Work Text:
The man didn't look anything like the Dark Lord that Tom had envisioned.
For one thing, he was dressed in the most tattered overcoat Tom had ever seen (and he was including the horrifying clothing specimens from Wool's). Tom hadn't even known clothes of such a high level of quality could deteriorate to such an extent. The man’s worn leather boots looked two wears away from collapsing into themselves.
His chestnut hair was long and unstyled – in fact, Tom was willing to bet it was unwashed and uncombed too. It cascaded down his shoulders and even from a distance, it looked like the insides of a coconut husk. He was in dire need of some shampoo, conditioner and good pomade.
Most of all, though, the Butcher of Ithaca looked surprisingly young for a feared dark lord. Not much older than Tom himself. But of course, that wasn't true. It couldn't be.
The Butcher had fought battles for Grindelwald before the War had ever started, when Tom himself was only a child in Hogwarts. His feats were reported as the actions of an enemy General, not a child or a teenager. Realistically, he'd have to be in his 60s at least.
It was likely his use of the Dark Arts that kept his face so youthful, even though it resulted in the man looking more like a sleep-deprived potions mastery student than a Dark Lord.
Regardless of his substandard grooming habits, he was still the most powerful Dark Lord of the age. He had slain hundreds of mages who had lord-level reserves of magic. He was probably the only person in the world still alive and free whose name could strike fear into the hearts of any mage who heard it.
Tom wanted what the Butcher commanded so effortlessly. After years of toiling, he had managed to take over and rebrand the Cure Our World party. Made it palatable to the masses. Had even managed to pass the bill banning muggleborns from attending Hogwarts, keeping them out of the Ministry. He had real power now, and yet few outside his circle truly feared him.
He had gathered his Knights and his allies, and they had begun planning their greatest work yet. The only problem, of course, was Dumbledore and his meddling Light Faction. As long as the Light Faction had seats in the Wizengamot – Tom's place wasn't secure.
He wanted to… well, he wanted to secure his place. By any means necessary. And for that he needed advice from a Dark Lord. Even if that Dark Lord happened to be a serial killer who had only just retired from killing after a confrontation with Albus Dumbledore a few months prior.
Tom resisted the urge to wipe his clammy palms on his robes as he bowed.
“Lord Bellum. It is an honour to finally meet you. I have been looking for you for months. I am Tom Riddle. I am… an admirer.”
“I am not interested in sleeping with you,” the Butcher said bluntly.
Tom sputtered and in his scandalised shock, he accidentally locked eyes with the other man. As he felt himself getting sucked into the swirling violet-indigo irises, Tom belatedly remembered why his followers would deferentially look down when facing him. Why he himself refused to meet Dumbledore's eyes, even when it grated.
It was too late. Tom was an accomplished Occlumens, but he'd been caught by surprise. If it had been a prodding or even an attack on his shields, he'd have easily parried it.
This, though. This felt like a natural disaster. It felt inevitable, like a hurricane devastating everything in its path. It wasn't a mind-attack, so much as it was a mind-tsunami. It felt excruciating, like his mind was not longer his own, like it was being flayed for information.
Wool's Orphanage. Getting picked on. Punishing the fools who dared to pick on him. Making the other children do what he wanted because he was special Tom was special. Dumbledore's hard eyes as he set his wardrobe on fire.
Distantly, he acknowledged that it was perhaps ill-advised to have assumed the de-fanged right-hand of Grindelwald wouldn't use the many spells of warfare he'd acquired during the war on Tom. The war had never ended for Grindelwald's followers, after all. It had been a choice to either keep fighting, or to die. Even now, twenty-five years later, there were mages who hunted them down.
Hogwarts. Being shunned by the Slytherins before he finally proved himself to be descended from Slytherin himself. He was special. He was special. He was the heir of Slytherin. And then – the Basilisk –
A part of him knew that the Butcher did not care whether he lived or died – he was ambivalent. He was deciding. Somehow, that felt more terrifying than if he was trying to kill Tom with this.
Abraxas bringing him to the Cure Our World rally. Charming everyone he met with his impeccable pureblood manners. Meeting the head of the C.O.W party and tactfully suggesting a name change.
Tom tried summoning his magic, tried fighting back, but he was blocked by something. He was powerless.
Taking over the Party. His first big win in the Wizengamot. Legislation after legislation, Bill after Bill. And at every turn, Dumbledore. Dumbledore's disapproving frown. Dumbledore's meddling faction. Every step forward coming alongside a step backward. Tom wanted to get things working smoothly, he was going to take over the Ministry, he was –
“You are utterly boring.”
Tom jerked away, clutching his hands to his pounding head. The Butcher had suddenly and soundlessy appeared behind him, and hissed his words directly into Tom's ear.
Up close, the man looked even worse. His eyes were bloodshot, with deep bags that appeared engraved upon his sallow face. There were pockmarks littered across his cheeks, and what Tom had mistaken for an ethereal glow was actually a thin sheen of sweat on his pallid skin.
After a second, Tom paled. The man had seen everything. He had to –
“Put your wand away while I’m still feeling merciful, Riddle. I don't care for your hypocrisies, nor for your meaningless secrets. If you want to burn the world to the ground, it is no business of mine. I have no advice for you. I won't stop you, if you're worried.”
Tom frowned.
“I have no plans to burn the world to the ground. I just –”
“Really? You stand against Dumbledore and you build an army in preparation to overthrow him and his faction. In preparation for war. You do this not out of any conviction in your ideals, not out of self-interest but in pursuit of power. What do you seek if not to follow in Grindelwald's footsteps? What more do you desire than the complete and utter destruction of this world by your hands?”
“I will not destroy anything. I will remake the world in my image. To be better. I will not… fail.”
Not like Grindelwald did went unsaid.
The Dark Lord smiled and shrugged.
“You forget that Grindelwald did not expect to fail either. He destroyed half of Europe thinking he was remaking the world for the better.”
“I will not be like–”
The Butcher scoffed before standing.
“This conversation vexes me. Let us never meet again, Mr Riddle. The displeasure of your company was enough to last for this lifetime.”
No. No, he had spent too much time, too much effort tracking the man down. He couldn't just let him leave.
“Wait!”
Magnus Bellum turned, the moonlight reflecting against his eyes. Never mind his scraggly hair, his pallid complexion, his huge eye-bags – he looked every inch a Dark Lord in that moment. Tom swallowed.
“Show me. If you want me to refrain from moving forward with my plans, forgive me if I cannot take your word for it.” The word of a man who lost his war. “Show me why you think it's such a bad idea.”
“Mr Riddle, I think we have a misunderstanding.” The Butcher stepped forward, his aura suddenly oppressive, bloodthirsty. He was smiling but he wasn't smiling. The edges of his mouth was curved up in a mockery of a grin, while his eyes remained cold and empty.
“I don't think it's a bad idea. On the contrary, I think it's a wonderful idea.”
In Tom's mind, he saw a flash of a memory.
A mountain of bodies. Men, women, children, all dead. All by his hand. A part of him had died with them. But he had to continue killing. It was him or them. It was staining his hands or letting his subordinates stain their hands. It was a thousand civilians on his side or a thousand civilians on their side. His soul was long shattered. Even if he won this he had lost himself long ago. His soul was shattered. That was war and that was war and that was war and it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts —
— Myrtle Warren lay on the floor of the second floor toilet, unmoving, unbreathing, and Tom felt a part of himself leave him, a part of himself, his soul was dying and he refused he refused he refused it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts —
The Butcher smiled at him, empty eyes dancing with empty amusement.
“Please, don't think to rob me of my entertainment now that I'm retired. Truly, seeing Albus Dumbledore's world burned to ashes without lifting a finger is a dream come true for me. In that regard, I wholeheartedly support you and your foolish cause, Mr Riddle.”