THE ANATOMY OF TOM RIDDLE - THE DARK LORD

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Tom Riddle was a catastrophe waiting to occur, a bomb with a short fuse that had been struck, a paradoxical being. Above all, Tom Riddle was a man that had little to put to his name, especially in the public eye.

He had grown up in an orphanage in London, a filthy building with fewer beds than children, that reeked with the putrid stink of despair and shattered dreams. The war had altered the effervescent scenery of the capital, with many buildings being nothing but rumbles and pebbles, and muggles loitered the mucky boulevards. The lanterns no longer buzzed with the static sound of electricity, as they had been turned off to make it more troublesome for the enemy to spot them from above.

His childhood was in no way forgiving of him, as he fell asleep to the sound of air-raid sirens blasting through the gloomiest hours and children weeping themselves to slumber. Tom never cried, not because he thought there was nothing to fear, but because he thought his life to be so miserable that he did not care for it.

That changed, however, when he found out about his true talents on that faithful night. He had known, even at his green age, that he was different, but the discovery of him possessing magic baffled him. He understood, then, that his life was precious above the rest, in his bloodstream pulsing the vigor of a wizard.

And as he grew up, he became obsessed with mortality, trying to pry himself from its intimidating grip. He fought against the inevitable, considering himself to be unconquerable. The pinnacle of all was when he had found out about his heritage.

The Heir of Salazar Slytherin.

A name he held in secrecy, aware that divulging it might do more harm than good, and he waited for the day when it would come to light, when he could bask in the glory of his lineage. Until then, he plotted in obscurity, and because his name carried no value, he surrounded himself with powerful allies that could connect him to the wizarding world.

Nevertheless, Tom did his share of schmoozing to the higher society, hiding his loathing at having to gravel before them. He soothed himself by thinking about his long-term plan of having them plead at his feet once he rose to power.

And he knew that his charm was part of it, his uncanny way with words making women swoon and men admire him, his features the right mixture between mellowness and harshness. His nautic eyes held an everpresent storm in them, framed by coal eyelashes, and he had a sparkle that proved intelligence beyond Tom's years. Stygian hair rested on his head, curled softly at the edges, and framing his chiseled face. He was tall, admittedly a bit lanky, but he held himself with such poise that it had never been an obstacle. When Tom walked wit stag-like steps, heads turned. When Tom spoke with velvety smoke in his timbre, ears listened.

His mind was a constant swirl of anger, ambition, and cruelness, and whenever he allowed himself a feeble shred of happiness, it was commonly because of his constant accomplishment. Tom did feel, and he ridiculed those who thought that he could not, but he felt selfishly, all of his emotions orbiting around himself only. If he was curious, it was because something was useful to him. If he was upset, it was because his scheming did not work out. If he was pleased, it was because the world was falling at his feet.

Conceived under a love potion, that was what he had found about his parents, and it infuriated him incredibly. And when he found that his filthy, muggle father was still alive and well, he took matter into his own hands. He enjoyed their cries, the way they trashed under his vicious curse, the way their misery was sewed on their pathetic faces. They had abandoned him, and so why should he have been remorseful?

Soon after his killings, he had come to realize that his thirst of power settled with the atrocious act of murder, and he began researching the Chamber of Secrets again, vehement on opening it and releasing the creature that lay behind its walls, letting it run rampant amongst the repulsive muggle-borns that pranced the hallways of Hogwarts, those beings that reminded him so much of his father.

Then, just as if she had fallen out of the sky, came Varya Petrov, a foreign Slavic witch most presumed dead. Her ancestry was impressive, coming from a line of dark witches and wizards, being herself trained in such craft. Moreover, she was clever, perhaps too clever, and that infuriated Tom. It was too convenient; her presence was too much of a coincidence.

At first, he had tried to contain his suspicions, blaming his skepticism on the stress that had fallen on him after discovering the location of the Chamber. Then, he found her in the library, reading up on his secret, and his worries grew. He began planning, trying to find a way to break her mind slowly.

Still, it was not until Elladora brought him Varya's new lecture, Most Macabre Monstrosities, that he had reached his limit with the foreigner, and now he wanted to unwind all of her secrets out on display, he wanted to prick at her darkest thoughts and figure out why she had indeed come here. And how funny it was that the opportunity had revealed itself when Varya invited him to Hogsmeade.

Now, as Tom waited for her outside of the castle, he thought about his intention of breaking her and extracting the information.

She quickly came down the steps, scarf wrapped around her neck, hiding her red cheeks from the icy breeze of December. The first snowflakes had fallen, decorating the frozen pavement with a soft blanket of white richness. Her hair was pulled back in a low ponytail, with two small braids starting at her widow peak and ending at her ends, and she wore a different coat than usual. This one was of an ivory material, golden threads running across it in sophisticated patterns, and Tom wondered if Dumbledore had given her access to her family's fortune.

Her eyes fell on him, and she grinned softly, making Tom grimace at her attitude. What game was she playing at, and did she genuinely think he could not see past her charade? His lips turned upwards in a fake smile, and he waited until she was by his side.

"How did you manage to get your permission slip signed?" he asked her, remembering that Icarus had complained about her not attending their last trip. Thankfully, the boy was busy with a task Tom had given him, and so nobody would have to spend the day watching him act out of character due to his passion for Varya.

"I forged it," she singsonged, proud at her delinquency. "I suppose Dumbledore might have been able to figure it out, but if he did, he did not say anything about it."

Truthfully, it had been the Transfiguration professor that had helped her forge the signature, encouraging her on her journey to the wizarding town with the Slytherin prefect. However, Varya could not admit that to the boy.

She had visited him as early as possible, asking him to help her with her task, but not mentioning the possibility of betraying Tom. Varya still did not know what to make of the situation, conflicted between doing her friend's bidding and succeeding in her task.

Above all, she wanted to redeem herself, to make her name worth something again, much as it had almost fifty years ago. Shamefully, she admitted that she was egotistical, and she did not care what she had to do for that. Her only goal was to clean up the mayhem that her parents had left behind.

"I doubt his hazy mind could even tell the difference," Tom scoffed, not bothering to hide his resentment of the professor.

"Hm, he is not that old, Riddle," said Varya, noting the slight distaste in the boy's voice.

"Does not make him less of a dimwit, does it?" the prefect answered, clasping his hands behind his back as he started walking with her along the snowy trail. They fell in somewhat comfortable silence, the girl basking in the picturesque winter scenery, whereas the boy let his mind wander to his ruinous intent.

The walk to Hogsmaed was quaint, the bifurcation nearing the rocky edge that separated white land from the frozen sea. The water was restless, waves thrown against the coast almost as if declaring war on the earth and everything that stood above it. The rapturous song of the aquatic susurrated, a cry of nature's wrath, a hellish voice of the unexplored horizon as dusk peaked from the edges, spilling over everything owned by humankind.

The soft tangerine hue fell upon the scenery, making the snow reflect it on the passing faces of the many Hogwarts students that walked the road. It seemed that the two Slytherins were not the only ones that had decided to set out at such a late hour, but Varya doubted that most of them had the same purpose as the two of them did.

In the twilight glow of dusk, Tom Riddle looked entrancing, almost hypnotic - pale skin catching the shafts of colorfulness, letting them skim on the surface in a revigorating dance. Poetically beautiful, his melancholic nature blended with the winter panorama, eyes resembling the pigment of a forget-me-not flower that had shriveled. The gaze of a conqueror as he watched over his empire, Tom Riddle was an impassive force of nature.

Varya wanted to let her mind wander to a different reality, one where he was simply a boy, and she was nothing but a smitten girl, and they rendezvoused at Madam Poodifoot's Tea Shop, sharing glances that carried unspoken promises, vulnerable words of comfort and affection. Nevertheless, the crudeness of her predicament was like cold water, and it drenched her whole body. They were not lovers; they were not even friends. They were two lost souls that had taken a journey together, sealed and delivered by fate itself. And what lay before them was horrendous, she believed.

Tom Riddle was nothing but a reptile blooded boy who regarded the world as a playing field, and he wanted to win it all. Furthermore, Varya was a girl of low morals, who let herself be swayed by the menacing blow of desire and cared for nobody but herself.

"You are awfully quiet," Tom said as they reached the town's edge, his nose red from the cold's unforgiving bite.

"I get lost in my thoughts easily," admitted the girl, whose obsidian eyes trailed the small buildings.

Hogsmeade was a small wizarding village, with ancient architecture and medieval charm. It stretched out across her view, covered in the white layer of snow, and it resembled the back of a cheesy Christmas card.

"Charming place," she muttered, and the boy scoffed at her side, his lethargic movements making her head spin.

"Barely."

They continued walking until they reached the bookstore, and when they opened the door, the melodious chime of a bell echoed through the room. They closed it behind them, ignoring the snow they had brought in with their boots, and welcomed the warm sensation of being inside.

Varya smiled at the store, admiring the lengthy rows of old parchments and leathered books, and, to her left, Tom let his eyes roam the shelves in a similar manner. They both shared the same insatiable need for knowledge, although it surfaced in different ways, and enjoyed the ambrosial scent of pressed paper and dusty covers.

Tom walked around the store as the girl chattered eagerly with the owner, letting one finger trace the dirty shelves in the back of the room, where the oldest books were hidden. He scanned a few covers, deeming them to be of no interest to him, then turned back to his companion.

Varya's feathery hair hung behind her in a clasped ponytail, its sooty color still not shinning as it had once. A few pins held shorter strands from falling into her oval-shaped face, and he watched her crock an eyebrow in disapproval at the clerk. Her lips were pulled in a haughty smirk that Tom had noticed on her many times. The girl was enigmatic, a clash of selflessness and egotistical character, so evenly matched that it was hard to describe her true personality.

Her crystalline laughter filled the library, and Tom scowled at its sound, finding it bothersome. Her voice was delicate, much like new silk on morning sheets, and it had a distinctive pull to it. Right now, it was slightly raspy, sign of a passing cold.

"Thank you so much, sir," she told the store owner, a stuffy little man with a prominent balding spot. He was disgusting to look at, at least for Tom, who almost let out a scoff at his lively demeanor.

Varya made his way to him, looking at the books that he stood in front of.

"Of course, why would I expect to find you anywhere else besides the Defense Against Dark Arts section," she said, skimming the bindings to read every title.

"What did you get?" he asked, ever so elusive to her statements.

"A book," her voice dripped with cynicism, and a small, breathy chuckle left her lips. She found herself to be hilarious, Tom presumed.

"You had me come all this way with you, and yet you will now even tell me what book you got?" asked the boy as they made their way back to the main street. The light had deemed even more; the sky was painted with a violaceus tint that reminded him of bruised skin and nigrified eyes.

The girl stayed silent, but Tom remarked her sudden vigilance as she passed the rest of the students who had started heading back to the school. The road was covered in fresh footprints, and amongst the large crowd, nobody noticed two students heading towards the abandoned house. If they did, they just thought them to be two lovers seeking warmth from the snowy evening.

It was Varya that opened the door, stepping into the shadowy house and flicking her wand out to cast a light spell. She trudged towards the fireplace, then used magic to conjure dried wood. She placed it in the pit, lightning it ablaze with a soft hand motion.

Tom Riddle analyzed his surroundings, and to Varya's surprise, showed no repugnance to the filth and mold that filled each crack in the thin walls. Then, she remembered that the boy had grown in an orphanage, a fact that was easy to forget considering his refined nature.

"Not that I do not enjoy spending my weekend in a house that is one earthquake away from collapsing, but do you care to explain what we are doing here?" he asked, walking to one of the obsolete chairs and cleaning it with a spell. Then, he sat down, legs crossed, and face impassive.

Varya smirked, then peered at him. "Riddle, what do you know of the dead?"

The question took him by surprise, and for a second, his face showed indescribable devilry, the look of a man who had forsaken God and his creation, who fed on despair and depravity. Tom Riddle's anatomy consisted of absolute immorality, and in his nefarious nature, he saw himself as an idealistic villain.

As such, he had become quite habitual with death, the heinous malady that corrupted those of weak character, people who were too afraid to strive for greatness. He had seen it as it passed over his father as it strangled every bit of light out of his eyes, taking away the soul from the corporal. And with the dead? Tom paid no mind to them; they were the scum that had fallen of life's cigar, the weaklings.

Nevertheless, he did not let his psychotic nature slither through the small cracks of his mask, and he kept his eyes unpassive, cold as the Atlantic blizzard.

"I do not care for the dead, Petrov," he answered.

"Well, you should," Varya said, as she walked in a circle, conjuring white candles in a pentagonal shape. Now, in the seclusion of the room, with no fear of persecution, Varya felt more at home than she had in months. She glanced around the room, then grabbed a small brick from the ground. Suddenly, she started tracing lines on the floor.

This caught Tom's attention, and he leaned forward to look at the star-shaped form that she had drawn in confusion. "What are you doing?"

The fire crackled, sending small sparks to the floor. The light fell on Varya's face at an odd angle, and her domineering smirk almost sent chills down the boy's spine. The girl reached out to one of her cloak pockets and then pulled out a tiny box. She opened it, picking out a wooden match, then lit it up. She raised it to her face, hypnotized by the destructive flame, carrying the maddened eyes of an arsonist. Slowly, she turned her head to him.

"Is it not obvious, Tom?" her voice was faint, but her eyes held her perpetual sagacious flare. "I am shattering the veil of death."