The Other Side of the Moon

Please review! This is my first fic on this site!


I.

It began with a glance in the Great Hall. It grew from there to smiles and long periods of eye contact across classrooms. She was a Gryffindor; he was a Slytherin. Their positions demanded different things from them.

But they let it grow, and it flowered within them – a dank and dark petalled rose that had never been allowed to see the light, and to flourish. That would change.

Tom Riddle sought her out first. He cornered her outside the History of Magic classroom while she was waiting for a friend inside. She looked up; no doubt she had heard the certain tread of his shoes on the stone floor towards her.

‘Hey,’ he greeted her. He hitched his breath, lest he breathe her Mudblood stench.

‘Hey,’ she replied calmly, tossing chocolate brown hair over her shoulder.

‘Listen,’ he continued, ‘Would you like do something tonight?’

‘To … tonight?’ she asked, uncertain for the first time.

He nodded, his eyes dragging across her full lips. Unconsciously or consciously, she licked them and he felt the sight drive warm shocks through him. The distance between them vanished.

‘Tonight,’ he repeated huskily, her breath ghosting across his mouth.


***


The room rippled and curled; her skin was musky and damp against his. Her hair drizzled across his arms; tangled in his fingertips as he pulled her head up to his. They kissed, tongues exploring the sweetness of one another’s mouths. Her opal eyes glistened.

Afterwards her hands smoothed the frown that had creased his brow, and enfolded him so all parts of them touched and buzzed at the contact. He was healing her, he reminded himself, a pulse of panic quickening in his throat. She brushed her lips over his eyes. Her tenderness made him bleed.

She cried when she saw the spots of bright red blood in his eyes.




II.

He found the Chamber without any trouble; he knew four years of research had not gone awry. Marveling at the brilliance of its position, he stalked stealthily around the dingy toilets, making sure no one lurked in the cubicles.

When he could be sure the place was deserted, he crossed to the taps in the sink and found the one with the engraving of a snake on it without much trouble. He smirked as he traced the snake with a fingertip. The metal was rough and uneven under his skin. A copper tang stung his nostrils. Here was the Chamber of Secrets with dear Nagini inside hidden right beneath Albus Dumbledore’s crooked nose.

‘Open,’ he hissed. A thrill of excitement trilled down his spine.


***


It was the first time she’d come to his dormitory without invitation. She was a dark shape silhouetted against the window, poised like a bird about to take flight. They were silent; only Xavier’s snores rent the air between them. Her hair was dappled with moonlight, streaked with starlight. His stomach twisted. She was so beautiful that way. Slowly unfolding, she slipped, ghost-like, into the room and stood beside his bed.

‘Tom?’ she asked, something hesitant in her voice.

He opened his arms.


***

Xavier Malfoy lounged on a dark couch in the Slytherin common room, a bottle of Firewiskey held loosely in one hand.

‘Fuckin’ Mudbloods,’ he slurred, grey eyes unfocused.

Tom stiffened. ‘No Mudbloods here, Malfoy.’

‘You’re a half-blood,’ challenged Xavier.

His eyes flashed. ‘You’re drunk,’ he said disdainfully, one hand curling around the wand in his pocket.

‘Least I can change it,’ Malfoy had time to mutter before Tom Stunned him. Whistling quietly, Tom took the bottle and tipped its contents out a rare dungeon window.

The breeze kissed his face, cooling the angry flush that had crept there.

III.


Albus Dumbledore rested his chin on the pyramid of his interlocked fingers, gazing levelly at the ageing man before him. Armando Dippet’s eyes skittered around the room, focusing on a chair, a portrait, the doorknob – anything than look at the younger man’s care-worn face.

‘What is it you wish to speak about, Albus?’ he asked eventually, his voice rasping in his throat.

‘The Chamber of Secrets, Headmaster,’ Albus replied, his voice steady though his eyes flashed momentarily, a flicker of black across the light blue.

‘What about the Chamber?’ asked Dippet wearily, resigned to Albus’ inevitable interrogation. The promising Transfiguration teacher had a thirst for knowledge he had never seen in a wizard before and the old man, however grudgingly, admired it.

‘Are we any closer in finding the culprit?’

A question for a question – which one had already been answered? Sighing, Dippet ran a trail down the rich mahogany desk, slicking a trail through the thin film of dust there. He took the chance to idly wonder if the house elves were thorough in their cleaning before answering.

‘We all have our suspicions, Albus,’ he replied cryptically, rubbing his fingers until the dust there scattered to the air, lit by the afternoon sunlight. Albus’ eyes never left the old man’s face; his scrutiny was almost unbearable.

‘Are we resigned to closing the school then? Are we to let the children of Hogwarts stay in danger? Headmaster –‘

‘That is enough,’ Dippet reprimanded quietly, his voice grating against the tension between them. ‘We are no closer to finding the culprit than finding the spell to ensure one never dies, Albus, but do really think this is what the students, what the faculty of this school really want to hear? No. They want to hear I am making progress; they want to know how something as horrific as this could ever happen. They want the person who opened the Chamber dead. What am I to tell them? Sometimes omitting the truth is not a lie, Albus. Not everyone wants the truth all the time.’

‘And when they start believing the lie? What will you do when there are hoards of angry people petitioning for your resignation as Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry? I suggest you look inside, and maybe then you will realise the truth. In the eyes of the public you are responsible for this.’

Both men stood, facing one another across the desk. The tension was palpable, like humid air. Two red spots of anger burned in Dippet’s face. His jolly expression was gone, just as Albus’ mask of calm.

‘This is Slytherin’s doing,’ spat Dippet, his eyes falling to the portrait of the dark haired man in the darkest corner of the room. The man pictured hissed menacingly back.

Albus shook his head and took his leave, not before tossing the words over his shoulder, ‘This is their plan, Headmaster. We must stay as one or this castle will be empty by spring.’

The door didn’t slam, it clicked gently back into place. Dippet closed his eyes on the soft laughter from the shadowed painting, as if it could block the horrible sound. He chafed silently, his eyes darting under his eyelids.


***


His hands moved deftly over the rooster’s neck, feeling the pulse of its blood against his fingertips. Its feathers shone in the moonlight and were warm against his skin. With practised ease, he snapped its neck in two and felt its body go limp against his arms. Just as it always happened. The knife flashed as it bit through sinew and flesh. Warmth flooded against his wrists.

Roughly, he grabbed the animal by the claw-like feet and dragged it across the grounds back towards castle, taking a strange pleasure in the blood leaking like black oil onto the ground.

He dumped the rooster in the lake, onyx blackness swallowing the carcass whole. The bank was already slimed with dew, and he half walked, half slid down the grassy slope to the water. As soon as his hands were immersed in the water they stung and ached with cold. He began to scrub at the blood, his breath misting in the air with the effort.

When his hands were pink and new, he rose and strolled back to the castle, disinclined to run.

***

Albus Dumbledore could have sworn, later that night, that the figure of Tom Riddle passed under his window which looked out at the lake. Fingers of ice chilled his spine when the figure turned to face him. Teeth sparkled in the moonlight.

Tom, too, knew the power of a lone voice.

IV.

The stretcher carrying the girl was covered in a white sheet. He could only just see the peaks and crevices of her face under the fine material. He didn’t allow himself a smile or even a twitch of the lips. I did that, he gloated. Of course, she had given him the fright of his life flinging the door open like that just when the Basilisk had hauled itself out of the Chamber. It had been all he could do, really. She would be the first of many; he thought coldly, the first of the Mudbloods, but definitely not the last.

Then he thought of Obelia and a fist closed around his chest.


***

He stomped into his dormitory to find Xavier lounging on his bed and staring out the window.

‘Malfoy,’ he greeted the young man with and flopped down onto his own bed, an angry scowl on his face.

‘Riddle,’ replied the young man in a practised drawl, his white hair iridescent in the sunlight.

‘What’s got you in such a foul mood?’ inquired Malfoy after a minute’s silence.

‘Nothing,’ muttered Tom.

‘Is it that little Mudblood you’re screwing?’

Tom’s nostrils flared as he took in a deep, calming breath. ‘Do you like your nose the way it is, Malfoy? Because if you do, you better just let it fucking go.’ His voice growled menacingly of its own accord.

It wasn’t the first time Malfoy had questioned his loyalty, and Tom was growing tired of it. Malfoy gave him an odd look and resumed his scrutiny of the grounds.


***


That night he was still inexplicably angry. He met her in her dormitory this time, and he was certain he’d pass out with the stench of Mudbloods and half-bloods before he got there. To his surprise the place was deserted.

‘A party at Ravenclaw,’ she explained quietly, lithe form walking from bed to bed as if to make sure the dormitory were empty. He watched her nightdress, all lace and satin, mould her body – the curves and rounds that he could never grow tired of watching.

Eventually, she came to him, body in the satin slithering against his clothes. That was when something exploded inside him, and without warning his hand came up towards her face. She relaxed into him, and he was so horribly aroused he hated it for a second. Hated what this Mudblood could do to him without trying.

Before he could stop himself, his fingernails snarled into the soft, tender skin of her neck. The sharp intake of breath betrayed her shock but her eyes were demure, trusting.

Why do you do that? he wanted to ask as he increased the pressure, mashing his lips against hers in a desperate kiss. Her arms came trembling around him, warm fingers splayed against his back.

He bowed his head, realising defeat and released her neck, watching the blood well in crescents. It was bright red, not a muddy brown, as he’d expected. Blood is blood. He knew it was wrong, had always been wrong. Why did she have to be a cut above the rest?

Her hand cupped his cheek; how she could bear to touch him was a miracle in itself.

‘You should be dead,’ he murmured quietly, half expecting her not to hear.
‘But I’m alive,’ she whispered in response, and her small hands found his belt buckle.
‘Obelia …’

And that was the way it went, really. His heart wept. He buried himself in her further, hoping he’d never have cause to emerge again.

V.

The tome was heavy in his hands and smelt musty, rather like the unused cupboard in the boy’s dormitory. It was dank with age and disuse. Swiftly turning his head left and right, he checked if anyone was watching him and then, once assured the coast was clear, his trembling fingers prised open the yellowed pages.

No, not there either. A frown scribbled across his brow. He fingered the shiny prefect badge on his chest; running his fingers over the smooth, cool metal. Why couldn’t this place give him answers? Why couldn’t he fill that insatiable hunger that gnawed constantly at his stomach? He could taste eternity on the tip of his tongue, was but a step away from immortality. If only he could find the key.

Tossing the book away in disgust, his lip curling, he reached for yet another musty novel. As his fingers brushed the leather, making a smudge in the dust of the whorls and spirals of his fingerprints, a truly brilliant thought struck him.

Professor Slughorn.


***


He was used to mediating his actions, sitting down and planning every different scenario possible. Slughorn was easily bought by flattery and gifts. He only had to offer a careful compliment, stroke Slughorn’s ego almost imperceptibly, and he’d be in with a chance.

He would wait. He would be patient. He was used to being patient, while everyone around him assumed he had given up.

It was a strength, deception.


***


‘You look happy,’ Obelia commented one day, as her fingertips worked the tension at the base of his neck. He sighed, losing himself in her ministrations.
‘I am,’ he replied, eyes closed. He felt a smile sketch itself across his lips, before her mouth descended onto his. He didn’t respond, but touched her cheek as she moved back.
‘That’s good,’ she replied.

Her breath ghosted across his face, and he suddenly laughed.
‘What’s so funny?’ she asked, laughing as if it were infectious, though he knew the sound he had made was hollow.

‘No more borrowing from Master Time,’ he replied cryptically, a sneer curving his mouth. Her face crumpled.

Even she would know what she meant, he reasoned. And she would also know her fate.

-Tbc.