Voldemort-Tom

[wand_wavers]

OOC: Warning for violence and extremely disturbing images

Gone.

All of them, gone.

All of the infinite care and precision put into making them, concealing them, searching for them...all for naught.

But what is worse, and what has been preying on his mind since the moment he Apparated away from Egypt, is the fact that if he does not have them, then someone else surely does. And there are no prizes for guessing who that someone might be.

It is not surprising that he has been rather liberal in his use of the Cruciatus Curse, in the last few days.

Not even the knowledge that the Horcrux which had been in his old diary is safe, ensorcelled in his wand, is of much comfort. One Horcrux is not enough; he must have more than that.

He has only one real option, and very little time to prepare it. There is no way to save time by cutting corners, not for magic of this degree. The price for failure, or even over-hasty execution of the spell, is high enough to make even Lord Voldemort think twice. But after several exhausting days and nights' work, he has managed to assemble all of the necessary ingredients to brew the required potion -- including the one that now lies upon the low table before the steaming cauldron.

Bellatrix had not questioned him, when he had ordered her to bring him a half-blooded child of a pureblooded mother. (Then again, Bellatrix was not likely to question any command of his that gave her the opportunity to sink her arms elbow-deep in blood; a pity, what had happened to her, but after all, every war demands its sacrifices.) The child is male, less than six months old, taken from his parents' home in the very first strike the Death Eaters had made on Black Sunday. Even under a Silencing Spell and a Full Body Bind, it appears to be attempting to scream its little lungs out.

The glass orb is floating in the thick, oily potion that fills the cauldron. Voldemort takes the child by its ankles, casts a spell to suspend it above the cauldron and leave his hands free for what he must do. A freshly-sharpened knife is in his hands, and the blade glints dully as he holds it aloft and begins to chant the words of the spell.

'Here I stand, and summon the darkness that dwells between the worlds!
Here I stand, and present my sacrifice to those who dwell within that darkness!'

The temperature of the room seems to drop a few degrees, in response to his summons.

'Blood for blood -- '

The knife flashes.

'Life for life -- '

The Silencing Spell stifles the infant's final cry and even its last gurgling breaths.

'Soul for soul -- '

The potion begins to change colour, and the bubbling around the edges quickly expands to cover the entire surface of the cauldron's contents.

'Return that which is rightfully mine!' His voice rises to a high, vengeful shriek on the last word.

Comments

[young_tmriddle]

The darkness between the worlds stirs and churns. This summoning shall be done. Matter is rearranged and energy drawn away from its time and place at the end of all things.

The potion emits plumes of red steam surrounding the orb, but within it, colors begin to swirl and take shape.

Then suddenly - inexplicably - the orb shatters and a full-grown man's form takes its place, hovering there for a split second before tumbling onto the edge of the cauldron and then down to the stone floor.

What was once Voldemort's - this horcrux incarnate - has been returned to him.

[wand_wavers]

To say that this is not what he had expected is something of an understatement.

For a moment, all that Lord Voldemort can do is stare. The man's clothing is undeniably Muggle, though his outer garment is definitely a wizard's robe. But if the clothing is perplexing -- there is nothing perplexing about the face.

Not even a horribly botched potion or the wrong kind of sacrificial blood would produce this result, unless....

The man seems to be stirring, or trying to stir. Voldemort flicks his wand once, conjuring ropes to bind this doppelganger from a time long past, and as the ropes leap out from the tip of his wand to secure the prone man's form, a sudden jarring resonance jolts up his wand-arm.

Not like a Priori Incantatem, no. But not all that unlike it, either.

[young_tmriddle]

When his eyes flicker open, at first he thinks he must have fallen in some forgotten mews or alley on the way to an appointment. The stone floor is had against his back, and the lights are dim. His head aches so badly and he feels as if he's been beaten with a club. He and Door must have been attacked.

Blodwen? No, she's no danger. She oculd have gotten someone to do this for her though.

He tries to focus, but he can't quite do so. The memories are swimming back now - they were at Milliways, last he can remember, talking to friends. They weren't in London Below at all. But they were together, which means Door must be with him, and if they've both been hurt...

"Temple and Arch, what's happened? Door? Where are you?"

His voice is hoarse, and the effort of speaking exhausts him. His eyes shut, and worries or no, he loses consciousness again.

[wand_wavers]

'Temple...arch...door....'

Voldemort scowls. He had demanded his last Horcrux, and had apparently conjured up a lunatic version of his younger self. But as he peers more closely at the unconscious man, he catches sight of a thin bit of polished wood sticking out of a pocket in the man's robes.

With infinite care, he pulls it free, and holds it aloft. Plain wood, as it would have been all those years ago. It looks right. It feels right. But to test it --

His eye falls upon the dead infant, still suspended in mid-air over the glass shards and thick sludge that has settled in the cauldron.

A casual flick of his wrist, and the child's body is reduced to a foul-smelling ash that immediately drops into the cauldron, settling like a noxious fall of snow upon the surface of the congealing potion.

His wand.

'Well then....' His voice is light and sibilant as he turns cold, gleaming eyes upon the bound body before him. 'You are not exactly what I was looking for -- but it seems that you are mine, all the same.'

[young_tmriddle]

Time passes before Tom comes round again. How much he couldn't begin to say, but his dreams were unsettled and strange, full of green light and old horrors.

There's a terrible taste in his mouth, and his head is pounding. Maybe he's sick. Maybe he fell ill in the bar. Maybe he's in the infirmary.

Then he becomes aware of the scratchy, thick ropes binding him. His palms are pressed against thighs, and he can't move. If he could, he could open the fibers of the rope, but as it is, he can't even move his fingers. His whole body feels stiff and achy - he's been lying here a while, face down on the hard floor.

The lingering aroma of what could only be a Dark ritual fills this room. The smell of blood mixed into a potion is not one you forget.

He's in his own world then. But who would want him there?

He winces against the dim light as he turns his head slowly to try and figure out where he is.

[wand_wavers]

'I was wondering when you would wake.'

The high, icy voice carries a trace of cruel and strangely childish amusement, like that of a small boy who is overly fond of pulling the wings off bluebottles.

'It seems that even fragments of a soul can feel pain. How fascinating.'

[young_tmriddle]

Tom's eyes widen. "How..."

Then his mouth closes quickly.

Say nothing. Say nothing, and do nothing till you can think what to do.

Tom knows who this is. He'd recognize the voice, if nothing else. There is not much left of the man who was Voldemort, but there is enough, if one knows where to look.

Tom manages to roll against the wall and wedge himself up into a sitting position. This undignified movement spurs him into speaking without thinking.

"It seems that even travesties of nature can be beaten by children. That's something I never tire of remembering."

[wand_wavers]

Slit-like eyes narrow even further, as Voldemort's face contorts in a sneer. 'How fortunate that I rid myself of the more tiresome aspects of my personality when I had the chance. I cannot imagine why I did not do so sooner.'

He takes a few steps closer, gliding across the floor. His burning, searching gaze rakes the bound man from head to foot.

'Clearly,' he says, and the amusement is back in his voice, 'I lost nothing I could not well afford to lose.'

[young_tmriddle]

"I'm rather pleased with the arrangement myself."

Tom will not lower his gaze. He meets Voldemor's inhuman eyes with his own. He is frightened, true, but his fear comes from being taken from his family, not from the monster before him.

"Although I have to say, this spell must have been a powerful one indeed. I daresay Dumbledore couldn't have managed to recall a Horcrux." His voice is calm, as he attempts to use flattery to stall for time. The hours spent being threatened by Blodwen Rowlands were clearly good practice.

He slowly rotates the tip of his left index finger to loosen the rope covering it. If he can just get the ropes loosened enough to twist his hand around, he might have a chance.

[wand_wavers]

Even that small movement is enough to catch Voldemort's eye. And in the dim candlelight of the room, it shows the glint of gold on Tom's ring finger.

'Petrificus!' he snaps, freezing Tom's arm in mid-movement...and then he lets out a low, mocking chuckle. 'What is this, now? Accio ring!'

[young_tmriddle]

Tom glares at Voldemort That's all he can do as the ring is wrenched from his hand. He'd been counting on using the charm placed upon it to let Door know where he was and that he was still alive. It was the only way he had to make sure she was alright, as well.

Blast and damn it all, that's his wedding ring.

[wand_wavers]

The ring flies to his hand, and he plucks it out of the air with long, skeletal fingers before it can land in his palm.

'A pretty little thing.' He turns it this way and that, studying it with no small amount of satisfaction. 'Fine gold, and a date engraved within? The seventeeth of February....' His voice trails off for a moment as he reads the date -- the year is this year, for some inexplicable reason -- but he quickly picks up his train of thought. 'And of course, the charm we were taught all those years ago. How frightfully...domestic.' Disgust is audible in his voice.

[young_tmriddle]

"I've been quite lucky," he says, trying to sit up straighter. He's keenly aware of the ropes now as they dig into his flesh. Every movement is painful, but staying still hurts even more.

He will not beg to be untied. He will not beg for his ring back. Begging would be a waste of breath. Besides that's exactly what Voldemort wants.

His face goes utterly blank, as he retreats behind mental walls.

Deep down in his most private thoughts, he focuses on memories of Door's eyes, Ingress's smile, Gavroche's laugh. These thoughts will sustain him.

[wand_wavers]

Voldemort recognises the look on his younger self's face, and his twisted smile resurfaces. He knows what his Horcrux is doing; having done it often enough himself in his younger days. And he knows what it will take to prompt a reaction.

'Lucky, is it?' he sniffs. 'If that is what you choose to call it.'

He takes the ring, and almost casually he flips it into the air, as if he was tossing a coin. The ring soars up, spinning wildly in flight --

'REDUCTO!'

-- and shatters into a thousand glittering fragments.

[young_tmriddle]

He bites his tongue. He forces his expression to remain neutral, but he averts his eyes. He can't help but do so. Not with his link to Door shattering down onto the stones in a metallic rain.

"Impressive. You've destroyed my wedding ring. Do you expect me to cry? Do you want me to beg you for mercy? I know what you want. I know you just as well as you know me."

He'll die here. That much is plain. But he won't give Voldemort the pleasure of breaking him.

When they're alone, Door's eyes shimmer with a calm blue-green only he ever sees. Ingress laughs so hard that she snorts, and when she does, that makes her laugh harder. Gavroche likes to sit in his study and practice magic but sometimes he brings blocks to build with instead, and Tom often joins him.

[wand_wavers]

'I have absolutely no expectations from you.' That, in itself, is true. Having summoned this Horcrux, he is in the singular position of having very little idea of what to do with it. He will have to keep it somewhere safe, but other than that...well. 'But now that you are here, I suppose I have no choice but to play the courteous host and keep you entertained for as long as humanly possible.'

It is at that moment that the temperature of the room lowers still further, the clammy, bone-chilling cold that heralds the arrival of the Dementors.

[young_tmriddle]

Tom has been in the presence of Dementors before, but only when he had a wand and the means to fight them. He realizes for the very first time what a fate worse than death truly means. He could taunt Voldemort, try to convince him that he's of no use to him, but when it comes right down to it, Tom is simply not ready to die.

"You'd best keep me well. All of the others are gone, aren't they? I might be all you've got left."

This is a bluff. In their wisdom, no one from the Order has mentioned what happened to the Horcruxes he told Dumbledore about. He knows nothing of prophecies, or of Harry Potter's role in all this. He's glad of his ignorance now.

The Dementors glide closer, their hoods obscuring their faces. Their skeletal arms clutch out blindly, and he catches the scent of decay emanating from the tattered black robes.

Tom presses back against the wall as far as he can. He tries to keep breathing normally, to not let on that he is more terrified than he's ever been. He wonders whether being an Occlumens can protect him from their leeching powers.

In a few moments, he knows that this is not the case. Whimpering, he turns his face to the wall, but there is no escape.