Part II
August 13, 1945
Tom sighed once more as the Muggle subway rumbled past the Leaky Cauldron, causing the walls to shed dried paint residue. He detested being in such close proximity to the dreary world that Muggle London embodied. With each passing day, his situation became increasingly unbearable.
He struggled more and more to accept the stifling presence of Borgin and Burke - the latter being particularly repugnant. Yet, Tom knew that Burke possessed far more knowledge about the dark arts than Borgin, and it was Burke who had hired him at the shop. Ever since Hepzibah Smith's extravagant purchases, Borgin had incessantly hovered over him to ensure he didn't attract wealthier clientele than their own. It must be admitted, Tom seemed tailor-made for the role of a relic hunter; he had satisfied numerous customers at the shop.
He hesitated to embark on his search for Horcruxes. Two potential objects lingered in his mind, safeguarded at Hepzibah Smith's. He awaited the opportunity to be nearer to them, to pilfer the two magical artifacts. He deemed this too meagre... Though he had already created a Horcrux during his Hogwarts days and possessed the Gaunt ring, he found it insufficient. Time seemed to rush by too swiftly, urging him to act urgently. Nonetheless, other matters demanded his attention before delving into Horcrux research. He knew where to start before seizing control of his destiny. Soon, he would sever ties with Burke and commence his travels, gathering his former Slytherin comrades. Tom mechanically glanced at the stack of letters they had sent him; there were many, and the orphan harboured confidence. He would undoubtedly succeed in rallying them when the time came. But before all else, he must bury his past and ensure no one could jeopardise his future. Dumbledore remained his foremost concern at present.
Tom sighed again, rising from his bed. He grew weary of incessantly pondering the same questions. His fascination with his former teacher had never been stronger; he inwardly yearned to strip away Dumbledore's incredible powers. He thirsted to acquire as many abilities as Albus, yet he recognized his current weakness. He was not yet capable of surpassing Dumbledore. Nevertheless, the wizard had been in a deplorable state for some time, which brought Tom little joy. He realised he did not truly relish seeing Dumbledore weakened. Tom struggled to comprehend his own reasoning; he should have rejoiced at Dumbledore's diminished power. Instead, he dwelled on the teacher's abilities, their last encounter, and the peculiar sensations he had experienced. He imagined Dumbledore's state of mind, wondering if the esteemed wizard felt as lost as he did. It was unbearable for the orphan; he refused to stagnate in his shabby room, consumed by thoughts of his teacher. He yearned to act, to dispel the suffocating torpor that drained his courage.
Soft, discreet knocks sounded at the bedroom door.
"It's about time," grumbled Tom, crossing the room to the door.
The bartender, bearing the unfortunate coincidence of sharing Tom's first name, stood there, looking somewhat disconcerted.
"Here is your package, Mr. Riddell," the man said with uncertainty.
"It's Rid..." Tom began, but he stopped himself. He tired of correcting people's mispronunciations of his name, vowing that they would remember it correctly in due time. For now, it was best to forsake his cursed surname forever.
"The package arrived in the early afternoon, escorted by five owls. They seemed tired..." the bartender whispered, "and... I noticed that the package moves from time to time, thought I'd mention it."
"Thank you," replied Tom dryly. "Where is it?"
"At the bottom, placed on one of the tables. It's impossible to bring it up for you from here."
Tom cursed the wizards who failed to wield their wands properly as he descended to the ground floor. With a pretentious air, he cast a levitation spell. He could have easily lightened or reduced the package's weight. In truth, Tom's power was such that he could remove any object's weight entirely. He bemoaned the fact that others couldn't remember even a basic first-year spell. Levitating the package to his room, he noticed its surprising weight as a cloud of dust escaped upon its impact with the bed.
He sighed as he beheld the crudely packaged item. It was an order for a peculiar and absurd customer who, until recently, had purchased only harpy nails every Thursday night, claiming they were delicious in leek soup. Tom took his word for it. This time, however, the customer desired something more special: a Hand of the Shadow, a derivative of the Hands of Glory. Unlike its luminous counterpart, the Hand of the Shadow attracted darkness around itself. Moreover, it had to be severed from the arm of a vampire, not a mere mortal. Clearly, Tom's client was peculiar.
Carefully untying the package, Tom noticed the object lazily moving on his bed's surface. Its pestilential odour didn't faze him; he was curious about this oddity, which held little practical value but possessed a macabre allure. When he reached for the Hand, it sprang to life, wrapping around his neck with an iron grip. Emitting a muffled sound, Tom summoned the strength to draw his wand from his pocket.
"Diffindo!" he shouted, aiming his wand at the Hand.
It shuddered and partially cracked, falling to the ground alongside Tom, who collapsed while massaging his throat. He coughed repeatedly, spitting blood as he examined his reflection in the mirror: purplish marks encircled his neck, and two small red puncture wounds marred his skin. The vampire's hand must have yearned for a bite... Tom sighed heavily, knowing the cursed Hand contained a deadly poison. Exhausted, he vowed to punish the miserable fool who had ordered such a horrible thing, and for such pointless reasons.
Retrieving his wand, which had slipped from his grasp, Tom neutralised the disgusting object and Apparated directly to St. Mungo's Hospital, looking somewhat haggard. Unfortunately, he did not possess the antidote.
XxXxXxX
Tom was dissatisfied with his reception at the hospital; he had been sent to the "Potion and Plant Poisoning" department after much deliberation. The secretary had taken a long time to decide between the third and fourth floors, which dealt with "Pathology of Spells." Eventually, Tom advised her to choose the third level since he was convinced he needed an antidote to poison—even if it didn't come from a potion or a plant.
His healer was an experienced old man, thankfully. He knew it was urgent for Tom to receive the miracle potion; he felt his muscles contract and his joints stiffen. It was extremely painful, especially when dealing with incompetent people.
"What possessed you to touch a Hand of the Shadow, sir?" the healer asked, surprised, as he approached the teenager's damaged throat.
Tom clenched his fists, his jaw tight. He couldn't stand being touched; it was stronger than him. The slightest touch filled him with disgust, especially from people he didn't know from Adam, who had likely encountered all sorts of unsavoury individuals before him. Tom had to summon all his composure to refrain from pushing the healer away with curses.
"I must have lost my mind for a moment," replied Tom with a feigned air of stupidity, shooting the man a sharp look.
"It's a very harmful object, young man; you should be careful with such dubious artifacts," advised the old man, glaring at Tom behind his small glasses.
"I know what I'm doing."
Tom hated hospitals, plain and simple. These places made him sick with worry and anxiety. Death was so palpable there; it seeped from the walls and the clothes of the staff. He did not appreciate this proximity to death. The wizards and witches who came for treatment did not want to die; they fought against it. Death dealt randomly by a wand did not hold the same weight. It didn't seem as ominous as within those white walls.
Tom grimaced as he drank the counterpoison. The sooner he protected himself from this dreadful possibility, the sooner he would be reassured. For now, he wanted only one thing: to flee this infected building. The mediwizard had a trainee healer complete Tom's discharge forms. Tom overheard a few words in their conversation:
"Is he still here?" asked the healer in a hushed voice.
"Yes, Professor Leimkühler is overseeing, but his team doesn't seem confident."
"We wonder what they're doing at Hogwarts for their teachers to be in such bad shape," replied the healer.
"Hmm, it's odd," said the assistant, taking Tom's documents.
"To whom are you referring?" Tom inquired authoritatively.
"What concern is it of yours, sir? Attend to your shady affairs, and I hope not to see you again for a while. It's very dangerous, you know."
Tom scowled, snatched the care sheet from the mediwizard's hand, and stormed out of the room, cursing the incompetent staff. While he cursed the two idiots with dark imprecations under his breath, another voice urged him to investigate the peculiar words of the two men. Indeed, he was particularly intrigued by the mention of an injured teacher. If a Hogwarts teacher had been injured, Tom wanted to know who it was. He didn't particularly care about the fate of his former teachers, but anything closely or remotely related to Hogwarts always piqued his interest.
In his search for Horcruxes, it was essential not to overlook the last bastion of the Founders. He wasn't stupid. He knew that a large majority of very rare objects likely remained in the depths of the Scottish castle.
In the corridor on the third floor, Tom encountered a healer who appeared extremely young. He called out to her in a neutral tone with a slight authoritative inflection, causing the girl to look up immediately. Tom didn't bother with pleasantries and asked her where he could find Healer Leimkühler's room. She found this question amusing, bursting into laughter and regarding him as if he were from another planet.
"Hans Leimkühler doesn't have a room in this hospital; even if he were to work here, he'd have an entire floor to himself, not just a simple room! You do know who Professor Leimkühler is, don't you?"
"Obviously, I wouldn't have asked if I did," snapped Tom, irritated by not knowing this man who seemed to excite the girl.
"I see. Well, Leimkühler is simply the best healer in Europe, a renowned specialist in very rare magical diseases such as Acute Eclatitis! He's come straight from Berlin for a special patient here in London. A rare case indeed! It's quite a spectacle..."
Tom froze with fear at this exuberant response. Who was the Hogwarts teacher in need of such treatment? He furrowed his brow and interrupted the healer's incessant chatter.
"Tell me where I can find him," Tom demanded promptly.
"Second floor... I believe," she replied, giving him a dark look for his rudeness, "the floor for viruses and magical microbes. He'll likely be near Professor Spleen's room."
Tom made his way and descended the stairs to the second floor with quick steps. This floor bustled with people, saturated with individuals hurrying to various rooms. A child cried on a stretcher, displaying reddened skin affected by some ailment to his mother. Tom smirked and navigated through the corridors, attempting to discern a German accent amid the cacophony of noise. It was peculiar, all this wholly inappropriate commotion, but Tom was certain the bustling atmosphere was customary.
He traversed the corridors until he reached a less crowded area. He observed an elderly patient leaning against the walls, moving forward with great effort, his face pale and tired. At his side, what appeared to be the man's daughter helped him advance, casting a worried glance at him. Tom grinned sardonically. He pondered why he lingered in this wretched building. The fear of disease seemed to emanate from his body; he felt that if he got too close to the patient, he would diminish like him.
Shivering, Tom pressed onward. He arrived at Professor Conrad Spleen's door, where two men conversed in hushed tones, gesturing at the files in their hands. Their attire indicated their identities to Tom. They were likely Professors Spleen and Leimkülher.
Tom stopped at a distance from the healers and cast a spell to enhance his hearing and dampen the surrounding noise. Thus, he could hear the whispered words of the two men perfectly. He pretended to wait outside one of the patient's rooms, his face concealed by a feigned mournful gesture. It was effortless to feign despondency in a hospital. Fortunately, this role suited him well; it was akin to imitating Abraxas Malfoy—a student known for being constantly depressed.
The two men conversed in rather complex terms unfamiliar to Tom. They appeared well-versed in their field and discussed a strange disease with an almost unpronounceable name: Kveikja Kroppur. Tom had never heard of it; apparently, it was an extremely malicious virus that didn't conform to the natural cycle.
"We need more details about the Kveikja outbreak, but he refuses to speak with us," murmured Leimkühler in perfect English.
"Everyone knows it's related to recent events..."
"If only this virus were of natural origin," sighed the German, running a hand through his long, gray hair.
Tom furrowed his brow. He knew perfectly well what "natural cycle" meant. A virus born within a natural cycle was easily curable—an anomaly of nature, a genetic fluke, an accidental infection. But when it wasn't natural, the virus was considered malignant. An evil virus was likely the result of a curse of dark magic, making the name quite fitting. Tom's heart began to race in his chest. He easily deduced who the two healers were referring to.
And he knew of only one wizard powerful enough to cast such a curse upon the magical community. A person evidently interested in Nordic dark magic, given the name of the virus. It seemed apparent that the curse must also have originated from Nordic or even Scandinavian sources.
Tom sighed, leaning his head back against the hospital wall. The healers' murmurs filled his mind at an almost unbearable volume. They were agitated, stressed, their fingers clenched around the files, their eyes ablaze with frustration at their failure. Their sense of immense powerlessness caught them off guard; they had just been stripped of their supreme authority by succumbing to this curse.
Tom couldn't make out the name written in black letters on the thick file from this distance, but it was certain to be Albus Dumbledore.
"Are you saying he's beyond saving?" Professor Leimkühler remained silent.
"Hans?" Spleen prodded, studying Leimkühler intently.
"Yes."
The cavernous voice had just pronounced Professor Dumbledore's death sentence. Tom closed his eyes, struck violently by this dreadful news. Dumbledore was dying... He would die... It was almost over. Condemned. Tom's breathing quickened, though he struggled to calm himself. His temples throbbed with each beat, momentarily blinding him. He bowed his head as the thought flooded his mind—the idea of death. He had always vehemently refused it. Death of any kind would never reach him, he asserted to himself as a child at the orphanage while contemplating the only memory he had of his mother. A small bracelet bearing the Slytherin "S" above an almost faded inscription: Merope Gaunt, Little Hangleton. Likely a worthless trinket; Tom wasn't even sure if it was gold. But his mother had worn it around her wrist when she had arrived at the orphanage.
Tom didn't want his only relic to be a mere and trivial keepsake. He slowly opened his eyes and gazed at the Gaunt ring adorning his right ring finger. He had found this object much later when he went to meet the last descendant of the Gaunts, Morfin—his uncle. On that fateful day, he had learned he was the son of a Muggle. This news had crushed him. He had placed Morfin Gaunt under the Imperius Curse, allowing him to live as he pleased but controlling him from afar to prevent him from divulging anything about his origins. Before departing, Tom had taken the time to pilfer the Gaunt ring—an object once belonging to Salazar Slytherin. Tom had seen countless depictions of the ancient wizard, each time noticing the ring carved in marble, stone, or granite. Today, that very same historical ring adorned his finger.
Salazar Slytherin's descendant would not allow death to claim him. Tom vowed it, and it would be so for eternity. More than ever, he felt an insatiable urge to create new Horcruxes. His gaze remained fixed on the ring on his finger. It was exquisitely crafted, a strange symbol gracing the stone atop the golden band. Tom imagined it to be a seal of the Slytherin family. This object was an exceedingly rare and precious relic, a perfect vessel for encasing one's soul. As he contemplated the ring, Tom sought to envision the promise of his destiny devoid of the notion of death. But all he saw was the dark, sparkling blue gleam of the stone... So similar to Dumbledore's eyes.
XxXxXxX
An hour later, Tom found himself standing in front of Dumbledore's half-opened door. He watched silently as the teacher calmly buttoned up his travel dress. It had been perhaps three or four minutes since he had been standing there, observing the man in this manner. Dumbledore seemed not to have noticed him; his face bore a pain that Tom had not noticed before. He dressed mechanically, surely preparing to leave.
Tom didn't move a muscle. He studied his teacher's body with fascination, troubled by the idea that this body harboured a deadly and likely incurable virus. The healers probably administered therapeutic charms and considerate potions that slowed down the virus but did not eradicate it. They kept him alive, but death was already gaining ground on the professor's body. Tom wondered if one could then consider this body as already a corpse. Was it already rotting from the inside? Were his powers gradually disappearing? Was he more dead than alive? The absent look on the teacher's face bothered Tom; they both seemed a little lost, and he hated this sensation.
Tom realised he considered Dumbledore as his mentor, and this thought horrified him. However, he also found some comfort in the idea that there was someone capable of teaching him things. Tom felt another fear gently seep into his veins. He felt nothing but fear. Fears of death, incomprehension, and failure were closely intertwined. Albus Dumbledore, his main adversary, stood before him in a catastrophic state, facing imminent death. It should have delighted him; the tide seemed to be turning in his favour. However, Tom felt anything but contentment. Anger seemed to consume him more than anything else. He almost resented Professor Dumbledore for not being as powerful as he had believed.
It might have been an incurable virus, but Dumbledore didn't seem to want to fight it. All summer long, Tom had seen him in various places. At Gringotts, he had retrieved a large sum of money to settle some personal affairs, and he had frequented the Leaky Cauldron to carry out his last wishes. Albus Dumbledore had told him that he could not travel outside London; Tom realised that, in reality, the professor simply no longer had the strength to visit his friend Nicolas Flamel in Paris. Albus Dumbledore had already resigned himself to his fate. A healer had come from Berlin to save him. It wasn't Dumbledore who had sought help; following the service he had done to the magical community by neutralizing Grindelwald, many healers had attempted to treat him. Nevertheless, it wasn't Dumbledore who had reached out to them.
Did he know that the kveikja kroppur virus was incurable? However, Tom remembered their last conversation at Hogwarts. In the carriage that had taken them to Hogsmeade, Dumbledore had promised him that he would not let Hogwarts fall.
Tom stepped into the room, and Dumbledore turned his head towards him. He finished gathering his few belongings and did not seem so surprised to find Tom in his room.
Perhaps at that moment, he was unaware that the virus inhabiting him was deadly? Was it possible that he had not lied when he said he would return to Hogwarts?
"Good evening, Tom," said the teacher in a calm voice.
Tom continued to approach the man. He crouched down and looked up at his mentor's silhouette, trying to understand how a body could surrender and die. Tom stood in front of his teacher very closely. Dumbledore took a small step back, and his legs bumped into the bed in the room.
"Tom..." whispered Dumbledore, understanding that the moment seemed difficult for the teenager.
Tom's gaze was haunted by irascible fears, terrifying anger, and a difficulty to understand. One of his hands rose gently and touched the precious fabric of the professor's dress. The orphan's eyes met those of the man. The latter seemed to share Tom's distress, even though he obviously did not understand why Tom was acting so strangely.
Firm lips pressed against the professor's mouth. A muffled moan was heard as hands gripped the frail body of the ailing wizard. Tom was taken aback by the frailty he discovered in his teacher—his weakened body, his tired heart, his slightly moist skin. Albus Dumbledore was going to die. Tom initiated an eager kiss, holding the teacher's hesitant hands. He wanted to transmit to him his youth, the vigour of his limbs, and the fervour of his blood. How could a body be revived? Was there a way to bestow such a gift?
Tom stopped kissing him, slightly out of breath. He caught the professor's visibly shocked gaze. Questions floated in his eyes, although a dark and hungry gleam returned to overshadow them. Desire. Tom could now put a name to that reflection. He felt it within himself too. He desired this body, these powers, this knowledge. And at the same time, he wanted to provide what was lacking to empower his teacher. Youth, health, the breath of life. These little things were all that was missing to achieve perfection. The perfect magical entity. Absolute power.
Tom pulled away from his teacher's body, continuing to stare at him intently.
"You must not die," he breathed.
"We cannot command life and death, Tom," whispered Dumbledore wisely, as if teaching him a lesson in Transfiguration and the fundamental rules of magic.
"No... You don't understand; you must not die... I refuse."
Dumbledore offered a sad smile. But before he could address the remaining questions in the young man's eyes, resignation appeared and swept everything else away. Total certainty shone intensely in the young man's intense orbs.
"There must be a way," he murmured as if confiding a secret.
Tom stepped back suddenly. He stared at his teacher, his body tense with a sneaky desire, and he knew that power had never attracted him as much as it did at that moment. He gave Dumbledore one last look and slipped out of the room, leaving a bewildered man behind him.
XxXxXxX
Tom was poring over newspapers that had been published over the past year. He had read about a hundred articles in English, German, Finnish, Swedish, Icelandic, Danish, and Russian without finding anything substantial. British newspapers mainly focused on Dumbledore's confrontation with Grindelwald, but they were surprisingly inconsistent. Most articles contained only a line or two of actual facts, while the rest was filled with speculation and less significant interviews.
Dumbledore had never spoken a word about the battle, leaving journalists with little to report beyond Grindelwald's neutralisation and confinement in a secret location for the safety of all. Foreign newspapers were even less informative, with some barely mentioning the event or relegating it to a few lines in the news briefs. Grindelwald's notoriety extended primarily to England, Russia, Germany, Poland, and to some extent, Switzerland. These countries were the only ones aware of the existence of such a dark wizard.
Tom Riddle, being a clever teenager, quickly connected the dots between England and Russia. To him, it seemed obvious that Grindelwald had lived in England, where he presumably encountered Professor Dumbledore. Russia, known as the home of Black Magic, was where many wizards from around the world went to deepen their knowledge of the dark arts. It was in northern Russia, near Murmansk, where the Durmstrang Institute was located. Tom wasn't supposed to have this information, but he subscribed to a Russian magazine which he translated using his own means of fate manipulation. This magazine, originally the Durmstrang Institute's newspaper, had evolved into a publication exclusively for pure-blood wizards and offered insights beyond what official newspapers provided.
In this magazine, Tom learned far more than from any official source. Grindelwald had been a student at Durmstrang until his expulsion at sixteen for attacking his teacher. However, the Institute seemed to admire his talents and brilliance in retrospect, with former classmates praising the once-rebellious wozard. Following his expulsion, Grindelwald had lived in Switzerland until age eleven, then studied in Russia before briefly staying with his aunt Bathilda Bagshot in England. It was during this period that he began to attract attention among the most knowledgeable in dark magic, circulating various ideas that gained him popularity among the elite pure-blood families. His infamous slogan, "For the Greater Good," became well-known throughout the community, depicted on an ostentatious banner in a photograph accompanying the article.
The photo revealed a towering wrought iron gate shrouded in mist, with Grindelwald's slogan emblazoned in Gothic letters above it. The fog occasionally obscured the inscription, leaving only the dying leaves of a tree visible behind the gate. This was Nurmengard prison, Grindelwald's greatest achievement and, ironically, his ultimate defeat. According to the caption, the wizard would spend the remainder of his life there, per the decree of Albus Dumbledore, holder of the Order of Merlin, first class.
XxXxXxX
August 15, 1945,
"I didn't expect to see you so soon, Tom... Again... I shouldn't even be surprised anymore."
"I'm sorry to bother you, Professor, but I need your cooperation. I heard the healers talking about you at St. Mungo's."
Albus turned around. He seemed particularly annoyed by Tom's arrival in his living room.
"Do you know that I am at home? It's not very polite to apparate into people's living rooms like that... I recognise the manners of a boy who missed the most basic notions of politeness in the magical community."
Tom frowned, hurt by his teacher's words, who had never pointed out with such abruptness the fact that he had not been raised by anyone, let alone by wizards.
"I was born in a Muggle orphanage, and you know it very well," murmured Tom, "and I don't care if I'm bothering you or not. You're going to die, Professor."
"Thank you for reminding me, but I already knew," Albus replied curtly.
"One wouldn't think so, seeing you lounging on your couch like that... You're not even fighting anymore!" Tom exclaimed, suddenly annoyed.
He couldn't understand how a wizard could let death win so easily. Wasn't magic infinitely stronger than the simple rules of life?
"You heard the healers, you must know that I am doomed. And besides, I am sixty-three years old; I have lived a fairly fulfilled life, after all."
"Fulfilled? You only destroyed a pathetic wizard who achieved nothing more in his life than a mere prison..."
A deathly silence fell in Albus Dumbledore's living room. He stared at the boy with incredulity and a certain discomfort. Tom was disturbed to see a wounded glimmer in the wizard's eyes. The young man was disturbed by the idea of having been too harsh, but he was almost disgusted that Dumbledore could be so shaken by the mention of Gellert Grindelwald. He could almost discern tears in the professor's intense blue eyes. Tom shivered. If he didn't understand why a wizard would accept his death, he understood even less why a wizard would fall in love with another wizard.
"How do you know this? It's rather secretive information; you must have done very thorough research..."
"Indeed," confirmed Tom, "I wanted to know more about Gellert Grindelwald."
"Why?" asked the professor, anger vibrating in his voice.
"I know he's the one who injected you with this virus, that's why you're going to die, isn't it?"
Albus didn't answer. He observed the teenager with great bitterness.
"You didn't want to talk to the healers about it. They could have found a solution. I'm sure Grindelwald can reverse the process. He knew how to inflict this virus; he'll know how to remove it... Magic always has a way back."
"Of course not, Tom. You know that very well. But you've always had trouble understanding the first lesson I taught you... Magic cannot fight death. Magic can modify, transfer, and even influence life. But under no circumstances can magic resurrect," Dumbledore explained wearily.
"You're not dead yet," Tom reminded, approaching the wizard sitting in his armchair.
Dumbledore shifted uncomfortably as he saw the young man approaching. It was so strange, he advanced without ever taking his eyes off the professor's silhouette and stopped very close to the armchair.
"Why are you trying to keep me alive, Tom?" Albus asked, lowering his eyes to the hands of the orphan, which were trembling slightly.
"I can't accept your death. Yet, I'd rather it didn't affect me. But I can't digest it. I have to make sure you're going to live, and then I can continue on my way without worrying about your health."
"Do I deserve this?" Albus inquired cautiously.
"If only you could stir a little, you could delay things. You know that, don't you?" Tom snapped, gritting his teeth.
"Don't get me wrong, Tom. I don't wish to die. But there's nothing to be done."
"How do you know?"
"I know Gellert Grindelwald well."
"I gathered that," the adolescent hissed, clenching his fists.
Dumbledore felt like he was suffocating from this reaction and suddenly got up. He found himself close to the orphan's face and gently pushed Tom's body back with a slight pressure on his chest.
"You're getting soft because of some pathetic old love story!"
"Lower your tone, Tom," Albus quickly interjected, his cheeks reddened by the young man's words.
"Why? Does it bother you? You stop fighting because you're stuck in this hopeless relationship you had with that pathetic wizard. You lied to me when you said you would come back to Hogwarts... You've been preparing for your death for weeks, making the whole world believe that the great Albus Dumbledore will still watch over England's beloved children when school starts again. In reality, it's just a pure lie! Simply because you're still in love with that..."
"Stop!" Dumbledore interrupted, his hand trembling with nervous tics. "You don't even know what you're talking about."
A suffocating tension arose between the two wizards. Albus felt the irresistible temptation to strike the young man, but a new, much more shameful and humiliating sensation took shape somewhere in his lower abdomen, and it frightened him much more than the first idea.
"Please, explain to me how it happened..."
"There's nothing to know, Tom. If you were able to discover information about Gellert, you'll probably be able to find out more about the kveikja kroppur."
"No, actually..." Tom revealed hesitantly, "I found nothing about this virus."
"You know what this curse means, don't you?"
"Burning body in Icelandic, I think," replied the orphan.
"Good answer. Five points for Slytherin."
Neither the professor nor the student smiled.
"You should sit down..." Tom nervously murmured.
"The pain isn't as intense as the name of the virus suggests; I don't need to sit down," Albus assured with a determined voice.
Tom sighed and went to sit on the sofa. Albus eventually followed suit but didn't turn his gaze towards the young man. He stared pensively at the fireplace. A few seconds passed before the professor deigned to speak:
"The curse that inflicts this virus is called the Curse of Hel. A pompous name but very little known. Gellert knew it well because he studied Scandinavian magic broadly; he especially lingered on Iceland. Icelandic magic is primitive but restricted because it evolved self-taught without drawing inspiration from any other culture, and its treasures are very rarely taken off the island. Gellert went there for two years to learn more..."
"How do you know?" Tom was surprised.
"We used to write to each other from time to time when we were younger," explained Albus.
"And are you sure this curse can't be reversed?"
"Absolutely certain."
Tom looked away. He glanced briefly at Dumbledore's hands and sighed. He didn't understand why the announcement of his death put him in such a deplorable state.
"I didn't think I was really going to die. I did this research to see if I had a chance, but there isn't. All the healers in the world can't do anything for me. The virus will slowly but surely gain ground, and one day I won't wake up anymore, that's all."
"It won't happen so gently, will it?" Tom chuckled bitterly.
"Probably not," Dumbledore admitted with a long sigh.
Yet Tom couldn't help but think that the professor was giving up. He didn't know why this idea enraged him so much, but anger seemed to travel through his body, his fingers trembling angrily and clutching his traveling robe - the same one he had worn at the Leaky Cauldron that made him pass for a Relic Hunter.
He felt cold hands take his and prevent them from contracting on the fabric of the robe.
"I don't understand why this affects you so much," confessed Albus softly, "I thought you would be one of those people for whom the announcement of my death would be neither here nor there."
"Yet I was your favourite student, wasn't I? I know you better than most of Hogwarts' students, I believe."
"Who said you were my favourite student? You're the most irritating student I've ever met," Dumbledore smiled, keeping his hands between his.
"Really? I'm also the most talented, the most intelligent, and the one who impressed you the most."
"What assertion. I've never said anything like that."
"It shows, Professor. You even envied me, didn't you?" Tom smirked.
"Not for a second, Tom."
The young man's face darkened for a moment, displeased with this response.
"You don't even realise what I'm capable of."
"Oh, I do, Tom, I know. I won't go back to the fact that you work at Borgin and Burkes, but I don't think it's just for the measly pay they give you..."
Tom withdrew his hands.
"What makes you think that?"
"You've got two faces, Tom. One of them is not reassuring, and I don't really wish to know it."
The orphan flashed a broad smile. Albus looked at him, shaking his head wearily. He hated it when the teenager had such satisfied expressions; he looked so much like Gellert Grindelwald then, both in enthusiasm and in the unbridled madness of learning forbidden magical concepts.
He felt a shiver run through him, and a wave of pain made him violently close his eyes. His body suddenly tensed, and it took him a moment to realize that lips had touched the corner of his mouth and a hand was gripping his thigh. The orphan's body moved closer to Albus's, and he froze. The contact was pleasant despite the pain, somewhat soothing, but was it reasonable? It was his former student, and not just any. It was Tom Riddle.
Dumbledore pushed the young man away without violence. Yet Tom immediately sulked and resumed his place on the couch.
"You'll have to explain to me why you're doing this," Albus said, hoping for a gentle tone, but his own turmoil was somewhat evident.
Tom felt a bitter shame flood over him as his professor's words reached his brain. An idiotic instinct had driven him to approach the weakened man's body, but he had no idea what prompted this stupid desire. Clearly, he was not moved by the pain Albus Dumbledore was feeling. He easily noticed that his mentor was in the grip of violent waves of pain, and it wasn't to comfort him that he had approached this sick and diminished body. Somewhere, he was repulsed by the virus that had insidiously crept under this warm and soft skin; it was a small piece of death that had slipped into this living body.
However, he was irresistibly drawn to the source of power that Albus Dumbledore represented in his eyes, those slender and powerful hands, that gaze full of knowledge and mischief. The compelling aura that exerted an endless fascination on him. He could only be an admirer in the face of such an array of astounding powers. All he had to do was reach out, embrace this body to touch the flow of power emanating from the professor.
"I don't know," Tom stammered, preparing to flee.
"It's not a habit to acquire," the professor murmured, trying to adopt the most relaxed attitude possible.
"I don't know what came over me," the adolescent continued, "I should go."
"That's not a reason to leave," Albus assured, placing a convincing hand on the wizard's arm.
"I came for one reason only," Tom reminded him with an uneven voice, "I don't want you to die, and there's no point dwelling on why such an oddity."
"Nonsense, I would say," added Albus with an indulgent smile.
Tom sighed. He seemed extremely embarrassed by the professor's words and had considerably distanced himself from him without realising that it might offend Dumbledore somewhat. He swallowed hard, trying to push back these highly unpleasant thoughts that troubled his mind.
"I think I've come to terms with this idea," confessed Albus, looking with dull eyes at the furniture in his living room.
Tom also preferred not to look his professor in the eyes. He generally had little difficulty facing people, but with Albus, it was never easy. He hadn't even had time to dwell on Dumbledore's house's decoration. It had taken him little research to find out where he lived and a few minutes to apparate to the desired location. Dumbledore did not live in a large house. Obviously, he didn't need much space since he had been living alone for many years. It was easily noticeable that the professor didn't care much about the interior decoration of his house unlike his apartment at Hogwarts, which was carefully arranged and warmly welcoming. However, Tom couldn't deny that a certain benevolent atmosphere reigned in these places, a particularly similar atmosphere to the strange sensations one could feel by staying close to Dumbledore.
Even in complete silence, it was pleasant to be close to the professor as if he sent out positive and relaxing vibes all around. Nevertheless, Tom no longer felt any serenity at the moment; he was totally trapped in the painfully complicated thoughts compressing his brain. His professor's presence only accentuated this bitter impression that left him a little feverish amidst this calm and soothing atmosphere. It was almost unpleasant to stand still so close to Dumbledore; he would have preferred to be able to move around, walk back and forth on the polished floor rather than remain there static and inert listening to the tireless ticking of the clock.
He eventually regained his composure after a few minutes.
"Have you even tried to contact Grindelwald?" Tom asked in a calm voice.
"No, I don't wish to be in contact with him," Albus said firmly.
"You can't let him win so easily," Tom replied, furrowing his brows.
"That's your view, I don't think Gellert has won anything in this matter. He'll remain locked up until his death in Nurmengard. I don't envy him much," Dumbledore said, leaning more comfortably against the back of his couch. "Perhaps you'd like something to drink, by the way?"
Tom couldn't help but chuckle once again.
"I think in terms of politeness, we're on the same level," he said sarcastically, "anyway, don't try to change the subject."
"It's my right not to want to talk about it, Tom, and I'm already very kind to give you these minutes. I'm not sure all your professors at Hogwarts would do the same."
"Stop acting as if I had exactly the same importance to you as your other students. You know perfectly well that no one else but me has entered your apartments or come to say goodbye to you at the end of the year," Tom declared, displaying a slight smile. "Moreover, I'm convinced that all my former professors would be delighted if I came to inquire about their health; I was their favourite student too," he added, finishing his sentence in a murmured confidence.
"Believe what you want, Tom, but you're touching on private matters, and I really have no desire to share them with you," Dumbledore replied sharply.
A few silent seconds passed, and Tom stood up before letting out a tired sigh.
"I really should leave you to die..."
"It would be more reasonable, and besides, you couldn't do anything even if you wanted to," Albus replied, his voice less assured.
Tom turned around for just a split second toward his professor and prepared to apparate, slowly taking out his wand from his pocket.
"I never thought you'd be like this, Professor..."
"Like what?"
"You're one of the weak," Tom declared, almost spitting out the words.
Albus felt a slight unpleasant pinch at those words.
"You think dying is cowardly, but it's not my case. And it's wrong to want to defy the laws of life," declared Dumbledore in a cavernous voice.
Tom shrugged and made a sound expressing his irritation.
"For me, evil doesn't exist; there's only power and those who refuse to use it," he declared, casting a final meaningful glance at Albus before disapparating.
In the living room, Dumbledore didn't move for the next few minutes. A knot seemed to twist his stomach, making him feel nauseous. He stood up, trembling slightly, and caught sight of his reflection in the mirror hanging above the fireplace. He had a pale, waxy complexion, sunken eyes, and his facial bones had become so prominent they were frightening.
He approached the desk set under the window of his living room and glanced through the windows, his gaze caressing the wild forests surrounding his house. He opened the window slightly to let the air into the room and sat down at his desk, cursing his muscles that stiffened at the slightest activity. He didn't want to feel like an old man, and the thought of death overtaking him without having achieved anything significant weighed heavily on him. All he had done was imprison a dark wizard, whose most notable offense was constructing a crude prison.
He took out a piece of parchment as white as he could find and grabbed his favourite quill. He didn't write anything at first, letting the thoughts invade his mind minute after minute. Then, without haste, he placed the tip of his quill on the parchment and didn't look up until he had finished writing his letter.
He didn't reread it either, but his eyes remained fixed on the first word he had written. He had uttered this name many times lately, but it had been decades since he had carefully written it on a letter.
Gellert.
Albus closed his eyes for a moment and quickly folded the parchment before inserting it into an envelope. His owl had already perched on the windowsill, predicting a new missive.
"Nurmengard Prison in Poland, attention Gellert Grindelwald. Don't dawdle, this letter is urgent."
XxXxXxX
Tom Riddle couldn't calm down after his altercation with Dumbledore; he kept muttering curses under his breath when he was sure no one could hear him. His return to London was under the rain, leaving him soaked in the middle of Diagon Alley, his mind filled with dark thoughts. Frustrated beyond measure, he didn't bother with tact and strode down the shopping alley, pushing aside anyone in his way without bothering to apologise. Not that he was in the habit of saying "sorry" to those unfortunate enough to be in his path when he walked, but usually, he at least tried to avoid them. This time, he wasn't attempting to dodge them. He was furious. No one would ever catch him caring about anyone's life again.
With determined steps, he made his way to Borgin & Burkes, the hood of his cloak pulled over his head. Upon entering the shop, he immediately noticed that his employers had been eagerly awaiting him; both were standing behind the counter, casting dark glances around the room. The shop was deserted. It was well-known that the business had been facing some difficulties lately, and the two men had been relying entirely on Tom recently. So, it wasn't surprising that they found themselves pitifully idle whenever Tom disappeared without a word.
The first to realise the presence of the teenager was Burke. He literally leaped from behind the counter and pointed an accusing finger at the young man.
"You! Where have you been? Don't you have any gratitude towards us? I'm the one who hired you! You should be grateful!" the man exclaimed, his voice rising hysterically.
"Calm down, Burke," whispered Borgin, "it's a good thing you're back. There are plenty of orders waiting for you."
"I'm not a delivery boy," reminded Tom, who strode into the back room without paying attention to Burke, who was hopping furiously behind him.
"You've left some disgruntled customers... Including the Filthy One," said Borgin.
"Who?" Tom asked, searching for a package among the pile of bizarre objects scattered around the room.
"The man who ordered a Hand of Glory from you. He's furious."
"Oh yes, I remember. Well, I had to make a trip to the hospital because of his Hand, so he can forget about getting it back."
"Tom! We paid for that Hand. You need to go deliver the product so we can make a few Galleons," reprimanded Borgin.
"I couldn't care less," replied Tom, pulling out his wand.
He glanced around at the surrounding objects and, not finding what he was looking for, said, "Accio Sonnets of the Sylphide" while pointing his wand in the air. A beautiful book fell into his hands.
"What are you going to do?" Mr. Borgin asked, looking at the poetry collection.
"That's none of your business."
"This is unthinkable!" exclaimed Burke. "You're our employee, you scoundrel!"
"I quit."
"What?" both men choked out in unison.
Tom sighed and casually stunned them with a wave of his hand. He looked at the book in his hands with a satisfied smile. He gave one last glance to his former employers, who remained motionless, ridiculously sprawled on the floor. The young man considered Burke for a moment. The man was intelligent but becoming senile. It wouldn't be surprising if he succumbed to his hysterical fits soon. It wouldn't be a bad thing. Burke was known for making disastrous sales, not always recognising the value of this or that object.
That was why Salazar Slytherin's Locket had remained in the shop for so long without being sold. Burke hadn't deemed the relic to have any value. The business of the two men would fare much better without him, and Borgin could finally do what he wished with the shop.
Tom didn't linger any longer. His objective now was to find Hepzibah Smith at her home. He had taken care to bring along a book of exceptional rarity to explain his visit, but his only motivation was to take what rightfully belonged to him.
XxXxXxX
The orphan emerged from Hepzibah Smith's house with trembling hands and a body covered in sweat. Concerned about arousing suspicion, he deliberately wandered into a nearby alley and collapsed against the wall, his heart pounding. He closed his eyes for a few moments, allowing the dizziness to fade from his numb brain. The pleasure of casting an Avada Kedavra had painfully eluded him. He smiled blissfully, engulfed in vile and amoral delirium. He had taken care to leave false evidence to incriminate Hokey, Hepzibah Smith's house-elf. Clutching the Slytherin locket against his chest, the very one that had belonged to his mother before being sold to Burke.
In his pocket, the Hufflepuff Cup gently warmed the skin of his thigh. He carefully tucked the locket into the inner pocket of his cloak and pulled out the Cup, which gleamed under his fingers. The breath of life moved within this object... He had just created his second Horcrux. He knew he had to return to the Leaky Cauldron as quickly as possible; the Horcrux Curse was extremely draining, and he mustn't collapse in this alley. If someone were to steal the Cup, a small part of his soul would be taken by the fortunate thief. However, he needed to catch his breath before apparating. He closed his eyes, his head against the alley wall, and tried to regulate his breathing.
The sensation of the Killing Curse was exhilarating, but the Horcrux Curse had stripped him of a part of himself, leaving him feeling empty. It wasn't unbearable, but it was a strange sensation. He knew he would never get used to this feeling, and yet he was only at the beginning. He hadn't wanted to immediately turn the locket into a Horcrux. Like the Gaunt Ring, he had preferred to wait a bit for this object, wanting to enjoy a little moment of carrying it everywhere with him. Once these objects became Horcruxes, he could no longer keep them on him. It was far too dangerous for his life, and it was best to hide them safely as he had done with the diary.
Tom got up, many black spots obscured his vision, but he managed to apparate without harm. He dragged himself to his bed and lay down. He thought it would only take him ten seconds to fall asleep, so he had taken care to keep the Cup and the locket tightly clasped to him. However, he couldn't fall asleep immediately as he had initially thought.
The teenager sighed heavily. He had just killed the second person in his life... Hepzibah Smith had been his first human victim, killed by the Avada Kedavra curse. He had just created his second Horcrux. He had finally retrieved the Slytherin locket. And all that still worried him was Albus Dumbledore's imminent death. Tom almost groaned in despair. He had believed so strongly that by plunging into dark designs, by advancing on the path to glory, his mentor's eyes would disappear from his mind immediately. But there was nothing to be done.
He couldn't forget that his teacher would soon die, and that he had the solution to save him. He was unable to erase the sensation of that warm skin against his own. Omitting the uncertainty he saw floating in Albus's eyes, his fear so clumsily hidden.
A feeling of shame suddenly engulfed him, and he looked at the two objects he held against him a little differently. He had destroyed a chance to save his mentor. He had two more left, but he didn't want to endanger his future. It was a horribly difficult decision for Tom. Could he risk shattering everything he had dreamed of for so many years? As the answers came to him, guilt inevitably flooded him like waves crashing against the rocks of a cove.
The mixture of such different emotions raised a sense of panic in him. He was extremely ambitious and so gifted; he couldn't abandon everything because of Albus Dumbledore. He didn't want to imagine what his future would be like if he made this terrifying and euphoric gesture. It would undermine all his efforts and hopes to allow his teacher to live. Was it really worth it? Doubt, this awful and oppressive feeling, then took hold of his already restless mind.
He sighed one last time; he felt as if a heavy weight was placed on his heart, forcing it against his rib cage. Breathing became a bit difficult due to the acute pain. His body wanted to fight back, but fatigue seized him, enveloped him, and enclosed him in a cocoon of darkness. He fell asleep on the bed in the room. Yet, the joints of his fingers turned white from gripping the magical objects tightly. Even on the verge of unconsciousness, Tom Riddle was far from letting go of the promises of a glorious destiny in fleeting wisps of smoke.
When he woke up a few hours later, a letter awaited him on the bed in his room. An owl had delivered it. Tom jumped in surprise, realizing that someone had been able to enter the room. He made sure to check if the objects had not disappeared, but everything was in place.
The content of the letter was heavy. Tom opened the envelope and began to read what Albus Dumbledore had just sent him, feeling a heavy disturbance:
"Tom,
You will surely be surprised to receive this letter. I wanted you to be sure of what I was saying at my place. You dared to call me weak, and I realised that you were not entirely wrong. If there is any weakness in me, it is in the leniency I show towards you. Furthermore, I cannot bear that you have such poor opinions of me. I cannot explain why it troubles me even though I give no credence to the gossip that can be spread about me. It seems that we do or say strange things when we are in each other's presence.
Nonetheless, I wanted to contact Gellert Grindelwald so that you could appreciate the enormity of your remarks and how I have no way to survive this virus that is eating away at me from the inside. Here are the contents of the response Grindelwald sent me in record time. You will see for yourself that my lack of combativeness has nothing to do with abandonment but is simply common sense.
I await your apologies shortly,
Sincerely,
Albus Dumbledore
P.S.: You will notice that this second letter is as intimate as can be, but I believe you were right. We have crossed the boundaries of a mere teacher/student relationship long ago."
Tom frowned at this strange letter and unfolded the second one, trying to appear relaxed even though no one could watch him. He felt an unspeakable curiosity to dive into the reading of this missive. Something unhealthy and devilishly strong filled him with an unparalleled frenzy. The idea that it was related in some way to jealousy made him shudder with discomfort.
"My dear Albus,
Oh! What joy I felt upon receiving your adorable letter, my dear friend. You see, in my golden dungeon, I have very little company. I am guarded by horrible vicious dragons who never miss an opportunity to remind me of their existence every time I try to escape into my dreams.
I have thought of you so much lately as the cold invaded each of my limbs. You know very well that the nights in Poland are cold, and at the top of my enchanted tower, I don't have all the luxury I would wish for. I am desperately waiting for my Prince to come and rescue me, but I believe that in this tale, the Prince will die before his sweetheart. If I am doomed to end my days here, know that so are you, Albus.
I am surprised; I would have thought that you would have done some research, but it's so adorable of you to rely on me. What a sensational gesture I have made there. We are going to live the same tragic fate, my friend. I have brought us closer together in an entirely unexpected way, don't you think?
The Curse of Hel is the most beautiful of magical acts. Do you know that only a man wounded by love can perform this curse? Oh... Why do I dwell on so many bad memories? We both know that you are responsible for what you are experiencing right now. You are only living the equivalent of my suffering all those years when you deliberately hurt me. It's just fair play.
Nothing can reverse the process, my friend. You are going to die. And I am wildly delighted up in my prison. I will carefully cut out the newspaper articles I can find on the day of your death and stick them on the walls of my cell. Thus, every day I will console myself with the knowledge that I could join you soon, no matter where you are.
Rest assured that I will keep this letter precious. Proof that the great Albus Dumbledore had to crawl before me despite the fact that I am so far away, harmless, locked in my own prison. This idea is so gratifying to me that I already know it will help me to keep my spirits up until your death, my love.
I wish you a wonderful end of life,
May what has been be for the greater good,
Gellert Grindelwald."
XxXxXxX
September 11, 1945
Tom had hesitated for a long time. He had paced around his room for weeks, unsure of what to do. He had vented his frustration by reprimanding the sadistic customer who had ordered the Hand of Shadow. He couldn't forget the marks he bore on his neck because of that detestable human being. On a map of the south of England, he had circled in red the village where his father and grandparents lived, resisting the urge to visit them immediately. As a last resort, he had taken out the most precious book in his collection - minimal as it was since he couldn't afford to buy many books. It was an extremely old grimoire that contained the most heinous, unhealthy, and ignominious magical practices.
However, Tom had discovered that his grimoire was incomplete as it did not list any malevolent acts of Scandinavian magic. There was absolutely nothing about the Curse of Hel. However, there was a chapter on the Horcrux Curse, which was quite well detailed. The grimoire sorely lacked practical details, but since his first reading, Tom had memorised everything and had sought information as best he could about all the little things the grimoire did not specify.
In the dark arts, like in all magics of the world, one crucial rule should not be forgotten. There was always a balance somewhere. In every part of evil lay a part of good, and vice versa. Each magical curse, whether good or bad, could have repercussions contrary to the intended effect, whether in ten days, fifty years, or a millennium. Dark magic was the most vicious of magics; that was why few wizarding schools dared to teach it. It wasn't necessarily evil, but it was used by wizards with often vile intentions who didn't care about the repercussions of a malevolent act.
The Horcrux Curse, which had always been fiercely kept hidden, possessed a beauty unknown to many wizards. No one wanted to mention this detail because it was unthinkable in the eyes of wizards to praise a curse that was so putrid and disgusting. The very few books that referred to this magical act avoided discussing it to deter anyone from using this most dreadful curse. Tom had learned this crucial detail because he owned the most comprehensive grimoire on the subject, which contained no notions of ethics or morality.
In a corner of one of the grimoire's pages, a small paragraph explained that a Horcrux could have a second function that had never been very clearly explained since the creator of this curse had died while trying to further develop it. Subsequent wizards had improved the curse but had simply restricted themselves to the primary and main function of a Horcrux, which was to place a piece of the soul into an object to ensure eternal life. At least as long as the object exists. Immortal and invincible. Yet, there was a notion of sacrifice even greater than dividing one's soul and allowing another person to meet the same fate.
The sacrifice in question did not frighten Tom. But he was terrified beyond words of binding his life to someone else's. It frightened him to an unimaginable extent. And yet, this idea haunted him day and night. Insomnia had plagued him since he had killed Hepzibah Smith. He reread Dumbledore's letter incessantly, trying to absorb the peculiar handwriting that said little in comparison to what he would like to hear.
After a month of self-doubt and moral suffering, Tom finally decided to visit Professor Dumbledore. He had no more thoughts that day than the previous ones; he didn't feel any closer or know what he was doing. He had simply had the bad idea to open that day's edition of the Daily Prophet and stumbled upon a photograph of his mentor who had resumed classes at Hogwarts two weeks ago.
The Daily Prophet headline read: "A New Beginning at Hogwarts." A photograph showed all the teachers gathered, smiling foolishly at the camera. The article discussed all the new measures taken to ensure security at the school and to improve the declining standards of recent years. Following conflicts in the magical community, education had ceased to be a priority, but now it had become the focus of the Minister of Magic, who personally oversaw the overall standard of Hogwarts. Many students had left for abroad in the past decade, and this was no longer acceptable. However, the article did not only talk about that; quite the contrary. A second, smaller article, more discreet but more insidious, sprawled just below the first and read: "A New Beginning for Dumbledore?"
A photograph of the professor showed him in very poor physical condition, with tired eyes and on the verge of collapsing at any moment. Obviously, the photo had been taken at a moment when Albus was not at all to his advantage, but it was enough to alarm Tom. Had he waited too long? That was a question he didn't want to ask himself. Time was running out. Every hour that passed killed Dumbledore. The more time passed, the closer death approached. There was no respite. Tom no longer had the privilege of saying he had time. Time seemed to mock him as it insolently dropped all its minutes, as if to say, "it's almost over."
Tom had always visualised time as a huge hourglass above which some kind of imp with green eyes dropped sand between his fingers, smiling mockingly. Tom knew this image was really stupid, and it hadn't scared him for years, but for the past few weeks, he had been terrified by this representation of time. What was even more worrying, however, was that it was no longer for himself that he was afraid but for someone else. Something that had always been unthinkable for him.
Tom stopped thinking and Apparated to Hogsmeade. There were few people in the main street of the wizarding village. Generally, Hogwarts students hung around the village streets, but during the week, this was rarely the case. Tom quickly made his way to Hogwarts castle. He passed through the gate adorned with two majestic boars and wound his way through the Hogwarts grounds until he reached the castle. It was very cool, and the surface of the lake was covered in a shimmering mist. The castle doors opened of their own accord as he approached, recognizing Tom as a former student of the school.
Tom couldn't help but smile genuinely. The familiar yet painful sensation of coming home was violently felt in his chest. At this time of day, Tom knew Dumbledore was teaching. That's why he headed without hesitation to the Transfiguration classroom at a brisk pace. He didn't want to admit it, but he was eager to see his professor again, a childish urge made him want to run to see the man, but it was with measured steps that he knocked on the classroom door.
He could have waited until the end of the class, but the image of the little imp with green eyes did not fade. He was in a hurry. He needed to see him before deciding anything.
"Enter," declared a well-known voice.
Tom had a slight smile as he entered the classroom, which was enveloped in a gentle stupor. Most of the students were half-asleep, but upon seeing the professor's surprised expression, they all turned as one towards the figure that had just entered. They immediately recognised Tom Riddle. It was impossible to forget this troubling young man who had mesmerised many students and professors during his school years. His arrogance had often annoyed, and everyone could see that it hadn't disappeared over the summer; he seemed perfectly at ease, though being scrutinised by twenty eager eyes. Yet, something had changed in the prodigy's dark eyes. There was a glimmer that had never existed before, strangely warming the entire aura of the teenager, who upon closer inspection now seemed much more like a man than an adolescent.
"Excuse me, Professor, may I speak with you?"
Professor Dumbledore straightened up, his brow slightly furrowed. He also noticed a change in the young man's attitude, and although there was warmth present, Albus also felt negative vibes. This had always been the case, it had never ceased to increase since he had known the boy, but it seemed to him that this time, it was even more visible than usual. Yet, a recognisable joy, which he had learned to suppress for several weeks, suddenly burst forth and swept away all these depreciative impressions in half a second.
"Could you wait until the end of the class?" Albus asked in a somewhat authoritative tone.
"Of course," Tom replied, moving to sit in the back row, a smirk on his lips but also a mischievous gleam in his eyes.
Dumbledore allowed himself to smile too and resumed his class as if nothing had happened. The problem, however, was that the students had not forgotten that Tom Riddle was in the classroom and kept throwing puzzled glances at him. Tom coldly ignored them. Whatever people might think, Tom didn't really appreciate being observed like this, especially by the girls in the front row who giggled whenever he glanced at them. He didn't understand girls' behaviour; it had always made him very uncomfortable.
Instead, he focused on the professor's lesson. Albus quickly grew tired of the lack of enthusiasm in his class and refocused the attention of all the students by transforming the wardrobe into a huge, impeccably clean pig. All the students jumped and then burst into laughter as the animal snorted its way towards the professor. Dumbledore allowed himself to laugh with them for a moment, mischief flooding his eyes as he caressed the beast, which seemed to greatly appreciate it. The students were blown away by the professor's performance and instantly forgot about Tom—except for the girls in the front row who occasionally glanced back at him.
Tom once again admired the power of his teacher, who performed this transformation as if it were ridiculously easy. For fourth-year students, this transformation was incredible, and it was. Transforming wood into a living being was one of the hardest things to accomplish (the hardest being to transform from mineral to living) in the field of Transfiguration. Tom inwardly smiled and observed Albus for the rest of the class; he was an excellent teacher: all the students were now calm and attentive.
He couldn't help but notice that Dumbledore frequently cast glances at the young man sitting at the back of his class, resisting the urge to smile.
"Who can tell me what the peculiarity of a transfiguration made from aquatic plants is?"
The class remained silent. The best student in the class blushed as everyone turned to her wondering why she wasn't answering. She clearly knew the answer but couldn't recall the exact details.
"It's a transfiguration that... takes place in the water, so it's different. If it's done in the water, it can work but... um... I don't remember anymore, Professor," she stammered, embarrassed and angry for not being able to answer.
"Can anyone help her?"
"It's very difficult to transfigure an aquatic plant because if you don't speak the language of the waters, you can't pronounce it correctly and nothing will happen. If you take the plant out of the water and transform it on land, the transfiguration will be imperfect because the original object is not in its natural element. The only way to bring together two different elements is to perform the transfiguration in the natural environment. The same goes for fish. However, creatures that can live both underwater and on land pose no problem," Tom explained calmly after seeing that no one else knew the answer.
Throughout the explanation, Dumbledore's smile widened, mirroring Tom's, who couldn't help but assist the professor in need of gifted students.
"Thank you very much for that enlightening explanation, Mr. Riddle," the professor said, his eyes sparkling with mischief and pride.
"You're welcome," replied Tom.
"The class is over, you can go," Dumbledore suddenly declared, even though the bell hadn't rung yet.
There were still five minutes left before the end of classes, but he was far too eager to know the reason for Tom's visit. The students quickly disappeared from the classroom, and Tom got up leisurely. Dumbledore watched him approach with a faint smile. He couldn't help but notice how handsome the young man was. He had always been more or less aware of it, but now that he fully realised he was no longer his student, he felt that it wasn't inappropriate to admire his student. So, he didn't hesitate to do so.
Tom Riddle was a very handsome young man, his black eyes perpetually haunted by dark thoughts, but these days they were less icy. Albus appreciated this change. His black hair looked soft to the touch, and his demeanour had something extremely licentious in the way he moved, used his hands, and made his wand quiver.
"What are you doing here, Tom?" Albus asked in a gentle voice.
"I wanted to apologise in person," the young man justified with a mischievous smile.
Albus looked into Tom's eyes, but the latter seemed oddly fixated on the professor's lips. Albus had often noticed that the teenager rarely looked him in the eyes, as if he feared the professor might learn more about him. But this time, it was clearly embarrassment, and Albus found himself foolishly pleased by it.
"A simple letter would have sufficed... But I am glad to see you," Dumbledore confessed in a whisper.
"Really?" Tom asked, moving closer.
"Yes... And your apologies are accepted."
"Thank you," Tom replied with a smile, finally meeting Albus's eyes.
Albus took a deep breath and looked at the young man facing him seriously. Something strange was once again settling between them. He was so close that Albus could feel the young man's breath against his lips. This time, however, it was Dumbledore who approached the young man and placed his lips against his own. He placed a hand on the back of his neck and Tom shivered slightly as he felt the cold hand tickle the skin of his neck.
He pressed his body against the professor's and kissed back slowly. They had never kissed so softly before. Tom had never used his tongue to kiss anyone before, he'd always found it horrifying, but he strangely enjoyed this languid kiss. He grabbed Albus's waist as Albus stroked the young man's cheek with his thumb. The kiss intensified somewhat and Tom felt his former teacher's lips deviate and begin to peck at his neck. Tom's breathing quickened as he clung tighter to his body.
Albus could feel the excitement building inside him and couldn't resist this desirable body that was calling out to him, this soft skin and warm breath, electrifying him from all sides. He didn't know if what he was doing was right, but he wanted the young man very much. He hadn't made love for years and he didn't want to die without having tasted this wonderful thing one last time. He wanted to make love to Tom Riddle. He wanted his last time to be with him.
His hand went down the young man's body and he began to caress his skin through the clothes he was wearing. He felt Tom's breathing quicken even more and become almost erratic. He searched his eyes for an agreement that would give him the right to go further and the young man gave it up to him by resting his lips on those of the teacher. They kissed slowly for a few minutes, then Tom stepped back, his eyes fixed on his teacher.
Albus smiled reassuringly, took Tom's hand and the two men left the classroom. The journey to the Professor's apartments was a quiet one, but there was a growing sense of envy between them and impatience could be felt in their borrowed gestures. As the teacher unsealed the entrance to the apartments, Tom could already see the outline of their forthcoming caresses, and a desire as impromptu as it was inexplicable sprang up between his legs. Just a pleasant twinge, a slight thirst to touch the skin of this man he admired. It was enough to let the man undress him and kiss his offered body as a devotee would before his god.
Tom felt as if he were being adored and worshipped as the hands that were gathering within them the quintessence of the most exquisite pleasure closed inescapably on him. Lying naked and shivering on Albus's bed, Tom did not hesitate long before giving in to the benefits of the warmth around him.
Albus gave himself over to the pleasure he was feeling without thinking any further, and as he caressed the young man's body, the image of death devouring him suddenly no longer mattered. He entered a world of delight, forgetting everything that was not the sublimity of that body against his own. The moans that followed were the most intoxicating sounds he had ever heard in his life and plunged him into a biting, unquenchable jubilation.
To be continued.
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SamaraXX