tampered | Log; Open

Current Mood: determined

Log; Open

When; Sunday, July 29th
Rating; pg-13, mucho violence
Characters; Albus Dumbledore

serpentheir, and anyone else, but HP PEOPLE PLZ TAG TOO?
Summary; Pulled into the City side-by-side, The Dark Lord, and the Only One He Ever Feared find that they're just not going to get along for the time being...
Log;

In a flourish, his wand was drawn, and at the ready. The ancient, loyal thing it was--a prize of his success, and of his shame. Albus didn't want this. War was over, especially now that he was sure The Dark Lord was dead. But he was incorrigible, Tom...he was frightened. Terrified. Worst fears come to life. Tom was dead. How else could he release the aggression and horror?

And so, Albus Dumbledore was ready, ready to fight when he had to fight. And to win, before anyone else in this new place fell under Tom's unforgiving wand.

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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.

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