Chapter 25 - Inner Fire, Outward Flame

Written by Nemesis

There was a very frightening moment as Mandy fell backwards, and Tom felt panic's claws clench around his stomach. She landed in the grass with a thud, and Tom felt the feeling return to his legs as he watched her unconsciously gasp for air. He rushed to the girl's side, fumbling in his cloak pocket for his wand. Somehow, he knew exactly what he was going to do. "Ennervate," he murmured, pointing the wand at her.

Mandy sat up sharply, still gasping. She whirled on him, eyes wide. Seeing him, she flew into a rage. "WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU DO-mmmmf!" she exclaimed, halting as Tom clamped a hand over her mouth. She struggled and showered him with little-girl slaps, which Tom ignored impatiently.

"Obliviate." Gold and silver sparks shot from the wand in his hand, and Mandy assumed a rather perplexed look. She shook her head a few times, and by the time she had blinked all the clouds from her eyes, Tom had vanished into the smoky fog.

********************

The close call with Mandy Birch kept Tom feeling edgy for days. If his temper threatened to erupt, Tom would try desperately to keep in check--which was near impossible considering the fact that he was still in world-hating mode. However, all this pent-up anger might be a blessing in disguise. One quick trip to the Restricted Section had found him the perfect books on transporting thoughts and feelings. Tom spent hours reading up on Pensieves, the risks of soul transport, and Ministry laws regarding the matter--for, he thought, it was always smart to know exactly how much trouble one would be in if one were caught in the act. It turned out that pulling a stunt like what he was trying would probably land him in a dementor's mouth.

Meanwhile, Mandy kept on with her life as usual. She seemed to have filled in the blanks by herself, and was firm in her belief that she had made conquest of him at last. She acted rather differently around Tom--shooting him the occasional wink and giving him embarrassing nicknames he could never bring himself to repeat. The whole of Slytherin House seemed quite willing to embrace the idea, but Tom forced himself to remember that it was at least better than the things they'd be saying if they knew what actually had gone on.

To take his mind off things, Tom devoted almost all his free time to studying this magical diary theory. It seemed that if he was creative and used a few made-up spells, he might just be able to transplant all his dark thoughts and feelings into the diary. And after that, he wouldn't have to worry about the Chamber of Secrets ever again. That would certainly be wonderful--then he could forget about the whole ordeal and move on to trying desperately to decide between possible future careers.

In November, the company in London that made the O.W.L. exams finally finished grading the tests and sent them back to Hogwarts. Usually it didn't take so long, but because the former fifth-years who had been petrified had had to retake the test, grading was made sufficiently longer. All the sixth-years were pulled out of class to head to the Great Hall and get their tests back. Tom was rather disappointed at this--Professor Twiddy had been giving a fascinating lesson in History of Magic when Dippet's voice had summoned them. Bored stiff and stuck at the end of the alphabet, Tom sat at the Slytherin table with his fellows and waited for Professor Dumbledore to call his name. He expected this to be a boring but relatively quick ordeal.

"Aberson"… "Andes"… "Bates"…

Tom was strongly reminded of the Sorting back in his first year. As Murray Bates shuffled forward from the Ravenclaw table to receive his certificate, Tom drew a slip of paper out of his bookbag and started doodling. The names kept marching for around half an hour, and Tom watched as students made their way up to the front and received their scores. Some looked elated; others, mortified. Francis Malfoy almost looked ready to cry, but when Larkin Mallory got her score she cartwheeled her way back to the Slytherin table, grinning from ear to ear.

A rather pretty Gryffindor girl called Carina Marx came next, then Adrian Müller, Melissa Navero, Michael Orion, Beth Palmer… Tom only really started listening when he heard "Pearson, Griffith". In the old days, Griffith Pearson came before Lili Po alphabetically, but now there was no Lili between them, and Tom knew he would be next.

Griffith made his way back to the Hufflepuff table, a look of enormous relief radiating from his every gesture. Tom set his quill back in his bag, stuffed the parchment into his robe pocket, and got ready to stand up.

Dumbledore cleared his throat and looked down at the list--he hesitated a minute, then consulted a couple other teachers. Tom watched, frowning, as the other teachers shrugged and whispered at Dumbledore to keep going. "Robbins, Molly," he called uncertainly.

No one else noticed the discrepancy. Molly got up from the Gryffindor table, beaming, and flounced over to receive her certificate. Tom's face had gone slightly blank. Why had they completely skipped him? No, perhaps it was just a misprint--perhaps he would come next. Tom got ready to go up again.

"Sahabjira, Zuhayr," Dumbledore went on. This time, everyone at Slytherin noticed it--Zuhayr got up very tentatively, shooting Tom half a glance. The other Slytherins gave Tom surprised looks, and by the time Zuhayr reached the table again with his seventeen O.W.L. marks the whole hall seemed to have noticed there was something amiss.

"Tanner, Victoria," Dumbledore called, pointedly avoiding looking at the Slytherin table. The brown-haired Ravenclaw girl made right for the front, watching out of the corner of her eye as some of her fellows conversed urgently with members of the Slytherin table.

"Maybe he failed or something?" Tom heard Francis put in hopefully.

"What's going on?" asked Fiona Jedias from the end of the Ravenclaw table. A chorus of Slytherin voices answered.

"Tom Riddle--"

"They skipped Tom Riddle. They bloody skipped him--"

"He's top of the class, how could they miss him like that?"

Tom felt his face turn a strange pink colour.

"Never heard of anything like this happening before."

"Not unless he failed," Francis said again.

"Riddle never fails, Malfoy, you idiot…"

"Wayersky, Natashenka," Dumbledore said in a much louder voice, having to project himself more over the growing hum of whispering voices. The Russian Ravenclaw made her way to the front reluctantly, wanting to stay and listen to the other students muse over the matter.

"Do you know what's going on, Tom?" Serena Birch asked him. Tom shook his head, still quite embarrassed and now feeling rather anxious. Why was it that coincidence always seemed to single him out for these things?

"Maybe the O.W.L. people haven't finished counting all the marks he got."

"Or maybe the idiots just forgot him."

"You don't have to be an idiot to forget Riddle," Tom heard Philip Cedric say loudly. "Nothings are easy to forget--" He was cut off quickly as Tom snapped his fingers under the table--it was a strain, but he managed to hit Philip with a Helium Hex from across the room without using his wand.

Natashenka returned to the table very quickly, and Richard Zabini meandered up to the front of the hall. He received his score very quickly and returned to the table. By now, all four houses knew about it.

"Perhaps they're saving him for last because he got the highest score?" Lucy Chubb said admiringly.

But no--even this was incorrect. Dumbledore rolled up his parchment and Professor Xavier, looking harried, started shooing the students back out of the hall. Tom remained in the hall uncertainly, watching as the teachers whispered together and kept glancing over at him. A feeling of unease was gripping at his viscera, and Tom began to fiddle with the buckles on his leather bookbag. Maybe he really didn't want to stay after all…

Across the room, Dippet shrugged, and muttered something to Dumbledore. Tom tried to read his lips--it looked like he was saying "Albus, you're the one with all the experience. You do it." That, of course, didn't make Tom feel any more comfortable at all. Professors Twiddy and Camden both started away, calling back that they had classes to tend to--now he couldn't even have the support of either one of his favorite teachers. Dippet left the Great Hall too, looking exasperated, and all the other teachers made random and hurried excuses, shooting Tom amazed and frightened looks. Dumbledore was left alone by the staff table, looking slightly irked at his lack of support. Unsure what to do, Tom kept his seat at the Slytherin table and went on messing with the straps of his bookbag.

He felt the table shift slightly, and sensed Dumbledore sitting across from him. Tom idly--perhaps insolently--continued to stare at his hands and fidget.

"You're probably wondering why we didn't call your name," Dumbledore said finally.

Tom fidgeted some more. "Yes," he said after a pause, trying to sound indifferent.

"Well, it's partly because of your score. Twenty-seven O.W.L. marks, at the age of sixteen. That's… unheard of." Dumbledore sounded almost angry about this, and Tom's face went pink. "Tom, that would put your wizarding I.Q.--and, for that matter, your regular I.Q.--at somewhere near two hundred."

Tom felt his breath catch in his chest. "Oh…" he said, to shocked to articulate further. He swallowed. "That has to be a mistake… I'm not that smart…"

"You are," Dumbledore said slightly tersely. He looked at a roll of parchment in his hand--Tom could see the words "Tom M. Riddle" written at the top of it in curly handwriting. "Your Transfiguration and Arithmancy scores are through the roof, your Ancient Runes skills don't even compare to those of most professionals, your Potions and Herbology are far above Ordinary Wizarding Level, your History is as high as it can go…" Dumbledore reached the final bullet on the list, and, though Tom could not read it without his reading specs, he could see that something urgent-looking had been written below it in blood-red ink. "And your knowledge of Defense Against the Dark Arts--or rather, your knowledge of the Dark Arts in themselves--is far higher than that of most Aurors. In fact, of most Light Side wizards in general."

Tom's stomach did a complete turnover. He had tried to be prudent in the Defense Against the Dark Arts section, to try and remember which tidbits of information he had got out of books and which he had got out of the lessons. But maybe he'd made a few mistakes. From the way Dumbledore was looking at him, that was probably it. Tom didn't say a word, but the first coherent words that popped into his head were, "Oh, shit."

Dumbledore's attention now turned to Tom's graded O.W.L. book, looking so innocent in its leather covers and pristine white pages. Dumbledore flipped to the back, to the Defense Against the Dark Arts section. "As you know," he said, "the fact that Grindelwald has indeed fallen does not mean that his influence is not still hurting the wizarding community. One of Grindelwald's worst weapons was corruption of schoolchildren, as you also know. Hence--quite recently, actually--the Ministry dragged a few Dark wizards out of Azkaban to give them information on how to perform the Dark Arts. This information was tested in the O.W.L. test, just to make sure no students actually knew any of it." Dumbledore glanced down at the book again. "You, Tom, passed that little hidden test with flying colors."

Tom's face went from red to white in an instant. He really hadn't properly remembered his sources of information, had he? One of his little voices, sounding very meek, told him it was all for the best and that Dumbledore could help him now, but this voice was quickly smothered by the other one, which seemed to want Tom to hex Dumbledore and leave Hogwarts immediately.

"There has to be some mistake," Tom wavered, knowing already that he didn't sound remotely convincing. "I'm not a Dark wizard--I don't use the Dark Arts--"

"Here," said Dumbledore, finding a test question that suited his purpose. "The question reads: 'What are the key elements necessary when performing the Cruciatus Curse?' Your answer: 'A strong, negatively-charged emotion (such as anger, pain, or fear) combined with a genuine want of causing pain in the target of the curse.' Students don't learn about the Unforgivable Curses until seventh year."

"You know I read ahead," Tom said swiftly.

"In textbooks only available in the Restricted Section?" Dumbledore said mildly. Tom bit his lip. "Of course," Dumbledore mused, "they are available down Knockturn Alley, but that doesn't say much for moral fiber either." Tom noticed that Dumbledore's usually benevolent blue eyes had acquired that harsh look they always got when he was exceptionally angry--whenever he encountered evidence of the Dark Arts. Tom hadn't seen him look this furious since his second year, when Grindelwald had turned up at the school--not even when Myrtle Potter died. Most unnerving of all was the fact that he was still perfectly deadpan--though in a way that made Tom want to walk out onto the grounds and hang himself on one of the maple trees. "I've looked at a few more of the troublesome answers, Tom. Not even a seventh-year textbook would have some of these. Most Dark wizards wouldn't know the answers to a few of them. And you got them all right. There are, of course, a few answers where you obviously blundered on purpose, but in general…"

The panic, which had started somewhere around his stomach, was now inching its way up his throat--Tom could almost feel his lunch tickling at the back of his mouth, and he felt distinctly lightheaded. "I'm going to faint," he murmured.

"You're not, Mr. Riddle. You're going to sit up straight, you're going to look me in the eye, and you're going to give me an explanation."

Forgotten were the times when Dumbledore had tried to protect him, had given him special lessons, had made not-so-subtle attempts to steer Tom back in the right direction. Now his teacher had very substantial evidence stating that Tom had been engaging in some form of illegal activity, and he was staring at the boy as though he were just like all the Dark wizards he had had to fight in his Auror days. Tom couldn't look at those furious eyes--his own blue-green ones wandered up to stare at the stained glass windows. His ancestor stared down at him from next to Ravenclaw, and Tom forced himself to look back at his teacher.

"Slytherin studied the Dark Arts, but he never practiced them," Tom said finally. His heart seemed to be pounding against his rib cage as though desperate for freedom--somehow, he expected his ribs to open like hinges and his heart to come bursting out from between his lungs. "I'm just studying them. N-nothing more."

Dumbledore gave him a cold, penetrating look. "Do you read the Times?" he asked. When Tom shook his head, Dumbledore's eyes narrowed slightly. "I do. And--years ago now--there was something in the paper about Llewellyn and Olivia Riddle dying in their house with their son Thomas. Not a mark on them, no cause of death, no sign of forced entry. Recently, Armando told me that you were named for your father. Tom is short for Thomas, isn't it?"

"I'm just Tom," Tom replied rather weakly.

"But your father was Thomas, wasn't he?"

"Yes," Tom murmured.

"He abandoned you and your mother, I understand. You never forgave him for that, did you?"

"No," Tom whispered.

Dumbledore nodded icily. "And is this Thomas Riddle perhaps your father?"

Silence.

"They were killed by a wizard, Tom. Any fool can see that. Now you're going to tell me which wizard that was."

Tom's mind was in a jumble. This couldn't be happening to him, it just couldn't…

Dumbledore leveled a gaze at Tom that nearly made him fall out of his seat. Tom avoided his eyes, turning his attention to the Grey Lady, who was watching from a corner. "Did you kill your father, Tom?" Dumbledore asked him quietly. "Look me in the eyes and tell me."

"I didn't kill him," Tom said immediately.

"Tom, you're looking over my shoulder. The Ravenclaw ghost has nothing to do with this discussion."

Tom forced himself to meet Dumbledore's eyes. "I didn't kill him," he repeated. He felt his voice get higher. "I didn't kill any of them. I'm studying the Dark Arts only for the backup information. I'm not using them. I didn't kill him. Oh God…" He was nearly hyperventilating by now, and he could hear his pulse pounding in his ears.

"You look ill."

"You would too if someone was accusing you of murdering your family!" Tom said hotly, flying to his feet. His eyes were burning, and beginning to flicker with something suspiciously scarlet.

"Sit down, Tom," Dumbledore said, his voice maddeningly calm but his eyes growing more wrath-filled by the minute. "We're going to discuss this like adults."

The monster in him backed down, and Tom sank slowly back into his seat. "I don't want to go to Azkaban," Tom whispered. His voice had gone so soft it was near inaudible. "I--I don't know who killed my father. Whoever it was, it wasn't me." Somehow, this didn't feel like lying. Dumbledore gave him a searching look. "And the Dark Arts thing--I'm curious. And I want to know everything I can. I'm in Slytherin, sir, and I'm there for a reason. I'm ambitious and I'm proud, and I bend the rules because I can't see any use in them. And, unless I'm very much mistaken, your precious Gryffindors do very much the same thing."

"They do indeed," Dumbledore replied slowly. "But they don't use this rule-bending to study Dark magic."

"No, they 'use this rule-bending' to cause trouble and hurt people," Tom said quietly. "I don't hurt anyone who wasn't asking for it. They do it for fun."

"This isn't a question of House prejudices," Dumbledore retorted. "Your mother--I went to school with your mother. She was one of the best friends I had, and she was a Slytherin. Trahern Chapman is one of my best friends here. I have nothing against the House. No, Tom, the point here is that they're punished for pulling their pranks, but in the long run, being a prankster doesn't hurt anyone seriously. The Dark Arts will eat you up from inside--I've seen it before and I don't want to see it again. Salazar Slytherin eventually went mad, you know. Lyra Xavena--that prophetess, remember, who studied the Dark Arts when she was a little girl--she used them to kill anyone who got in her way. Every Dark witch or wizard in the Circle of Darkness thus far has gotten started by 'just studying'. And, as is apparent from these O.W.L. scores, it already seems like more than 'just studying' to me."

Tom stared down at his lap, tears welling in his eyes. He made a strangled choking noise in an attempt to divert a sob, but to no avail. He felt Professor Dumbledore grip his shoulder--more warning than comforting. Tom could almost feel the still-present anger in Dumbledore's eyes.

"I can't send you to Azkaban for reading books out of the Restricted Section without permission," the Professor said slowly. "For that, all I can do is take fifty points off Slytherin and give you two months detention--that is, if I'm going by the book. And an O.W.L. test and a newspaper clipping are barely enough evidence to convict you of murder, or of partaking in the Dark Arts. You're off the hook on one condition--you are never going back to the Restricted Section without a teacher's authorization. And if I catch wind from any student that you're engaging in the Dark Arts anyway--even if no one gets hurt, that's a twenty-year sentence in Azkaban right there. Because then I will have evidence, and prodigy or not, I'll have no choice but to ship you off to Azkaban. You have a talent here, Tom, and a great brain. If you play your cards right, you could have a great life ahead of you. You have the most potential of any young wizard I've ever educated, Tom Riddle. You'd better not waste it." With that none-too-comforting last statement, Dumbledore swept out of the Great Hall, leaving a young Lord Voldemort to sit in muffled silence.

********************

The morning of the second of December dawned chilly and clear. The first snow of winter had fallen a few days beforehand, blanketing Hogwarts in a twinkling white drift, and the students loved to spend their afternoon skating at the lake or having snowball fights. However, as the boys in the sixth-year Slytherin dormitory quickly discovered, Hogwarts's magical heating system was having technical difficulties.

"God almighty, it's bloody freezing!" Adrian exclaimed, horrified. He leapt out of bed and into his slippers, going through his trunk frantically for his robes. "Who turned off the heat?"

"Search me," Zuhayr mumbled in response, tugging on his fourth pair of socks. "Wake up Malfoy and Zabini, will you? I'd imagine Tom's gone down to breakfast already…"

Adrian found his robes all in a cluster. He threw on all four sets and put on his heavy black cloak for good measure. "Oy! Ricky!" he yelled, hopping over to Richard's bed while attempting to tie his boot.

Richard didn't wake up--he was quite a sound sleeper--but Tom did. Bleary-eyed, he pushed his hangings aside and peered out. "What's all the commotion?" he asked sleepily. "And why's it so cold in here?"

"The house elves must have gone on strike or something," Zuhayr commented. "Not sure what it could be, really… Lord, Tom, I thought you'd be downstairs! It's nearly seven-thirty, you're usually up by four."

"I was up till five studying," Tom responded evasively. He rubbed his eyes--there were deep lavender crescents gracing his lower eyelids. Though he didn't show it, he was feeling rather elated--last night he had finished reading the last book he needed, and today he could finally get that bloody diary out of the way once and for all. Tom sluggishly dragged himself out of bed and opened his trunk. He hesitated at the Invisibility Cloak, remembering how he had always kept promising Lili that he'd return it as soon as he could. He'd just kept it after she died, not sure what to do with it. But now that his studies in the Restricted Section were nearly finished, he figured he ought to send it on back to her family. If she had any family. Sighing painfully, Tom shoved the cloak aside and tugged out a set of robes. Unlike the other two boys who were already awake, he wore only one set of everything--the cold didn't much bother him.

"OY! RICK! SHOW SOME SIGN OF LIFE!" Adrian was yelling into Richard's ear. The brown-haired boy didn't even stir, and Adrian, exasperated, seized a pillow and put it over Richard's face. Richard started thrashing around suddenly, and Adrian removed the pillow, staring down at Richard with a crooked sort of grin on his face. "There, you woke up. Congratulations." Richard gasped for air, and Adrian went down the staircase as though nothing at all out of the ordinary had happened.

Fastening his cloak, Tom straightened up and swept down the staircase, closely followed by Zuhayr. Neither one of them seemed to want to wake Francis. As Tom entered the common room, the multitudes of girls erupted with giggles. Mandy gave him what she apparently took to be a seductive smile. Tom, half-repulsed, half-panicked, rolled his eyes and strode away.

The Great Hall was populated by figures in bulging robes, cloaks, and hats pulled over their ears. A few people were wearing scarves, and Lili's old friend Courtney Gunther was actually wearing earmuffs and mittens. The teachers were decked out in similar attire, made rather more ridiculous by the fact that Professors Flitwick, Dumbledore, Camden, and Sevigny were all wearing very bright colors. Dippet was off in the hospital wing and had been for a week now--there were rumors he'd taken ill with consumption, though Madam Viola refused to confirm it. Tom hoped he'd die of it. He wouldn't wish it on most people--Tom had seen children at the orphanage drop like flies whenever tuberculosis went around. But he very severely hated Dippet, and didn't care how much pain he was in when he died. Tom had done some research--even wizards didn't have a real cure for consumption yet. "Better keep your fingers crossed," he thought to himself bitterly.

Tom sat down heavily at the Slytherin table. The first-years, still unaccustomed to their schedules, were puzzling over their green-and-silver agenda sheets. Tom frowned. He felt extremely queasy--perhaps he was getting sick. Tom picked at his breakfast, trying to find a compromise. The mail owls flew in through the windows, as usual, and (equally typically) Tom didn't get anything. Maybe he'd be able to get out of class--he really didn't feel up to it today.

He turned his eyes to the staff table. Professor Chapman looked slightly tired, and was chatting with Professor Sevigny, who was donning a bright polka-dotted cloak. A yellow-robed Flitwick was nearby, munching on a sausage and looking quite cheerful. Dumbledore was looking rather unusual in a bright purple sombrero, which seemed to have been tugged on over a tangerine-colored stocking cap with earflaps. Right next to him was Professor Camden, who was in her usual brightly-colored array of gauze robes and had two translucent kerchiefs bound around her head. Deciding she was the best bet, Tom got to his feet and strode over. Dumbledore gave him a very penetrating look, but he did his best to ignore it.

"Professor Camden--er, Ariana?" he asked tentatively. "Can I speak with you for a moment?"

"Sure," Professor Camden replied easily. "Excuse us, Albus." Her hoop earrings jangling, the Divination professor got to her feet and led Tom off to a back room behind the Great Hall. "I got the feeling you didn't want anyone overhearing?" Camden said with a smile.

"Yes," Tom said, feeling himself redden slightly. "Look, Madam Viola's busy with Professor Dippet and I don't want to bother her unless it's an emergency, but--"

"You're feeling ill and you need someone with medical experience to make sure you're well enough for class," Professor Camden finished. "Hmm… let's take a look at you, then, eh?" She looked into his face pensively, feeling his forehead and looking into his mouth. "You haven't had enough sleep, that's obvious, and maybe you've got a touch of flu--" She stopped dead, her brown eyes widening suddenly. "Hold still," she said firmly. Tom stood up as straight as he could, and Professor Camden clamped her hands around his shoulders, staring into his face with a look of panic on her features. "You're in grave danger, Tom," she said softly. "Something's wrong--I see fire…"

"We're making bonfires in Herbology today," Tom remembered suddenly. "Burning all the dead plants to make room for the seedlings in spring. It's my first class."

"You can't go," Professor Camden said firmly. "You're standing in the middle of the fire--and there's fire inside you."

"Is there anyone else there?" Tom asked nervously.

"No one I can see," Camden responded in a whisper. "Just you--you're the only one in danger. If you go about with your plans for today the fire will ignite… Tom, you're not going to Herbology. I'll make sure Professor Sevigny knows I authorized it. Just--your best bet would be to go back to your dormitory and not do anything you might have planned to do. Stay in your dormitory, and whatever you do…" A strained look came over her face, as though she were concentrating. "Whatever you do, Tom… don't talk to anyone who seems unnaturally pale. There's a pale figure carrying a book of matches." Professor Camden fell back slightly, breathing rather hard. "I can't see anything else," she said quietly. "Just do as I say--I pray this ends well."

Tom felt extremely uncomfortable by now, and, once again, he wondered why fate always seemed to single him out for these things. "I'll do as you say, Professor," Tom replied, shifting uneasily. "There's--there's no way you or someone else could stay with me, is there?"

"I have classes," Professor Camden sighed, "and everyone else does as well. Maybe Nearly Headless Nick will do it."

As it happened, Nick was unwilling to go anywhere near the Slytherin common room. ("I'm sure there are charms up to prevent my entry," Nick had said delicately.) The only ghost willing to do the job was the Grey Lady--even the Bloody Baron wasn't interested. Camden shooed Tom and the Grey Lady up the stairs to Slytherin Tower, then ran off to tell Professor Sevigny that Tom couldn't come to class.

"She seems worried," commented the Grey Lady, as Tom spoke the password to enter the Slytherin common room.

Tom didn't answer. He sat down in an armchair by the empty grate, tugging his cloak tighter around him. "Wonder why it's gone so cold today?" he mused.

"Ogg's having trouble with the furnaces," the Grey Lady said immediately, brushing a silvery lock of hair out of her eyes. "Nothing unusual, actually--this used to happen all the time when I was at school. Luckily, I can't feel a thing, so it doesn't bother me." She hesitated. "I saw you and Albus arguing about a month ago and I never got the chance to ask either of you about it," she added quietly. "What was that about?"

Tom sighed. "I was a bit angry they didn't call my name for the O.W.L. thing," he lied swiftly. "I didn't like being embarrassed like that, see. Everyone thought I'd failed or been expelled or something."

"I don't think Albus ever could expel you," the Grey Lady commented. "You always have been his favorite."

Tom gave a sarcastic laugh. "Right, and I'm Cinde-bloody-rella."

"You are, though," the Grey Lady put in seriously. Tom snorted, and the Grey Lady allowed herself a small smile before going straight-faced again. "His favorite, I mean. But he does worry about you. I hear him talk to himself sometimes, asking himself what's to become of you and other such things."

Electra Andes's little white cat rubbed against Tom's legs, begging for attention; Tom scooped it up and started petting it absently. He sighed into the cat's fur. "I really hate this." The Grey Lady gave him a questioning look. "You know--being special. Being different. Everyone pays attention to what I'm doing like they're waiting for me to bung it up--people worry about me. Stupid things happen to me. All my friends seem to drop dead the minute I start to love them too much. I have all these special talents; people call me a wunderkind and all sorts of other inane things. And now Professor Camden thinks I'm going to end up a human bonfire. I must say, it gets rather annoying after a while."

The Grey Lady was silent for a while, listening without a word. She ran a hand over the cat's fur--shivering in the sudden cold, the little creature bolted.

"I almost know how you feel," she said gently.

Tom felt like kicking himself--here he was, wasting time moping and complaining. He was starting to remind himself of Myrtle Potter. "Do something with your time," he instructed himself. His thoughts suddenly returned to the diary upstairs. "I'm going to go do some work," he announced. "Let me know if anyone comes in, all right?"

"All right," the Grey Lady replied. Tom gave her a sad, weary smile and trudged up the stairs to his dormitory. It would be the last genuine smile of his life.

Tom kicked open his trunk and gathered up all the books from the Restricted Section. With some effort, he managed to get the diary to the top of the pile, and he drew his wand out after all this was done. Tom strained his memory, trying to remember exactly which brick to tap. In his nighttime wanderings with Lili all those years ago, she and he had stumbled upon a tower-top courtyard above Slytherin tower, accessible in each of the rooms by tapping a particular brick with one's wand and murmuring "Dissendium." Tom remembered after a few moments, singled out the brick, and tapped on it with his wand, muttering the spell. There was a gentle rumbling sound, and a set of stone steps plummeted down from the middle of the ceiling. Tom scrambled up the staircase, waving his wand again. The staircase vanished behind him, leaving solid ground--and only now did he look up at the courtyard around him.

Seeing it again made his heart skip a beat. It was a very elaborate courtyard, surrounded on all sides by battlements and full of beautiful statuary. Above him was open air, and below him was a flagged stone pathway that had somehow avoided being covered by snow. At the very center of the courtyard was a fountain, frozen for now, but Tom knew from experience that it would be burbling and splashing by springtime. Lord, how he and Lili had adored this place. Off at the other end, Tom could see a statue of a burly-looking wizard--Lili had tied her favorite pink scarf around the statue's neck and had never taken it away. Sure enough, it was still there--significantly greyed and quite tattered, but still there. It was perhaps the place's secluded familiarity that made Tom want to work here--indeed, he had been planning on working on this up here all along.

Sighing heavily, Tom threw down his books, seized a quill, and started writing in his diary.

********************

"…and hence," Professor Camden was saying, "the properties of the goose's liver are useless if not used in conjunction with the kidneys. Are there any questions?"

She looked around at all her third-years, who were staring down at their dead geese as though the things had leprosy. One of them, a Slytherin girl called Corvina Malfoy, raised her hand tentatively. "Do we actually have to cut these things open?" she asked, looking ill.

Professor Camden laughed. "Yes, Corvina, you actually have to cut these things open. Now say the appropriate charms over your birds, and I'll come around with yours scalpels." The third-years groaned and drew out their wands, and the professor made her way back to her desk, searching for the box of scalpels.

She was overcome by a sudden, dizzying headache--so painful she had to sit down. Professor Camden shut her eyes, feeling that familiar nausea and trying not to shudder. For the second time today, she saw that awful picture--the Riddle boy standing in the center of a field of flames, with tendrils of fire extending from his heart. There, again, was that white-faced figure, holding a match, and off in the distance stood a little boy with his chest torn open, blood seeping from the rip.

Camden shivered and tried to blink the picture away, but it wouldn't leave. "Too late to save him," the white-faced figure laughed, and the image started to fade. Camden was panicking by now. Surely Tom wasn't doing something he'd planned to do? She'd done everything she could--he had planned to go to class, and he wasn't going to class. But perhaps he had been planning to do something later, and he was doing it now because of the time he'd been given… A laugh from the pale figure told her she was right, and she burst out uncontrollably, causing her third-years to give her shocked looks.

"Oh, ---- ! Ariana Camden, you idiot, what have you done?!"

********************

Tom finished writing with a flourish and stared down at the diary. He was feeling rather more congested and nauseous by now, but he didn't care--he wanted to get this done. The first few pages contained very pessimistic notes about his life and personality--though he did mention the charisma he seemed to possess, especially around girls, just because he thought it might not be best to have the diary's finder hate him. After this, he had written pages and pages about the Chamber of Secrets, trying his best to sound as though he had enjoyed doing it immensely. There was information on basilisks and information on the Chamber's location. The diary contained only a bare-bones interpretation of himself, with all the better parts of his personality left out. Tom figured it was the softer side of his personality that made him chicken out about the Chamber in the first place. The Tom he wrote into the diary hated Dumbledore rather than feared him, enjoyed murder and hated Rubeus, and had never had a real friend in his life. It seemed almost nothing like him, but Tom wasn't sure that was a bad thing. It would take a very ruthless Tom to open the Chamber of Secrets, not one who feared detection and hated killing.

All that was left now was the magic.

Tom had spent hours last night trying to find the correct incantation. When a perfect match could not be found, Tom combined a few of them and used his rune magic to make it fit. Sighing, Tom set the diary on a nearby chess table and picked up his wand. With an alarming edge to his voice that should have concerned him right away, Tom aimed his wand down at the diary and began reciting from memory.

"Who now shall know of darkness curbed
To be born of the sap of dreams,
And kept in silence till disturbed
By one whose kindness freely streams?
Who now shall know of welcoming hearts
Whose naïveté shall drag them down?
Of thoughts from masters far apart
Once innocence is overthrown?
Who now shall know that from this book
A siege of minds might overtake?
The book holds tight to what it took;
Imperious thoughts are hard to shake.
The secret's made, the ink is gone--
You think it's ended? God, you're wrong."

At first, nothing seemed to have happened. A wanton breeze played at the pages of the diary--and then it became apparent that they had gone blank. Tom breathed a sigh of relief, then edged toward the diary. Tentatively, he prodded it with his wand.

********************

Professor Camden skidded to a halt outside the Slytherin common room. Her heart going like mad, Professor Camden banged on the canvas and the wall around the canvas, hoping to get the Grey Lady's attention. "Lady! Lady!" she shouted, trying desperately to ignore the all-too-familiar gut feeling that this wasn't going to work. "Lady, help me!"

The Grey Lady drifted through the portrait, looking concerned but calm. "Ariana?" she asked incredulously. "Don't you have a class--?"

"I left Corvina Malfoy in charge--she's a clever girl, they'll be fine without me," Professor Camden said impatiently. "Lady, I need the password--Tom might be in trouble and I need to help him before he does anything that might hurt him…"

The Grey Lady wrinkled her transparent brow. "I think Tom said it was 'Prævideus'," she said after a moment. Professor Camden, who was well-learned in Latin, nonetheless didn't even mention the irony.

"Prævideus," Professor Camden said promptly, and the wood nymph swung her portrait aside, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like "cheater". The Grey Lady led the very flustered Divination professor up the boys' staircase, still calm and collected. However, when they reached the sixth-year boys' dormitory, even the austere ghost was beginning to panic.

Tom's trunk was flung open, his books scattered all over the floor and a shimmering Invisibility Cloak lying across the flagstones like a puddle of quicksilver. And Tom was nowhere to be found.

********************

It all seemed to happen within a few seconds. There was a flash of violent red light, and Tom saw everything go black for a split second. He blinked frantically, looking wildly around, and realized he was in something of a dungeon. He had the odd feeling that he was dreaming--as though his limbs weren't really moving, as though he were simply a spirit. His wand was still tight in his grasp, but he could almost tell that his eyelids were still covering his eyes. In fact, despite the fact that he perceived himself to be standing up in the middle of a dungeon, he was somehow aware that he was lying spread-eagled on the ground somewhere else entirely. He had to be dreaming this. There was an utterly nightmarish feeling about the whole thing, and those oubliette-style walls felt hauntingly familiar. "Lord," he thought, "this is just out of one of my dreams… all that's missing is the--"

The Specter was waiting for him at the end of the room, a smile upon his lipless face. "Welcome," the Specter said in a mock-warm voice. The grating sound of the Specter's speech sounded clearer--less dreamlike--than it ever had before. "Welcome, Tom Marvolo Riddle, to the prison that is your mind. And no, Tom, you're not dreaming. You're in a trance. There's a difference."

Tom's hand clenched tighter around his wand.

The Specter cocked its head, seeming to read his mind. "Tom, I'd really prefer if you stopped thinking of me as the Specter," he said lazily. "My name's Vires Ultio--though the name you subconsciously tend to attach to me is Lord Voldemort."

"I'm Voldemort," Tom said, though his voice came out sounding rather misty and far-off.

"Formally, yes," Vires Ultio explained casually. "But no, not exactly. Part of you is Lord Voldemort--that being the part that wants power and revenge. I am the embodiment of the Lord Voldemort half of your psyche. My little nemesis, Fides Studium, is the part of your mind that would rather have love and friendship--the way your mind was when you were a very small child." Vires Ultio spoke these words disdainfully, as though saying them made him want to spit. His white face shimmered in the half-light. "We're your two little voices, as you like to call us. Your consciences. I live on your right, Fides Studium lives on your left."

Tom blinked. "Erm--oh," he said flatly. He decided to go along with it--after all, he'd wake up from this demented little dream eventually, and then life would be back to normal. Right?

"You're not dreaming," a second voice came suddenly. Tom whirled around--standing behind him was a battered, bruised little twelve-year-old boy, wrapped in an old cloak and wearing dusty old robes. Tom recognized the face immediately--the turquoise eyes, wide with pleading and fear, mirrored his own. "Tom, please, this isn't a dream… you've been working your way toward this meeting ever since Hannah Hiddy died, maybe even before that. This diary thing was the last straw--we're done fighting with each other, we're done giving you nightmares. We've both accepted that it's your choice."

"My head hurts and this doesn't make any sense and I want to go home," Tom said in one breath.

Vires Ultio shot Fides Studium a wicked smile. "Perhaps I ought to explain my half of it?"

"I'll explain first," the little wraith said firmly. "Sit down, Tom. The floor will do." Still hopelessly confused, Tom sat down. The little version of him sat down opposite him, crossing his legs, but Vires Ultio preferred to remain standing. Sighing, and glancing hopelessly up at Vires Ultio, Fides Studium began.

"Ever since you were little," he said, "you've had emotions. And, due to your situation, much of this was anger, sadness, a longing for power. Correct?" Tom nodded, and Fides Studium went on. "Every person is born with two consciences. One of them is Machiavellian--it tells you to do anything to advance yourself, and to take revenge. The other wants you to obey the rules and lead a quiet, happy life without confrontation. Most people pay more attention to the latter, but you, Tom--" Fides Studium sighed heavily. "Tom, you've had too much reason to obey Vires Ultio. You, as a person, are angry, fiery, proud, independent, and withdrawn. You yourself have always wanted to gain revenge on those who have wronged you--and you've always wanted power, but you've never been sure which kind. But on the other hand… On the other hand, you have loved, and you have lost. You know what it means to have your heart broken, and you know what it means to enjoy the love of another. Tom, some part of you has always wanted to have a normal life--to grow up and get married, and be happy with your lot in life.

"Tom, you're familiar with the arguments Vires Ultio and I have been having. Both of us are guilty of attempting to take over your personality for brief periods of time, of trying to make you see that our way is the only way. During one particularly nasty argument back in your fifth year, Vires Ultio sent a Burning Hex at me--as I was in charge of your personality at the time, my burns were your burns. Do you remember that?"

Tom's stomach turned at the memory. "I'll not forget that for the rest of my life," he said quietly.

"And then, of course, there was that time when Dumbledore accidentally sucked me out of your brain," Vires Ultio put in with a roll of the eyes. "Fides Studium did his best to block me out, but it didn't work, did it, you little brat?" He sneered this last part to Fides Studium himself, who shrank away from Vires Ultio's foot as though expecting a kick. "You know damn well that a body can't live long without the balance provided by the darker conscience--he was damn near jumping out the window, thinking he could bloody fly. Remember?"

"Oh, and someone can live without the lighter conscience?" Fides Studium fired back, as Tom watched in bewilderment. "Sure, they can live, but what kind of life is it?"

"OKAY," Tom said loudly, and the two spirits stopped arguing. "What exactly was the point of bringing me here?"

"Tom, it's gotten to the point where you've turned into two entirely different people," Fides Studium said grimly. "One of them is Tom Marvolo Riddle, sensitive and moody, prickly on the outside, beloved of the teachers, desperate for friendship, with a bit of a temper but nothing too extravagant. He wants to have a long and happy life, to teach at Hogwarts when he grows up or something along those lines. He wants to forget all about his bad experiences and live to be remembered fondly."

"The other," continued Vires Ultio in an easy voice, "is Lord Voldemort, ambitious and powerful, a true Slytherin who's not afraid to fight for what he wants. He doesn't need friends--he already knows what having friends can do to a person. He knows he's the best wizard in centuries, and he wants to prove it. He wants people to look up to him, to fear him, and he wants to gain revenge on those who have wronged him because they deserve it more than anything."

"And you can't go on switching between the two," Fides Studium finished. "Tom Riddle wrote the diary, but Lord Voldemort lives in it."

Tom's head was hurting worse than ever by now. "So, what, I have to choose one of them?"

Vires Ultio nodded eagerly. "If you pick Lord Voldemort, the spirit of power and revenge can take you to greatness. And this pesky little brat here--the very reason you have felt pain in your life--will vanish forever. I am Lord Voldemort's conscience--if Lord Voldemort survives this encounter, he will be the next member of the Circle of Darkness. There is more power to be gained there than anywhere else, Tom. Please."

"Do you really want to be a Dark wizard?" Fides Studium cried frantically. "That isn't happiness! Power isn't happiness! Isn't love more important to you? Think about it, Tom--think about that euphoria you felt when Lord Voldemort killed your father, and compare it to the euphoria you felt when you were with Lili. Hate versus love. Power versus devotion. Tom Riddle is the twelfth member of the Circle of Light. Which do you prefer?"

Pictures, voices, and emotions were swimming through Tom's mind. As though watching from a window, he saw Lili running across the grounds with him, holding tightly to his hand. The scene shifted sharply--now he was watching himself at Lili's funeral, kneeling by the just-filled grave and tearfully tracing out the letters of her name on the tombstone. Next, it was Hannah--he watched a small, scruffy-looking version of himself waving Hannah goodbye and running off toward Platform Nine and three-quarters. Finally, he stared in from the window in a maternity ward, watching his dying mother gazing down at him lovingly, rocking him gently in her arms.

Love always brought pain. There was no denying it. It was agony to remember it. Avoiding love--that was the best way to avoid pain.

But what about revenge? Murder? The act itself was marvelously entertaining--the only drawback was the guilt, but come to think of it, that awful little Fides Studium had been the one to cause that. Fides Studium caused him to love and it caused him to feel guilt--was there anything the idiot didn't do wrong?

Now, power--there was something he could actually use. It didn't cause you pain, and it was always rewarding. And Tom Riddle wanted to be a teacher when her grew up? What was there to be gained from that? Really, power was the only way to gain happiness. Love was agony. Power couldn't burn you like that.

And speaking of burning…

"I feel warm," Tom commented suddenly. He wasn't sure how to explain it--though the dungeon was freezing, the real him--the physical him--was warm and getting warmer. Something was the matter…

"Oh God," Fides Studium said suddenly. "He's an Olwyn--high-stress decisions like this… he might be having random convulsions of magic, anything could happen now--"

"Make your decision," Vires Ultio said sharply. "Am I to sink into near-silence and make way for the great Tom Riddle? Or shall we expel this pesky, unnecessary little excuse for a conscience and bring Lord Voldemort to power?"

Tom looked up from his hands. His eyes were glimmering scarlet, nearly casting a light of their own. "I have no use for love," he said, a smirk playing at his lips. "May Lord Voldemort's reign begin."

Fides Studium made a sudden gasping noise. His chest seemed to have ripped open of its own accord--he clutched the wound with a look of intense pain on his face. "Tom--Tom, NO!" He whirled around blindly, then turned to the both of them. "I'm not dying this easily," he cried. His promise seemed all talk--something bubbly and blackish-red was dribbling out of his mouth. "I am still the heart and the soul of the twelfth member of the Circle of Light--I'll find another host in my own time!" He was flickering into oblivion by now, but his last words were chiseled into Tom's mind--he would never forget them. "You've heard it before and you'll hear it again--beware a potter's son!"

The little boy vanished, never to return. Vires Ultio reached down and helped Tom to his feet.

********************

Trahern Chapman gave the ghost and the Divination professor a very bewildered look. It wasn't every day that the Grey Lady and Professor Camden turned up outside his classroom door, saying that his star pupil had gone missing.

"He's just--gone? Without the slightest shadow of a trace?" he asked, regarding them critically. "How can you--how can you be sure? Did you look everywhere?"

"Everywhere," the Grey Lady said solemnly. "He's not dead, I'd know it if he were dead--was there perhaps a secret passage in the dormitory?"

Professor Chapman's eyes widened. "There's--there's one," he said slowly. "Salazar Slytherin kept a private courtyard on top of Slytherin Tower--only the heads of Slytherin House have ever known about it. Perhaps Riddle stumbled on it at some point and…"

"You know where it is, then," Professor Camden gasped. "Take us there, for God's sake!"

"I know a shortcut through one of the dungeons," Professor Chapman said with a sigh. "Hold on a moment, I'll have to leave someone in charge of my class."

"I'll take care of them," the Grey Lady said urgently. "You two find that passage--I can't stand to think what might be happening to him…" The three parties separated; the two humans running in one direction, the ghost sliding into Professor Chapman's Potions room.

Both professors were flushed and exhausted by the time they reached the correct dungeon. Chapman, who knew his way around, shoved aside a large painting of a pony that had been leaning against the wall. This revealed a small, dank passageway. "You first," Chapman said breathlessly. Camden didn't need telling twice--she dove into the passage and dashed up the stone staircase. Chapman marked her closely. It felt like hours before the stairs finally ended, and their way was blocked by a stone trap door. He drew out his wand.

Camden suddenly went rigid. "Do you smell smoke?" she asked feebly.

Chapman decided it was best not to answer that. "Alohomora," he said. The trap door flew open, and the two professors were looking up at a billowing canopy of smoke. The smell of burning plants and smoldering soil filled their nostrils. Camden immediately ran the rest of the way up the steps, looking around wildly. Chapman emerged soon after, and he turned pale at what he saw.

The old courtyard was alive with flames. The smoke was so thick neither he nor Camden could see more than a foot or two in front of their noses, but it was enough for Chapman to see a small, smoke-stained scarf fluttering around a statue's neck, sparks slowly consuming it. Chapman could barely move, but Camden immediately dove around the flames, searching madly for any sign of Tom. Within seconds, a cry of relief told Chapman she had been successful, and coming out of his trance, he started after her.

The boy was lying in the middle of the pathway in a sea of books, his wand lying in his lax left palm. His face was stained by smoke, and he was barely breathing--but at least he was alive and unburned. Chapman seized Tom's wand--no time to save the books. Chapman helped Camden hoist Tom to his feet by his upper arms--as quickly as they could, they half-walked, half-dragged him out of the courtyard and down the stairs.

Once they were back on level ground, the two professors laid their charge out on the floor. He was more unconscious than anything else, though he did keep twitching in a very unnerving way. Chapman hurried off to find help, and Camden stayed behind--unaware that it was all too late, unaware that, even after all that, she had failed.

Within a few minutes, a Hufflepuff girl had rushed in from Herbology class and alerted everyone that the school was on fire.

********************

Voldemort saw something bright in his line of vision. It looked like a silver thumbnail--"or the moon, you idiot," he added to himself. That was what it had to be. And that would also explain those little white pinpoints of light all around it.

Why was he so cold when it felt like just a minute before he'd been quite warm?

Worried faces hovered all around--"That one's Twiddy," he reminded himself, "and there's Flitwick, and Chapman, and Camden, and Madam Viola, I think… Dumbledore's upside-down."

"He's awake!" Madam Viola cried. "Everyone back off, the boy needs air!"

Beyond the initial faces, Voldemort could see pale-faced Slytherins and shocked-looking Ravenclaws--he imagined the Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs were there too, but he couldn't see them yet. Or maybe they were off doing something else. Aching, he moved his arms and pushed himself into a sitting position. Why had he been lying in the snow out on the lawn? Before he'd passed out, he had been in Slytherin Tower's courtyard…

"What the hell is going on?" Voldemort asked slowly.

"Slytherin Tower's nearly burned to the ground," Dumbledore said quietly. "You were up in the courtyard, remember?"

"Burned to the ground?"

"The Slytherins are being given a new common room in the largest of the dungeons, and we'll be building dormitories as soon as we can," Dumbledore went on. "The Ministry's fire squad is still fighting the fire, but they've managed to contain it so far. Slytherin Tower is the only part of the building that's been harmed."

"I'd just gone up there to study a bit," Voldemort half-lied. It was all coming back to him--he had to keep all suspicion off him. "Didn't want to waste my sick day--then I think something must have hit me in the head… or maybe I had a seizure…"

"We don't know what it was, Tom," Professor Chapman sighed. "All we know is that someone set that fire. Maybe you did by accident--Olwyns are prone to seizures like that when they're under stress, and they can sometimes do things like that without knowing it."

"I knew that," Voldemort said carelessly.

"And Professor Dippet's passed on," Dumbledore said, staring into the snow. "The shock of hearing that the school was burning was too much for him, he was already in a delicate state."

"A pity." Voldemort had to try very hard not to laugh at the news. He turned to the nurse, who was fussing over him. "I'm fine, Madam Viola," he said in a rather exasperated voice.

Dumbledore was giving him an odd look, and Madam Viola, too, seemed shocked that anyone could be so blasé about all this. However, she backed down nonetheless, a very uncertain look on her face. The teachers all got up and started shooing the students away, leaving Voldemort alone with Dumbledore.

"Is there something the matter?" Dumbledore asked sharply, his eyes roving over Voldemort's neutral mouth.

The boy's handsome face twitched into a false smile. "I'm perfectly all right, sir," Voldemort smirked. "Are we sleeping outside until the fire's put out, or was I lying in the snow to make a snow angel?"

"Sleeping bags have been laid out in the greenhouses," Dumbledore responded, narrowing his eyes at Voldemort. "Dinner is being prepared on the Herbology bonfires outside. Ironic."

"Indeed." Voldemort turned his laughing eyes toward the school and watched the men on broomsticks fire jets of water through their wands in an attempt to stay the blaze. "I'll stay here a while--go on ahead, Professor."

Dumbledore walked away, shooting Voldemort half a glance over his shoulder. Voldemort's thoughts turned to his belongings. Those books from the Restricted Section had been burned in the fire, and perhaps it was for the best. His wand--someone had placed that in his pocket. But what of the diary? No one would have salvaged that for him, surely.

He suddenly noticed a bulge in his inside cloak pocket. Checking it, Voldemort discovered his diary--blank-paged and immaculate.

"Excellent," Voldemort murmured, and he turned and followed the other students toward the bonfires.

Chapter 26...

Story Index