Eldritch

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Notes: Gratitude owed to Heart of Spells for the excellent beta-work she is doing for the story.

Warnings: Violence.

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September made way for a bleak October, which was followed by a windy November. Aberforth placed excellent Muggle-repelling wards on the Gaunt shack, Obliviated Mrs. Cole and forged documents showing the custody transfer.

Fawkes had not still turned up.

Tom took long walks in the afternoons to explore the country under Hero's redoubtable guidance. He would return in the evenings, mud-spattered, bright-eyed and tousled, chattering merrily with his serpentine companion. Hero would slither off into the backyard and Tom would make for the bath. Despite the fact that Tom had spent all his life in the hustle and bustle of the city, he adapted without fuss to the slow pace and solitary nature of their life in Godric's Hollow.

That was not the case for me. Living in hiding did not suit me. Silence did not suit me. I was used to clamour and spotlight. Living as we did now was difficult. It was intolerable. It reminded me of the frustrating days I had spent at Godric's Hollow after my mother's death, before Grindelwald had come bearing tales of intrigue and conquest. I missed conversations and portraits. I missed large halls and people. I missed walking down the streets as Albus Dumbledore. I missed Fawkes. Where was the wretched bird? There were only so many books I could read and there were only so many recipes I could be bothered to experiment with. Gardening and walking were not pursuits I particularly liked. There was nothing else to distract myself from this overwhelming ennui which had set in.

My brother spent his weekdays at his inn and came to stay with us for the weekends. Once he brought along Billy the goat for a weekend visit and I had nightmares for six consecutive nights. Tom, who seemed to have an unusual tolerance of anything dysfunctional, had introduced Billy to the garden-snake. Aberforth, despite his phobia, had taken a liking to the innocuous snake which was usually found draped along the length of Tom's wrist. Billy had followed suit.

I was yet to find a way to erase my memories of seeing my brother arranging Hero about Billy's horns like a laurel wreath while Tom feted this impromptu coronation with his rendition of Blake's Jerusalem. It had been grotesque to watch Billy baaing and Aberforth clapping in accompaniment when Tom sang of arrows of desire. Needless to say, that scene played over and over in my nightmares.

"Who taught you that?" I had asked Tom as soon as he had finished the song.

"Father Sebastian, of course," Tom had replied easily. "He refused to give me a glass of water until I could recite the poem perfectly. I doubt I will ever forget it."

Father Sebastian, I had discovered from conversations with Tom, was not a facsimile of the cheerful friar from the tales of Robin Hood. On the contrary, Father Sebastian was a hard taskmaster. Tom had alluded to creative punishments and the expression on his face then had not been pleasant at all.

"You don't hate him, do you?" I had asked cautiously.

"He taught me quite a lot, sir. The lessons were worth the punishments. The school was not a challenge for me. Father Sebastian's lessons were." He had glanced pensively at his knuckles. What memory was he reliving?

When I spoke of this conversation with Aberforth, he had fixed me with an unusually kind look and said, "Albus, there are many things you are better off not knowing about."

I had been tutored by Flamel. That had been a beautiful period of my life. He had been the nearest thing to an uncle I had known. I had assumed that the relationship between Father Sebastian and Tom had been similarly avuncular. Tom's vague words on the matter and Aberforth's warning had shattered my naive hope that Tom had been looked after all these years by a kind man whose only motive had been the boy's welfare. I still could not fathom what the man's motives had been. I found that I had no wish to learn more about them.

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When we marked the first of December, I had not ventured into the outside world for eight weeks. Fawkes was still absent.

As December progressed, Tom abandoned his walks in favour of spending his afternoons in the backyard. He occupied himself with a variety of activities and most involved the sundial he had set up by modifying the plinth which held the bird-bath in the middle of the yard. He had covered the bowl and, with my brother's help, had made it into a proper plane. Abeforth had whittled a gnomon from smuggled ivory and helped Tom mark the hour lines. It was a common sight to find Tom comparing the hour marked by the sundial and the hour marked by my pocket-watch. He would carefully make observations and then pore over my English translation of Biancani's Latin text on making the perfect sundial before returning to the plinth to make modifications. Whenever he spotted a discrepancy between the hours, he would ask me to verify the translations. Once, after he had asked me for the umpteenth time, I lost my patience and told him that I was going to cease his Irish lessons and instead would teach him Latin. He had hastily apologised and begged me to continue with the Irish lessons.

"Latin is important for your magical education," I had told Tom. "Most spells are crafted from Latin."

He had looked doubtful. Then he had said, "I don't like Latin. You told me that intent is what matters. Surely, the magic is not going to distinguish between spells crafted from Latin and those crafted from other languages?"

A part of me was relieved by his lack of interest in magic. He did not ask me to show him magic or ask to hold my wand. Perhaps he was still in denial about magic? No, that was impossible. He knew about his unnaturalness before I had brought him here. He had shown nary a reaction when we introduced him to the magical world. So he knew that he was magical, that there was a magical world, and that he belonged there. Why then was he unenthusiastic and disinterested in learning more about that world? Was he researching this secretly? Was he breaking into my warded library and learning spells powerful and dark? Was he learning from the snakes? Why was he reluctant to learn Latin despite being told that it would be a powerful tool to harness his magic? Why was there no interest about magical education and wands? Why didn't he ask about the reasons behind our hiding? Where were the questions about my motives? Was he as unbothered by the custody change as he seemed to be?

What was he hiding?

On the sixteenth of December, Tom was jumping in the backyard, his features solemn and focussed.

"What are you doing?" Aberforth asked incredulously when we saw Tom jumping about.

"The winds, Abe!" Tom exclaimed, panting and flushed with exertion. Then he turned his back to us and began his jumping again.

If Tom had been a normal eight-year-old, perhaps we would not have been so concerned by this activity. However, both Aberforth and I knew enough of the boy's nature to mark that prancing was not acceptable for Tom Riddle.

Aberforth and I exchanged worried looks before I suggested, "Why don't you come in, my boy, and tell us all about it over tea?"

It was only after Aberforth shot me a glare that I realised how condescending my tone had been. Fortunately, the boy was too engrossed in his jumping to take notice. After a few more jumps, he stopped and bent down to scribble something on the parchment conveniently weighed down by a sleeping Hero's coils.

"When I jump with the wind, it requires less effort," he explained, between pants. It was the first time I had seen him sweating. He continued thoughtfully, eyes skimming over his scribbles, "Newton was right."

Aberforth frowned but I immediately placed the name. Issac Newton, the Muggle scientist.

"Newton had to be right," I told Tom. "That is why his idea is in your textbook. They are not going to print something that is wrong, are they, my dear boy?"

"It is as you say, sir," Tom said agreeably. "There is no harm in checking again, though."

It made me feel less slighted by Tom's lack of trust in me. If he did not trust even scientists, men who were sworn to the pursuit of truth, then I had no cause to complain, did I?

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Aberforth closed his inn for the Christmas week and busied himself in our kitchen. I helped him bake the pies and Tom was charged with stirring the pudding. In a fit of impulse, I trudged into the woods three days before Christmas and searched for a suitable tree. Both Tom and Aberforth were surprised when I returned with the tree.

"Decorations!" I ordered them.

Aberforth promptly unearthed goats' bells from his winter cloak and I decided I did not wish to ask why he was carrying them about.

Tom contributed, "There are some old festival trinkets in the attic. I found them while cleaning."

Aberforth had bought the trinkets for Ariana. Ariana had loved Christmas. After the attack and Father's incarceration, Christmas had been the only festival which could erase the tragedy from her mind for at least a few days. She had loved decorating the tree and stirring the pudding. She would clap and giggle when Aberforth and I sang carols in boisterous cacophony.

"Fetch them, Tom," I said. Aberforth was glaring at the fire. Tom complied. I turned to face my brother and said, "We still need to buy a goose for Christmas day dinner."

The tension left his features and he said briskly, "I will see to that, Albus. Why don't you help Tom decorate the tree? I need to go over my accounts."

Accounts. Secluded here with Tom, and detached from the daily drudgeries of life, I had forgotten about money and necessities. Aberforth had been providing for us. All my life, I had never known poverty or financial hardship. My brother ran a tavern. Surely he would not be earning enough? Was he in debt?

"Don't worry," Aberforth said gruffly. "We will manage."

So he was in difficulty, then. I racked my brains for something that could help.

"There are books," I blurted. "We can sell them, Abe. Knockturn. No questions will be asked."

"You have never sold a book in your life," Aberforth said, not unkindly. "You are not starting now. As I said, don't worry. I had some money put aside. It will tide us over for a year without trouble."

"After that?" I asked, worried and frustrated by my helplessness. "I could write articles for Transfiguration Today. Anonymously."

"And draw attention to the anonymous contributor whose technique resembles Albus Dumbledore's?" Aberforth scowled. "Why don't you stop worrying about it and plan a proper Christmas, hmm?"

Father had gone to prison and Mother had been a poor financial planner. Aberforth had stepped in and made sure that enough was put by to ensure our education was completed. I had not known paucity. I had always brought my books and robes first-hand. I had brought expensive potion ingredients to experiment with. I had planned to go for a Grand Tour with Elphias. Aberforth, on the other hand, had spent his summers helping at a local tavern and saving enough to buy trinkets and whatnots for Ariana. I had spent my vacations dreaming of glory and recognition, which would definitely be accompanied by riches and a rise in social standing. I had thought that I would take my mother and Ariana to live in a castle of opulence and comforts, that the world would hail my intellect and accomplishments, and that Aberforth would admit he had been remiss in neglecting his studies and refusing my aid.

"The angel's left wing is broken," Tom remarked.

He was holding a clay figurine of an angel. Gabriel, my mother had told us. Ariana had been playing with the figurine while Aberforth and I had hung streamers and inflated balloons. Aberforth had asked me to help Ariana hang the figurine at the top of the tree. I had refused and asked my brother to do it instead. It had devolved into an argument and Ariana had started crying. Mother had tried to intervene, in vain.

Then Ariana's magic had flared in distress, the tree had toppled down, and the balloons had burst in tandem. Ariana had wept inconsolably over the broken clay figurine lying at her feet and Aberforth had taken her outside to calm her down.

"I will buy a new one," Aberforth said now, and his fingers were hovering over the broken clay doll which stared at us with its accusing blue eyes. I looked away.

Tom's fingers delicately traced the figurine's left side and then he said pensively, "I like this one, Abe. Father Sebastian told me once that scars and bruises add to your character."

"What do you say, Abe?" I asked, unwilling to spoil my brother's festive spirit.

"Very well, then," Aberforth caved in easily. I tried not to notice that his eyes remained glazed by the past. Instead, I waved my wand and the angel with the broken wing attached itself to the top of the tree.

"It adds character to the tree," I gamely murmured, more for Tom's sake than my brother's.

It was worth saying that to watch the surprised pleasure in the boy's dark eyes at my approbation of his opinion.

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"Here, stir this, will you?"

Aberforth had been ordering me about the kitchen all day. I exhaled a put-upon sigh and complied. Ever so often, he would peep over my shoulder to check if I was doing it the right way. He had always been a perfectionist in what mattered to him: cooking, festivals, family, account-keeping and goat-rearing.

I glanced out the kitchen window, and hummed in disapproval when I saw Tom without his cloak and scarf. With a flick of my wand, I Summoned the items and sent it to the boy, who caught them as they whizzed past him. He shot an acknowledging look at the window and returned to his tinkering with the sundial.

"It is as if he hates magic," I murmured.

"Don't be foolish, Albus," Aberforth said tersely. "He is trying to make sure that he won't be at a disadvantage if he is thrown back to the Muggle world. He has been told by any and all that he is a freak. He is worried that the Magical world will be equally intolerant of his freakishness."

"That doesn't explain why he concentrates on Muggle sciences, does it?" I enquired. "He ought to be more interested in learning about our world. It would help him fit in."

"He doesn't need to learn magic, he thinks. You told him that intent and control over magic are what matters. He is confident that he has both. The Muggle sciences are more challenging, and hence, more fulfilling."

"Yet-"

"Albus, the boy is too young to be taught anything powerful and too powerful to stay content with learning Cheering Charms. It is for the best that he shows little interest in the magical world right now. This is not Hogwarts. We cannot afford to have an underage wizard's magic drawing attention to our whereabouts. Until his Hogwarts letter comes, I, for one, will be very happy if he runs about making sundials and pulleys."

I made a noncommittal voice and returned to my stirring. Aberforth shouted instructions, clucked over my shoulder and pointed out why my stirring technique was appalling in such colourful language that I started to feel a strange resonance with all students, current and past, taught the art of potion-making by Severus.

A shrill squawk from the yard broke Aberforth's tirade and we turned abruptly towards the window. Fawkes had appeared in the yard, fiery and golden, flapping his wings and squawking in distress. Tom was screaming. I could see the familiar sparks of a Stinging Hex.

"The chicken must have frightened him out of his wits!" Aberforth barked, before making for the yard. He had not seen the sparks of the spell then.

I followed him after casting the Disillusionment Charm on myself and was about to incant a spell to unveil human-beings in the surround when a familiar harsh voice spoke.

"Who are you, boy? How did you break into Albus's house?"

Ollivander.

"Here, the boy is with me!" Aberforth was saying, as he hurried to put himself between Tom and our unexpected guest brought along by Fawkes.

Ollivander looked sickly and drawn in the moonlight. His strength must have been depleted by the drain on his body caused by the forced Apparition through the strong wards as Fawkes brought him along.

I should have known. Fawkes had always got along well with the wand-maker. I was rapidly fabricating a scenario in my mind to convince Ollivander and get him out before he could think of alerting anyone else. Obliviation might be needed. I ran my fingers over my wand and took a deep breath. Aberforth looked panicked. That was why he had remained a bar-keeper while I had become a duellist. He hesitated too much.

Hero took the opportunity to slither towards Tom, who was supporting himself against the sundial plinth and rubbing his scalded wrist. The garden-snake hissed and Tom bent to offer his other wrist.

"Parselmouth!" Ollivander shouted. A whip of fire shot from his wand to catch Hero by the tail and flung the snake, ablaze, onto the grass. A strangled sob escaped Tom as the smell of burning flesh spread rank on the night air. The garden-snake thrashed and hissed as it burned in Ollivander's spell-fire.

"No!" Aberforth shouted, but his best Aguamenti proved ineffective as I knew it would. Ollivander's repertoire of fire charms had brought down many a duellist.

"Aberforth, I don't know what you are playing at, but this must stop. We must take him to Albus! A Parselmouth!"

I removed my Disillusionment Charm. Tom yelped and Aberforth quickly turned back. I cursed and ran towards the boy who had stuck his hands into the fire and was now gripping the thrashing, burning, dying snake. I could not see the expression on his face but Aberforth could, and watching my brother's features morph into that peculiar shade of terrified pity made me draw my wand. From somewhere, Fawkes emitted a low cry of warning. Sparing no time, I erected a strong Shield Charm before Ollivander. Not a moment later, something wild and dark and hateful crashed against my Shield Charm. Ollivander's eyes widened and he added his own Charm to the protection. Tom had risen from his crouch and his fingers, burnt and shaking, stretched out towards Ollivander. Aberforth was saying something in a raspy voice and I turned my attention to him. I never did hear his words as Tom's wrathful magic ripped its way unsystematically and blindly through my Shield Charm taking instinctive advantage of that moment's distraction. Ollivander screamed and dropped his wand as flames engulfed him whole. For a petrified moment, I watched in horrified fascination as the locks of his beard coiled and charred even as he clawed at them. Aberforth was conjuring water. I rushed to his side and together we put out the flames. Ollivander was rolling on the ground, clutching his face with his hands and sobbing. The air stank of burning flesh and hair. Aberforth was clutching my shoulder tightly. I pushed his hand away and knelt by the wand-maker. It was the most grotesque sight I had seen.

Fawkes was crying over the wand-maker's body. The burns did not heal though the man's groans decreased in frequency. Ollivander's hands fell to his sides and bile rose in my throat when I saw the distorted features.

Long, long ago, I had wondered about the legend of Sati in India. Widows jumped into the burning pyres of their husbands to join them in death. If they refused to jump, they were pushed in. How did it feel, I had wondered, to burn to death? There had been a book in the Restricted Section of the Hogwarts library which showed a depiction of Sati with moving images.

Now water oozed out of the flailing limbs. Cloth and flesh had morphed together. Ollivander's hand sought mine and I pulled back instinctively.

"Dear God!" exclaimed Aberforth, pulling me backwards. "Albus, you must leave. I have to take him to St. Mungo's."

"I can-"

Cracks of Apparition broke our conversation. We stared, horrified, as the familiar figure of Aloysius Moody clad in Auror robes stepped forth, his wand pointed at Aberforth and his countenance grim.

"I can explain," I began, quickly moving between Aberforth and Aloysius. The Auror had been the one who had caught Aberforth after the goat scandal. They had been rivals at school and Aloysius knew how to cling to a grudge.

"I certainly look forward to your explanation," remarked a familiar voice and my wand flew from my loose grip into the newcomer's hand. The Aurors made way for the advancing figure. Bright yellow robes and half-moon glasses. Castle Albus. "Dear God," repeated Aberforth.

"What have you done now, Aberforth?" asked a nondescript man who was tagging behind Castle Albus.

Kendrick Bode, Department of Mysteries. Ollivander was being carried off on a stretcher conjured by one of the Aurors.

"I have got myself a new experiment, haven't I?" Bode said quietly. I turned to look at the hunched form of Tom. The boy was stroking the charred skeleton of the dead snake. I noticed that the burns on his palm and fingers were missing. Had he healed them? Had Fawkes healed them before vanishing?

Bode was saying, "So young, so wicked, so hateful. Rearing a Dark Lord in your backyard, Aberforth?"

"Keep your hands off him," Aberforth spat. Aloysius gestured to his Aurors and they flanked my brother. Aberforth snarled but handed over his wand. Castle Albus had sidled up to me and had now fixed me with a curious stare.

"The goats lasted four days, Aberforth," Bode said, malice colouring his voice. "How long will the boy last?"

"Albus!" Aberforth beseeched. "Not the boy!"

"You can write him letters from Azbakan." Aloysius promised. "A pity that he will be in no shape to reply once the Unspeakables get started on him, eh?"

The Aurors dragged Aberforth outside and Apparated with him in tow. Aloysius lingered behind.

Castle Albus said, "I will take care of the impostor."

"Albus-"

"You may leave, Aloysius," Castle Albus said firmly.

Aloysius shot me a glare before following his Aurors. Bode was approaching Tom.

Tom would have killed Ollivander if we had not been at hand.

"Where did Aberforth get him from?" Castle Albus wondered.

Tom was paranoid. He would defend his mind until he was broken into madness. I took a step forward and felt something crunch underneath my boots. Looking down, I saw Aberforth's rosary beads. I picked it up and carefully folded it into concentric coils. The garden-snake had coiled itself about Billy the goat's horns, Aberforth had clapped and Tom had sung Jerusalem.

"Please," I turned to face Castle Albus. "The boy cannot go to the Department of Mysteries."

"Would you rather he went to Azkaban on an attempted murder charge, then?"

Bode said tersely, "Tell the boy that he can come along quietly or that I can put him in a Body Bind."

I shot another desperate glance at Castle Albus, who twiddled his fingers and examined the sundial. Had I acted that oblivious to another's suffering?

"Tom," I whispered, angry and wretched and frightened. "Tom, you must go with Mr. Bode, for now."

Tom did not look up, but his fingers stilled their stroking of the snake-skeleton. Then he said quietly, "I want to sing goodbye to Hero."

"The snake was his pet?" Bode asked blandly. His disinterest would have been convincing only to a person who had little knowledge of Unspeakables. I knew his kind well. And I feared the lengths to which they would go to reach their ends.

"Let the boy sing, then," Castle Albus ordered. "The sooner it is over and you take him away, Bode, the sooner I can get my explanation from the impostor here."

Tom's fingers fluttered over the skeleton and he closed his eyes before beginning to sing.

Lacrimosa dies illa

Qua resurget ex favilla

Judicandus homo reus.

Huic ergo parce, Deus:

Pie Jesu Domine,

Dona eis requiem!

Amen!

Lacrymosa. The Catholic Requiem. Of their own accord, my fingers had started rolling Aberforth's rosary beads. Tom shoved his hands into his pockets and rose from his kneeling position. Then he walked to Bode's side. I flinched in sympathy as Bode roughly caught him by the elbow and conjured shackles about the boy's slender wrists.

Anger shot through me, cold and implacable, and my hands curled into fists. I was taken aback by the intensity of the emotion, for anger rarely overcame me so. Then I felt youth and hope and fear and paranoia. Tom. Tom was trying to touch my mind. His eyes remained downcast but I could feel his single-minded concentration bearing down upon me.

Lie, he said. Lie for Abe.

Aberforth would be in trouble for violating several secrecy and Time-Turner laws. He had not reported my arrival. He had been a conspirator in fetching Tom from that orphanage. He had hidden a Time-Traveller and a child in a house that belonged to Castle Albus. So many laws. Ollivander.

Aberforth would be sentenced to the Kiss if the judges were convinced that he was trying to rear a Dark Lord. It would be too easy to convince the judges.

Yet, how could I lie convincingly to Castle Albus? I had an instinctive knack for detecting lies. Could I win against myself?

Bode dragged Tom away and I was left with the fading imprint of the cold brush on my mind.

"Such an interesting boy," Castle Albus remarked. "Aberforth always did manage to find the most interesting pets. This time, however, he has surpassed himself. An imposter posing as his brother and a young psychopath in the making. Dear, dear!"

"He is your brother," I said, knowing well that it would be in vain. I had been him once. I knew he would do nothing without a price.

Sure enough, his blue eyes twinkled in predatory anticipation as he asked, "Why don't you come with me and tell me all about it?"

Lie, Tom had said, and he had been taken by Bode to the Mysteries Department who would mess with his head and dispatch him to the permanent ward at St. Mungo's. Hide, Aberforth had said, and he would be screaming as he relived Ariana's death while the Dementors tormented him in Azkaban. Father had died there.

"Lemon-drop?" asked my companion.

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External Source Text:

Biancani's famous sundial technique - http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Giuseppe_Biancani

Jerusalem - http://www.progressiveliving.org/william_blake_poetry_jerusalem.htm

Lacrymosa: http://www.leoslyrics.com/listlyrics.php?hid=97fiY5NmhKk%3D

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