly, and yet he would turn all the same. In the past, Albus would have gone to great lengths to ensure such a thing couldn't come to pass. He would have guilted Severus, black-mailed him, bent him until he suited a shape in Albus' many plans—but Albus didn't make plans like that anymore. He left the plotting and machinations to Riddle.
Besides, Albus didn't mind, for he trusted more in the goodness of Harriet's soul and the love in Severus' heart than in Tom's poisoned guile.
"What business do you have with me, Tom?"
The use of his given name earned a slight twitch in his eyelid, but Slytherin otherwise didn't react. "Oh, I merely came to discuss the unfortunate death of Nicolas Flamel. You've heard about it, I'm sure. Such a tragedy." He flicked invisible lint off his sleeve. "Of course, with Flamel's death, I've been granted custody of dear Harriet." And now his grin took on a decidedly sinister edge, madness peeking from behind his composed mask. "I do wonder what you'll give me to allow her back into Hogwarts next year, Dumbledore."
Albus listened to him with serene stoicism, and his lack of reaction nettled Tom. He stirred, restless as a dragon expecting dinner but not smelling the meat. "I'm afraid, dear Professor, you'll have to forgo celebrating the joys of guardianship for a while longer."
Slytherin's smile slipped. "I beg your pardon?"
In answer, Albus nudged a scroll he'd left on his desk for this express purpose closer to the wizard. He'd expected Tom to come sooner, but it suited his dramatic tendencies to make his grand reveal the moment Harriet was released from hospital. It made Albus grind his teeth to think what misery Slytherin wished to heap upon the poor girl the moment she was well enough to leave her sick bed.
Did I not do the same? Did I not wait long enough for her to take a breath, just to pile on another stone?
Slytherin snatched up the scroll and whipped it open with a flourish, his nose already wrinkled in irritation. Albus waited, and he knew the exact instant Tom realized Nicolas' duplicity. He had not been named Harriet's guardian. Albus had.
The guest chair clattered to the floor. The silver trinkets that survived Harriet's brief flare of temper fared less fortunate against Tom's, and they clattered upon the floor in bright flashes of bursting mercury. Dumbledore found himself facing the end of a wand, and the serene old wizard didn't blink. The tip flared green, and the color reflected in Tom's eyes so they appeared emerald for a moment instead of a ghastly scarlet.
"Go ahead," Albus told him, smiling. "Do as you will."
The spell didn't come. Of course it didn't, for Tom knew if he murdered Albus Dumbledore, even if he managed to get away with the crime itself, the school would never recognize him as Headmaster. It would be a path forever barred to him, and it would ruin all his plans.
Tom bore his teeth in a furious grimace. "You think you're so clever, Dumbledore," he said. "You always have. But, your tricks won't save you or the girl forever. Your time is coming to an end." The wand retreated, vanishing into the wizard's sleeve. "I'll be there to watch them lower you into the ground, and I'll relish every moment of it, knowing I'll have the school—and I'll have your favorite student. I'll have her, and all the others. I'll have Snape, and McGonagall. I'll have the future generations of the Wizarding world beneath my thumb…and you'll be dead." Tom's smile returned. "Every person you ever loved will die screaming while you're you're helpless to stop it." He stepped back, and the pressure of his gaze relented. "Until then, Dumbledore."
He made a quick departure, undoubtedly to vent his frustration on an unsuspecting victim, and Albus Dumbledore felt every single one of his years as he sat unmoving behind his desk, shoulders curving in. He stared down at his only remaining hand where it rested on the desk.
"Until then, Tom," he whispered.
xXx
Through the night-clad halls of the once stately manor, screams echoed like the clarion call of a death knell.
The air trembled with cruel energy, a wickedness that tainted every breath and pulsed in the walls. It pitted the wallpaper, dulled the once vibrant jewel tones to dusky hues, and tarnished the floor where it once gleamed like sultry gold. The portrait frames collected dark, pitch-like dust, their occupants having abandoned their portals when the manor's family fled in the night.
The screaming continued.
Figures in black robes dotted the corridors and sumptuous solars. Some slumped in puddles of oozing blood, streaks painting the walls at their backs, and others simply stood with their heads down, eyes averted. They heard the screaming but did not react.
The figures only moved when the looming specter of the Dark Lord oozed up from the darkness ensconcing the cellar steps.
A man sat in casual repose by the entrance, swirling a libation around the inside of a filigree goblet. The liquid emitted thin, gossamer veils of trailing smoke.
The man's crimson eyes flicked from the goblet to the Dark Lord's impassive face.
"He's going to kill him," he commented, the liquid turning in slow, idle circles. "We can scarcely afford to lose another servant." A peculiar tick tightened the muscles of his neck, jaw twitching once before it settled again. "He doesn't listen to us."
The Dark Lord said nothing as he swept by.
The screaming grew in volume as the wizard passed through the plundered chambers of Malfoy Manor. His bare feet made no sound on the sullied carpet as he walked.
The door to the drawing room swung in on damaged hinges, revealing the scene beyond. On the floor, a burly wizard wailed and thrashed in his own emissions, held under by a slim black wand pointed at his heaving chest. Marvolo Gaunt's hand didn't waver. His gaze remained placid, and his mouth tipped ever so slightly further into a displeased frown when he sensed the Dark Lord's presence.
Other Death Eaters dotted the room's peripheries. Bellatrix lay on the floor, trembling from her own treatment beneath the Cruciatus, but that did not stop the witch from rolling to her knees when she knew her Lord was near. She pressed her sweating brow to the carpet, ragged breaths wheezing in and out of her lungs.
Lord Voldemort viewed this all with dispassion. Dolohov's screams broke into static, unintelligible grunts, and he sighed.
"I went through the trouble of retrieving them from Azkaban…again," he said in a cold, soft voice. "Desist in breaking my servants."
Gaunt gave his wrist a smooth, practiced flick, and the curse ended, Dolohov's distress fading into low, agonized groans.
"Your servants?" Gaunt didn't deign the Dark Lord with a proper address, refusing to turn to him. His hair fell across his brow, and his stately robes bore evidence of dishevelment. "Ah, that's right…your ssservants."
Voldemort viewed him through half-lidded eyes. He steepled his long, spider-like hands together before himself. Gaunt continued hissing.
"YOUR servants have cossst us everything!" he snarled. "They're useless! You should have spared them our wrath and left them on that pitiful rock to rot!"
"The failures of a servant are merely a reflection of the master's mistakes," the Dark Lord responded, stepping closer. "Your mistakes."
Gaunt's eyes widened as he turned now. "How simple it is for you to cast blame," he scoffed. "You sit in reclusion, demanding, and never lifting a finger while I—."
In a sudden fit of temper, the Dark Lord surged forward, and his hand wrapped around Gaunt's throat. "You ARE me," he said, the words cutting through sharp, serpentine teeth. "That you exist at all is a miracle of my design—."
"A mistake," Gaunt corrected, uncowed. The Death Eaters watched in trepidation as the Dark Lord toiled with the pretender. "A mistake of your design. The unintentional. The pretendersss. My, my—how many mistakes has Lord Voldemort created, hmm?"
Taloned fingers dug into Gaunt's flesh. "Lord Voldemort makes no mistakes," he retorted. He lifted until Gaunt had no choice but to grip his white wrist, but he did nothing so undignified as struggle. "I am a GOD among men, and that you assume yourself anything more than an echo of that greatness, that you PRETEND—."
"As you pretend, my Lorrrd?" Gaunt drawled, his free hand coming to grip Lord Voldemort's own throat. The Death Eaters flinched but didn't act. "That you're anything more than a remnant in the base of a cup? The final drop after the rest hasss been spilled? You've displaced so much of yourself, YOU'VE become the echo, haven't you…Tom?"
Cracks formed in Gaunt's neck, wending up his jaw, blackened pieces of flesh peeling from the whole like ash. His breaths came in shorter, stilted bursts, but still, he laughed, and disdain glowed in his ruby eyes.
"Do you believe regret changes anything?" he asked, his Parseltongue growing raspier. "I am Lord Voldemort. But are you? Regret won't take Slytherin. He's smarter than you. Smarter than us." He grinned, teeth stark white but smeared pink with thin, trickling blood. "It won't take the girl."
"I am all that has mattered, and all that I have bore are mere reflections of my power. Lord Voldemort is my past, my present, and my future. And you. Are. A. Regret."
His jaw opened wide, too wide for a human's—and he sank his teeth into Gaunt's throat.
He devoured him.
Magic poured into him, poured through him, and when nothing but the dregs remained, blackened cinders spilling between bone-white fingers, the Death Eaters trembled at the power that thrummed and grew until it shattered the windows. Lord Voldemort threw back his head and laughed. The Dark Lord laughed and blood-red tears stained his cheeks.
END PART FIVE
A/N: That's a wrap for Year Five.