He picks up the cold stone bowl, fingertips braced carefully under the rim
as if handling an ancient relic. He carries it through to his private
quarters, beyond the fearful yet subtly prying eyes of his followers. This is
not something for them to see.
They call him their leader, their Lord, their master. But - and it has been
this way since he came back to them - none of them see him as a man. He's
still a man, yet he's so much more than that, too - back from near-death,
stronger than ever. When he looks into their eyes he reads them like the books
in his library, flipping through their parchment-like thoughts. Their fears,
engraved in their souls like the gold copperplate letters on a book cover. He
reads it all and feels them withdraw into themselves as they look at him.
He sets the Pensieve down on his desk and leans over it, thinking how nice it
would be to have closeness with someone, to be desired, to be touched. A
simple thing - touch. It's been a long time since he's felt that kind of need.
A very long time since he's indulged in another's body; sometimes it feels
like a life time has passed by since anyone dared to touch him, to reach for
him, since he trusted someone enough to let them in.
One or two people have come close. But close is not good enough.
There had been Lucius, once. Beautiful, terrified Lucius, whining and
bucking back to meet Tom's thrusts: "My Lord, I am yours...". He had
been one of the first to renounce the cause to save his own skin. Still very
beautiful, with a definition and grace honed by good breeding and middle-age,
Lucius is no longer as pure as he had been as a boy. Although Tom can
appreciate Lucius's resourcefulness, his betrayal cost him a place at Tom's
side.
At one time there had been Severus, too. The lost boy - barely out of his
teens when he had been brought to Tom. Severus, with the awkward countenance
and stormy expression, who had shivered at Tom's touch that first night,
caught between recoiling and leaning in for more. Tom had sensed untamed power
in him that needed to be reined, moulded, and he had set out to train the boy.
However, he had read Severus clearly - just like all the others - finding a
surprising amount of independence and strong will hidden beneath that troubled
mass of too-long limbs and black hair.
In more recent times there had been Bella, who would sit at his feet, gazing
up at him with all the adoration of a daughter. A good father is a king in his
daughter's eyes. But Bella is hot-headed and a little insane, and ultimately a
liability. He thinks, with some regret, that she will be one of the first to
perish when the war begins for real. When triumphant duels with cousins in the
Department of Mysteries are a thing of dreams.
All of them have come close. Frighteningly close.
But there is only one person he can trust exclusively, and only one place he
can go to seek him out.
His past.
He presses his bone-white hands against the circle of stone, runes like little
etched maps under his palms, and leans forward.
The Pensieve tugs him gently and he goes, closing his eyes.
He's standing in a fifth floor bathroom at Hogwarts. The day is fading
outside, twilight setting peacefully in. The sky glimmers softly through the
window, bathing everything in a strange, dream-like light.
The drips from a leaking tap resonate around the tiled room, endlessly
replaced by the next splash of water against porcelain.
He hears a noise and looks towards its source.
A dark haired boy leans against a wall nearby.
Tom is always struck by how beautiful he once was. For a long time he stares
at the slender figure, how his dark green vest and black trousers set his pale
skin aglow. He nears the boy and notices how he is shaking, curled in on
himself, facing the wall. He knows the boy will turn around soon, to face out,
giving him a perfect view.
As if on cue the boy turns, resting his head back against the wall with a
gasp, his long white throat bared.
Tom's gaze trails down to the jolting of the boy's wrist, the long, pale
fingers that curl around his darkly swollen cock. The motion isn't fluid, but
harsh, heated. A sharp, desperate moan escapes the boy's lips. Even after all
this time Tom finds it easy to recall what he had been thinking about back
then, years and years ago. Frustration, how he hated who he was, where he had
come from, how he was nobody here at Hogwarts. How he was nobody until he was
alone with his thoughts and dreams, how he didn't need anyone as long
as he kept hold of those dreams.
The boy lets out a choked sound and Tom remembers it so clearly that he hisses
in sympathetic response. His fifteen year old self coughs out a sob, slowing
his hand but making his strokes much longer and harder, sliding his damp cock
into the sweaty circle of his fingers.
Tom moves closer and sinks to his knees, sitting at the boy's feet, staring up
at him. He sees the occasional droplet of sweat fall in front of him and hit
the tiles, from the flushed, sweaty face of himself. He was so beautiful,
especially then, with dark teeth marks dotting across his lower lip, his black
eyelashes fallen against his cheek, casting whip-like shadows down his pale
skin.
If Tom could just touch the boy, tell him he would do well for himself one
day, tell him not to be upset, hold him... but he can't. Tom can do nothing
but rock back and forth, staring up at his young, innocent hand as it squeezes
and slides, trembles and slips. The boy starts to moan loudly as he strokes
and pulls and Tom finds himself short of breath.
Suddenly, young Tom Riddle freezes. A
strangled sounding cry escapes his throat, and quick threads of come snake
across his fingers and on to the floor as he climaxes. He lets out a long,
slow sigh, sliding slowly down the wall until he's sitting on the floor, head
bowed.
He remains still for some time, like he's in prayer, trembling slightly. Tom
can barely stand the sight of it. He tells himself that he will be all right,
that he can win the war his younger self hasn't even conceived of yet. But his
soft, parseltongue words fall on deaf ears. It is one of the many things that
memories can't give him; the chance to reassure that lonely teenager.
When he rises it on shaking legs. His younger self stands up and walks over to
one of the sinks. He wipes his eyes with the cuff of his school shirt and
sniffs heavily. A tap squeaks as it's twisted and water splashes into the
bowl, and the boy washes his tear-streaked face.
It's so tempting to stay there, with himself, watching the movement of his
hands as they rise, the graceful stretch of his neck as young Tom lowers his
face to catch the water slipping through his fingers.
So tempting to stay there forever, replaying it over and over again.
But Tom has work to do, dreams to fulfil. He cannot not betray this boy before
him.
His memory.
Himself.
~Fin~
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