Chapter 26 - Only the Beginning
Written by Nemesis
It had been a year and a half since the Slytherin Tower fire, and even in that space of time Hogwarts had changed drastically. All the Slytherins had to send for new things, as they all had been destroyed in the fire, and Lili Po's old Invisibility Cloak had likely been lost as well. Nepenthe had vanished completely. Unable to scrape together enough Ministry funding to rebuild the tower itself, the Hogwarts staff had been forced to commission architects and builders to make a few makeshift underground dormitories near the provisional Slytherin common room. It was an unpleasant and chilly arrangement, but no one seemed to care except the Slytherins themselves. Voldemort cynically thought that if it had been Gryffindor Tower to burn to the ground, it would have been rebuilt and refurbished immediately. But no matter. He liked the cold, even if his fellow Slytherins did not.
He had found out that he had been made Head Boy at the very beginning of his seventh year. Voldemort thought this was rather odd, considering that Albus Dumbledore, the new Headmaster, had always seemed to dislike him. But the position would look good on his résumé, and it gave him an unaccustomed position of power. The Head Girl was Serena Birch, elder sister to that useless little whore Mandy, who still rather liked following him around. Voldemort spent most of his seventh year making plans for the future. He planned to never again correspond with those people who had been his friends in his earlier school years--they were too happy, to pleasant, for him to have any use for them.
No, he intended to completely abandon this life after finishing two years of postgraduate school and settling a few old scores. Once that business was taken care of, he planned to pack his things and head off to Transylvania, which was, to Dark Arts connoisseurs, known as the center of the Dark Rebellion. He would perfect the Dark Arts there, and after a few years, begin gathering followers. His aim was to overthrow magical government, to eliminate Muggles, and most of all, to defeat the one thing he perceived as having power over him. Death. Power must be his and his alone--though he would give his followers the idea that they were to have a bit of his power just to keep them motivated. He already had a few followers here--Corvina Malfoy, Francis's younger half-sister, seemed fascinated by Voldemort's ideas, and many of the younger Ravenclaws and Slytherins seemed to look up to him. But these followers would not be enough--he needed far more than this. Hundreds. Thousands.
Lord Voldemort knew he was going to be great, and, without the burden of a conscience, he knew precisely how he was going to go about it. How wonderful life was going to be.
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It was the last day of term.
Albus Dumbledore looked around at all the eager faces in the Great Hall. The Gryffindors were flushed with pride, having finally won the House Cup for the first time in eight years. The hall looked beautiful, decked out in scarlet and gold, and even the Slytherins seemed to be enjoying the end-of-term banquet despite all this. The students on the Honor Roll had all been called--Tom Riddle, as usual, had been the best in his year. Albus's heart sank slightly as his thoughts turned to the boy, and he glanced at the Slytherin table uneasily.
Everyone was wearing their best dress robes, but Albus was beginning to notice that Slytherins generally liked the colors black, brown, green, and blue the best. Only Larkin Mallory was wearing a bright color--her robes were brilliant orange. But then again, Larkin's sanity was rather questionable. Albus scanned the crowd of Slytherins and found Tom Riddle almost immediately, wearing green and black and talking rather languidly with a fourth-year brunette called Corvina Malfoy. Tom's golden Head Boy badge must have gotten lost somewhere in the folds of his robes--either that or he simply didn't want to wear it. There was a slight smile playing at his lips, and he was listening to Corvina with something not unlike amusement.
Albus sighed. Was he the only one who had noticed how very much Tom had changed? In the year and a half since the incident in the Slytherin Tower courtyard, Tom had transformed almost completely from a fiery, oversensitive teenaged boy to a quiet, austere, and charismatic young man. To be quite honest, Albus much preferred the former--even though Tom now showed no signs of engaging in Dark activity, Albus got the impression that that particular situation was getting progressively worse. At least the old Tom was obvious about his emotions, and it was much easier to tell when he was feeling guilty or afraid. And at least there was a faint shadow of a chance that Albus might be able to save the old Tom. Now, the boy seemed a hopeless case.
"And now he's leaving school," Albus thought. "God knows what he's going to do once he's out of Hogwarts."
Albus had spent a considerable amount of time researching the death of Tom's father--really, it had been the perfect crime. Only one person had seen him, that person being the Riddles' gardener. How he had avoided further detection, Albus could only guess. Perhaps he had managed to blend in by turning himself into a cat. Albus cursed himself for ever teaching him how to do that. Or maybe the boy had an Invisibility Cloak--either way, it seemed perfectly obvious that Tom had done it. But of course, without evidence, without any fingerprints, even… "What a waste," Albus mused. Tom had to be the most brilliant student Hogwarts had ever seen--how could he even dream of throwing away his life like that?
But maybe Albus was wrong--maybe Tom wasn't going to end up ruining his life after all. Deep down, Albus knew it wasn't true, but he wished it were. It had been disappointing enough when Lili Po--probably the cleverest and nicest girl he'd taught to date--had been lost in that freak attack. But Tom… there had always been something special about that boy. When he was young, he had always had a funny little lost look about him, like the world was moving too quickly and he was caught in the middle of it. And yet he had been clever, brilliant--far more than any other children Albus had ever taught. There was a certain, curious enigma about him from the start, something Albus had always liked. But now, the curiosity had turned to shrewdness, that brilliance was likely being used for something other than studies, and that childish forlorn look was gone forever. His best pupil was free falling into the Dark Arts and Albus didn't have any proof--all he could do was watch helplessly.
For the thousandth time, Albus asked himself the same question. "Oh, Riddle--what's to become of you, boy?" he murmured.
Though he had a rather good guess, if he had known the true answer to his question he would probably have killed Tom on the spot.
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Adar Danaru sighed and leaned back in his chair, unfolding his copy of The Netherworld Weekly and taking a sip from his nettle wine. It was twilight in early August of 1952 (which, though Adar didn't know it, was directly after Voldemort's graduation from postgraduate school), and the owner of Danaru's Magical Accessories was tired and bored. Knockturn Alley didn't usually get many customers in the first place, but today had been an exceptionally slow day. All Adar had had to do all day was dole out a pair of Hands of Glory to some rosy-faced ex-Gryffindors who wanted to try their hands at robbing Gringotts. "Cocky little bastards, they were," he thought. Thinking they could rob Gringotts--honestly, what kind of idiots thought they could pull off a stunt like that? But these adventurers aside, Adar had spent most of his day sorting his books and listening to the wireless. A little silver owl had just delivered his newspaper, which offered some well-needed relief from the day's ennui.
"YET MORE PROPHECIES OF THE DARK MESSIAH'S COMING", the headlines blared. Adar rolled his eyes. Dark prophets and prophetesses had been heralding the coming of the Dark Heir for ages now--it had to be years. And yet, they had seen no real sign. Huge cults of people believed the prophecies, but Adar was among the minority of Dark wizards who thought the whole thing was a load of tosh. Sure, everyone missed their beloved Grindelwald, but Adar preferred to look at it realistically. Most members of the Circle of Darkness were spaced by at least fifty years--here it had only been seven, and already everyone was praying for the twelfth. Besides, if he really were the Dark Messiah, why hadn't he shown his face yet?
A bell rang at the front of the shop, and Adar quickly threw down his paper. He heard light, sauntering footsteps echo slightly among the shelves, and the newcomer turned around and closed the door behind him before advancing. He was hidden away by the shadows, as the only light in the whole shop came from a rusty copper chandelier hovering directly above Adar's head. However, Adar could hear the newcomer's robes swishing gently, and from the sound of the footsteps it had to be a man.
"Welcome to Danaru's," Adar said.
No reply--the footsteps continued.
Adar cleared his throat. "Welcome to Danaru's," he repeated, rather more loudly.
Still no response, but the person stopped walking for an instant, directly across from Adar's desk. After a few moments, the stranger recovered. He strode forward, the light casting chilly shadows across his face. He had to be only about twenty. His face was thin and marble-pale, framed with straight coal-black hair, and opalescent eyes glittered from under obsidian eyelashes.
Adar brushed his dark brown hair out of his face and adjusted his glasses. "Is there something you need, young man?" the shopkeeper prompted. "Or are you just looking around?"
"I'm not sure," the young man responded. He had a voice that called to mind both ice and fire, and his eyes glimmered slightly. Adar watched as the customer placed a spidery, gloved hand on the counter and took another step forward. His sharp, attractive face came into clearer view. "I am planning an endeavor--a journey to Transylvania."
Adar had never known that someone with a light Irish accent could sound so threatening, but the young man pulled it off quite nicely. Seeming to sense that Adar was uncomfortable, the young man's left hand rested itself lazily at his belt, one leather-gloved finger toying with the handle of his wand.
"I see," Adar said nervously, though he was already feeling rather annoyed. "Well, I can't make any recommendations just on those grounds, you know. I'd suggest some strong anti-Dark equipment if you're going vampire hunting, but naturally my suggestions would shift slightly if you were going off for tea with your Mummy."
The young man allowed himself an easy smile. "I'm going to meet with some of the greatest Dark Arts masters in the world and sharpen my skills as best I can. My ultimate goal is to gain power, of course."
Adar thought a moment. "There are enchantments and such--things that may enhance your magic, at a cost. I could show you some of those."
The young man impatiently waved a hand. "The costs are intelligence and physical ability--the former of which I am certainly unwilling to lose. My powers are adequate as they are." He didn't say any more, but he quite plainly added, Are you saying they're not good enough already? Do you want me to prove you wrong?
Adar shifted positions with a shiver, not quite sure he wanted to make this one angry. "There are books--"
"Which I have bought in other places already," the young man said coldly. He was thrumming the fingers of his right hand on the marble of the counter by now, something Adar noticed quite suddenly.
"Ahh… there are Invisibility Enchantments," Adar squeaked, starting to get desperate. "Cursed jewelry--we have a map of Europe that will automatically dispense your stormtroopers to any unprotected location--"
"The Invisibility Enchantments and the map may come in helpful," the young man mused. The smirk playing at his lips was growing wider, to Adar's further unease. "I'll take those, if you don't mind."
"Of course, sir," Adar sighed with relief, bending over and drawing the map from behind the counter. "As for the Invisibility Enchantments, would you rather the cloak, the potion, or the pendant?"
"The pendant is the most convenient," the customer mused aloud. "That will do." He watched Adar place a luminous golden pendant on the counter, his lazy smile growing more sardonic by the instant. "Anything else you have to offer?"
Adar glanced into the display case again. "Well, ahh…" Seeing something promising, he straightened up again, trying to inject some confidence into his voice. "There is, of course, the Mask."
"It has no other name but the Mask?" the young man smirked, looking more amused than ever.
"No one bothered to give it any other name."
"And, pray tell, what does it do?" the stranger queried, his voice ironic and mocking.
Adar drew himself up. "It covers your whole face," he said, "and it will strike fear into the hearts of your enemies and your followers. This fear as strong and powerful as the pain inflicted by the Cruciatus Curse. If it is power you want, all you have to do is put on the Mask and your enemies will be on their knees." He paused, watching a glimmer of interest flash across the young man's face. "There is only one danger caused by the Mask, and it is this--if ever it is worn during the murder of one who is pure of heart, the Mask will remain forever, its powers weakened and your true face eternally lost."
"I'll use it with caution then," the young man laughed. "I'll take it."
Adar secretly thought that the other man was frightening enough as it was, but did not voice this opinion. He drew the Mask out of its display case and held it out to the youth. It was made of immaculate white silk, almost laughably pure when compared to the usual intent of its use. He laid it on the counter with the young man's other purchases, and drew back from it sharply as it suddenly twitched.
"How much will that be, then?" the lad inquired lazily.
Adar tallied up the prices, and he went rather pale. "Seventy Galleons," he said quietly. The other man looked about to fly into a rage, but Adar held up a hand to silence him. "It's not negotiable, before you ask. Haggle all you want, the price still stands."
The young man's left hand, which had been fiddling with the wand-handle the whole time, suddenly clenched around the wand and tugged it from the belt. Before Adar could get to his own, the unwelcome visitor had his wand aimed straight at Adar's chest.
"Still sure you don't want to negotiate?" the young man said sweetly. "I've killed people before, and for lesser reasons. I know spells that could rip you open from the inside, and others that could shrivel up your internal organs so slowly and painfully that you'd die screaming."
"This is armed robbery!" Adar cried.
"Not precisely--more along the lines of seizing the moment." There was a scarlet glint in the boy's eyes by now--something anyone affiliated with the Dark Arts would recognize from the prophecies in an instant.
Adar backed away until he was up against the wall, watching the sadistic look on the young man's face and trying to think about his wife and children at home. "I'm going to live, I'm going to live, I'm going to live!" Adar insisted to himself desperately. "Just because he's the Dark Messiah and he's angry with me doesn't mean I have to die… Oh God--"
"Consumptius Viscera," the youth murmured.
He strode out of the shop, completely ignoring the cries of pain behind him.
********************
Sunrise.
Voldemort glanced at the amber-painted windowpane lazily, his right hand resting on a stack of old newspapers. Voldemort turned back to the papers and scanned the headlines for the thousandth time. "ORPHANAGE CARETAKER VICTIM OF AXE MURDERER." "POLICE OFFICER GREGORY HAMMIL FOUND DEAD; CID SUSPECTS CONNECTION TO LAST MONTH'S AXE MURDER IN WHITECHAPEL." Voldemort's twisted smile widened as he got to the magical publications. "MALFOY HEIR AND WIFE MURDERED AT HOME; SON LEFT WITH HALF-SISTER." "TEN SHOPKEEPERS FOUND MYSTERIOUSLY DEAD ON SAME NIGHT." "21-YR-OLD COED AMANDA BIRCH KILLED BY UNKNOWN ASSAILANT."
"I've really been getting around, haven't I?" Voldemort mused aloud. It was a wonder the magical community hadn't caught him yet, but just to make sure, he had decided to get started on his journey right after Mandy was out of the way. No one would think to come after him in Transylvania, and it was finally time for him to graduate into the world of the Dark Arts.
Voldemort reached under his seat and tugged out his trunk. He shuffled through his things, trying to find a book to read, and his hand connected with a small bundle of papers. Curiously, he drew it out, untied the string around it, and unfolded the papers. How could he have forgotten about these? These papers used to be the center of his world when he was a child. Voldemort's eyes roved over the photograph of his mother and her best friend. He cocked his head, giving his mother an appraising look as though seeing her for the first time. She was quite pretty, he noticed--it was easy to tell where he'd gotten his good looks. How odd that he had forgotten all about this. He moved on to the letter, and as he read the first line he suddenly recalled how he had cried over this letter as a small child.
He skimmed the letter disdainfully, then shifted his eyes back over in the direction of the photograph. What a frightfully dull child he must have been, wasting hours reading and rereading that mushy old letter. Folding the letter back into a threefold, Voldemort noticed the name of the addressee written out in fancy, old-fashioned cursive. Tom Marvolo Riddle.
Voldemort suddenly laughed. No wonder he had had such trouble remembering it--this letter didn't even really belong to him.
"Tom Marvolo Riddle is dead, darling Mother," he whispered, holding the letter and the photograph in front of his face. There was no point in hanging onto this--sentimental letters from dead mothers to dead sons bore little use to him.
Voldemort crumpled the letter and the photograph, tying the old shoestring around the bundle for the last time. He tugged his window open lazily, waited a few moments, and threw the decrepit wad of papers out the window. The parcel landed in a ditch. Voldemort smiled to himself and leaned back in his seat.
In a day or two, the train would reach the coast, and he'd ferry across the Channel to the European mainland. After that, only time would tell.
"Tom Riddle is dead," the young man repeated, almost as though trying to reassure himself.
"I am Lord Voldemort."