"ꜱᴏ ʟᴏɴɢ ᴀꜱ ᴍᴇɴ ᴡᴏʀꜱʜɪᴘ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴀᴇꜱᴀʀꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ɴᴀᴘᴏʟᴇᴏɴꜱ, ᴄᴀᴇꜱᴀʀꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ɴᴀᴘᴏʟᴇᴏɴꜱ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴅᴜʟʏ ʀɪꜱᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ᴍɪꜱᴇʀᴀʙʟᴇ."
- ᴀʟᴅᴏᴜꜱ ʜᴜxʟᴇʏ, ᴇɴᴅꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴍᴇᴀɴꜱ
Chapter Sixteen: Now Would Be A Good Time, Dumbledore
"Hurry!" said Professor McGonagall, levitating the stranger's unconscious body down the hallway just ahead of them. "My office. Now. And no questions, Goldstein."
Anthony shut his just-opened mouth, then opened it again before shutting it once more, like a fish out of water.
"What's going on?" asked Ruby under her breath.
"Umbridge," said Ron darkly, jogging to catch up. "Where've you been all this time? Harry's been worried sick."
"All over. Where's Hermione?"
"Umbridge. Don't worry, she's fine. We think..." Ron trailed off.
"Keep up!" whispered Lupin, striding down the hallway just behind McGonagall. "She's getting antsy."
Harry, for one, kept glancing back at the dark, cloaked figure walking behind Ruby, though she seemed unperturbed, walking along with her hands in her pockets as if this were a perfectly normal evening stroll. Who the hell is that?
A faint shudder had begun to inch up his spine.
What if it's a Death Eater... no, that's crazy.
Voldemort, he'll be here at midnight.
It seemed insane. Even after everything they'd been through; Umbridge, Dumbledore leaving, the Muggle-borns having to go into hiding.
This shouldn't have to happen!
McGonagall's office door swung open, and they all hurried inside, except the cloaked figure and Harry. He glowered at the man, who hung back and didn't go in until Harry did, shutting the door, just in time for him to see the stranger, (Tom Riddle, Harry remembered) levitated into a chair, handcuffs shutting around his wrists.
"Who are you?" Harry whispered, but the man only shook his head, and sat as far from Harry as he possibly could.
"I assure you, that measure is necessary." McGonagall's stern voice cut across the clamour of dissent. "Now. Take a seat."
"What about the other Heads of House?" asked Lupin. "Should I fetch them?"
"And risk alerting Dolores in the process?" asked McGonagall archly. "The castle's defenses should hold for hours, as long as there is no traitor in our midst. I will go."
As soon as she had finished speaking, there was a sudden flash of light, and then there was a very dignified silver tabby cat sitting on the desk, covered all over in black flecks and swirls and stripes, with long, elegant whiskers and a marking around her eyes that resembled Professor McGonagall's square spectacles.
The cat leapt lightly down from the desk and strode towards the door; she turned and eyed them all with a critical gaze.
"Good luck," said Lupin.
McGonagall gave a slight nod, and stepped out of a cat flap in the door that Harry had never noticed before.
"Well, first off," Ron burst out as soon as McGonagall had left, "who's he?"
He pointed at Riddle, still Stunned, his head slumping onto his chest.
Ruby opened her mouth, and everyone looked at her, but she shut it again quickly.
Harry could scarcely believe she was here. And this of all times, too! Why does everything have to be life or death situations?
Seeing her after all this time was like seeing a stranger; like seeing his severed arm flopping around by itself after having gone on its own adventures. She seemed somehow far older, more sure of her movements and less shy of her own skin.
What happened out there?
Someone let out a pointed cough, and Harry answered, "That's Tom Riddle."
The last time he'd seen Riddle, he'd been just brought back from the brink of death and the other boy had been covered in his own blood. But Harry had been seeing Riddle in his dreams for a while.
Even Dumbledore thinks he's dangerous. But what could it mean? Why would McGonagall Stun him on sight? What do they know about him that I obviously don't?
"Tom?" Ruby repeated under her breath. "T. M. Riddle... yeah, that does make sense. But..."
"So he was a student here?" asked Lupin, turning towards Harry. He thought Lupin's tone seemed a little accusatory. "I've never heard you mention him."
He was meant to probably, or he should have. But why was it his responsibility? Why not McGonagall's?
"He was, I think a long time ago." Harry gave Ruby a pointed look for her to elaborate, but she was busy fiddling with her hair.
"A time anomaly?" suggested Anthony.
"Why don't you let someone speak for themself for once?" asked the hooded man, and Harry nearly leapt out of his skin. "Renervate!"
Harry could only think of Professor McGonagall's obvious distrust of Riddle, and the uncanny way that he'd called her by her first name. What kind of Pandora's box was that man about to open?
All of a sudden, Riddle's eyes were suddenly opening, and then he had lifted his head, gaze flicking between him and Ruby for a few seconds. He twisted his wrists uncomfortably in the shackles, grimacing, his long eyelashes drawn demurely over his eyes like a black curtain.
And then, he, said, regarding Harry as if he intended to suck his soul out like a Dementor, in a high, cold and terrible voice that turned every blood vessel in Harry's body to ice, "Hello... Harry Potter. I've heard so much about you."
"I haven't heard much about you, Tom Riddle." Harry's voice shook a little more than he intended it to, but he returned the stare. It's not as if he's Rumpelstiltskin and he'll disappear when I call him by his name. And he probably can't help being a bit... weird.
Riddle stared back at him, and at that exact moment his scar began to sting like a fresh cut; Harry stifled a yelp and pressed his hand to his forehead.
He felt a hand on his arm — Ruby.
"Are you alright?" she asked, following his gaze to Riddle. "Whatever you're doing to him, stop it!"
Riddle made to cross his arms but couldn't; instead, he squirmed in his chair. "I haven't even touched him and I haven't got my wand." He looked back at Harry, eyes narrowed, posture wary. "Are you trained in the arts of the mind?"
Harry did cross his arms. "I'm sorry, I have no idea what you're talking about," he said blandly.
"You're a bad liar," said Riddle immediately, despite the fact that Harry had on good authority that he was quite adequate at deception. "You know exactly what I'm talking about."
You can read minds, thought Harry, can't you?
Riddle startled a little but said nothing. It felt like he was tugging at something quite impatiently; first, Harry's thoughts were drawn to the horrible night in the dungeon trapped in the chamber with Voldemort, then, he remembered that you should never look a Legilimens in the eyes if you wanted to keep your thoughts to yourself. Whatever Riddle wanted to know about him, he'd have to ask out loud.
And he did. "Where's Dumbledore?"
"In Azkaban," said Lupin. "Haven't you read the Daily Prophet?"
A wry, joyless smile appeared on Riddle's face. "Do you really think any prison can hold that man?"
No one spoke, and Riddle settled back in his chair like a snake laying out in a patch of warm sunshine.
"He's left you all to die," said Riddle, the amusement evident in his voice. "The old man's finally bloody done it. He's had enough."
Even Harry had to admit that it certainly did feel that way, even though he could not figure out what he thought about Riddle. He was definitely a little scared of him, but...
"What do you know about Dumbledore?" snarled Ron, leaping to his feet.
Riddle said nothing, the smile still fixed on his face.
"I know a lot more than you do about great and powerful men."
A tense shudder went down Harry's spine as Ron sat back down. What's that? A threat?
"I propose a hostage situation," Riddle went on, lounging in the chair as if his shackles didn't exist. He let the words hang in the air. As if expecting them to all react, and start snapping around him like stray dogs around discarded food. He's holding this room hostage.
Lupin spoke first. "What kind of hostage situation?" Harry could hear the unease in his voice.
It happened very quickly — Riddle made some clever finger gesture with his left hand and the restraints snapped away. He stood, brushing imaginary dirt off his clothes, and leaned against McGonagall's desk. He shut his eyes. The only sounds in the whole world were the quiet pops and sparks of the fire, and Harry's panicked heartbeat rushing in his own ears.
"I've heard Lord Voldemort wants to kill you, Harry."
He felt Ruby reach for him, moving between him and Riddle.
"What's it got to do with you, Tee?" she asked in a hollow, almost calculating tone that sounded to Harry's ears eerily like Riddle's own inflections. Quiet and threatening. In his mind's eye, Harry saw Ruby wide-eyed in Ollivander's shop as he told them about great and terrible things... standing over Uncle Vernon's corpse... and thought of all the secrets she'd been keeping...
"I know you're the Heir of Slytherin," said Harry in Parseltongue, just to see what would happen, and a quick swell of amusement rushed through him as Riddle's knuckles clenched and went bloodless around the rim of the desk, his lips pressed together as if holding back a gasp of surprise.
"W-What did you just say?" asked Anthony, but Harry was already on his feet.
"I don't trust you," Harry continued. "I've been warned about you. You're with him, aren't you?"
Riddle looked down at Harry, a joyless smile again balanced on the edge of his lips. "What's it to you?" Each soft, sibilant syllable slipped from his tongue with an easy, languid hiss. "Your sister's safe. Isn't she?"
"You were only holding up your end of the deal," said Harry darkly. "Who knows what you'll do now."
"I'm not interested in causing any trouble.I already have something he wants."
"Then what do you want?" Harry insisted. Suddenly, he realised that everyone was watching them intently.
"A few strands of your hair." At first, Harry did not understand. "And one measure of Polyjuice Potion."
The Animagus Black has escaped. Voldemort pondered Bellatrix's words, true yet again.
He will do my bidding. And, unknowing of Voldemort's desires, but yet in line with them, Sirius Black had retrieved Ruby Potter. The unknowing betrayer.
Each obstacle removed. Each enemy playing their role, in perfect harmony.
Dumbledore is gone.
It is my allies who fail me, again and again.
The girl's corpse should be here, her blood pooling on the pavement.
"You have failed me yet again, Wormtail," rasped Voldemort, fury scraping at his throat. "Must I do everything myself?"
Nott Senior's massive fist tightened around Pettigrew's hair, and he let out a squeak of terror.
A softly-spoken word that only he could hear, a sweet siren song when he looked into Pettigrew's eyes: Punish. Kill. Soothing. Delicate.
"The Dark Lord is displeased." Bellatrix's voice rang out in the night. "Worm-tail, what happens when our Lord is displeased?"
A smile tugged at his mouth. He, the Boogeyman, the Boggart; he, a fantastic and terrible deity of fear.
"I was overpowered, My Lord," Pettigrew protested. "I could do nothing."
Bellatrix spoke Voldemort's thoughts, each word dripping in acid. "Overpowered by a child and a madman!"
Voldemort heard Pettigrew cry out, the melody of his screams echoing into the night to the unmistakable rhythm of Bellatrix's signature curse — the Cruciatus. As if in a trance, his fingers tapped out the rhythm against his leg, but Pettigrew's screams soon lost pace with Bellatrix's laughter— they always falter before they break.
"Stop!" ordered Voldemort, and Bellatrix fell back, shivering in the night air like a child under a blanket.
"They weren't alone!" stammered Pettigrew, his voice hoarse with pain. "I have never lied to you, My Lord!"
Fury danced across Bellatrix's face, and she made to step forward once again, but Voldemort raised his hand. Confused, she swayed from side to side, like an uncertain tree in the nighttime breeze.
"There was a boy with them..."
Good. He's here. Two in the bush, one in the hand.
"Even once he had disarmed me, he did not let go of my mind." Pettigrew leaned forward, his hands on his knees, spewing phlegm. Shuddering, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
The entire group of Death Eaters watched in silence.
"And what did you observe, Wormtail?" asked Voldemort, half a register above a whisper, his lips barely moving.
"He-He seemed particularly interested in the Potters' betrayal... in what happened to you, My Lord, on Halloween night of—"
Kill. Voldemort's hand tightened around his wand. No, he still has use. Punish.
"Bella."
The anxious swaying stopped. She looked up.
"Continue. But I want him still sane at the end of it."
A lingering glance passed between the two, and Bellatrix broke away first, beaming with glee.
Pettigrew's screams filled the night.
No one panic just yet, Lupin had said prior to the assembly in the Great Hall, it'll be alright. Voldemort and the Death Eaters will have to fight their way through the Dementors, too. It's unlikely they know about the secret passage; it was after their time, really.
In the sea of people, no one was going to notice Ruby, just another student wearing a uniform they'd cobbled together; Lavender's spare skirt, a top from Parvati, Harry's slightly too-big robes, and a tie from Ron that was singed on the end. It was Riddle who stuck out; they hadn't been able to find him clothes that fit properly (his height didn't help matters), and everyone in Gryffindor kept turning around to have a look at him for some reason.
In the midst of the attention, Riddle seemed to cower a little, hunching over too make himself smaller, his face obscured by his nape-long hair.
He kept fiddling with the vial of Polyjuice Potion that Harry had swiped from Snape's storeroom about fifteen minutes prior; which, when he'd unceremoniously poured Harry's hair into it, turned from muddy sludge to a bubbly golden liquid. As far as potions went, it didn't look like it would taste too unpleasant.
That won't fool Voldemort. It can't.
Why would he sacrifice himself just to buy us a few minutes?
Harry watched suspiciously as Riddle bent to whisper something into Ruby's ear. What's up with those two?
What are you, jealous she's got a new best friend?
Thinking stupid things like that at a time like this; he could have kicked himself.
"As I am sure you have all noticed," McGonagall began, "the school is about to be under attack. If you would please follow your Heads of House to the more defensible locations in the Dungeon—"
Just then, the doors to the Great Hall swung open with a loud clang.
"Professor McGonagall," said a voice that made Harry, from his hiding-place in an alcove, shudder on instinct, "is this a coup?"
McGonagall blinked back at Umbridge in utter disbelief. "In case you haven't noticed, Dolores, You-Know-Who is minutes away from attacking Hogwarts."
Umbridge drew herself up to her full height. "Do you mean to say that Minister Fudge is not an adequate diplomat?"
"I mean to say that the time for negotiation is over!" McGonagall's voice rose to a shout. "Incarcerous!"
The ground underneath Umbridge shuddered; thick, heavy bronze chains rose from the stone floor, wrapping around her arms several times, and rendering her completely disarmed.
"You've brought this upon yourselves!" shrieked Umbridge, more harpy than human as she rose above the floor, chains sliding against each other with a steady clink-clink-clink. "The Minister offered to give Harry Potter to the Dark Lord, but Dumbledore refused! This is your legacy, Minerva, you'll share it with him! A whole generation of witches and wizards exterminated, for the sake of the Boy-Who-Lived—"
"No one needs to die for me."
Harry tensed. It was strange hearing his voice coming out of someone else's mouth and stranger still to see his double step out from the crowd and speak for him.
"Well, well, well." Umbridge chuckled darkly. "So this is a coup. Never knew you were one for dramatic timing, Mr. Potter."
Out of the corner of his eyes, Harry saw Snape surreptitiously flick his wand, and one of the bronze chains slid into place over Umbridge's mouth with a satisfying click.
Time to make this lie look real.
In his head, Harry heard Quirrell's voice.
"Feel the p-p-pain they have caused you H-Harry... let the anger build... good? Feel how it m-m-makes you strong? Now, let it out. Let the world share your p-pain and tremble in your p-presence."
All he needed to remember was the ceiling of the cupboard under the stairs, and shadows billowed under Riddle's feet.
"If you come near me, I'll kill you!" shouted Riddle, the shadows sparking and snapping at his threat.
"Harry, no!" shouted Ron from the crowd. "Are you mental?"
"You want to sacrifice yourself for Potter?" That was Pansy. "Then why don't you walk out with him, Weasel? No one will miss your sorry face!"
"This isn't reasonable, Harry," said Lupin, calm yet anxious, approaching Riddle, his hand out as if to steady a spooked horse; the best performance yet. "You're not in your right mind, you're not yourself."
The shadows were beginning to burn at Harry's fingertips, aching his flesh in a way they never had before.
I can't hold this much longer, Riddle. Hurry up.
If Riddle was even paying attention to Harry, it didn't show. Thinking quickly, he pushed his thoughts towards the doorway, and greasy, sticky black threads began to weave the Great Hall shut.
"You'd better go now."
Harry cringed at that; it didn't seem believable. But nonetheless, the Slytherins started the stampede, everyone filing out of the Great Hall until it was just him, Riddle, and Umbridge, still bound.
Nice meeting you, Harry. Though he was hidden behind the Invisibility Cloak, Riddle was still staring directly at him; an eerie sight, his own sharp green eyes peering out at him.
See you around, Riddle.
Riddle threw a wry smile in his direction, which looked strange on Harry's face, clambered up to the window, and let himself out, leaping lightly down as if lifted by a gust of wind.
Now, Harry knew what he was supposed to do and what he'd discussed with Lupin and McGonagall; remain hidden, slip through the doors leading out of the Great Hall, and meet up at the rendez-vous point where Percy would be waiting to lead him to safety.
Don't do anything stupid. He'd told Ruby that, dozens of times.
But a morbid curiosity got the better of him.
How do I know Riddle's not double-crossing us? How can I be sure?
Each Dementor had turned into a statue, stock-still as Tee picked his way around them. His heart was thudding in his chest, his throat thick with nervousness and his stomach tight. He rubbed his clammy hands against his robes to dry them before he unhooked the locket, holding it in his cupped palms.
"So he finally listens to me."
This time, his older self was dressed in a grey waistcoat, the silver chain of a pocket watch shimmering against it in the emerald light of the Dark Mark, offset by heavily pomaded curls and a one-shouldered black cape.
"How many changes of clothes have you got in there?" muttered Tee between gritted teeth. The diary had afforded him no such luxuries.
"It's bigger on the inside," said the wraith, checking the time on his watch. "Three minutes 'til midnight. Whose skin are you wearing?"
"Harry Potter's."
"Why?" He underlined the word with a sharp lift of his eyebrow.
Tee shrugged. "Less hassle. Seemed convenient. Boredom. Take your pick."
They walked across the grass in silence, each step punctuated by the sound of the muddy ground claiming and releasing its hold on Tee's shoes. A nice nighttime walk. A quiet evening stroll.
His heart was in his stomach. His stomach in his shoes. He was walking through his organs, his entrails laid out on the moist ground, exposed and vulnerable.
I'm about to meet him.
He heard it before he saw anything in the darkness. Every word was a quiet thrill, a flower blooming inside his ribs.
"The Boy Who Lived..." Lord Voldemort began to move into the emerald light, a shadow himself, cloaked head to toe in black. "Come to..."
There was only one way to efficiently get rid of the effects of Polyjuice before the time was up, unpleasant as it was and despite the fact that it was not his idea of a good first impression; Tee stuck his fingers down his throat, and leaned over, retching, his skin bubbling painfully as the effects of the potion were forcibly worn off. The wraith sneered and cupped his hand over his nose.
"Come to find you," Tee finished breathlessly. "Ever since the cave, I..."
What should he say? He had never rehearsed it.
"I..."
Tee cleared his throat loudly, crossing his arms. Ask what you want to know. This isn't time for acting bashful. "What I mean to say is that I've been trying to retrace our steps. I don't understand what happened."
If you can't survive, how can I?
The cloaked figure of Lord Voldemort did not falter. Did not move, or breathe. Only glimmered in the emerald light like an eerie tombstone.
Tee, too, held his breath.
Then came the cold answer.
"Why have you come? Why are you here?"
"I thought you'd be pleased!" Tee stammered out, heart racing. "I thought you'd want to see me, see us!"
One of the memories from the cave bubbled to the surface, making him stagger under its weight.
For time eternal, there had been the wild, childish fantasy of his father (Tom had a father; his parents were married, after all), the heavy sound of his boots tapping on the cold floor of the orphanage ("I want this one.") scooping Tom up in his arms (they would be strong enough to lift him easily), and carrying him far away from that place.
With every passing year, the hope had been buried deeper and deeper until it was a single thought (My father was a wizard, too! His name is Tom Riddle!) burning like a steady flame until it had been snuffed out. His great father, the great wizard Tom Riddle (Lord Voldemort) who had come before (after) him, was nothing but a childish daydream.
"You don't want me."
Everything warm in him turned to ice. His organs froze inside his ribs.
Hysterical, childish.
"You don't want me!"
He could imagine what Potter's pet shadow monster felt like now, cold fire curling in his throat.
The locket had shut. Even the wraith had abandoned him.
"Alu," said Voldemort softly. "Be still."
Tee slumped forward. Quiet. Pacified.
A cold hand had grasped the back of his shirt.
"Your return to me was planned precisely. I am not pleased. I find your existence here adequate, even though Wormtail has failed at every point to comply in a satisfactory manner with my demands, you are intelligent enough to make your own way, as I would expect. Your weak, Muggle father is dead. He has been dead for fifty years. Make no mistake; I have no intention of parenting a seventeen-year-old, full-grown wizard. If you are quite done with the self-pity and ready to behave like an adult, I will release you."
"I'm done."
Not cold anymore. Sharp. Anger choked the back of his throat. What did you expect, you idiot, tenderness from the Dark Lord?
Is that the big plan? Follow the little girl up and down the country like a dog?
You've lost it. The locket-wraith was right. He had. You've gone soft after all these years. You don't want to be great anymore, do you? Where's your ambition? Where's your cunning? Where's your brain?
There had been enough fairy-tale thinking for a lifetime these past few months. It was time for a return to logic and truth. A return to his senses, to himself. Whoever he was.
"I don't have a wand." There was nothing else to say. It was simple. Factual.
"Take one from your first kill," said the Dark Lord dismissively.
Of course, the future wants nothing to do with the shameful, feeble past.
Tee turned back towards the silent castle, picking out the figures on the Astronomy Tower; McGonagall, Sirius, the man with the wolf Patronus, along with other professors who he did recognise.
"Rookwood is wearing down the shields," Voldemort continued, following Tee's gaze.
Like rabbits in a burrow, being dug out by wolves. Tee watched lights ricochet off the castle's stone walls, fizzling out like fireworks burning too fast.
He glanced back at Voldemort, longing still pulling at his chest, hooks still anchored deep in his heart.
"Let me look at you." He did not know if he was commanding or pleading.
Voldemort was silent for a moment. He lifted his black-gloved fingers to his hood and pulled it back slightly so that Tee could see his eyes, two blood-red stones like a black adder's, although the pupils were still round like a human's. They seemed to glow in the green light.
"And what is it that you want to see so desperately?" asked Voldemort. His voice went straight through Tee like the clear sound of a bell ringing through the air.
"I..." No, not Tee. Tee had only ever been a placeholder. Tee was his destruction. Everything had been slowly washed away from him in the whiteness of the abyss until he was naught, the pale brightness that still echoed in his head.
And what emerges from the dark night of the soul?
Brightness. Clarity.
Soon morning would strain at the sky, regardless of the outcome, regardless of death. His hand went to the lump of nigredo in his pocket, already burning and turning pure white.
Do you believe in destiny, Tom?
He's been touched by the Devil. Look at those soulless eyes. Unholy child, spawn of Lucifer.
All of a sudden, a cacophony of screams went up; not from up ahead at the castle, but from the shadowy, inky darkness behind Voldemort. And with them came the sickening thumps of the wet ground embracing fallen bodies.
Tee watched. There were lights, now, unerring spells hurtling through the air with deadly accuracy.
Voldemort was not frozen like Tee was, not shocked. He'd turned towards the carnage, and, emerging from it, lit by the green light of the Dark Mark, was a tall, black-cloaked figure with a long white beard blowing in the wind.
Death, is that you?
The black curtain is fluttering closer.
And then, with a sickening lurch, Tee realised that the Reaper was familiar.
He was followed by the warm glow of a scarlet bird whose wings trailed flame.
Dumbledore.