Harry Potter One Shots

A Broken Soul

All Rights belong to the author, wheatear

"Sir – what do you know about... Horcruxes?"

That question proved to be a defining moment in Tom Riddle's life. He spent much of his early adult life seeking the full answer and after that obsessing over it. His reward was immortality. The price... well, he didn't learn the true nature of his sacrifice until the very end.

He had been studying the matter for two years when the last piece of the puzzle fell into place. He knew the theory, he knew the nature of Horcruxes and he knew how to brew the potion which would prepare his soul for being torn away. The only thing he didn't know was the name of the spell. No textbook divulged it; no wizard he had met knew or could be coerced into saying it. Then he heard of a Russian wizard, who was said to know the secret of immortality. There were rumours that he was centuries old.

On a miserable little island north of Scotland, Tom found him. He approached a small cabin nestled in the shadow of a hill. The sun beat down on his back. Tom knocked on the door and opened it without waiting for an answer. Sunlight streamed in from the gap in the doorway, illuminating the room. Inside, it was dirty and cramped, the only other light coming from a lacklustre fire. The flickering shadows played over the face of an old, immensely fat man. He was leaning back on a wooden chair, his feet propped on the table and downing a large glass of brandy. Tom wrinkled his nose at the powerful stench of alcohol and sweat, mixed with the fumes of the fire, coming from this man.

The wizard turned. Seeing the young, black-haired boy standing in his doorway, he wiped his mouth, put down the glass and grinned widely. His skin stretched, waxy pale, in contrast to his yellow teeth. He said something in Russian.

"I'm sorry, I only speak English," said Tom.

"Ah! English!" The wizard pulled out his wand and pointed it at Tom, still smiling. He spoke fluently. "It has been a long time since I had any English visitors."

Tom had his own wand ready as soon as he noticed the wizard's hand straying towards his robes.

"I have a question for you, if you don't mind," he said.

"Of course! I know what they're going to ask me, always the same question. Never come to know this old wizard's name, or ask after his health or even bother with saying hello. They barge in, these trespassers-"

"I'm sorry, sir," said Tom quickly. "I did not mean to intrude. I came in search of wisdom. I've heard that you might have the answers I'm looking for."

The man gave him a beady look from under wispy white eyebrows. He was completely bald; the firelight danced off his pate every time he jerked his head. "You're certainly more polite than usual! I've been threatened many times, but of course it is useless – come, sit down. Brandy?"

"No, thank you."

Tom closed the door behind him, which immediately darkened the whole room, and swept over to the table, taking a seat opposite the old wizard. At the same time, the wizard refilled his glass. There were only two things on the table: a bottle of brandy and a stubby candle.

"Go on then," said the wizard. "Ask me." He held his glass in one hand and tapped his wand on the table with the other. He seemed genial enough, but Tom kept his hand closed over the wand hidden in the folds of his robes.

"How old are you?"

The wizard threw back his head and laughed. His belly shook and the firelight shimmered over his pasty face. For a moment, Tom was reminded of a Chinese mummy, like one he had once seen in a museum on a trip with the orphanage, perfectly preserved over the years, the skin stretched and grey and foul.