The Pretender | Tom Riddle

40 | caster of death

40 | caster of death

[a/n story will take place during the future in Deathly Hallows, both getting trapped in the parallel]

       It happened so fast again, like a shift in the air around them, like they were stuck in an apparition. The time shifted past them, events happening around them unclearly. The only thing that kept him grounded was Seren's hand in his, even as the wind picked up, as cries of horror erupted the room, as voices filled the space, bodies carried away.

Then it all stopped. People crowded the Great Hall and she froze. It took Tom a moment to see what she saw. The perfect view of Harry Potter now in front of them, Voldemort there too.

         "I know things you don't know, Tom Riddle. I know lots of important things that you don't. Want to hear some, before you make another big mistake?"

Tom felt as if he was personally speaking to him too, not the Voldemort in front of them but him. He released Seren's hand taking small steps closer to the action.

"Is it love again?" said Voldemort, his snake's face jeering. "Dumbledore's favorite solution, love, which he claimed conquered death, though love did not stop him falling from the tower and breaking like an old waxwork? Love, which did not prevent me stamping out your Mudblood mother like a cockroach, Potter—and nobody seems to love you enough to run forward this time and take my curse. So what will stop you from dying now when I strike?"

Tom looked at himself, truly looked at what he had become. Stupid love. The same thing he never felt growing up and even if he was still a mere child he had felt the same.

"Just one thing," said Harry, and still they circled each other, wrapped in each other, held apart by nothing but the last secret.

"If it is not love that will save you this time," said Voldemort, "you must believe that you have magic that I do not, or else a weapon more powerful than mine?"

His words were venous, they turned a word such as 'love' so harsh and mean. Voldemort was utterly disgusted by it.

"I believe both," said Harry, and he saw shock flit across the snakelike face, though it was instantly dispelled; Voldemort began to laugh, and the sound was more frightening than his screams; humorless and insane, it echoed around the silent Hall.

What did love matter? Voldemort thought, how was it so powerful and yet everyone who should have loved him never did. The people closest to him never did. They left his life one by one until the last to leave was at his hands. His hands around her neck in fury, no spell portraying the anger he had felt then. The immediate hatred that built inside him when the person most important to him denied him of the one thing he had asked. Now look what happened, she was gone and he had to be reminded of it any time a whiff of the sweet vanilla scent filled his slits.

"Severus Snape wasn't yours," said Harry. "Snape was Dumbledore's. Dumbledore's from the moment you started hunting down my mother. And you never realized it, because of the thing you can't understand."

Seren stayed where she was even as Tom moved forward, closer to the danger, unscathed. He didn't understand. What was Harry talking about? Was it the stupid love? 

He looked back to Seren, "Can I borrow your wand?" With furrowed brows she held it out to him, he only returned to her to grasp it before walking away again.

How could he not understand love? How could he not feel it? Tom was sure he felt it even if he denied it. Even if everyone conditioned him into thinking he was incapable of the emotion whether it was to feel it or experience it. But maybe he had experienced it from others. Maybe he had someone who did love him, or he hoped had.