#kcdavras

[halwed-blog]

Late May 1980 // London Suburbs, Outside a Death Eater’s Home Closed thread @kcdavras // “there are no heroes”

There is a ghastly symbol in the sky, one the wizarding populace of this country has become very familiar with. The sigil of Lord Voldemort writhes overhead, it’s sickly green cast announcing that a murder has occurred tonight. A murder has indeed occurred, but the victims were by no means helpless, by no means innocent. For once, the Dark Mark marks not the site of a murder committed by death eaters, but the murder of death eaters.

Gellert has never done this before, blazed the Dark Mark into the sky over the broken bodies of Voldemort’s followers, and while it serves a purpose to do this now, he can’t deny the drama of it appeals to him. He likes the thought of rubbing all he has done in this so-called “Lord’s” face. Childish? Perhaps. Overconfident? Oh yes, and Gellert has every right to be.

They are not equally matched rivals,clashing in a grand display of which brand of “evil” will win out over the other. There is nothing “equal” about them.

Fiendfyre bursts from the tip of wand with an audible roar. The phoenix the fire take the shape of, the shape it always takes (and isn’t that ironic, that his symbol should be here even now, while Gellert is doing something he would most certainly not approve of) over takes the house in mere minutes. The flames seem to scream in delight as they devour the house and everything inside to ash. The Dark Mark glows above, a witness to it all.

This is a gamble, but one that Gellert wins either way. (Fear is not even a consideration. “Lord Voldemort” is not worthy of his fear.)

As the house collapses in on itself and Gellert hears distant commotion start to become louder, very nearby there is the distinct crack of apparition. It seems he will have a visitor tonight after all.

[hairyhearted]

c. 1943, after curfew | albus dumbledore’s office, hogwarts closed thread @kcdavras | “ than to be fed by anyone else ”

Tom Riddle’s hands are very cold where Albus closes them gently around the hot teacup. This is Albus being kind, though perhaps Tom won’t see it as so. He is ever aware of the potential for cruelty in their interactions, and supposes the desire to be cruel will never leave him. Tom admires him, Albus knows this. Tom also shies away from Albus’s kindness, and that is a familiar sentiment, one Albus recognizes as easily in Tom as he recognized it in himself, almost forty five years ago.

The intent is different. Albus only has the best of intentions, he tells himself this; he is not volatile and overeager Gellert Grindelwald trying to force his way into someone’s bed. Albus is only the kindly old mentor, attempting to counsel a troubled student. That is all.

“Sugar?“ he asks lightly when he pulls his hands away, though the chill of Tom’s skin lingers on his palms. He pours several spoonfuls into his own cup, then nudges the container across towards Tom. Something sweet could do him some good. There’s a tin of candies on the desk too, lemon drops dusted in white sugar, and he nudges that towards Tom as well.

He has taken to offering Tom tea and sweets because there is little else, these days, that Albus can offer him. A guiding hand, after all, is not a gift; but a tool meant to tame a thing, to mould it. He has taken to offering Tom tea and sweets as an apology, something sweet to soften the blow, something sweet to make a bitter pill easier to swallow.

He sips at his own tea, syrupy and still too hot, and peers intently at Tom over the rim of the cup. “I won’t ask what you were doing out after hours, Tom.” But he knows, doesn’t he? The Chamber of Secrets has been opened, and Tom’s hands are cold, and a dark shadow clings to him. It settles between his fingers and in the hollows of his cheeks and nestles between strands of straight black hair.

Albus, regrettably, has an eye for Dark things. He just... he wants to believe something else, wants to be wrong, wants to come up with some alternate theory where Tom is just Tom, just a bright if slightly troubled student. Troubled, he stresses, in the normal fashion for a sixteen year old. He is so bright. Albus knows he is not wrong.

“Nor will I hand you a detention or turn you in to Horace.” He is being too permissive, feeling the weight of playing favorites. “It will be our secret.” And Albus’s humor is dry here. If there’s a hint of a smile at his lips, it’s bitter. “But I will ask you to sit and talk with me, for a little while. Forgive me, but I’ve been concerned as of late. Is there something going on, Tom, something troubling you?”

[hairyhearted]

                    albus dumbledore + tom riddle // @kcdavras

all of your words they’ve been cursed with dishonesty

[hairyhearted]

c. late may 1980 | a bookstore in knockturn alley closed thread @kcdavras | “ discipline ”

He has come to enjoy this place, though he knows that he shouldn’t. The shops in Knockturn Alley are quiet in a way that’s unexpected. Take the taboo away from a thing and it holds less weight; dark wizards are free to roam the streets now, so why would they seclude themselves here?

Albus likes the bookshop in particular, cramped aisles and high dusty shelves. It’s hard to breathe when books are pulled down, the dust settles in his hair, in the folds of his robes. He breathes it in and feels far older than Charlot’s tragic thirty-five. The shopkeepers don’t bother him, even when he is stirring up dust. Alchemists are a funny sort, well known for being eccentric, well known for their strange experiments that push at the boundaries of magic. Not all of the books are Dark in excess, after all. Many of them are titles Albus recognizes from the restricted section at Hogwarts, though others he wouldn’t dare have put on the shelves at all.

Still, without access to Hogwarts, this is his best opportunity for finding information. A large part of him is certain Benjy won’t find anything in his studies, and that Gellert wouldn’t come up with anything useful either. If Albus wants the thing done he must do it himself.

It’s only--the tall shelves aren’t helping. The ladder doesn’t reach the top, and Charlot is missing a good six inches of height needed to pull anything down from the top shelf. Albus doesn’t make a habit of using his wand in public, nor wandless magic, too distinctive of a dead wizard far more powerful than Charlot Delacroix has any business being.

He goes looking for a clerk for help, and finds Tom Riddle instead, standing behind him in the aisle.

In the moments between seeing him and reacting Albus wonders with his back against the ladder, in a detached sort of way, what Charlot’s face looks like when he sees Tom. Charlot has blue eyes too reminiscent of Albus’s own, but his face is soft and his gaze doesn’t hold the same hard edge. He looks, Albus expects, a bit like a deer in the headlights. And if he were anyone but Albus Dumbledore, he might feel the same.

He ought to extricate himself from the situation, Pretend he is in fear, perhaps, and scurry out without meeting the eyes of the man who was Tom Riddle. Instead, Albus smiles guilelessly. Charlot is a pretty young man, charming, the sort of boy who might have caught Albus’s eye. Tom was similarly charming once--and he’s still handsome, in the same way Albus thought of Gellert as still beautiful when they met again in 1945. Albus doesn’t want to dwell on those things; sometimes, he thinks, that is his curse.

“Oh--I’m sorry, I didn’t notice you there.” Yes, Charlot is very clever and very cute, and Albus can play unassuming, play a bit ditzy. He doesn’t care for wilting under Tom’s gaze. It doesn’t seem so long ago that Tom was a young man himself, hanging off of Albus’s words. He liked the feeling. He won’t admit that. “Actually, I could use a spot of help.” His smile turns sheepish, and he clutches his other books to his chest. Everything is deliberate. “I’m, er, having a bit of trouble reaching that book on curses on the top shelf. If you could give me a hand, I would be much obliged.”