Hello Mister Tom

Their screams tore through the silent countryside, echoing eerily through the depths of the large mansion. It was a cold and starless night, a thick canopy of clouds blocking out the moon and stars. Lord Voldemort stood outside on the balcony surveying the countryside below and beyond; grass rippling in the cold wind, the smell of rain fresh in his nostrils. He had no desire to return to the living room, where the couple was being tortured; he had no desire to inflict their pain, kill them; somewhere along his crusade he had lost sight of it all, and all he found now was emptiness.

Not even immortality held him in awe, as before; what, he mused, was there for him in the future? The endless battle against good? Being defeated, again and again? Holding en entire race in fear for the hope of power he would likely never have? What was the use of it all? What was the purpose of it? And even with power - what then? Rule the world? Keep battling until all his enemies and friends are gone and he alone is left?

No, he mused, there was nothing for him. There never was. He had just been too blind to see it.

'Nothing,' he murmured under his breath. 'Nothing.'

When he had been young, his only goal had been power and eternal life. What more could you want? But now - now that he was past seventy years, now that he had been half-dead, now that he had what he had always wanted - he didn't need it anymore. He didn't want it anymore. It was worthless, a waste of time. On his crusade he had missed out on the things that made life worth it - love, family, friendship - things he never had, but observed in his Death Eaters. He envied them.

The screams died down and he turned around; inside the Death Eaters were laughing behind their masks. He could see the fanatical glow there, the hatred and lust; he could smell it, hear it, feel it - and he was sickened by it. They're everything he was, and despised; they were his only friends and he hated them for it. They were evil, just as he was. And he was tired of it. Tired of them. Tired of living.

'Master?' Bellatrix asked. Her voice was hesitant and fearful.

'Kill them,' he said. The couple lay panting on the ground; blood mingled with their tears, and their eyes rolled in their sockets. They were beyond saving. They were mad now. Death held their release.

He did not stay to watch but Apparated into the entrance hall. A dull pounding filled his head and he rubbed at his forehead. Now was not the time to lose head. He had to stay strong. If he didn't, his Death Eaters would think him weak. They would stab him in the back, as they had once before. No, he wouldn't give them the pleasure. He wouldn't.

He made to move to the front door, but a soft noise made him stop. He paused, holding his breath, listening - yes, there it was again. It was not louder than the soft tick of a clock, or the low hiss of steam, but it was there. He followed it into a dark corridor, which opened into a large, dark kitchen. He paced the kitchen, trying to pinpoint the source, then noticed the kitchen table had been moved. He paused, bent down and saw one of the table's legs had snagged the rug. One corner of a trapdoor was visible; wood against the white and black squares of the tiled floor.

He pushed the table away and tugged on a golden ring. The trapdoor opened with a soft creak and, after a moment's hesitation, he lowered himself into the darkness. His feet found the staircase and he pulled the trapdoor shut behind him.

The sound was growing louder and his crimson eyes blaze around the room, trying to pinpoint the sound. He appeared to be in a large basement, filled with boxes and crates. He paused, holding his breath, and closed his eyes. He was sure he hadn't imagined it. Moments passed before he heard it again: someone was crying, their sobs echoing around the basement.

'Show yourself,' he said. His voice echoed dully around him. 'I'll find you. There's no escape.'

Silence pressed against his eardrums, an annoying soft hiss. He knew there was someone - he could smell them. He could smell their fear and hear them breathe; he just couldn't see them.

'Show yourself,' he said, 'I won't hurt you.'

He could almost see their hesitance. He could almost hear their mind battling - he said he won't hurt me - we can't trust him - maybe he'll let me live - he's Lord Voldemort, he won't - he looked around him, trying to catch movement, the faintest bristle of a cloak would do -

'Mummy,' someone said.

He turned around and found himself face to face with a child. She barely reached his knee, and looked to be no older than five. She was pretty, with large blue eyes and dark hair. Her cheeks were streaked with tears, and she clutched a stuffed toy animal in her arms. She was trembling and he saw the fear flick through her eyes as she saw his face.

'Mummy,' she said again, more urgently.

He froze. He was clutching his wand in his right hand, but he couldn't kill her; she was so beautiful, so innocent, how could he kill her? She did nothing, nothing wrong, she didn't deserve -

'Where's mummy?' she asked, looking stricken. 'Mummy!'

'Mummy's asleep,' he found himself saying, in a gentler voice than he'd heard himself use for years.

She looked at him, then said: 'Who are you, mister?'

'Tom. Tom Riddle.'

She hesitated, then: 'Hello, Mister Tom.' Then, more worriedly, - 'Are you sick, Mister Tom?'

'Sick?' he repeated. 'Why do you ask?'

'You look sick,' she said.

'I am sick,' he said, softly.

'Do you take medicine, Mister Tom?'

'No, they don't have medicine for what I have.'

She opened her mouth to say something, but was interrupted by a ruckus from the kitchen. The trapdoor flew open and Bellatrix, followed by her husband and Lucius came hurrying down the stairs. Their wand tips were alight and they glanced around. Then they saw him.

'A girl!' Bella said, her eyes glowing fanatically. 'I didn't know the Voskrovs had a child! We could have tortured her in front of them!'

'It might have made them crack sooner,' Lucius drawled.

'Twelve hours!' Rudolphus said, unable to hide the awe from his voice. 'Not even the Longbottoms held that long.'

'Well, they had me torturing them,' Bella said.

Voldemort watched them, anger growing inside him. Fools. Idiots. How did he ever recruit them? How could he have made them his minions? Mindless drones living only for the fun of it all. No ambition or intelligence, only a lust to kill. How he hated them. How he hated himself.

'Master, may we - ' Bella began, but before she could complete her sentence Voldemort lifted his wand and whispered an incantation. She fell to the ground noiselessly. Lucius opened his mouth to say something but he, too, was dead before he uttered a word. Rudolphus turned and tried to run for it. He died with his back to his master.

'What's wrong with them, Mister Tom?' the girl asked.

'They're sleeping,' he told her softly. 'Just like mummy. Only, they'll never wake up.'

'Never?' she asked, looking stricken.

'Never,' he said.

She started to cry again, and he crouched down beside her and took her into his arms. He didn't say anything to her - what to say? - but rocked her in his arms. After a while her sobbing ceased and he folded her in his cloak, then took her out of the basement. He lay her on a sofa, and made his way back upstairs, where the rest of the Death Eaters were going through their things.

He killed them all, one by one.

By the end of it he collapsed in a chair, shaking. He could feel his skin prickling, and the dull pounding in his ears. His back ceased up and he groaned in pain. I'm dying for all I've done wrong, he kept thinking. Dying because I deserve to. He curled up in a fetal position and lost consciousness.

When he woke again the sitting room was flooded with sunlight. He blinked, his eyes prickling uncomfortable. His throat was dry and he had a headache. He struggled into a sitting position and held his head in his hands. His hair was wet with sweat, and he pushed one hand through it, trying to remember what had happened. He licked his lips, silence hissing softly in his ears.

'Are you OK, Mister Tom?' someone asked. His eyes fluttered open. The girl - Fiona - was standing across him, looking at him worriedly. She herself looked pale and clammy, and he gave a slight smile. 'You look different,' she said. 'Healthy.'

'I do?' he asked. His head was buzzing.

'Look,' she said, and pointed to a mirror. He glanced up, and his heart missed a beat. Staring back at him was not the skull-white, scarlet-eyed face he'd grown used to; no, looking back at him was his sixteen-year-old self. He was paler and clammier, but he looked normal. He looked human.

'Did you take medicine?' she asked.

'Yes,' he said. 'I took medicine.'

She smiled. 'It sure helped.'

'Do you have family?' he asked her.

She shook her head. 'No, it was just me and mummy and daddy.' She looked sad again. 'Mister Tom, how long is never?'

'For as long as you'll ever remember,' he said, 'even longer than that.'

'Will I see mummy again?'

'Someday,' he said, smiling weakly.

She considered this for a moment, then - 'Will you stay, Mister Tom?' she asked him.

He paused. 'Yes,' he said, finally. 'I'll stay.'

She beamed at him. 'Want to go play hide and seek in the garden, Mister Tom?' She held out her hand.

His stomach turned. This is your second chance, Tom. Lord Voldemort is dead. So are his Death Eaters. There's only Tom Riddle left now. Tom Riddle and little Fiona Vorskov.

'Why not?' he said, smiling fully, pushing his hair from his face. He stood and took her hand, and they disappeared out through the back door.

Epilogue

Lord Voldemort was never heard of again. Fiona inherited the house, and a Mr. Thomas M. Ridley was appointed her legal guardian.