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When Tom turned seventeen in the winter of his sixth year at Hogwarts, he signed his own Hogsmeade permission slip.
He had done so once years ago out of spite, knowing that it was useless.
Mrs Cole did not know about the wizarding world, nor did any of the other staff at the orphanage who might have possessed the authority to grant him permission to go. They weren’t to find out, either, lest the Statute of Secrecy be broken. The Ministry was adamant about that, and they were especially vigilant, what with Grindelwald’s rapid rise to power in the Continent.
She was disinclined anyway, the matron. Tom was a troublemaker, or so she had long suspected, and while there was never any conclusive evidence nor any direct conflict between them, they did not get along.
It was all too easy for her to say ‘no’, and Tom would have nothing he could do about it.
‘Imperio. ’ It could be as simple as raising his wand to utter a single word, but the regulations on underage magic had prevented him.
He didn’t consider that the Unforgivables were illegal themselves. Legality hardly mattered to Tom—all that did was not getting caught.
That, Tom was good at.
(Morfin, framed. The half-breed Gryffindor, framed.
Tom, prefect and well on his way to becoming Head Boy.
Tom, seventeen. Tom…freed.)
Staying behind after Transfiguration, Tom handed his slip to Dumbledore. Their professor would be leading the next trip, but despite that, excitement bubbled up inside Tom.
He tried and failed to seem impassive, like it hadn’t meant anything to him, missing out on every outing for the past three years. Like it didn’t matter when the other students chattered on about places he wasn’t allowed to see, bringing back bundles of sweets and other trinkets.
Not that he could have afforded those back then anyway.
It was different now. Though still a penniless orphan dependent on the generosity of Hogwarts’s funding on the surface, Tom had gathered connections, ones who would be all too willing to open their coffers to him should he ask.
He never did, not wanting to appear weak. Tom was self-sufficient, as he always had been, and he had his ways of earning money over his long summers away from his studies at the castle.
Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled as he accepted the slip. He looked happy for Tom, but that couldn’t be right.
Tom knew what thoughts lurked behind those accursedly bright eyes.
It had been Dumbledore leading those first trips back in third year too. It had been Dumbledore who had looked at that slip Tom signed himself and shaken his head sadly.
“I am sorry, Tom, but I cannot accept this.”
It was different now.
It was different now, but Dumbledore would never let him forget.
Indignance boiled beneath the surface of Tom’s calm façade, threatening to split it apart.
“Thank you,” Dumbledore said.
Tom cracked. He said nothing, Dumbledore having rendered him wordless in his fury.
With a jerk of his head, Tom left the classroom behind.
Snow blanketed the village, reflecting the lamps that lined the street and casting an ethereal glow. The January air was chilly in the evening, and the students had their scarves wrapped as high as their noses. They huddled together for warmth in groups of varying numbers as they trudged their way along the path, the snow rising to the brims of their boots.
Tom blew puffs of condensation as he walked alone.
He trailed behind Dumbledore, not quite in step with him, but clearly apart from the rest of the students. While he led at the head of the pack, the other Slytherins were gathered somewhere near the back of the crowd, preferring to stay out of the professor’s field of vision in the case that any rule-bending was required.
They passed by the Great Lake, which had frozen over with the advent of winter. A couple on skates whizzed by across the thick layer of ice, waving, and the students cheered as the wizard pulled his partner into a twirl.
The pair bowed, beaming, and Tom shoved his hands into his pockets.
Music could be heard coming from the shops as they approached. The students began to disperse, and Tom watched as a group of excited third-years took off, shouting about Honeydukes’s newest creations.
A Ravenclaw he didn’t recognise tripped on herself as she ran past him. Tom made to help her up, collecting her fallen belongings in his arms.
“Thank you!” she said, jumping to her feet with a bashful smile.
Tom returned it politely. “It’s no trouble.”
She brushed herself off, took her things back, and skipped away to join her friends. Tom saw her lean in conspiratorially, and a chorus of giggles erupted. A different girl in the circle sent him a wink. They laughed again, and the first girl made a squeak of protest as they headed for the shops.
Soon, all that was left were a couple of stragglers, Tom, and Dumbledore. Alphard was slinking around suspiciously, so Tom shot him a warning look before he disappeared into the hazy whiteness.
Dumbledore stood illuminated beneath a lamp in stark contrast to the spotless surroundings. Wind lifted his auburn hair as it caught shimmering specks of snow. As usual, he was dressed in a truly offensive manner.
He bore an uncanny resemblance to a Christmas tree, Tom thought, and a shoddy one at that.
“Tom,” Dumbledore called. “Are you not joining your friends?”
Tom shook his head as he drew near, jostling his scarf.
“Actually, sir, I had hoped to talk with you.”
Tom had the impression that his cheeks had become flushed. They were numb and painful to the touch. Of course, it was only because of the biting cold and nothing else. He wrapped his scarf higher and tighter around his neck, concealing part of his face.
He shifted in place as he awaited Dumbledore’s response, marking the snow with the tread of his boots. He was loath to be seen associating with the professor, and that was the only reason for his discomfort—Dumbledore couldn’t scare him.
“Would you object to the Hog’s Head?” Dumbledore asked.
“Pardon?”
“The Hog’s Head,” he repeated. “An establishment run by my brother. It may sound like nepotism, but he has the best selection of drinks. It’s perfect for this weather, and we ought to take shelter before you catch a cold.”
Tom hadn’t ever heard that Dumbledore had a brother. It was odd to imagine him as young as Tom was, going through Hogwarts alongside a sibling, as a student rather than a professor and the esteemed Deputy Head. He wondered if he had any others and whether they were younger or older or both.
It was a short walk to the inn from the entrance of the village. They ducked through the entryway, the clamour of voices and clinking tableware washing over them.
They were promptly seated at a small out-of-the-way table at the back of the pub. Glancing around, Tom saw a group of students in his year, but none from his house, thankfully. At the bar, he spotted Dippet conversing animatedly with Merrythought over pints of ale.
A waitress appeared with a set of menus. A tag pinned to the strap of her apron revealed her name to be ‘Beth’.
“Anything to drink, sirs?” she asked, retrieving a pen from behind her ear.
Tom made to shake his head, but Dumbledore intervened. “My treat,” he said. “Your birthday passed over the holidays, did it not?”
“Ah!” Beth exclaimed. “We have just the thing. A holiday special for the birthday boy—our famous Cosmic Cocoa!”
“What’s that?” Tom asked.
“Oh, don’t you mind that, dear. You’ll love it, I’m sure,” she declared. Turning to face Dumbledore, she continued, ignoring Tom’s bewildered expression. “And what will you be having?”
Dumbledore hummed thoughtfully, and Tom felt his patience waning. He bit his lip and tapped his foot against the table leg.
“Tea, please, no milk or sugar. Darjeeling, if you have it?”
Tom gaped. Tea? He’d never known Dumbledore as one to take tea. Tea was…plain. Dumbledore was not.
He had to be fucking with him. Dumbledore knew, didn’t he, how Tom watched him at every meal? Tom had anticipated bearing witness to one of Dumbledore’s orders at last, and for it to be tea was plain disappointing.
Beth jotted down their orders on a scuffed notepad and repeated them back for confirmation.
“Anything else?” she asked, and they shook their heads. “Well, all right. I’ll be back in a jiffy!”
Silence descended upon them after she hurried away. Tom observed Dumbledore with thinly veiled interest.
“Now then,” Dumbledore said, clasping his hands together. “What is troubling you on this fine evening, Tom?”
For a moment, Tom almost exposed all his worries and insecurities. There was something comforting about Dumbledore’s calm presence, the way nothing seemed able to shake him, like he was a sturdy oak tree that had stood for centuries.
Then he remembered. Remembered how despite the extent to which Dumbledore had already seen through him, Tom could allow him to delve no deeper into his many secrets.
Dumbledore would condemn him. Worse, he would try to save him, and Tom did not want to be saved. He had no need for it.
Tom’s path was not one for the morally upstanding. There was no room for one such as Dumbledore. A year prior, Tom had thought his outward nature false, but he knew better now.
Dumbledore believed in good. Believed in aspiring to be good.
Tom did not. Tom was not.
Beth returned, plucking their drinks from the tray balanced skillfully on her hand. “Enjoy!” she said with a grin, and then she disappeared into the throng of customers again.
Tom stared at the mug before him, steam rising in a pillar from the mouth of the container. If not for what Beth had called it, Tom would have been hard-pressed to identify it as hot cocoa. Topped with a dollop of cream, the liquid was dazzling, deep and dark as the night sky with intermixed swirls of planetary blue, spangled throughout with flecks of shimmering stars. Spices tickled at his nose as he breathed a deep sample of its aroma.
It was like they had switched roles, he and Dumbledore, gotten tangled somewhere along the way.
Tom took a small sip, careful to avoid getting cream on his nose. It was sweet but not overly, which he appreciated.
When he looked back up, the mug still radiating heat to his palms, Dumbledore was waiting expectantly. Tom had nearly forgotten why they had come to the place, or rather, nearly forgotten what he had set out to accomplish. It had certainly not been this, idly chatting over drinks while a fire crackled somewhere in the background and too-cheery tunes played on a gramophone.
“How do you Transfigure a Dementor?” Tom asked, fingering the handle of his cocoa. “Or rather, can it be done?”
A flicker of concern seemed to pass across Dumbledore’s face, but Tom blinked, and it was gone.
“That is an ambitious topic to tackle,” Dumbledore said, and Tom frowned but received an assuring smile. “Ah, let us not be too hasty. We have plenty of time at our disposal.
“However,” Dumbledore continued, his voice hardening reproachfully, “if you have come to me for other reasons, do not hesitate to speak. It has not escaped my attention that you have been carefully avoiding me for the past few months. It does not do to leave your troubles to fester. If you hope to take on the position of Head Boy next year, as I am sure you do, you will have to learn to overcome whatever it is that is holding you back.”
Tom fidgeted. Dumbledore was right. He couldn’t keep avoiding the Deputy Headmaster. It was impressive enough as a prefect but impossible as Head Boy. Dippet, the headmaster, was often too busy to deal with the students himself. Running to and fro between Hogwarts and the Ministry, he would leave many such duties to his second-in-command.
That was why Tom had sought out Dumbledore today. He had little intention of spilling his heart to him, but it would have to be enough.
Still, he didn’t meet Dumbledore’s eyes as he swung his head around to look pointedly in any other direction. Beth was at the window, wiping it clear of collected condensation. Outside, the falling snow had grown heavier.
“I haven’t been avoiding you. I’ve been busy is all,” Tom hedged. “The O.W.L.s…”
“…ended months ago,” Dumbledore pointed out helpfully.
“‘S not the only thing,” Tom muttered under his breath, but he didn’t think Dumbledore heard.
In truth, Tom had been avoiding him with no small degree of stubbornness. Or at least as much as one could while attending the very class the professor in question taught every other day.
“I had hoped you would come to trust me, but perhaps I ask too much,” Dumbledore said. He paused to take a sip of his tea, and his face took on a pensive expression. “I am truly sorry, Tom.”
“Professor— what? ” Tom searched Dumbledore’s face, but it was unreadable.
Dumbledore sighed, then braced himself with a fond smile. “Tom… Grindelwald is not your responsibility. I have no expectations regarding your involvement, and I would look upon you no differently should you choose to remain out of the current conflict. In fact, it would go great lengths towards quelling my worries if you did. It would pain me to see you or any of my students harmed on my account.”
“Don’t, then,” Tom bit out. “Don’t worry about me—I don’t want it.”
“Don’t want it or don’t need it?” Dumbledore asked, amusement now pulling at the corners of his lips. “I care about you.”
I care for you.
It was a one-word difference, but that difference was an insurmountable chasm Tom was unable to cross. He hungered for what lay on the other side, coveted it, and yet it remained stubbornly out of reach.
He didn’t answer, opting not to look down into those dark depths.
“Tell me about Grindelwald,” Tom pressed suddenly. “You said we have plenty of time today—you owe it to me. What was he like? How is it that you knew him?”
(And why…why won’t you duel him? Why won’t he duel you ?)
Was Tom correct to assume that he had been—
Dumbledore fixed him with an assessing gaze. “Very well, Tom,” he conceded, but he seemed hesitant. For a moment, Tom expected Dumbledore to lie under some delusion of ‘protecting’ him.
“Even if my involvement is as unadvised as you make it out to be, how could extra information on Grindelwald hurt? At best, you might change my mind… At worst, I would come out better informed than before,” Tom argued. “No one could be a more reliable source than you, Professor.”
Dumbledore’s eyes seemed to darken as he thought, grey clouds passing over their blue skies.
“I met him in the summer after I graduated Hogwarts,” he finally said. “At the time, I felt shackled by the responsibility of caring for my ill sister in the place of my parents, who were deceased and imprisoned. I was wasting away my potential, I thought, and I longed to be freed and to do greater things.
“Gellert, unlike me, was a wild being, an uncontainable thing that would allow no restraints to be placed upon him. He was everything I wanted, everything I longed to be…or so I thought.”
“He wasn’t,” Tom said flatly.
“No. He wasn’t. Ours was a whirlwind romance, one as brief as it was intense. Before long, discord brewed with my brother. I was shirking my duties to my family, he claimed, and though I denied it then, he was right. We had made plans together, Gellert and I—grand plans that would take us far from the village that was my family’s home.
“There came the day when the match was struck and a duel broke out between the three of us. My sister tried to stop it, but”—Dumbledore’s voice faltered—“she got in the way and was killed. Gellert fled, and I…I was freed.”
There was an immeasurable look of guilt upon Dumbledore’s face. It seemed to age him impossibly, and a wave of panicked worry washed over Tom.
Tom felt an immense, feverish need to mend his hurt. The need twisted and pulled at Tom’s insides, but he lacked the knowledge of how. He barely grasped why Dumbledore looked so pained—Tom had never had anything like a sibling, even among all the other children at Wool’s, and hadn’t ever wanted one. Dumbledore’s story only served to further convince him that having one could only ever be a burden.
Still, loss… Tom could understand loss, he supposed. Despite how he had felt about his sister when she had still been alive, Dumbledore had set out to care for her, and he had failed in his responsibilities.
Tom twisted his fingers together in his lap and offered no condolences. There was a more important matter on his mind. His cocoa sat forgotten on the table, where it was cooling rapidly.
He looked up, eyeing Dumbledore carefully before he spoke.
“You still love him?” Tom whispered, but the answer was all too clear.
Yes. Of course he does.
Only, Tom didn’t understand why knowing so made his chest wrench with a stabbing pain, leaving him nearly unable to breathe.
He knew love, he thought, but not Dumbledore. Tom’s meagre knowledge was a passing scrape over the surface of the fathomless ocean.
“Why?” he asked, forcing his breath to steady again. Before Dumbledore, he would show no weakness.
(After all he has brought upon you? After all this time? After he left you, waged a war against you?
And…will you still, after the war is ended?)
Did love make them weak?
It was a question Tom had gone over countless times. Years ago, he would have answered with a quick ‘of course’, but now, he wasn’t so sure.
Tom had never considered Dumbledore weak. Despised him, thought him foolish, yes, but never weak.
(If Dumbledore was weak, what was Tom, who couldn’t even surpass him?)
“Must there be a reason?” Dumbledore asked, and Tom paused to ask the same of himself.
Why? Why love him?
He had so many reasons, yet they all missed the mark. They were symptoms of a condition, not a cause. The sickness overran him, infection tearing through him like fire through dry grass. He could pinpoint when his feelings had begun, the very moment Alphard’s potion had spilt over his skin, leaving him with naught but one desire in his mind.
Yet still Tom came up empty-handed, as answerless as before and just a bit more breathless.
Perhaps it had come earlier, and he only hadn’t realised it. Love hadn’t been something Tom had known beyond vague retellings by the few adults he’d known well enough to strike up such conversation with, an irrational, cheap source of conflict in the romance novels Mrs Cole so loved, and something the other children could only ever imitate in their little games.
Dumbledore had been important since the day they had met. That was something Tom understood now and had understood back when he was naught but eleven. Dumbledore had cowed him that day, Tom’s wardrobe set alight but not really, and from then on…Tom had hated him for it, promised himself ‘Never again’ .
How had this burning, indignant hate transformed into searing love?
To Tom, when it came to Dumbledore, the two warring emotions were one and the same, two sides of one coin. He hated him for being the object of his affections and for the blossoming illness in his heart, and only because he so hated him could he have such depth of attachment and love…
Tom shook his head, having come to a conclusion, open-ended as it was.
“No,” Tom said. “I guess not.” Love just was.
Somehow, Dumbledore managed to look proud at this simple admission.
Then Tom opened his mouth to speak again.
“Can we use it against him? That is,” Tom added hurriedly, seeing Dumbledore’s face falling, “doesn’t he think the same of you?”
“I don’t dare to believe so,” Dumbledore said resignedly. “And even if he did, he would not be so foolhardy as to allow emotion to sway his decisions.”
Unlike himself, Dumbledore neglected to say.
Perhaps Grindelwald was just sentimental… Perhaps he had other reasons to be wary unknown to Tom, because it was painfully obvious that he did not wish to fight his once lover.
But Tom knew better.
Tom and Grindelwald were very much different, almost jarringly so. But when it came to him…
… Tom almost sympathised with Grindelwald. Almost.
Just as well that Dumbledore would take no part in Tom’s plans. He had little desire for Dumbledore’s interference, nor did he want for his constant moral judgement, which Tom would no doubt run afoul of.
“Oh,” Tom said innocently. “I see.”
They watched each other in quiet understanding that soon shifted to unease for Tom. He was unused to it, the absence of their usual clashing and friction of wills, and it left him discomfited.
“Professor—” Tom began, but Dumbledore spoke in the same moment. Awkwardly, Tom gestured for him to speak first.
“If there is nothing else, we may discuss the question you posed earlier,” Dumbledore suggested.
Tom had forgotten again, Dumbledore throwing him off his game as always.
“Right,” he said, scrambling to recall what he had asked. “Of course. We’ve long established in class that non-living to living Transfiguration is perfectly viable, as is the reverse. However, when I searched the library for literature on Transfiguration to or from amortal beings, nothing turned up. Could you enlighten me—if you are familiar?”
Dumbledore raised a curious eyebrow. “What prompted this, Tom?”
“I was researching Dementors, and it occurred to me that if it were possible, Transfiguration could be used as an alternative method of defence against them, rather than the sole method being the Patronus Charm,” Tom said hurriedly before halting.
The Patronus Charm.
His interest piqued by the imprisonment of Morfin following his father and grandparents’ murders, Tom had pored over what little information he could find about Azkaban. To his horror and great fascination, he had discovered the existence of Dementors.
Dementors, who sucked out your soul. Dementors, whose interaction with one in the possession of Horcruxes Tom did not know.
It quickly became vital to him that he should be able to control them.
Dementors were not covered until sixth-year Defence Against the Dark Arts, and because Tom did not come from a wizarding family, he had never heard of them before.
Almost immediately, Tom saw the potential for weaponisation. As prison guards, they were effective enough, but in truth, the Ministry’s main purpose in stationing them at Azkaban was to keep them confined to that island alone. They would be much more effective in other places, Tom believed. But if he was to develop any such plans, he had to have some way of resisting their ability.
He had tried to cast the Patronus many times and failed just as many. Finally, he had given up and sought another solution.
“For those who are unable to cast a Patronus, such a method would be invaluable,” Tom finished.
He took a sip of his cocoa, which was now cold. His fingers trembled, rattling the mug, and he fought to contain it so that the tremors would not show. A mix of excitement, nerves, and anticipation raced through his veins.
But his excitement was for naught.
Dumbledore’s expression took on a sorrowful quality, and Tom suspected that he understood the unspoken implication that Tom had found himself unable.
“It cannot be done,” Dumbledore said. “Many a wizard has tried to discover a substitute for the Patronus Charm, but all have failed, including me. It is not known why, though theories exist.
“That being said,” Dumbledore continued, “there is no such thing as being inherently incapable of casting the Patronus, only varying degrees of difficulty. One has only to channel the appropriate emotions. While a particularly strong memory can help one along the way, it is not required.
“If you are willing… I would guide you.”
Tom was tempted, but he could not accept the offer. The Patronus was a window to one’s heart, and he himself did not know what form his might take.
Perhaps it would be a noble serpent, but that was too obvious. More often than not, a wizard was surprised by what they saw.
More than that, Tom didn’t want Dumbledore to see him fail.
“I…no. But,” Tom added, “will you show me yours? That is, if it’s not too intrusive?”
“I would be glad to,” Dumbledore replied. “If you are done with your cocoa”—he glanced at the half-empty mug, blue foam clinging to its sides—“then let us make our way back outside. There is precious little space here, and I would rather prefer to avoid making a scene, as would my brother.”
They pushed past a throng of waiting customers at the door and stepped out into the snow together. It was later and darker than either of them had expected, their time together having flown by in a flash. Colder, too, and Tom caught himself subconsciously drawn closer to Dumbledore’s warmth, though they did not touch. White powder reached as high as their knees, but, thankfully, a path had been cleared at the side of the road.
“Here?” Tom asked, peering around at the deserted street. Everyone else, it seemed, had sought shelter indoors. He clapped his hands together, wishing he had not forgotten his gloves in his anticipation leading up to the trip.
“You know the incantation and wand movement, naturally,” Dumbledore remarked, and Tom nodded.
He did. He had perfected them, just as he did with any other spell, yet he hadn’t conjured up so much as a thin mist.
Dumbledore drew his wand and pointed it to the sky. He closed his eyes to conjure up a memory—what, Tom did not know—and began to draw circles in the air.
“ Expecto Patronum. ”
(I await a protector.)
A silvery fire shot forth from the tip of his wand. At first no more than a flickering flame threatening to extinguish in the wind, it soon sprouted wings and grew, finally settling into the form of a familiar phoenix. It soared above them, wings spread like a protective barrier, never leaving their sight as it circled.
“Fawkes,” Tom breathed. “Incredible.”
“Thank you,” Dumbledore said. “Would you like to pet him?”
Tom took a step back.
“But, Professor…despite its name, a corporeal Patronus is not solid.”
“Of that, I am quite aware. However, there is another peculiar phenomenon I would like to introduce to you. Come,” Dumbledore beckoned, and Tom approached hesitantly as the phoenix descended towards them.
Fawkes hung in the air, his wings moving with a steady beat. Tom took a step forward, then glanced back towards his professor.
“Like this?” Tom asked, extending a hand. Dumbledore nodded in approval, and Tom turned back to the phoenix. He lowered his hand, and silver tongues of fire licked at his outstretched fingers.
It was warm. There was no danger of burning himself, and something seemed to resonate within. Tendrils of heat advanced up his arm and filled him as Fawkes nuzzled his head against—through—Tom’s palm, and all he could think was ‘I want one just like yours’ .
Then Fawkes leapt away with a proud shake of his head, and Tom laughed in wonder even as the cold began to creep back beneath his skin.
“You said it was possible,” Tom said, watching as Fawkes faded into the haze of snow. “That I might cast one, too, if I only knew the right way. I take back what I said, Professor. Will you teach me?”
Dumbledore beamed. “Of course, Tom.”
It was early the next day when they met up again, and their previous tranquillity seemed to have dissipated in the glare of the morning sun.
The night before, deeming it too dark and too late for practising spells, they had headed back to the castle together for a night of good sleep. Sunday had come, and aside from Dumbledore’s usual lesson preparations and mountain of papers to mark, they had the whole day free.
“I’m not doing anything wrong,” Tom snapped, turning on his heel to pace Dumbledore’s office.
What had come over him to spur him into saying ‘yes’? Why, Tom fumed silently, had he thought a one-on-one lesson with Dumbledore was a good idea? Nothing could come of it, and whatever Tom had experienced when the Patronus touched him had been a fluke.
Fawkes—the real one—cawed from his perch, mocking. Tom whipped his wand towards the ceiling and tried once again, squeezing his eyes shut as he conjured visions of his final triumph as Lord Voldemort.
Not even the slightest wisp came from his wand, by all appearances just a plain stick.
“What are you thinking of?” Dumbledore asked with a strange look to his face.
“Meeting you,” Tom said, blurting the first lie that came to mind. Then he realised how it sounded and felt his face heat up. “Finding out that I was magic, I mean,” he amended testily.
Dumbledore hummed thoughtfully, apparently oblivious to the slip. “Perhaps you aren’t focusing on the right part of your memory? Try to think back,” he suggested, “and imagine yourself experiencing it for the first time.”
But magic was like a limb to Tom. He had grown used to having it, and he could no longer feel the dizzying excitement he once had at discovering it for what it was. He took it for granted, he knew, and trying to imagine anything else only served to make him anxious.
Dumbledore, he thought, latching on in desperation. He had said it accidentally, but it might work. It just might…
He tried again, and as he swirled his wand in the air, a silvery strand as fine as spider’s silk emerged from its tip.
“That’s it,” Dumbledore said, encouraging.
Tom thought of wanting to impress Dumbledore, of spilling his closest-held secrets and wrenching his heart agape.
(“I can make things move without touching them. I can make animals do what I want them to do, without training them. I can make bad things happen to people who annoy me. I can make them hurt if I want to…
“… I can speak to snakes. I found out when we’ve been to the country on trips—they find me, they whisper to me. Is that normal for a wizard?”) [1]
Then his mind jumped back to the present, and he thought of himself standing victorious over Grindelwald, the Dark Lord dead at his feet. He thought of Dumbledore, not having to lift a finger to fight. He thought of Dumbledore, grateful, Dumbledore, safe in his arms—
The strand grew. It grew, and grew, and grew, thickening into a rope, expanding into a shield, until, finally, a phoenix bloomed.
Its beak appeared first, open wide in a triumphant cry. Then wings burst in a silvery shower from its back, and a long, flamboyant tail followed with a swish, sweeping feathers through the air.
Tom stood in place, transfixed. He had done it. He had succeeded.
He spun to face Dumbledore with an exultant grin. The professor was frozen, a look of stunned disbelief etched into every facet of his features.
Tom’s stomach dropped. Had he done something wrong? The phoenix—should he not have—?
“ Tom, ” Dumbledore breathed, and Tom’s heart stopped at the emotion in his voice. He saw the tell-tale shimmer of tears gathering at the corners of Dumbledore’s eyes, and Tom scrambled for words.
“I’m sorry, sir—”
“Beautiful. Truly…”
“ Sir— ” Tom began again, but then the realisation bore down on him, and his jaw snapped shut.
Their Patronuses matched, or rather, Tom’s matched Dumbledore’s.
No.
The books had said—the books had spoken of love and of changing forms after experiencing great turmoil and upheaval, but Tom hadn’t imagined that his would really—had only given the passage a cursory skim—
And worst of all, Dumbledore had seen.
Dumbledore… knew.
NO.
“It’s not—” —what it looks like—
But it was, and they both knew it. Tom had a death grip on his wand, and his heart raced from fear and mortification.
“—true,” he finished weakly. His earlier jubilation had left him entirely, and he nearly collapsed to the floor, his legs become jelly beneath him.
Leaning against the cool bricks of the wall, Tom scrunched his eyes shut and tuned out all sound save for a persistent ringing in his ears. He pressed the pads of his fingers against the wall’s rough surface and dragged along it, focusing on that sensation alone.
The chasm from the previous day appeared in his mind again, the divide become smaller. He could see the other side draw near, the earth shaking as it moved.
Tom didn’t hear the steps approaching. Warm arms wrapped around him, and his eyes flew open to meet Dumbledore’s before flitting away like a thief caught red-handed.
He hadn’t done anything wrong, had never felt so ashamed for anything, and yet…
He couldn’t face it. He wanted a hole to materialise in the ground beneath him so that he might sink into it and disappear. He wanted to run, wanted to bolt for the door like a frightened fawn.
Once, the solution might have been obvious. Eliminate Dumbledore, and the problem was solved. He still could—the opportunity was there. He should. He had wanted it, still remembered dreaming of tasting his blood.
But that was no longer the case. That option no longer existed to Tom.
It was not enough to kill Dumbledore.
It was too much to have Dumbledore like this.
The gap closed. Two rock faces came crashing together with a thunderous roar.
Tom was overwhelmed, swept about like driftwood pummelled to jagged shores by the waves of his contradictory emotions.
“Shhh,” Dumbledore soothed as if handling a small animal. “You have nothing to be ashamed of, Tom.”
“You’re wrong,” Tom whispered, struggling to escape his hold. “You shouldn’t have seen—I was rash—”
He was going to hate himself later—he already did—
“No,” Dumbledore said, causing him to halt. “It isn’t under your control.”
Tom understood that much. He wasn’t stupid, yet he so was.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
How else could he have landed himself in this situation? He should have seen it coming. No, he had seen it coming, and at the last second stepped perfectly into the path of collision.
(“Will you teach me?”)
They didn’t make him feel any better, Dumbledore’s comforting words. They might later, once he calmed again, or they might not. He didn’t know, didn’t care.
Was Tom freed?
His body seemed to ache all over, ripping and tearing him to pieces even as Dumbledore held him together. Worse than the soul-rending agony of creating both his Horcruxes, it went on and on as if never to cease.
Was he?
No, his mind screamed as he shuddered against secure arms.
Yes, his heart whispered contentedly.
Yes.
Tom held him back.