The Diary (pottermort)

chapter twenty

Fleamont Potter holds the letter with a shaking hand. The other is tangled with his hair, having it in a white knuckled grip. "We've gotta go see her," is muttered, desperately, and he gets in response only Tom Riddle's immediately shot:

"Absolutely not." The letter is not Euphemia; the handwriting is a little too exaggerated, the letters a little too curly. "It's from Gellert," Tom says, even though the point should be obvious.

But Fleamont shakes his head viciously, his hair moving with it like a drying dog. "No, n-no. No. It's her. We've gotta go, Tom, we've gotta check on her!" Tom thinks that this is a trap, and he thinks that Fleamont can see that, too. That his mind is clouded with panic, with love for a distanced childhood friend.

Tom planned, at one point or another, to confront our main man Gellert. To slaughter him, steal his wand, and become a god to the press because of it.

He did not anticipate for it to be so soon.

Fleamont is crying, though, and Tom can tell that his waiting time is up. Fleamont will visit Euphemia, find her corspe and likely become one of his own. So Tom sighs, ruffles Fleamont's hair, and says, "I'll check on her if you stay here. I won't go if you do." Because Fleamont's his cash cow. He's valuable, in his own special way, but will only slow Tom down in this endeavor.

Fleamont bites his lip. His face is coated in deliberation. Tom is more capable than him, Fleamont can see it, and if Euphemia is hurt...

Then he wants Tom to deal with it. "Okay," he says softly. (Resignation. The sound of it makes Tom bite back a grin.)

Tom presses a kiss to Fleamont's forehead, a gesture meant to calm. Fleamont leans into the touch. "Wonderful, darling." Tom grabs his wand and, after a moment's hesitation, shoves his diary into his robes as well, as a sort of good luck charm. "Now," he says once his items are gathered, "where is your Floo powder?"

Fleamont grabs it from a kitchen cabinet and hands to to Tom with trembling hands.

Before stepping into the raging fire and stepping into the arms of Gellert Grindelwald, Tom turns to Fleamont. "Whatever is on the other side, I will take care of it."

And Fleamont believes him. (How could he not?)

The Moon Manor is decidedly smaller than the Potter one. It also seems eerily empty. Tom grips his wand and moves silently through the house. Euphemia's parents sleep, blissfully unaware, in their beds. There is no sign of Euphemia herself. He considers that calling out might be a bad idea, but also thinks that the fireplace announced his visit well enounce.

He does not bother calling out for Euphemia. She's almost certainly dead. "Grindelwald?" Tom yells.

There's a laugh, coming from outside. It is all the answer he gets.

Tom walks to the backdoor, pulling it open and immediately his wand arm shoots out. Gellert only grins at the display. The light bleeding in through the windows contrasts vividly to the dark of the night clouding them. The hint of moonlight highlights Euphemia's lifeless features.

Tom has imagined similar sceneries countless times. This was supposed to be on his own terms. There was supposed to be no corpse between them. This is not his design.

But he will work with it. He will work it and excel in this environment because that is what he always does.

Tom closes the door behind him, leaning on it. His wand never waivers. Gellert sits in a frog like position six feet away, with his hands resting on his knees. Euphemia lies beside him.

Tom's eyes linger on Gellert's wand. Gellert notices and says nothing.

"Fancy meeting you here," Tom says. The moonlight illuminates the percepitation littering the grass. It illuminates the blood, too. Euphemia hit her head on a rock when she fell.

Gellert runs a hand over Euphemia's cheek  Blood smears under his thumb. "I know you because I know me," he says. Tom merely raises an eyebrow. "You are like me, Tom Riddle. And this is the price of your selfishness." He presses his fingernails into the body's cheek.

Tom does not believe himself to be like Gellert. He is better. He tilts his head, humoring him. "Is that so?"

"Certianly," Gellert replies, almost enthusiastically. His smile is crafted to be charming, Tom thinks. Like mine. Maybe we are not so different after all. "You had a choice. She died because you would not tell me your little secret. Her blood, Tom Riddle? It is on your hands."

Tom looks at Gellert's bloody thumb and decides that he disagrees. "Is it too late to push the deductive reasoning claim?"

"Yes," Gellert says. "Because if you deducted that there were spies in Britian, you would've said so before. Your silence on the matter was proof enough."

Tom considers this. He shifts his weight onto his right foot, pressing a bit harder into the door.

"But that matters not!" Gellert exclaims, cheerfully. "Because I will kill you, kill your little boyfriend, and then it won't matter what you know or don't know. You won't know anything at all."

Tom thinks that if this is what Purebloods are like, there is no way they can be superior. "I find your assessment of me to be, quite frankly, ins--"

He is cut off by the following sequence of rapidly devolving events:

Harry's magic reaches out from the diary, intertwining with Tom's own. They are one. It is almost intimate.

Gellert Grindelwald fires the killing curse at him midsentence. It is fired too fast for Tom to react properly. He stumbles, pushing away from the door. It is not enough.

The curse hits him.

Tom does not die.

The curse rebounds, flinging with Harry's magic.

Gellert lies dead.

There is a lightening bolt carved into Tom Riddle's forehead.

Tom breathes deeply, his breath becoming visible mist in the air, and decides against freaking out. He sends out a Patronus but his mind is on the way Gellert's life fled his eyes, on the way Euphemia's body remains limp. His mind is on death.

(He will fear, and he will flee.)