tampered | Log; Open

It was utter torture, to be here, in this place, to be dead. He was terrified, and fear only seemed to make Voldemort angry. To even think that the boy had defeated him filled him with an anger and fury he had only felt when he had realized that his Horcruxes had been discovered.

And yet, to his strange delight, the old man, Albus Dumbledore, was offering to fight him, to duel once more! The thought of being able to kill Dumbledore himself gave him a dark sense of satisfaction, and it was with a cruel sneer that he withdrew his wand, the wand that held a tail feather of Dumbledore's own phoenix.

"Manners first, Dumbledore," Voldemort hissed in his cold, high voice, bending forward slightly to give the professor the slightest of bows.

Albus mirrored this action, ever polite, infinately calm and contented with his surroundings. If it turned out for the best, perhaps he could drive Tom back into hiding. Once he accepted death, such a shock would take a very hard toll on his fragile state of mind.

"Of course, Tom...regardless of the outcome, you and I are both trapped in this place. I hear the dead only reappear."

"And that is most convenient....if I am indeed dead as you say," he murmured, ever in denial.

It began quickly, just as it had in the Ministry of Magic. A Cruciatus Curse flying towards the old man, which he would undoubtedly block. When the Dark Lord and Dumbledore fought, it was almost as if they were putting on a performance for any onlookers, so fantastic were the spells that they cast. They were both powerful, two opposite ends of the spectrum, and heaven forbid that they ever join forces...for if they did, they would be unstoppable.

"Just like old times, eh, Dumbledore?" Voldemort grinned madly, taking delight in using his power; it was like a drug, bringing him comfort when nothing else would.

With barely a flick of his wand, the curse was deflected, and an unnamed burst of blue light came hurling back.

"Sadly, Tom, yes. Even in the end, some things will never change."

Changed as he was, from the handsome unsettling boy he took from the orphanage, deep eyes turned red, skin turned to ivory. In all their wanderings, some things were all too constant. Such as their inevitable clashing, with blinding spells of white and red. Neither had an equal, yet both were the most powerful of their world. Always at odds.

He disappeared in a swirl of black robes, reappearing seconds later several feet away. The old man hadn't lost his touch at all, and their spells illuminated the night, the sounds of the spells colliding echoing throughout the air.

This spell was a favorite of his, and it was with the greatest satisfaction that he created the serpent of fire. It hissed, rearing its ugly head, as Voldemort cried out to it in Parseltongue, commanding it to strike, to engulf Dumbledore in flames.

"KILL HIM!!!" Came the command. The snake lunged forward.

Albus watched as the serpent raced towards him--with a great wave of his wand, drawing pure white magic from his arm and hand, swirling it into a burst of blue flame--the fire gave a great cry, bright firey wings unfurled, and flew straight for the deadly snake.

The white phoenix cried and flew straight through the snake, dispersing the fire as it severed it in two. The bird suddenly changed course, and headed straight for the dark lord himself.

Red eyes widened as the phoenix destroyed his serpent, and his throat clenched. Well, well. Two can play that game...

In a sick twist of irony, Voldemort summoned more power, and water burst from the end of his wand. The Dark Lord held out one clawed hand, and the water suddenly resembled it as he made violent swiping motions in the air. The water hit the phoenix repeatedly, dousing the flames.

Voldemort gave a cry of triumph; he would not go down so easily....although it was that thinking which usually resulted in his failure.

As his previous spell disappeared, Albus twisted his wand, and a great sparkling gale-force wind erupted from the tip of it. Like a shimmering cyclone it headed for Riddle, intent on engulfing him in sharp, electric magic.

It wouldn't hold, but it was a strong spell, and with that small window of time he was given by Tom's unerring triumphant yell, he looked to gain an upper-hand.

"FUCK!" Voldemort cursed in Parseltongue as the gale hit him full force. His robes swirled around him, and the Dark Lord was forced to shield his face from the intensity of the wind and water which was quickly turning into ice. He gritted his teeth, his feet grinding into the ground as he struggled to keep his balance. With extreme effort, he willed the ice to harden into sharpened edges, and just as the glass had done during their last battle, he sent them swirling in Dumbledore's direction.

Sweat dripped off of his brow, and his breath came in deep heaves, red eyes glaring at his opponent. This was taking its toll out of the newly deceased wizard. Dumbledore had had time in the Afterlife to regain his strength, but Voldemort, who had only moments ago been killed, was beginning to exert himself.

With a flick of his wand, Albus shielded himself from the rain of sharp ice. In all truth, he felt exhausted. There was something pulling at his power...something about this place. And by the look of it, Tom was feeling it as well. Albus, however, recovered much more quickly, fatigue be damned--

Albus aimed his wand, and with a great push, a whip of bright blue fire flew from his wand, and he swiped at Tom as fast and hard as he could.

The spell had nearly caught him off guard; he blocked the curse at the very last second, and it managed to draw blood on his hand. What is this place...? What is it doing to me...?! he thought in panic, staggering slightly. He didn't know how long he could keep all of this up. Best to get it over and done with, quickly....he felt exhausted.

"AVADA KEDAVRA!" He cried, the jet of green light zipping through the air towards the Headmaster.

Having been ready for something different, Albus had little time to cast a protection spell before the killing curse blasted into him. It knocked him back a few steps, and he thought idly on the possibilities of death for the dead.

There was ache where there was never ache before. His body was spent--he was starting to feel as he did in the Cave so long ago. But it wasn't over. It just couldn't be over yet.

Grabbing at strength, Albus whipped his arm through the air and cast a bright red bolt of a spell.

This time, he was not ready. The wand flew from his hand as he was knocked backwards. The wind had been knocked out of him, and he let out a small cry of fury as he landed on the ground. He shakily got to his knees, his red eyes darting in the darkness for his wand. He was too tired to Disapparate...he was at Dumbledore's mercy.

"...you're going...to kill me, aren't you?" He asked, red eyes glaring up at the old man, the man that had never trusted him, the one who had fascinated him ever since he came to him in the orphanage. He couldn't even remember when they had gotten off on the wrong foot when he was student...they were at odds, that was all. There was no beginning, no end.

"Somewhat...fitting...if I were to die, I would rather it be death by your hand...and not killed by a pathetic disarming spell," he said in Parseltongue, not even caring if Dumbledore understood him or not. "Goddamned ancient...I got rid of you, I killed you...no matter what the boy said...guess we're going to be even now....fuck...where's my wand...?"

Albus approached Tom as he talked. He still didn't understand...why kill the dead? What would it accomplish but giving him the finality that he was, indeed, dead. Standing over the younger man, Albus felt a light pity...not for the Lord. Not for the boy. For the infant. Taken from the dead arms of his mother.

Albus frowned lightly as he lapsed into Parseltongue...at death's door, the most spiteful creature to have ever lived.

"...Tom." He spoke softly, but firm. "...You're dead, Tom. No more."

...it was then he heard footsteps...heavy ones. And a magical energy. Headed straight for them.

"No...not dead...never dead..." He grinned madly. "I'm still here, aren't I? Aren't I here, talking to you?"

He chuckled, turning his head to spit out some blood that had gathered in his mouth from the impact of his fall. "Can't die...c-can't...because I defeated death...gone farther than even you...the boy couldn't...he couldn't have possibly...not...not with that spell..."

He laughed again, but this time, it was more uneasy. He was beginning to grow unsure. Dumbledore had died. By all intents and purposes, if he were alive, he wouldn't even be able to talk to him. Would he...?

"...I'm the Heir of Slytherin...I, Lord Voldemort...can't die...shouldn't die...no..." He murmured, again in the Serpentine language.

The sound of running footsteps drew the two wizards' attention away from each other. Voldemort turned his head, and as he stared into the darkness, he could make out the figure of a person running quickly, and he could sense an immense source of magic approaching...much like Dumbledore's...much like his own.

Who...? He thought, quickly remembering the situation he was in, his red eyes searching for his wand once more.

Tom-Tom-Tom-Tom-- His name was every breath in her body. Her whole reason, here now--

She was so SORRY, Tommy, Tom, so sorry, sorry, sorry...Tom Tommy, baby, pretty, perfect Tom, perfect baby...!

Merope tripped and fell so many times, trying to get to her boy, desperate to see him, protect him.

"DON'T TOUCH HIM!!! DON'T -TOUCH- HIM!!!!" Seroentine escaped her throat, hissing maliciously at the man standing over her son.

Standing over her baby.

Ron had barely had time to recover from her statement, and had to practically double-take at the spot where she'd vannished from in her flight. Recklessly, he sprang to his feet, reaching to grab her and missing, "Hey! Wait-- Don't." He fell, and sprang up again.

He made a grab for her at every stumble, demeanor worried and scared, slightly daring, knawing, "He'll kill you!" Too late, though; both of the older wizards were already looking up at her approaching figure. He clutched his wand, running to stay close beside her, "You great idiot."

For a second, Voldemort thought that it was Bellatrix Lestrange standing over him, screaming defiantly into Dumbledore's wizened face, but no....that wasn't her voice. This voice was different. This voice...

She was speaking Parseltongue.

Shock shot down his spine as he knelt in front of Dumbledore, this woman standing in front of him. The only one who was supposed to know Parseltongue was him. He was the last, the only Heir to Slytherin left alive, but...

It can't be, he thought in horror. No...it CAN'T BE!

He couldn't know for sure...no...not until....

"...You..." He began, swallowing, licking his lips in nervousness. Merope Gaunt...?

Unbidden, came the words from his previous employer, when he was still young and working for Borgin and Burkes...

"She was a frail girl. Didn't say much. Lanky hair, peculiar eyes. Looked worn down, and jumped at every little noise. Name was Merope Gaunt, I think it was...? But she gave us this locket for not a lot of money, that's for sure...and what a prize!!! Salazar Slytherin's locket!!! Poor girl was so dumb she didn't even know the true value of the fuckin' thing! But she was pregnant, really far along. Her stomach was huge; we had to yell at her to get out, because we didn't want her knocking anything over...anyway, rumor has it Hepzibah Smith has it, now, Tom, and we want you to go get it.

"...Tom? Tom, are you all right? You look awfully pale..."

"....Mother...?" The words came out in a low hiss, as a whisper. He felt strange. His heart was clenched, and it was hard to breathe. He had begun shaking; he was trembling all over. He was so preoccupied by the woman that he had completely disregarded the young boy with her.

As the boy--her boy--spoke, her demeanor changed immediately. Merope turned from the older man to look at her son.

...Ooooh, Tom...Tom, Tom, Tom--what happened to her baby...

Mother. Mama. Mommy. Mum. Mother. Merope weeped, she sobbed, dropping hard to her knees before the wizard.

"Tom....Tom, Tom...my boy--my perfect, pretty boy--my good perfect pretty perfect -Tom-..." She reached out to touch him, stopping short, sure he would ripple and vanish like a reflection on the water. His eyes weren't dark anymore, they were red, red like rubies, red, red like blood, like shiney pretty drips of blood, and he was elegant and long like a snake...

He was still perfect. Perfect Tom.

Voldemort flinched slightly as she reached out to touch him, never having known a mother's touch, or a mother's love. Would things have turned out different had the woman kneeling before him never died? The world would never know...for Voldemort was the man he was now and ever was, and, a mother's love, a mother, period, had come too late.

His eyes flared dark red as she said that damned name - Tom - but now wasn't the time. He was at a disadvantage, he was still at the mercy of Dumbledore. He had to get out of here.

At least, that's what he told himself, but he couldn't stop staring at her. She did look worn, frail, just like his old employers had said. She looked weak, but he could sense the power she had deep inside her, being an Heir of Slytherin.

Heir of Slytherin.

He had inherited all of her power, all of her talent. She was the source of his power, her womb his origin of life. Suddenly, this woman in front of him was as valuable to him as a Horcrux. She was better than Bellatrix, better than Snape, better than any of his Death Eater's combined! If she followed him, assisted him...they would be unstoppable. Of course. Let her call you Tom for now. You can correct her later, he thought, his clever mind already moving forward.

"Mother..." His red eyes flicked to Dumbledore to see his reaction, then to the boy, who was purposefully avoiding his gaze. "We can't stay here."

Albus was still staring at the worn, dirty simpering form of Merope, his face an expression of pure shock. More-so, of the reaction of her son. He didn't know how unstable Merope was at this point. Another fit could send her spiraling, and very easily cause certain things to happen.

He needed to worry about a certain Ronald Weasley nearby. Quietly, he stepped toward Ronald and firmly took his arm. Albus and Merope could very well harm eachother. Badly. And it was time to leave.

Merope turned to look up at Dumbledore--bumblebee--her eyes somewhat wide. He was very very strong. Very old--very tall--and she had just yelled at him--oooh, bad, bad, bad...

Still..he was trying to hurt her baby. It would be worth a curse, or a beating, worth it for pretty sweet Tommy.

She looked back to her boy--oh, how wonderful it was to hear 'mother'--and nodded, all too willing to leave.

"Let's go...let's go away from here, let's go, please, go.."

"...Not without my wand," he hissed, and gathering the last of his strength, Voldemort leapt to his feet.

Lumos, he willed his wand to obey him, and light flared several feet away. He snatched it up, keeping his eyes on Dumbledore who wasn't looking at him, but at his mother. Mother. The word was strange, foreign to his mind.

"Dumbledore..." Voldemort inclined his head slightly. "We will meet again...as always..."

For they would meet again. The cycle would continue, after all.

"Legilimens," he whispered, shoving the spell out to a random passerby who stood near, gaping at the scene. Flashes of the surrounding area, a place to hide...a forest. The forest would do perfectly.

"Hold onto me, and tight," Voldemort hissed in Parseltongue to Merope, grabbing her arm. Keeping the image he had received of the forest clearly in his mind, Voldemort turned on his heel and Disapparated, taking his mother with him.

Albus had given him the ghost of a nod when he was addressed...of course. It was bound to happen, even in the cover of death...but what did he plan for the poor woman, his poor mother, in his place? It worried him...

...But right now, he needed rest...sleep. And to find safer places for himself and, apparently, his former students.

Ron had basically fallen into this place (which was actually eerily familiar), and found himself unable to Disapparate. Whether by fortune or some strange level of knowing that continued to baffle him to this very moment, he'd learned from a passer-by that You-Know-Who and 'some old guy' were currently dueling. The violent lights, an uncomfortably short distance away, seemed to prove that something magical was going on, at least.

He'd Disillutioned himself and, pleased enough with the results, had made his way closer and closer to the chaos.

As it turned out, 'some old guy' was Dumbledore, and Ron found himself instantly a little more floored. A great bird, made seemingly of white fire, was swooping down over the area, and that's when he realized. He was standing within a decent few paces of Voldemort himself, apparently actually the target of Dumbledore's attack. The kid in the square hadn't been lying.

He felt the sudden need to throw up, but merely yelped and sprinting out of the way, instead, pinning himself to the nearest wall and hoping to everything that he hadn't been noticed so easily.

It was the lights. Bright, pretty flashing lights--and it felt so good to be near it, so good--just like something warm and gentle in your stomach. There was yelling and calling, but that was alright--it was waaarm...and it was so pretty.

Merope shuffled lightly across the courtyard, determined to get to the source of flashing lights. There was something so familiar about it, she wanted nothing more than to be near it. Then she saw them...two men--one as old as father time--the other with a snake-s face--fighting with...wands.

Merope felt a surge of panic and started to back away, hitting a wall, and nudging something next to her. With a small scream, she back pedaled and landed on the ground, cowaring.

He'd somehow missed the woman coming at him, and so flinched heavily and drew his wand. She wasn't anything that he immediately recognized as horrible, though, and so he calmed for the automatic response. She was panicking well enough, though.

Taking a deep breath, he undid the Disillusion Charm, ducking behind an alley bin with his eyes warily on the fight before he turned his attentions back to her. "You should get out of here. Wizarding duel... Especially one like this... It's bound to be dangerous."

Merope flinched as she was spoken to. He had such a young voice, a young nervous voice. But there was that WORD, Wizarding, wizard, wizard, wiz...

She stole another glance at the sparkling lights, then turned to look at the nervous-voiced boy. He was rather fine looking. Skinny--and red, red hair. Tom's hair was nicer. It always was. Merope was afraid...she didn't want anything to do with what was going on...but why did she feel so..close to what she hated.

"...who...are they." Her voice came soft and cracked, like one under-used.

Ron pressed his lips together, eyes moving back and forth from the duel to the somewhat entraced woman. He was really more concerned about getting anymore more likely to get hurt out of here than explaining everything. He didn't want to leave himself, though, if there was even the slightest chance that he could help. He needed to redeem himself, after all, even if it was solidly impossible. He'd try.

When he spoke, it was quietly, nervous and quick, "That's Albus Dumbledore." He pointed out the elderly wizard, still moving and fighting with amazing power. He muttered to himself, for a moment, "I don't understand. He's..." Shaking it off, though, he nodded towards Dumbledore's opponent. "That's," and he fumbled over what to call him; saying it was bad enough without the fact that it was Taboo, and he'd only been lucky to have figured that one out from the Snatchers. Saying You-Know-Who would make no sense, however, because she likely didn't know who at all.

"Tom Riddle," he finally said, very carefully. "He goes by a different name, though, most times."

Dumbledore-dumbledore-dumbledpore-bumbledore-bumble-bee...buzz bumble-bee...He had kindly eyes. And she liked that. He was very tall...and very old--just like father time...time.

.....

...Tom. Tom. Tom Riddle. Tom Marvolo Riddle. Tom Riddle. TOM RIDDLE. Merope was upon the red-haired boy in an instant, clawing at his front, wild-eyed and desperate.

"TOM!!! Tom Riddle!! My--MY--Tom! Tom Rid---He is TOM RIDDLE?!!!"

It was all that Ron could do to keep from yelping quite loudly as he was suddenly pounced upon. "Stop it," he hissed, reaching up to push her off, pull her hands away. He decided that slinched-away fingernails were a pain in the arse and in general, but that didn't quite matter at the moment. He'd managed to seize one of her wrists, "Yes! He is. Get off, would you!?"

He took in a breath, regarding her seriously after his initial panic concerning being half-attacked subsided, "You aren't... You're saying you know him?"

At being manhandled, Merope instantly let go of the boy and flinched, as if waiting to be punished. Bad, bad, bad badbad--no hurting, no clawing--nonono just a tiny mistake....bitty mistake...

She turned dark, dark eyes up to the red-haired boy as he asked her.

...Know...? Know, know, know, know know...? Tears dropped from her eyes.

"...He's my baby..."

It was then she heard a yell, and a thud. She looked quickly, to see that the bumblebee was still standing. Tom she couldn't see. Panic gripping her heart, Merope took off from the alley, headed straight for the battle field.

Log; Open

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject