The Broken Victory

Chapter 08: Futility in Reality

Dumbledore was hurrying after me, his expression fixed in what I felt sure was forced pleasantry. He stopped about three feet in front of me, eyeing me up and down. I consciously folded my arms across my chest--my work robe was on and fastened, but I still felt as though my shabby clothes beneath showed through. I stood still, saying slowly, "Yes, Professor?"

Dumbledore shifted and tried smiling at me; I tried to do the same back, but an awkwardness still resulted. I racked my brain, trying to imagine why he would be here, when he made as if to speak. Predictably, he then did so. Feeling a slight advantage, I straightened up to my full height and waited patiently. I did not budge nor make a sound, merely staring into his eyes as he played his move out.

"Tom," he said, still trying to smile, "I am very glad about the way things turned out today. Are you?"

His voice seemed a little loud--it had been that way earlier, when in class he'd denied that he didn't trust me. I had heard people do that before when they felt uncomfortable; raise their voices to hide the uncertainty of a hastily assembled lie. I wasn't sure if this was a small crack in the impenetrable Deputy Headmaster, but I decided it was worth pursuing. After all, it was only fair, since he seemed to take a great deal of pleasure in putting me on unsure footing.

"Yes."

"And I do want you to know that I am most impressed by your performance in class. It was remarkable, and I hardly think it was due solely to my teaching. Not that I am fishing for compliments." His smile appeared uncertain to my gaze, but he didn't break out in a sweat. I gave him credit for that. He continued lightly, "I couldn't. I can't fish."

"Really? Thank you."

Dumbledore paused at that, and we resumed our staring match until he finally sighed. In an emotionless tone, he said quietly, "And you truly despise me, don't you, Mr. Riddle?"

I was stupefied; I think my jaw actually dropped. I said quickly, "No--no, sir, of course not." What did he expect me to say? That I thought he hated me? That for some reason I felt he didn't trust me, and that he made me question myself and feel inferior and impure, as opposed to talented? That I felt a strong desire to impress him in spite of all this? Was that even hate?

"Indeed?" His voice yanked my consciousness back to him. Dumbledore gave me a look of wry amusement that I'd seen often enough in my own expressions. That thought was quickly suppressed--I didn't want to start trying to find common bases with this man in my mind. I kept my expression neutral as he added, "I thought after the blunder I made today, you would have every reason to despise me."

His eyes danced in merriment as he saw my confused expression. "Oh, not used to a professor admitting he is wrong, eh? Well, I think it does everyone good, including instructors, to know when they make mistakes and to try and correct them. Do you agree?"

"Erm--sure."

"Well, Mr. Riddle, I was wrong to question you in front of the class today. I was in disbelief about your feat, and I acted unwisely." The skin around the corners of his mouth tightened briefly as he continued, "You see, I have not been teaching here long--teaching anywhere long, as a matter of fact. I hope that one day I shall be an instructor who does not make these kinds of mistakes, though I'm sure I'll make others. But I apologize for questioning you in front of the class."

He stood proud, his words calm, an odd demeanor in my mind for one whose words were so humble. It made me suspicious.

I noticed that he did not apologize for the actual doubting, merely for giving it voice, and let my own doubt of him nag at my insides. Still, I could hardly refuse. Dumbledore was someone that might take awhile to figure out, and the last thing I wanted was him breathing down my neck. Perhaps accepting his apology and never speaking in class again would keep him away. I forced a smile, my stock smile, and said, "Of course I accept, sir. I wasn't even really upset about what you apologized for."

Dumbledore's lips turned up at that, carving themselves back into a small smile--a scrutinizing one that said he had caught the snide edge present in my acceptance. I was between astonishment and annoyance and then fell to self-cursing. He let it pass, though, perhaps noticing I had danced away from bringing up his lack of apology for doubting me. "Well, that settles that," he said.

I was about to bid him goodnight when he unclasped his hands from behind him and brought them around for me to see. My eyes widened at what was before me, as Dumbledore said quickly, "I wasn't sure if I should give you this. You see, I had these from a long time ago. They aren't in the best shape, but they might work for you. I hope you don't take this the wrong way--"

"They're Muggle clothes," I said hoarsely. I stared blankly at his hand, filled with frayed and faded clothing similar to what I had seen and worn at the orphanage.

Dumbledore caught my eye. He cleared his throat and then said uncertainly, "For a long time, I was interested in Muggle studies. I wore these out there for field work when I was at school. I was older, but you'll grow into them. I thought they might be nice for you--what you are used to."

"Yes," I said monotonously. "They certainly remind me of what I'm used to, of what I am." And will never get away from. I felt hollow; it was the only way to drench out the anguish building up.

I couldn't look at him directly anymore. Instead I stared at the worn clothes, knowing he thought of me when he looked at them. Thought of poverty-stricken, Muggle-raised, Mudblood Tom Marvolo Riddle. He wasn't the first. Yet, I wasn't angry; I was ashamed. That was why he didn't trust me, why he was amazed I could do simple tricks and didn't fit in and was in need of charity. He saw the Muggle in me and pitied it as the Blunts and other Muggles had pitied the wizard in me. But at least my wizard half seemed capable of accomplishing something. I had proven that today. And now this condescending sympathy was overshadowing the only worth I ever showed, demeaning so that it was nothing. I hated the pity and what it meant. Hated that I deserved it because of my upbringing and my need of things like the clothes lying in front of me. And in that growing hatred, I made a vow right then and there to never allow pity from anyone again. I didn't care what it took; I would prove to Dumbledore, to the Blunts, to everyone and everything--including myself--that I was more than the half-Muggle in me.

"Tom?" Dumbledore's faraway voice dragged me back to reality. I blinked and then managed to face him. I thought I saw concern in his eyes, and if I had not been focused on searching for the pity there, I might have been sure. He still looked uncertain; it was a look that didn't suit him well, as if he wasn't used to it. I tried to build myself back up, at least externally, as he said "Would you like the clothes, at least until you find others?"

My voice was cold. I had to make it that way, make everything about me at that moment cold and impenetrable, or else I would break. "Thank you." We stood staring at each other again, and I felt the walls creep back between us. He made a move as if to speak, to do or say something differently, but nothing came out. Finally, I could not stand there anymore. Replete with stock smile, I bade him goodnight and quickly turned. Heading to the Slytherin stairs, I strained my ears to pick up any words, but all that rang were the heels of his shoes retreating in the other direction and the sweep of the clothes which I dragged on the floor. Not looking back, I sucked any emotion down through me into the cold stone steps that led me into darkness.

~*~

My eyes felt dry. No matter how much I blinked, I could not give them relief. I stared at the clock next to me--it read, "Not Time For Breakfast, Go To Bed." A smile came to me; this was one of the few times I appreciated the whimsy of Hogwarts. The rooms and objects were familiar to me, yet different enough so that it didn't always draw up needless remembrance of my former life.

The clock began buzzing--hissing, really--in my defiance of its command. Right then I was sitting in the Slytherin common rooms, and I figured it must be around four in the morning. I had drawn a blanket around me; for even with a fire, the dungeon where my dorm was still remained chilled. Snicks was lying on the floor, belly up, contentedly hissing snores. No other sound trickled to my ears, except the few snorts or stirs from the sleeping bodies in the dorms.

I cherished this time to myself. Most of it was spent studying, which had paid off greatly in the two weeks I had been here. It all seemed to come easily for me--Transfiguration was a brilliant breeze, while Herbology, History of Magic, and Potions were mostly memorization. Defense Against the Dark Arts and Charms were an even combination of memorization and practice, but none of them so far had really taxed me. Flying could hardly be considered a subject, but since I was determined to thrive here, I studied that as well, reading everything in the library on its history. I found out that flying on brooms had once been banished by the Ministry because they saw using magic outside of its primal elements, namely nature and the bearer's body, could bring chaos into society. Since man was not wholly good, whatever he created could not be so either. The broom being made by man had no will of its own, but was the instrument of power for the creator, good or evil, and did its bidding. People in the magic community were afraid using such objects could lead to a slippery slope where man tried to control more and more of magic and enforce it on everything, not always for good. I found such history fascinating and wished flying was more theoretical. It did burn me that I wasn't the best at flying, until I decided that flying was really pointless when I'd soon enough learn how to Apparate. Flying was good to have knowledge about, but hardly worth my true efforts, I thought decisively and condescendingly.

Still, I was surprised they allowed such a book as the one on flying in the library, since it questioned the inherent nature of man. Everyone here seemed to shy away from such questions, near as I could tell, as they had in the Muggle world. I surmised they didn't think a book on flying would hold something like that, or else I was reading more into it than was there. Either way, the fact that the Ministry had once banned flying because it doubted humanity's ability to control it, yet now regarded it as common practice, was a good point to bring up in my Defense Against the Dark Arts class. Not that I wanted to learn the Dark Arts so badly, but Professor Thistle said she liked to be challenged. She believed me when I said I was merely curious in learning both sides of the argument. She said such an attitude was of extreme importance in this time of coming war. She babbled on excitedly, constantly warning me of merely taking the theories of the arguments. I had patiently nodded, extracting the valuable information from what she said. It led me to writings on the foundational thinking of the great minds of magic, both past and present, who almost all dealt in some way with the issue of "dark magic." She gave me all the books she had on the Ethics of Magic and Defense and had coaxed Dumbledore into letting me take his experimental new Ethics class as only a first year.

So far, every class was working out, except Care of Magical Creatures. For some reason, probably because I could speak with snakes, I assumed that would be the easiest class for me. It wasn't as if I didn't do the work; in fact, I had already read almost all of our assignments and was now going through everything the library had. But the second I got close to some of the animals, they balked. Or worse, I thought with a grimace, rubbing my forehead where a Clabbert had head-butted me. It was from such incidents that Dippet was talking about making the class only for older students. That would have suited me fine, though my ego would still smart. Professor Odios didn't seem to think much of it, simply shrugging while saying, "It isn't all about reading. Some have the touch, lad--" clearly implying I didn't. I stared into the fireplace now, still infuriated at his insinuation, my mind refusing to stop picking at that scab. I had wanted to tell him heatedly then that I was a Parselmouth, but thankfully I remembered the reaction it had caused from Dumbledore and had stuffed that impulse down.

Most of the Slytherins had laughed me off when I complained about this, causing me to distance myself from them. They couldn't understand the need I had to succeed, even if it was only in a Creatures class. Professor Odios said that effort counted the most, that I was doing very well in his class, and that some of the animals took extremely well to me. I tried to tell myself this as I lay sleepless, but I just couldn't let it rest. I was compelled by my nature not to take Odios' answer. I was meant to excel in that subject, as I was in everything else. I had to. It was a truth I couldn't explain to anyone, even Snicks. Desperately I needed to find some way to show it. I had to prove I belonged here more than anyone else.

The clock spat, "Daft Child," then, stirring me from my troubling thoughts. I glared at it, but let the comment slide as I released a sigh. At least I had not drifted into the phoenix dream again. It came to me every night now, although each time a stronger sense overcame me that someone--or something--else was watching this. A faint, malicious laugh taunted me, and when I tried to turn to see who it was, the bird soared higher in desperation, forcing my focus back onto it as if it were a beacon of light drawing me in. Each time I felt more futility over fighting for the bird, along with my desperation and anguish at my failure. And each time I was unsuccessful, the laughter heightened, and the bird's red eyes burned guilt into mine as it wailed at me for not trying harder. But I did try--I was trying my hardest--

"Tom?" Snicks' soft hiss snapped my consciousness back to reality.

I noticed that I hadn't been breathing, holding air in as if smoke really were surrounding me. I was drenched with sweat, sucking in deep gasps of air. My left hand was paralyzed; when I looked down, I noticed it was clasping my cross so tight the blood drained out of my fingers and they went numb. I always ended up like this when I allowed myself to slip back into the dream. Or whatever it was. It was always terrifying and was getting worse. I could not sleep at nights, not wanting to experience it again. Thankfully I had taken some Pepperup potion from the nurse when I worked with her, for it enabled me to only have to sleep about two hours every night. Well, for a while, and then I'd weakly crash.

I looked at Snicks, who was examining me. He seemed mixed between curiosity and concern. I tried to smile at him and said quietly, "Just worried about my test."

Snicks looked insulted at that. "Right," he said. Then he slithered off, apparently hurt that I hadn't confided in him.

I watched after him, not knowing what to say. The grip of the taunting laughter had reached my heart this time, squeezing everything out of it. It was still ringing in my ears, and I dared not vocalize it for fear it would become real. "How can I explain something that isn't even sensible to me?" I asked the wind softly. No response came.

The clock chimed again--it was five o'clock now. That was real. So was my test today. I picked up the book I was studying, going at it with renewed ferocity. Dreams were fantasy--if anything, it was just restating my fears of not doing well in class because of not trying my hardest. My mind is just over-dramatizing, I tried to convince my nerves. Deciding I would apologize to Snicks later, I spent the rest of the morning reading about unicorns.

The air outside later that day was surprisingly hot as we gathered around the groundskeeper's hut for our Care of Magical Creatures class. Mr. Wynn was helping Odios in our first field work test. Before us stood two unicorns, only slightly taller than myself. They were a beautiful silvery white, with long, elegant horns that seemed of pearl. Purity was the only word that sprang to my mind when I looked at them, followed by a recognition of the subtle yet impressive power they radiated. They stood patiently, their wizened eyes glancing over all.

Someone next to me shifted. I saw Randy pull at his collar, his face twisted in discomfort. Everyone was sweating and looking disheveled. I felt my nose curl up in distaste, though I doubted I was any different. Perhaps it was my anxiety over the upcoming test that made my senses so acute. At the moment, I could barely stand the putrid stench coming off my companions or the sight of their glistening sweat slowly falling to the ground. I shuddered and fixated on the unicorns, focusing my attention on the job at hand.

We were to approach one of the unicorns and make contact with them. What kind of contact was up to the unicorn, but it was supposedly symbolic of something inside us that only something pure could detect. We then had to attempt to explain the symbolism and its meaning. I was nervous--my first contact with a unicorn two lessons ago had been less than pleasant. The unicorn had refused to look at me, averting all contact. It had been worse than the tree sprite biting me when I tried to fix its enclosed habitat. I had read that sometimes beings of great, indefinable power could bring out fright in the creatures of purity, which the unicorn and sprite were. It said that in these cases the one of power must make it known their motives were wholesome and good to the pure creature. While I wasn't sure I could describe myself as one of great, indefinable power, it was the only explanation I had been able to find. And I found it better than the one Odios offered, which was that I had been too nervous and simply had to relax.

The Hufflepuffs went first. Most of them received touches from the unicorn's horn on their right hands. It was a common sign, symbolizing their value of friendship and helpfulness.

"They got an easy one," grumbled Cathleen Roslyn, one of my fellow Slytherins. She came from a long line of wizards and witches; most, if not in Azkaban, were in the Ministry. Being the lone Mudblood in Slytherin, I wasn't a favorite of hers. She continued, "Anyone could imagine what that gesture meant." I rolled my eyes at her stupidity.

"They didn't 'get' it; it's a part of them. The unicorn can see that is their truest essence, or the one they most readily recognize. It's like the Sorting Hat. I wonder if there is a connection?" I suddenly realized that my explanation had rambled into my personal musings, and I received only puzzled looks from those surrounding me. I shrugged, quickly covering. "It might be on a test." At that, everyone sighed in exasperation, well aware already of my obsessive study habits. I think if my studying didn't give my fellow Slytherins the opportunity to show up the Ravenclaws, some of them might start plotting to throw books at me.

Finally came the Slytherins' turns. I watched some with interest. Dash had told me he had been touched by the horn over his heart, a gesture commonly found when the Gryffindors' took this test, except it had then grazed up and down his left shoulder.

Cathleen received a unicorn's tail brushing her face. I couldn't help but laugh as she tried to come up with an explanation. Haughtily, she said, "Obviously, the unicorn is trying to protect my head with its strong tail, because in my head lies my most valuable feature, my mind."

I had to admit, that was an excellent cover-up. But I still added quietly in jest, "I think I read something a little different."

Simon, another Slytherin who was tall with curly, brown hair and shared my dislike of Cathleen, grinned at me and shouted, "Cathleen! Riddle's got a better explanation for you!" Cathleen spun; her face red and glaring daggers at me. Professor Odios and Wynn merely looked amused.

I turned to her incredibly large head and innocently said, "Well, I read that unicorns use their tails as a repellent. Now, it is interesting they picked your head to repel against. Hm...unicorns do have an incredibly keen sense of smell--could it be something you put on your head? No? Well, I'd hate to think it was something inside." I kept my tone light, as if merely offering a friendly jest. All of the Slytherins laughed, which pleased me.

At this point, Odios stepped in, but he still wore a smile on his face, saying, "Well, Mr. Riddle has done the readings, though that last part is hardly proven. Let's not add on any unscientific facts the next time you offer help, all right?" I smiled back at him, as most of the others snorted in containing their laughter. I turned back to Cathleen, my smile still calm and easy.

She had turned an interesting shade of reddish purple, but her expression was calm. She was a true Slytherin, a person who, when backed into a corner, struck cruelly and with confidence. She strode up close to me and, although much smaller, did not lose any more dignity looking up. Of course, at that point she didn't have much to begin with. Her voice just loud enough for everyone to hear, she said, "That's right, Mudblood. Readings are all you have, because a real creature of magic won't even come near you." She made a show of holding her nose as she chided, "You give off a far worse odor than anything with pure blood could. And you can never change that, not with a million readings." She leaned in closer, her words running rancid as she whispered, "As my father likes to tell others, 'I can't wait to see you fall.' You won't be in normal society long."

My eyes turned cold, and I wanted nothing more than to twist her smile off of her face. Something inside me compelled me to attack, drawing me closer to my wand. I felt the power of it trembling, begging for my fingers. My breath heaving, I began to reach for it, only to hear the demonic, wheezing laughter heat up above me. That stopped me short, making me aware of the submissive, dreamlike state I had been slipping into by some controlling force. It frightened me, while at the same time offering incredible temptation. Its controlling power was suffocating me, as in my dreams. I barely fought it down, wondering why I was begging myself to withhold. The force backed off, though whether that was entirely my own doing, I questioned. My fists were clenched, my chain weighing down my neck. I desperately wanted to punish her, but on my own terms. I bided my time, forcing myself to calm. Finally I offered her a similar frozen smile, saying coldly, "Then I'll say hello to your mother while I'm at Azkaban, if she's still alive."

I didn't even see the slap coming; I was too focused on the sudden flow of tears streaming down her face. Shock overcame me, for I didn't think she had the capability to cry. I thought less of her, if that was even possible. But it still cut me deeper than the mark she left on my upper cheek as she flung her hand across my face. She backed away then, sobbing, her eyes unable to regain control. She dashed off towards the school, leaving everyone else to turn and stare at me.

Nobody had heard our last exchange, but I still felt the accusation in some of their eyes. Even Simon looked a little wary. Guilt swept over me as I realized how vicious the statement I had made was. But her comments had left me bare, where the only thing that surfaced was my desire to give it back to her. I tried to tell myself she deserved the pain she was now feeling. It would give her some needed humility. Suddenly an image of Mrs. Blunt standing over me, belt in hand, starving me, taunting me about my family, saying it was for my own good, came rushing back to me. I staggered forward, clenching my head. It was different, what I had done, wasn't it? I had acted as I should. She had been trying to hurt me, and I was only protecting myself at any cost. Like a real Slytherin.

I stumbled forward to the unicorn. No one objected as I pushed ahead and eyed the first one in front. The unicorn huffed, flaring its nostrils. I told it softly that I meant no danger to it and that I just had to know the truth. It quieted down, letting me approach. I was too charged with energy to be nervous. We stood forever like that, staring at one another. Its brown eyes absorbed me, and I actually felt its spirit passing throughout me. I trembled, figuring a monster inside me would scare it off, but it just stood steadily. Finally, after an eternity, the unicorn stepped forward. Dipping its head, it grazed my left hand with its horn. Everything shone when it connected with my palm, while tiny droplets of blood sprang out from my pierced skin. I stared at the mark and then back at the brown eyes. After a moment, the unicorn shifted away, and the warm, protecting connection between us was lost.

I turned to Odios and said weakly, "My left hand, blood drawn. It means I am a real Slytherin." What would have been satisfaction earlier wasn't inside me. All I felt was confusion. I turned toward the school, walking without seeing. I had fought off whatever had been compelling me to take my wand out and physically hurt her before. Yet at the same time, the course of action I had chosen hardly left me feeling any sense of victory or accomplishment. When it came down to it, was I myself any better than Cathleen? Even though I had acted on my own accord, I had still given in to my personal temptation. What if someone else had heard me? Panic over that fought with the guilt for dominance. Even though I had convinced myself I had reason to do it, that didn't negate the fact that it had been a stupid fit of temper. Not very Slytherin...

I looked at my hand, feeling disgust, and the glowing returned. Only this time, it was accompanied by searing pain. I stopped, terrified, as words spread over my left hand in a silvery white that matched the unicorn's color. It read: No One Is Just One Real Thing, Least Of All YOU. Curled around the last O was the outline of a white snake, rattling its tail at me and hissing a malicious laughter that had petrified me when I'd heard it in my dreams.

Anger built, and I looked up at the dark clouds gathering, saying through clenched teeth, "I am whatever I decide to make of myself!" The laughing stopped, and my hand returned to normal. The clouds parted, but not without a last warning thunder. I looked ahead, seeing clearly now, though my heart still pounded. I struggled to calm myself, to steel. If whatever the thing haunting me was thought me just some sniveling, weak Mudblood, it was as gravely mistaken as everyone else. I was in control of myself. My personal motivations were the only things to which I would ever respond. I had overcome everything put in my way before, and whatever was disturbing me now would be no different. Cruel or kind, good or evil, everything I did was under my control. I believed this with every breath of my being. Whatever was causing the dreams, visions, and apparitions would not succeed. I didn't know what it was about yet, but I fought my own battles, and I always won.