For au100 - Prompt #11 - Red (Tom Riddle)
Title: The Red and the Black
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters: Tom Riddle/Blaise Zabini (AU) pre-slash; tiny hints of Tom/Minerva, Slughorn/Tom, Slughorn/Blaise
Prompt: 11 - Red
Word Count: 5647 per MS Word
Rating: R
Warnings: Dark magic rituals
Author's Notes: Blaise in this is not canon!Blaise. He's a version of the character that a friend has worked on for a number of years before we ever got more details than the name; this follows on my Beginnings fic and by_starkiller's Beginnings, Middles, and Ends.
The Red and the Black
by Penemuel
Blaise is so kind to him, so gentle and protective. He keeps waiting for the betrayal to come, but it doesn't. And somehow it feels so right, lying here in his arms, that he's finally able to gain control over the other memories; finally able to shove them into a box where he doesn't have to see them at the moment. The hunger for power, the murders, the tortures, the unbelievable strength of his own magic -- all of it hidden away so that finally he can just be himself.
He knows Blaise is covering for him, keeping people out of the dorms and trying to keep him safe, but it's only a matter of time. The Gryffindor with the bad hair -- and the memories that aren't really his tell Tom that's Harry Potter -- will go to someone and tell. And considering both the memories and Potter's reactions, he's sure it won't be a Slytherin.
And it isn't difficult to tell when it's coming, because as he and Blaise sit in the dorm, eating a lunch nicked from the kitchens, discussions echo down the stone corridor. Loud, heated discussions.
"Bloody hell -- here they come," Tom says, looking up at Blaise.
"I won't let them hurt you."
"Thank you," Tom says softly, meeting his gaze. "I still don't understand why..."
"Because. It's... I don't know, it's just right."
And now the voices are in the common room -- two men and a woman, and Tom stares at Blaise with surprise. "Slughorn?" he hisses.
"Yeah -- you know him?"
"Head of Slytherin when I was here," Tom explains hurriedly, and then there isn't time for more as the door to the dorm opens.
Blaise expects the trio of teachers to start in right away, but when two of them stop dead and stare, then whisper, "It can't be," he knows things just aren't going to go the way he expects them to. Then the third clears his throat and says, "Well now, Mr. Zabini, what have we here?"
Slughorn and the woman look at their companion and simultaneously say, "Mr. Potter was right. It's Tom Riddle!"
Tom edges closer to Blaise, manages not to jump when Blaise squeezes his hand, then swallows hard and says, "Professor Slughorn, Professors...?" And then something in the woman's expression strikes him and he stares, eyes going wide. "Minerva?"
She arches an eloquent eyebrow and nods, then glances at the other man and says, "It's Professor McGonagall now, Thomas. And this is Professor Snape, head of Slytherin." Then she looks him over, suspicion in her eyes, and asks, "How, may I ask, are you here?"
"I... don't really know," he says softly, realizing he's still holding Blaise's hand and gently squeezing it. "I... woke up and..." He pauses, takes a deep breath, knowing that absolute honesty is probably the only way he'll get through this and remain free. Then he clears his throat and continues, "I woke up in the Chamber, in the middle of a magic circle. There had been some dark magic ritual, which I can only assume was to bring me back here as me -- but I have no idea why. I didn't even know that it wasn't my own time at that point -- I managed to return to the dorms and collapsed into my bed, and that was when I... met Blaise."
Snape arches an eyebrow, an expression only slightly less intimidating than Minerva's, and says, "Only someone who can speak Parseltongue can get into the Chamber, and if you and Potter didn't go in, then it must have been Voldemort."
Tom shakes his head, says, "It was not Voldemort. I don't know whose magic it was, but there was something... almost familiar about it. "
"But why?" Minerva asks, studying his expression.
"It's got to be some kind of a trick," Slughorn says, and Tom notices he hasn't looked away from the two of them once. And the fact that he's staring at Blaise sends a surge of anger through him that he doesn't entirely understand.
"It's no trick," Blaise says firmly. "When he first entered the dorm he didn't know what was going on; he was hurting and--"
"Mr. Zabini," Snape begins, in that tone that any student would recognize as a warning, and suddenly Tom is on his feet.
"No, he's not part of this -- if you think it's a trick, or if you think I'm here to harm you, question me!" he says, stepping between Blaise and the teachers. "Take me to the headmaster and give me Veritaserum if you want -- just don't do anything against Blaise!"
The three teachers look at each other, expressions of alarm, confusion, and surprise warring on their faces. Then Minerva looks back at him and says, "I am acting headmistress. Du-- the headmaster is away, presently."
"Oh. Well, then you question me -- you must know how potent Professor Slughorn's Veritaserum potion is. I won't be able to lie." He looks back at Blaise, then, and nods once. "I want to know why I'm back as much as you do..."
There's another heated, but quiet discussion, and Tom catches a few phrases, including "...you of all people know Dumbledore would give him the benefit of the doubt..." and he wonders what his old Transfigurations professor might have to do with this -- until those memories that aren't his tell him that Dumbledore is the absent headmaster. He frowns and waits, continuing to squeeze Blaise's hand, until finally the three professors turn to face them once more.
Minerva's voice is steady and firm, but he sees just the slightest hint of worry in her eyes. "All right, Thomas, it's agreed. You will come to my office at once, and you will be questioned. If it is discovered that this is some kind of trick, you will be turned over to the Ministry for trial and imprisonment."
"No!" Blaise breathes, but Tom shakes his head.
"It's all right -- it's only fair..." he says softly. "I wouldn't want to endanger you if it turns out that I'm..." He can't continue, his voice failing him at the thought of being sent to Azkaban prison.
"Tom, my boy, I'm sure everything will work out fine," Slughorn says, then he catches Blaise's eye and says, "Don't worry, Blaise. We'll figure this out."
And Snape watches this interplay very carefully, his expression as sour as always, the vaguest hint of concern only there if one knows what to look for. "Yes, we will," he says, studying Slughorn the way one might study an actual slug. Then he turns to Minerva and says, "After you, Headmistress."
~~~~~~~~~~~~:>~
Once he's away from Blaise, Tom is less sure, but he's already committed himself to this path, and he refuses to let them see how frightened he really is. Minerva may be able to see it, and possibly Slughorn, although he doubts the man is that perceptive. He never was in Tom's own time, after all...
They bring him to the headmaster's office, Minerva leading the way and the two men flanking him. They pass students in the corridors, and he can feel their eyes on him, including Malfoy (although he realizes now that this isn't the one he knew and must be his grandson) and Potter. The latter watches him with poorly hidden hatred glittering in his green eyes, and he knows the boy must be hoping he's already condemned.
And then they're in the privacy of the office, which isn't really private at all with all of the portraits on the walls, many of them perking up and studying him closely. He frowns as Dippet asks Minerva, "Isn't that young Tom? What the devil is he doing here?"
"That's what we're trying to find out, Armando," she answers, motioning Tom to a chair. "Make yourself comfortable, Thomas. Severus, Horace, do you have any Veritaserum made up?"
Tom sits down, continuing to watch everything, reading their expressions and body language, making certain he has as much of an advantage as possible, while the professors confer once more. Then Slughorn hurries out and he sighs. "What's going to happen to me?" he asks softly, meeting Minerva's gaze.
"I don't really know," she answers. "If you're telling the truth, we can't imprison you, and you have no family..." There's a flash of sadness in her eyes, then she schools her expression once more. "You're... technically still under-age, aren't you?"
"No, I graduated, and-- no. But I have nowhere to go, anyway."
"I'm a little surprised to see Mr. Zabini take you in."
"Not really, Minerva," Snape says. "For all his interest in House unity, Blaise is still a Slytherin. We do tend to stick together when the odds seem to be against us..."
"Yes, so I've noticed," she says, and Tom realizes with a small flash of jealousy that he knows that tone; finds it interesting that she still seems to have a thing for Slytherin men. "Hmn."
"Hmn?" Snape asks. Then, "Well, we could allow him to stay here until the end of the school year -- if everything turns out to be all right. After all, we can't exactly expect someone from the 1940's to walk into the present-day wizarding world and know instantly what's going on. It would be like expecting the Muggle-borns to instantly know about everything..."
Minerva studies his expression carefully, then nods. "Yes, I suppose you're right, Severus..."
Just then the door opens again and Slughorn returns, with Blaise in tow. "I found him outside, trying various passwords on the door," he explains. Tom looks at Blaise, who shrugs and gives him a look that plainly says, 'I couldn't just sit there waiting for you...'
"Mr. Zabini, this is not a student function," Minerva begins, although she knows that expression all too well, having dealt with Blaise as a student for the past six years.
"I'm not abandoning him -- I have as much right to know what's going on as you do," Blaise says boldly, unintimidated by the three professors. "I'm the one who's been taking care of him, I have a right to know!"
"Mr. Zabini, you are beginning to exhibit the same brand of annoying stubbornness that Potter does. Don't let it become a habit," Snape says quietly. Then he turns to Minerva and says, "Let him stay. I'll take responsibility for him." She nods in response, and both Tom and Blaise let out a breath they didn't realize they were holding.
"Very well," Minerva sighs. She holds out her hand to Slughorn, who hands her the small stoppered vial. "Thomas, I will ask you to remain seated, no matter what happens. If things should go badly, we reserve the right to magically bind you to the chair until the authorities arrive. Do you understand?"
"Yes, I do. Please, let's just get this started," he says, managing to hide the nervousness that grips him.
"Just a few drops," Slughorn cautions as Minerva unstoppers the vial.
She nods and summons a teapot, pours Tom a cup and then lets three drops of the potion fall into it. "There you go -- drink up..."
Tom takes the cup and sips cautiously, making sure that Slughorn hasn't switched potions on them for any reason. After he suffers no unexpected effects, he drinks deeply and sighs. He looks over at Blaise, sees the concern in those blue eyes, and wonders again why this boy from this time -- his future -- cares about him, when those memories tell him they should all hate him.
"Are you all right, Thomas?" Minerva asks, and his attention snaps back to her.
"No, not really. I'm a little uncomfortable with what's going on." Ah, that would mean the potion is working, then...
Minerva pulls a sheaf of parchment towards her and quickly charms a quill to write down everything that is said, then asks, "Are you Tom Marvolo Riddle?"
"Yes, I am."
"How old are you, Tom?"
He frowns for a moment, looks puzzled, then answers, "Nineteen -- or just about. I will be in December."
"And why have you come here, Tom?"
"I... don't know. I didn't come here, someone brought me here," he answers uncomfortably. It's obvious that his discomfort isn't from attempting to conceal the truth, but from the fact that he doesn't know the answer.
"Is this the result of another of your attempts to gain immortality, like the diary was?" she asks, her tone a little sharper than it has been so far.
"Not that I'm aware of," he answers, frowning. "If it is, someone other than Voldemort or me cast all of the magic -- it isn't ours. And if it is, it's from something that happened after I reached this age the first time." He's about to say something more but manages to stop himself. She notices this, though, and fixes him with a penetrating stare.
"What can you tell me about Voldemort, Tom?"
"I... remember things that he's done. They're sort of like my own memories, but I know they're not. They're... horrible things. Cruel, hateful things. He-- I-- got stronger, more powerful, and more... wrong." He shakes his head, then continues, his voice unsteady, "I don't want to know those things. I never meant to--"
"Stop it!" Blaise's voice cuts through the room, and Tom gasps, struggling to shove the memories back into those boxes. "You're going to hurt him," he adds, although he doesn't move from where he stands with all three professors looking at him in shock.
Snape recovers first, studies Blaise closely for a long moment, then turns to study Tom. "Perhaps he's right, Minerva -- the boy is in distress. Tom, would it be safe to say that you have access to Voldemort's memories if you try hard enough?"
He's gripping the arms of the chair now, sweat beading on his brow, but he nods and hisses, "Yes, that's accurate. Please, don't make me try..."
"Calm yourself -- we won't. Not until you're more settled, at the very least," Snape says cautiously, looking to Minerva for confirmation.
"Severus is right, Tom. I apologize. So, take a deep breath, relax, and let us know when you're ready to continue."
"I'd really rather not do this at all," he mutters, then his eyes go wide. "Hmn. Potion."
"Yes, indeed," Minerva says, and there's just the slightest hint of amusement in her eyes.
She waits, and after a moment Tom nods. "All right, I'm ready."
"Tell us what you remember about waking up in the Chamber," she instructs, and watches as he frowns again, his breathing growing ragged. "Tom?"
"There was a magic circle -- I was inside it. There were stains on the ground -- black... ink? And blood. Someone's blood. I think they must have done a blood ritual to bring me here. Back. Something. The magic of the circle was dissipating -- I think they let it shred so that I could get out when I awoke..." His voice is less steady, now, his hands gripping the chair arms again. "I... know I've seen that magic before, but I can't-- I can't remember. It's... when I looked at it, it felt like spiders were crawling all over me..." He shudders violently and brushes at his arm, then takes a ragged breath and blows it out hard. "That went away as soon as I stopped studying the magic. It was black, with blood red at its heart -- it was not Voldemort's, and it didn't come from any Death Eater I know..."
Minerva raises an eyebrow at that, and asks, "And how many Death Eaters do you know?"
"Voldemort's memories," Tom grinds out between clenched teeth. "So just about all of them. Some, even personally. And a lot of them are bloody arrogant pigs who have been carrying out their own sick agendas in his name. Would you like a list now or can I suffer through this later?"
"Sorry--"
"I don't like feeling like I'm going insane -- I don't want all these extra memories -- I just want to be me!" He's panting harshly, now, still gripping the chair arms, and sweat is soaking his hair. "Please..." he whispers, and suddenly Blaise is rushing to his side, touching his arm and trying to calm him.
"Shhh, Tom, it's all right. You're not insane," he soothes, then he flashes a warning look at Minerva. "Can't you see there's something wrong? Stop hurting him!"
And then Snape is at his side, a firm hand on his shoulder. "That's enough, Mr. Zabini. He consented to this, he knows how important it is." Blaise glares daggers at him, and he shakes his head. "Let me finish." Then he turns to Minerva and says, "This line of questioning isn't serving any purpose right now -- I can imagine how uncomfortable it must be to have one's head full of memories that haven't happened yet. Tom, take a deep breath and relax..."
"Tom, I apologize," Minerva says, shooting Snape a look that says, 'We will discuss this later.' "Very well -- the magic in the circle. You say you recognize it, but don't remember where you've seen it. Do you know if this is one of your memories, or one of Voldemort's?"
"I--" He stops short, a puzzled look in his eyes, then opens his mouth to speak again. "I don't... really remember much about it... It's... I don't know why I can't remember. I... don't like this. It doesn't feel right."
"Doesn't feel right... Well, that's certainly not a good sign," Minerva says, studying him closely. "All right. You said the magic was black with red at its heart -- does that sound familiar to anyone here?" She looks at each of the professors, and they shake their heads. Blaise shrugs, and Tom frowns again.
"It's-- it should. I should know this. I should be able to remember..." he murmurs, his distress increasing again. "Someone's done something to me..." And the deeper he tries to dig, the more pain he feels, his breathing ragged and his face going ashen. When he lets go of the chair arm with one hand and massages his temple, whimpering slightly with the pain, Blaise looks around at the professors with alarm.
"An Obliviate?" she asks, studying him closely. His growing distress is obvious, and she looks up at Snape with alarm. "Get Poppy."
Tom knows that tone, and he would be alarmed, except that it feels like someone is crushing his head, and that has his full attention. He lets go the other chair arm and rubs his head with both hands, unaware that he's now crying out in pain or that blood is running down his face like tears. There are warm hands on his arm and he's vaguely aware of them urging him out of the chair and over to a sofa.
And then he's lying down, and someone is dabbing at his face with a damp cloth. He mutters and hisses something in Parseltongue; tries to bat at the hands that are now holding him down. Something in his mind cracks and shatters, and he screams. There are faces looking down at him but he doesn't see them, doesn't see anything except the red haze of pain and anger and fear...
~~~~~~~~~~~~:>~
Tom headed to the Hog's Head, planning to buy a firewhisky and enjoy it, before going to the Three Broomsticks and waiting for Minerva. He walked into the Inn, wrinkling his nose at the dingy interior; strode up to the bar, then ordered a glass of firewhisky when it was his turn. He paid for the drink, then found a quiet corner where he could sit and sip at it.
He had finished about half of the glass when it hit him -- warmth rushed through him, and his head began to spin. It was an interesting feeling; one that he thought he rather liked. He gulped down the rest of the whisky and gasped as it burned all the way down; thunked down the glass on the table then choked and gripped the table and chair to try to keep himself from falling. He had been very drunk once before -- at one of the Hogwarts balls, when someone had spiked the punch -- and this was not the same. This was... different. It was too sudden; wrong, somehow...
He looked around, realizing someone had spiked his drink with some kind of potion, but it was already too late. The room elongating strangely, the candle flames suddenly blindingly bright, dizziness swooped down over him. He realized he was falling, and as he went down, he saw two robed figures standing over him, their faces hidden in shadow. They smiled down at him as the euphoria washed over him, and then everything faded to black...
~~~~~~~~~~~~:>~
...he could feel hands on him, stripping off his robes and the clothes he wore beneath them, then carrying him into a large, warm pool. He could feel them bathing him, clinically detached as they did so. Then once more, something changed. He could feel the ripples of the water changing direction, and realized that someone was wading into the water towards him. He struggled to focus, forcing his eyes open long enough to see a powerful, handsome man approaching him. Then he felt a warm, gentle hand cup his cheek, and an accented voice whispered, "Hush, mein Freund. Do not worry, Alles ist gut."
Horror gripped him as he realized who it was, and he tried desperately to move, to fight, to escape. Dumbledore had promised he would be safe, and like every other promise he had made, it turned out to be a lie. His last, incongruous thought was that Minerva would be furious with him, and he drifted back into blackness, laughing at himself...
~~~~~~~~~~~~:>~
...he woke again, this time finding himself dressed in plain white robes and bound to an altar. What he could see of his surroundings told him that he was in an old stone building, obviously huge and well-warded. The walls were hung with black, grey and red banners, and enormous black candles burned at each of the main compass points around the altar. As his mind cleared, he realized he had seen this hall before, or at least a picture of it -- somehow, he had been brought to Durmstrang, and that was when the true fear gripped him. No one would know where he was -- there would be no rescue. He was, truly, on his own.
Not waiting to see what was going to happen, he began to try emptying his mind, to Occlumens as much of it as he could. What good it would do him, he had no idea -- while he had thought a number of Grindelwald's ideas might be workable, he was more than aware that the Dark Wizard was far too fanatical to stop at wiping out just the Muggles and Mudbloods. When he was done with them, he would start on the next group that didn't fit his narrow definition of pure, and then the next, and on and on until there was no one else left... And here he lay, a filthy Mudblood, himself. Heir to Salazar Slytherin, and not even up to his own ancestor's standards. He didn't stand a chance...
The ritual was long and involved, and in German, but Tom could feel the power they were raising; recognized so many of the names they were invoking. Shemyaza, Azazel, Iblis, Ahriman, Lilith, Anzal, Melek Taus... His head was swimming by the time they got to their own gods, Wotan, Loki...
It engulfed both Grindelwald and him, and he could feel the ancient magic twining about him, wrapping around him and burning away the robe he wore in a flash of blue-green. It felt so right, so natural; it called to that part of his blood that tied him to the Slytherin line, sparking a fire within him that made his body thrum in time with the pulse of the Earth itself. The Knowledge of that blood filled his mind, and visions overwhelmed him: powerful, beautiful creatures descending from the Heights, ascending from the Depths, walking out of the Wilds; sharing their wisdom and knowledge with the new beings called Humans. Sharing much more, in some cases, and fathering frighteningly powerful children. Sharing the forbidden things: how to create like a god; how to destroy like one. How to live forever; how to murder...
He knew them -- knew they were the forefathers of the Wizards; remembered the tales that said Merlin was half-demon. He laughed to himself as he realized that there truly were no pureblood Wizards, but decided it would be a good idea to keep that knowledge to himself. Others, especially the fanatical Dark Wizard, may not find it so amusing.
Slowly, the visions faded, and he found himself back in the hall, panting and sweating on the altar, dizziness washing over him in waves. He heard voices chanting, and suddenly the altar rose into the air, then turned so that he was hanging upright, his head swimming. He tried to focus on something and spied the banner hanging at the end of the hall, but as he looked at it the symbol emblazoned in the center of it seemed to spin like a pinwheel. He wanted to look away, but found his gaze trapped, until a flash of silver caught his eye. Grindelwald suddenly stood before him, then gestured and the ropes fell away; Tom gasped when he didn't fall away from the altar, finding himself still held helpless. The Dark Wizard held a wickedly sharp dagger out in front of Tom, whispering an incantation and moving the dagger in very specific patterns.
Light glinted off the dagger, and Tom felt terror grip him. He could see the Dark power pulsating through it, and yet, he couldn't fight -- couldn't even raise a hand or speak to cast a defensive spell. Grindelwald's power held him immobile against the altar, his arms spread wide, his eyes unable to look away from the blade. It was almost as if the eagle on the hilt's crosspiece had gripped his mind in its talons. And then Grindelwald whispered, "You may not be pure, Thomas, but I have need of what you can give me. Do not worry -- you will become a part of something so much greater than your wildest dreams..."
He wanted to shake his head, wanted to stop this, but the power that held him there twisted through his body, touching hungers hidden so deep down that he didn't even know they existed. It promised him pleasure and power beyond anything he had ever dreamed possible. It sent ecstasy surging through him; he arched away from the altar and roared as his body and mind exploded in pleasure. At the exact moment of orgasm he felt the knife slide between his ribs, the agony melding with the pleasure as he saw red splash across a white field.
He felt his mind slip free of his body, and found himself watching the ritual going on below him. Grindelwald had captured the first spurt of his blood on a pristine white cotton cloth, then captured more of it in a wooden chalice. Then the knife was drawn back out of his chest, and the wound closed behind it, leaving only the tiniest white line of a scar. Before it happened, he knew what was going to come next, and he had to stop it. Had to... And yet, he could not will himself to move. Even as he tried, he saw Grindelwald look right at him and smile, and all he could do was watch in horror as the Dark Wizard spoke a foreign incantation over his blood and drank it down.
NO! he thought desperately, drawing on every ounce of power within him. Instinctively, he drew everything around himself: the hunger, the lust, the anger that always simmered under the surface and now boiled even hotter at this Dark Wizard than it ever had at Dumbledore or the bullies at the orphanage. Power flowed through him, raising him up higher and higher, until he realized he was the head of a great jeweled serpent that coiled up out of the depths of the Earth itself. He was opening his jaws and raising up to bite, and now lunging down at the ugly blackness he knew was Grindelwald, to sink his fangs into it. As he did so, he saw a small spark of blood red at the heart of the blackness, and his anger flared blinding bright.
Thief! he snarled. How many have you slaughtered to feed your lust for power? How many of our own kind have you slain to drink their blood? He tried to wrap his coils around the blackness and squeeze its life out of it, but he could feel it beginning to fight him. He was strong, but not strong enough -- he needed more...
"You are just a boy, Thomas. You don't know how to control the power you have discovered. You will never defeat me, and I will own you. I will take your power and make it mine..."
No! He dug deeper, but he could feel it slipping away from him. That transcendent power was fading -- he was too weak. He just had to make sure he didn't become Grindelwald's slave... You cannot have my power, Grindelwald -- it is still my blood...
With one last burst of power and blinding, all-consuming hate, he reached out and called to his blood -- the blood that Grindelwald had stolen from him -- and poured that hatred into it. He could hear Grindelwald grunt in pain as the last of the power slipped away from him and he slammed back into his body.
Tom tried to keep his eyes open, tried to watch, and was left with the vague impression of the men putting a strip of the red cotton into a wicked looking black stick and chanting over it. Then Grindelwald laughed and spoke his own incantation over it, and picked it up, and Tom realized with horror that it was a wand. The last thing he remembered before sinking back into blackness was the triumphant look on the Dark Wizard's face as he stroked the tip of it over Tom's bare chest, and the quiet words, "Schlafst du, Kind.*"
~~~~~~~~~~~~:>~
As he stumbled towards the Three Broomsticks, he felt like his head might explode. He was late for his date with Minerva, and she would be so angry with him for getting drunk and forgetting her. He was angry with himself, and far more afraid than he wanted to admit that he couldn't remember what had happened. When he stepped into the inn, everyone there looked up and stared at him, and he wondered exactly what it was they were seeing. He searched the room, and didn't see her there, and sighed, knowing she had returned to the school. It was time to go back and throw himself upon her mercy, and pray she would forgive him enough for him to be able to tell her how ill at ease he really was...
~~~~~~~~~~~~:>~
"He's starting to wake up, Headmistress," a kindly voice says quietly.
Then a voice he recognizes as Minerva's says, "Better get the Zabini boy, Poppy. And let Severus know, too. Thank you." Footsteps walk away, then Minerva strokes his forehead and asks, "Tom, are you with us?"
"My head hurts," he says, his voice coming out as a hoarse whisper. "And so does my throat..."
"You were screaming, Tom. You've had us quite worried..."
"You were worried?" he whispers.
"From what we can tell, you were under a very powerful Obliviate -- you managed to break it, but you came close to killing yourself doing so."
He's about to ask her more when there's a commotion at the entrance of the room and Blaise's voice reaches him. "Let me see him!"
"Now, now, Mr. Zabini, give the Headmistress a moment, then you can see him," the kindly voice says, and Tom realizes that must be the healer, Poppy.
"It seems your defender is here, Tom. I only have one question, then I'll let you talk with him. Do you now remember what the Obliviate was blocking?"
He nods, then grimaces, the images of the ritual flashing through his mind again. "Yes. Grindelwald. It was Grindelwald... He tried to steal my magic -- the magic of the Slytherin line -- and almost succeeded..."
And damn it, his body hurts and he's so exhausted he just wants to sink into the bed and sleep for a century. She can see it in his eyes and nods, then motions to Poppy. "We'll talk about this later, Tom. You need to rest now." As Blaise rushes over, she straightens and looks sternly at him. "Mr. Zabini, Tom is very weak -- I'll allow you to stay here because I know you'll find a way to do it anyway, but do not wear him out."
"Yes, Professor," Blaise says, then he tugs a chair up next to Tom's bed and sits down, staring at him. "Wow, you scared the hell out of me there," he says softly, reaching out to squeeze Tom's hand briefly, smiling when Tom doesn't let go. "You were screaming like all the demons of hell were after you..."
"I think they might have been," Tom rasps, feeling exhaustion creeping up on him. "I have to sleep... will you keep the nightmares away?"
Blaise gets out of the chair and kicks off his boots, then climbs into bed with him. "Always," he says softly, sighing as Tom curls up against him again.
end
-----
"Schlafst du, Kind." -- I think this is how to say, "Sleep, child." My high-school german is so rusty...
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters: Tom Riddle/Blaise Zabini (AU) pre-slash; tiny hints of Tom/Minerva, Slughorn/Tom, Slughorn/Blaise
Prompt: 11 - Red
Word Count: 5647 per MS Word
Rating: R
Warnings: Dark magic rituals
Author's Notes: Blaise in this is not canon!Blaise. He's a version of the character that a friend has worked on for a number of years before we ever got more details than the name; this follows on my Beginnings fic and by_starkiller's Beginnings, Middles, and Ends.
The Red and the Black
by Penemuel
Blaise is so kind to him, so gentle and protective. He keeps waiting for the betrayal to come, but it doesn't. And somehow it feels so right, lying here in his arms, that he's finally able to gain control over the other memories; finally able to shove them into a box where he doesn't have to see them at the moment. The hunger for power, the murders, the tortures, the unbelievable strength of his own magic -- all of it hidden away so that finally he can just be himself.
He knows Blaise is covering for him, keeping people out of the dorms and trying to keep him safe, but it's only a matter of time. The Gryffindor with the bad hair -- and the memories that aren't really his tell Tom that's Harry Potter -- will go to someone and tell. And considering both the memories and Potter's reactions, he's sure it won't be a Slytherin.
And it isn't difficult to tell when it's coming, because as he and Blaise sit in the dorm, eating a lunch nicked from the kitchens, discussions echo down the stone corridor. Loud, heated discussions.
"Bloody hell -- here they come," Tom says, looking up at Blaise.
"I won't let them hurt you."
"Thank you," Tom says softly, meeting his gaze. "I still don't understand why..."
"Because. It's... I don't know, it's just right."
And now the voices are in the common room -- two men and a woman, and Tom stares at Blaise with surprise. "Slughorn?" he hisses.
"Yeah -- you know him?"
"Head of Slytherin when I was here," Tom explains hurriedly, and then there isn't time for more as the door to the dorm opens.
Blaise expects the trio of teachers to start in right away, but when two of them stop dead and stare, then whisper, "It can't be," he knows things just aren't going to go the way he expects them to. Then the third clears his throat and says, "Well now, Mr. Zabini, what have we here?"
Slughorn and the woman look at their companion and simultaneously say, "Mr. Potter was right. It's Tom Riddle!"
Tom edges closer to Blaise, manages not to jump when Blaise squeezes his hand, then swallows hard and says, "Professor Slughorn, Professors...?" And then something in the woman's expression strikes him and he stares, eyes going wide. "Minerva?"
She arches an eloquent eyebrow and nods, then glances at the other man and says, "It's Professor McGonagall now, Thomas. And this is Professor Snape, head of Slytherin." Then she looks him over, suspicion in her eyes, and asks, "How, may I ask, are you here?"
"I... don't really know," he says softly, realizing he's still holding Blaise's hand and gently squeezing it. "I... woke up and..." He pauses, takes a deep breath, knowing that absolute honesty is probably the only way he'll get through this and remain free. Then he clears his throat and continues, "I woke up in the Chamber, in the middle of a magic circle. There had been some dark magic ritual, which I can only assume was to bring me back here as me -- but I have no idea why. I didn't even know that it wasn't my own time at that point -- I managed to return to the dorms and collapsed into my bed, and that was when I... met Blaise."
Snape arches an eyebrow, an expression only slightly less intimidating than Minerva's, and says, "Only someone who can speak Parseltongue can get into the Chamber, and if you and Potter didn't go in, then it must have been Voldemort."
Tom shakes his head, says, "It was not Voldemort. I don't know whose magic it was, but there was something... almost familiar about it. "
"But why?" Minerva asks, studying his expression.
"It's got to be some kind of a trick," Slughorn says, and Tom notices he hasn't looked away from the two of them once. And the fact that he's staring at Blaise sends a surge of anger through him that he doesn't entirely understand.
"It's no trick," Blaise says firmly. "When he first entered the dorm he didn't know what was going on; he was hurting and--"
"Mr. Zabini," Snape begins, in that tone that any student would recognize as a warning, and suddenly Tom is on his feet.
"No, he's not part of this -- if you think it's a trick, or if you think I'm here to harm you, question me!" he says, stepping between Blaise and the teachers. "Take me to the headmaster and give me Veritaserum if you want -- just don't do anything against Blaise!"
The three teachers look at each other, expressions of alarm, confusion, and surprise warring on their faces. Then Minerva looks back at him and says, "I am acting headmistress. Du-- the headmaster is away, presently."
"Oh. Well, then you question me -- you must know how potent Professor Slughorn's Veritaserum potion is. I won't be able to lie." He looks back at Blaise, then, and nods once. "I want to know why I'm back as much as you do..."
There's another heated, but quiet discussion, and Tom catches a few phrases, including "...you of all people know Dumbledore would give him the benefit of the doubt..." and he wonders what his old Transfigurations professor might have to do with this -- until those memories that aren't his tell him that Dumbledore is the absent headmaster. He frowns and waits, continuing to squeeze Blaise's hand, until finally the three professors turn to face them once more.
Minerva's voice is steady and firm, but he sees just the slightest hint of worry in her eyes. "All right, Thomas, it's agreed. You will come to my office at once, and you will be questioned. If it is discovered that this is some kind of trick, you will be turned over to the Ministry for trial and imprisonment."
"No!" Blaise breathes, but Tom shakes his head.
"It's all right -- it's only fair..." he says softly. "I wouldn't want to endanger you if it turns out that I'm..." He can't continue, his voice failing him at the thought of being sent to Azkaban prison.
"Tom, my boy, I'm sure everything will work out fine," Slughorn says, then he catches Blaise's eye and says, "Don't worry, Blaise. We'll figure this out."
And Snape watches this interplay very carefully, his expression as sour as always, the vaguest hint of concern only there if one knows what to look for. "Yes, we will," he says, studying Slughorn the way one might study an actual slug. Then he turns to Minerva and says, "After you, Headmistress."
~~~~~~~~~~~~:>~
Once he's away from Blaise, Tom is less sure, but he's already committed himself to this path, and he refuses to let them see how frightened he really is. Minerva may be able to see it, and possibly Slughorn, although he doubts the man is that perceptive. He never was in Tom's own time, after all...
They bring him to the headmaster's office, Minerva leading the way and the two men flanking him. They pass students in the corridors, and he can feel their eyes on him, including Malfoy (although he realizes now that this isn't the one he knew and must be his grandson) and Potter. The latter watches him with poorly hidden hatred glittering in his green eyes, and he knows the boy must be hoping he's already condemned.
And then they're in the privacy of the office, which isn't really private at all with all of the portraits on the walls, many of them perking up and studying him closely. He frowns as Dippet asks Minerva, "Isn't that young Tom? What the devil is he doing here?"
"That's what we're trying to find out, Armando," she answers, motioning Tom to a chair. "Make yourself comfortable, Thomas. Severus, Horace, do you have any Veritaserum made up?"
Tom sits down, continuing to watch everything, reading their expressions and body language, making certain he has as much of an advantage as possible, while the professors confer once more. Then Slughorn hurries out and he sighs. "What's going to happen to me?" he asks softly, meeting Minerva's gaze.
"I don't really know," she answers. "If you're telling the truth, we can't imprison you, and you have no family..." There's a flash of sadness in her eyes, then she schools her expression once more. "You're... technically still under-age, aren't you?"
"No, I graduated, and-- no. But I have nowhere to go, anyway."
"I'm a little surprised to see Mr. Zabini take you in."
"Not really, Minerva," Snape says. "For all his interest in House unity, Blaise is still a Slytherin. We do tend to stick together when the odds seem to be against us..."
"Yes, so I've noticed," she says, and Tom realizes with a small flash of jealousy that he knows that tone; finds it interesting that she still seems to have a thing for Slytherin men. "Hmn."
"Hmn?" Snape asks. Then, "Well, we could allow him to stay here until the end of the school year -- if everything turns out to be all right. After all, we can't exactly expect someone from the 1940's to walk into the present-day wizarding world and know instantly what's going on. It would be like expecting the Muggle-borns to instantly know about everything..."
Minerva studies his expression carefully, then nods. "Yes, I suppose you're right, Severus..."
Just then the door opens again and Slughorn returns, with Blaise in tow. "I found him outside, trying various passwords on the door," he explains. Tom looks at Blaise, who shrugs and gives him a look that plainly says, 'I couldn't just sit there waiting for you...'
"Mr. Zabini, this is not a student function," Minerva begins, although she knows that expression all too well, having dealt with Blaise as a student for the past six years.
"I'm not abandoning him -- I have as much right to know what's going on as you do," Blaise says boldly, unintimidated by the three professors. "I'm the one who's been taking care of him, I have a right to know!"
"Mr. Zabini, you are beginning to exhibit the same brand of annoying stubbornness that Potter does. Don't let it become a habit," Snape says quietly. Then he turns to Minerva and says, "Let him stay. I'll take responsibility for him." She nods in response, and both Tom and Blaise let out a breath they didn't realize they were holding.
"Very well," Minerva sighs. She holds out her hand to Slughorn, who hands her the small stoppered vial. "Thomas, I will ask you to remain seated, no matter what happens. If things should go badly, we reserve the right to magically bind you to the chair until the authorities arrive. Do you understand?"
"Yes, I do. Please, let's just get this started," he says, managing to hide the nervousness that grips him.
"Just a few drops," Slughorn cautions as Minerva unstoppers the vial.
She nods and summons a teapot, pours Tom a cup and then lets three drops of the potion fall into it. "There you go -- drink up..."
Tom takes the cup and sips cautiously, making sure that Slughorn hasn't switched potions on them for any reason. After he suffers no unexpected effects, he drinks deeply and sighs. He looks over at Blaise, sees the concern in those blue eyes, and wonders again why this boy from this time -- his future -- cares about him, when those memories tell him they should all hate him.
"Are you all right, Thomas?" Minerva asks, and his attention snaps back to her.
"No, not really. I'm a little uncomfortable with what's going on." Ah, that would mean the potion is working, then...
Minerva pulls a sheaf of parchment towards her and quickly charms a quill to write down everything that is said, then asks, "Are you Tom Marvolo Riddle?"
"Yes, I am."
"How old are you, Tom?"
He frowns for a moment, looks puzzled, then answers, "Nineteen -- or just about. I will be in December."
"And why have you come here, Tom?"
"I... don't know. I didn't come here, someone brought me here," he answers uncomfortably. It's obvious that his discomfort isn't from attempting to conceal the truth, but from the fact that he doesn't know the answer.
"Is this the result of another of your attempts to gain immortality, like the diary was?" she asks, her tone a little sharper than it has been so far.
"Not that I'm aware of," he answers, frowning. "If it is, someone other than Voldemort or me cast all of the magic -- it isn't ours. And if it is, it's from something that happened after I reached this age the first time." He's about to say something more but manages to stop himself. She notices this, though, and fixes him with a penetrating stare.
"What can you tell me about Voldemort, Tom?"
"I... remember things that he's done. They're sort of like my own memories, but I know they're not. They're... horrible things. Cruel, hateful things. He-- I-- got stronger, more powerful, and more... wrong." He shakes his head, then continues, his voice unsteady, "I don't want to know those things. I never meant to--"
"Stop it!" Blaise's voice cuts through the room, and Tom gasps, struggling to shove the memories back into those boxes. "You're going to hurt him," he adds, although he doesn't move from where he stands with all three professors looking at him in shock.
Snape recovers first, studies Blaise closely for a long moment, then turns to study Tom. "Perhaps he's right, Minerva -- the boy is in distress. Tom, would it be safe to say that you have access to Voldemort's memories if you try hard enough?"
He's gripping the arms of the chair now, sweat beading on his brow, but he nods and hisses, "Yes, that's accurate. Please, don't make me try..."
"Calm yourself -- we won't. Not until you're more settled, at the very least," Snape says cautiously, looking to Minerva for confirmation.
"Severus is right, Tom. I apologize. So, take a deep breath, relax, and let us know when you're ready to continue."
"I'd really rather not do this at all," he mutters, then his eyes go wide. "Hmn. Potion."
"Yes, indeed," Minerva says, and there's just the slightest hint of amusement in her eyes.
She waits, and after a moment Tom nods. "All right, I'm ready."
"Tell us what you remember about waking up in the Chamber," she instructs, and watches as he frowns again, his breathing growing ragged. "Tom?"
"There was a magic circle -- I was inside it. There were stains on the ground -- black... ink? And blood. Someone's blood. I think they must have done a blood ritual to bring me here. Back. Something. The magic of the circle was dissipating -- I think they let it shred so that I could get out when I awoke..." His voice is less steady, now, his hands gripping the chair arms again. "I... know I've seen that magic before, but I can't-- I can't remember. It's... when I looked at it, it felt like spiders were crawling all over me..." He shudders violently and brushes at his arm, then takes a ragged breath and blows it out hard. "That went away as soon as I stopped studying the magic. It was black, with blood red at its heart -- it was not Voldemort's, and it didn't come from any Death Eater I know..."
Minerva raises an eyebrow at that, and asks, "And how many Death Eaters do you know?"
"Voldemort's memories," Tom grinds out between clenched teeth. "So just about all of them. Some, even personally. And a lot of them are bloody arrogant pigs who have been carrying out their own sick agendas in his name. Would you like a list now or can I suffer through this later?"
"Sorry--"
"I don't like feeling like I'm going insane -- I don't want all these extra memories -- I just want to be me!" He's panting harshly, now, still gripping the chair arms, and sweat is soaking his hair. "Please..." he whispers, and suddenly Blaise is rushing to his side, touching his arm and trying to calm him.
"Shhh, Tom, it's all right. You're not insane," he soothes, then he flashes a warning look at Minerva. "Can't you see there's something wrong? Stop hurting him!"
And then Snape is at his side, a firm hand on his shoulder. "That's enough, Mr. Zabini. He consented to this, he knows how important it is." Blaise glares daggers at him, and he shakes his head. "Let me finish." Then he turns to Minerva and says, "This line of questioning isn't serving any purpose right now -- I can imagine how uncomfortable it must be to have one's head full of memories that haven't happened yet. Tom, take a deep breath and relax..."
"Tom, I apologize," Minerva says, shooting Snape a look that says, 'We will discuss this later.' "Very well -- the magic in the circle. You say you recognize it, but don't remember where you've seen it. Do you know if this is one of your memories, or one of Voldemort's?"
"I--" He stops short, a puzzled look in his eyes, then opens his mouth to speak again. "I don't... really remember much about it... It's... I don't know why I can't remember. I... don't like this. It doesn't feel right."
"Doesn't feel right... Well, that's certainly not a good sign," Minerva says, studying him closely. "All right. You said the magic was black with red at its heart -- does that sound familiar to anyone here?" She looks at each of the professors, and they shake their heads. Blaise shrugs, and Tom frowns again.
"It's-- it should. I should know this. I should be able to remember..." he murmurs, his distress increasing again. "Someone's done something to me..." And the deeper he tries to dig, the more pain he feels, his breathing ragged and his face going ashen. When he lets go of the chair arm with one hand and massages his temple, whimpering slightly with the pain, Blaise looks around at the professors with alarm.
"An Obliviate?" she asks, studying him closely. His growing distress is obvious, and she looks up at Snape with alarm. "Get Poppy."
Tom knows that tone, and he would be alarmed, except that it feels like someone is crushing his head, and that has his full attention. He lets go the other chair arm and rubs his head with both hands, unaware that he's now crying out in pain or that blood is running down his face like tears. There are warm hands on his arm and he's vaguely aware of them urging him out of the chair and over to a sofa.
And then he's lying down, and someone is dabbing at his face with a damp cloth. He mutters and hisses something in Parseltongue; tries to bat at the hands that are now holding him down. Something in his mind cracks and shatters, and he screams. There are faces looking down at him but he doesn't see them, doesn't see anything except the red haze of pain and anger and fear...
~~~~~~~~~~~~:>~
Tom headed to the Hog's Head, planning to buy a firewhisky and enjoy it, before going to the Three Broomsticks and waiting for Minerva. He walked into the Inn, wrinkling his nose at the dingy interior; strode up to the bar, then ordered a glass of firewhisky when it was his turn. He paid for the drink, then found a quiet corner where he could sit and sip at it.
He had finished about half of the glass when it hit him -- warmth rushed through him, and his head began to spin. It was an interesting feeling; one that he thought he rather liked. He gulped down the rest of the whisky and gasped as it burned all the way down; thunked down the glass on the table then choked and gripped the table and chair to try to keep himself from falling. He had been very drunk once before -- at one of the Hogwarts balls, when someone had spiked the punch -- and this was not the same. This was... different. It was too sudden; wrong, somehow...
He looked around, realizing someone had spiked his drink with some kind of potion, but it was already too late. The room elongating strangely, the candle flames suddenly blindingly bright, dizziness swooped down over him. He realized he was falling, and as he went down, he saw two robed figures standing over him, their faces hidden in shadow. They smiled down at him as the euphoria washed over him, and then everything faded to black...
~~~~~~~~~~~~:>~
...he could feel hands on him, stripping off his robes and the clothes he wore beneath them, then carrying him into a large, warm pool. He could feel them bathing him, clinically detached as they did so. Then once more, something changed. He could feel the ripples of the water changing direction, and realized that someone was wading into the water towards him. He struggled to focus, forcing his eyes open long enough to see a powerful, handsome man approaching him. Then he felt a warm, gentle hand cup his cheek, and an accented voice whispered, "Hush, mein Freund. Do not worry, Alles ist gut."
Horror gripped him as he realized who it was, and he tried desperately to move, to fight, to escape. Dumbledore had promised he would be safe, and like every other promise he had made, it turned out to be a lie. His last, incongruous thought was that Minerva would be furious with him, and he drifted back into blackness, laughing at himself...
~~~~~~~~~~~~:>~
...he woke again, this time finding himself dressed in plain white robes and bound to an altar. What he could see of his surroundings told him that he was in an old stone building, obviously huge and well-warded. The walls were hung with black, grey and red banners, and enormous black candles burned at each of the main compass points around the altar. As his mind cleared, he realized he had seen this hall before, or at least a picture of it -- somehow, he had been brought to Durmstrang, and that was when the true fear gripped him. No one would know where he was -- there would be no rescue. He was, truly, on his own.
Not waiting to see what was going to happen, he began to try emptying his mind, to Occlumens as much of it as he could. What good it would do him, he had no idea -- while he had thought a number of Grindelwald's ideas might be workable, he was more than aware that the Dark Wizard was far too fanatical to stop at wiping out just the Muggles and Mudbloods. When he was done with them, he would start on the next group that didn't fit his narrow definition of pure, and then the next, and on and on until there was no one else left... And here he lay, a filthy Mudblood, himself. Heir to Salazar Slytherin, and not even up to his own ancestor's standards. He didn't stand a chance...
The ritual was long and involved, and in German, but Tom could feel the power they were raising; recognized so many of the names they were invoking. Shemyaza, Azazel, Iblis, Ahriman, Lilith, Anzal, Melek Taus... His head was swimming by the time they got to their own gods, Wotan, Loki...
It engulfed both Grindelwald and him, and he could feel the ancient magic twining about him, wrapping around him and burning away the robe he wore in a flash of blue-green. It felt so right, so natural; it called to that part of his blood that tied him to the Slytherin line, sparking a fire within him that made his body thrum in time with the pulse of the Earth itself. The Knowledge of that blood filled his mind, and visions overwhelmed him: powerful, beautiful creatures descending from the Heights, ascending from the Depths, walking out of the Wilds; sharing their wisdom and knowledge with the new beings called Humans. Sharing much more, in some cases, and fathering frighteningly powerful children. Sharing the forbidden things: how to create like a god; how to destroy like one. How to live forever; how to murder...
He knew them -- knew they were the forefathers of the Wizards; remembered the tales that said Merlin was half-demon. He laughed to himself as he realized that there truly were no pureblood Wizards, but decided it would be a good idea to keep that knowledge to himself. Others, especially the fanatical Dark Wizard, may not find it so amusing.
Slowly, the visions faded, and he found himself back in the hall, panting and sweating on the altar, dizziness washing over him in waves. He heard voices chanting, and suddenly the altar rose into the air, then turned so that he was hanging upright, his head swimming. He tried to focus on something and spied the banner hanging at the end of the hall, but as he looked at it the symbol emblazoned in the center of it seemed to spin like a pinwheel. He wanted to look away, but found his gaze trapped, until a flash of silver caught his eye. Grindelwald suddenly stood before him, then gestured and the ropes fell away; Tom gasped when he didn't fall away from the altar, finding himself still held helpless. The Dark Wizard held a wickedly sharp dagger out in front of Tom, whispering an incantation and moving the dagger in very specific patterns.
Light glinted off the dagger, and Tom felt terror grip him. He could see the Dark power pulsating through it, and yet, he couldn't fight -- couldn't even raise a hand or speak to cast a defensive spell. Grindelwald's power held him immobile against the altar, his arms spread wide, his eyes unable to look away from the blade. It was almost as if the eagle on the hilt's crosspiece had gripped his mind in its talons. And then Grindelwald whispered, "You may not be pure, Thomas, but I have need of what you can give me. Do not worry -- you will become a part of something so much greater than your wildest dreams..."
He wanted to shake his head, wanted to stop this, but the power that held him there twisted through his body, touching hungers hidden so deep down that he didn't even know they existed. It promised him pleasure and power beyond anything he had ever dreamed possible. It sent ecstasy surging through him; he arched away from the altar and roared as his body and mind exploded in pleasure. At the exact moment of orgasm he felt the knife slide between his ribs, the agony melding with the pleasure as he saw red splash across a white field.
He felt his mind slip free of his body, and found himself watching the ritual going on below him. Grindelwald had captured the first spurt of his blood on a pristine white cotton cloth, then captured more of it in a wooden chalice. Then the knife was drawn back out of his chest, and the wound closed behind it, leaving only the tiniest white line of a scar. Before it happened, he knew what was going to come next, and he had to stop it. Had to... And yet, he could not will himself to move. Even as he tried, he saw Grindelwald look right at him and smile, and all he could do was watch in horror as the Dark Wizard spoke a foreign incantation over his blood and drank it down.
NO! he thought desperately, drawing on every ounce of power within him. Instinctively, he drew everything around himself: the hunger, the lust, the anger that always simmered under the surface and now boiled even hotter at this Dark Wizard than it ever had at Dumbledore or the bullies at the orphanage. Power flowed through him, raising him up higher and higher, until he realized he was the head of a great jeweled serpent that coiled up out of the depths of the Earth itself. He was opening his jaws and raising up to bite, and now lunging down at the ugly blackness he knew was Grindelwald, to sink his fangs into it. As he did so, he saw a small spark of blood red at the heart of the blackness, and his anger flared blinding bright.
Thief! he snarled. How many have you slaughtered to feed your lust for power? How many of our own kind have you slain to drink their blood? He tried to wrap his coils around the blackness and squeeze its life out of it, but he could feel it beginning to fight him. He was strong, but not strong enough -- he needed more...
"You are just a boy, Thomas. You don't know how to control the power you have discovered. You will never defeat me, and I will own you. I will take your power and make it mine..."
No! He dug deeper, but he could feel it slipping away from him. That transcendent power was fading -- he was too weak. He just had to make sure he didn't become Grindelwald's slave... You cannot have my power, Grindelwald -- it is still my blood...
With one last burst of power and blinding, all-consuming hate, he reached out and called to his blood -- the blood that Grindelwald had stolen from him -- and poured that hatred into it. He could hear Grindelwald grunt in pain as the last of the power slipped away from him and he slammed back into his body.
Tom tried to keep his eyes open, tried to watch, and was left with the vague impression of the men putting a strip of the red cotton into a wicked looking black stick and chanting over it. Then Grindelwald laughed and spoke his own incantation over it, and picked it up, and Tom realized with horror that it was a wand. The last thing he remembered before sinking back into blackness was the triumphant look on the Dark Wizard's face as he stroked the tip of it over Tom's bare chest, and the quiet words, "Schlafst du, Kind.*"
~~~~~~~~~~~~:>~
As he stumbled towards the Three Broomsticks, he felt like his head might explode. He was late for his date with Minerva, and she would be so angry with him for getting drunk and forgetting her. He was angry with himself, and far more afraid than he wanted to admit that he couldn't remember what had happened. When he stepped into the inn, everyone there looked up and stared at him, and he wondered exactly what it was they were seeing. He searched the room, and didn't see her there, and sighed, knowing she had returned to the school. It was time to go back and throw himself upon her mercy, and pray she would forgive him enough for him to be able to tell her how ill at ease he really was...
~~~~~~~~~~~~:>~
"He's starting to wake up, Headmistress," a kindly voice says quietly.
Then a voice he recognizes as Minerva's says, "Better get the Zabini boy, Poppy. And let Severus know, too. Thank you." Footsteps walk away, then Minerva strokes his forehead and asks, "Tom, are you with us?"
"My head hurts," he says, his voice coming out as a hoarse whisper. "And so does my throat..."
"You were screaming, Tom. You've had us quite worried..."
"You were worried?" he whispers.
"From what we can tell, you were under a very powerful Obliviate -- you managed to break it, but you came close to killing yourself doing so."
He's about to ask her more when there's a commotion at the entrance of the room and Blaise's voice reaches him. "Let me see him!"
"Now, now, Mr. Zabini, give the Headmistress a moment, then you can see him," the kindly voice says, and Tom realizes that must be the healer, Poppy.
"It seems your defender is here, Tom. I only have one question, then I'll let you talk with him. Do you now remember what the Obliviate was blocking?"
He nods, then grimaces, the images of the ritual flashing through his mind again. "Yes. Grindelwald. It was Grindelwald... He tried to steal my magic -- the magic of the Slytherin line -- and almost succeeded..."
And damn it, his body hurts and he's so exhausted he just wants to sink into the bed and sleep for a century. She can see it in his eyes and nods, then motions to Poppy. "We'll talk about this later, Tom. You need to rest now." As Blaise rushes over, she straightens and looks sternly at him. "Mr. Zabini, Tom is very weak -- I'll allow you to stay here because I know you'll find a way to do it anyway, but do not wear him out."
"Yes, Professor," Blaise says, then he tugs a chair up next to Tom's bed and sits down, staring at him. "Wow, you scared the hell out of me there," he says softly, reaching out to squeeze Tom's hand briefly, smiling when Tom doesn't let go. "You were screaming like all the demons of hell were after you..."
"I think they might have been," Tom rasps, feeling exhaustion creeping up on him. "I have to sleep... will you keep the nightmares away?"
Blaise gets out of the chair and kicks off his boots, then climbs into bed with him. "Always," he says softly, sighing as Tom curls up against him again.
end
-----
"Schlafst du, Kind." -- I think this is how to say, "Sleep, child." My high-school german is so rusty...