Violation

A/N: I'mmmm...not completely sure what I was thinking when I did this. Except: "Hey, I want to do an Evil!Dumbledore fic too!". So here it is. It might not make sense. A lot of it's muddled and (a bit) over dramatized, but that's how it's supposed to be: because that's how Tom is feeling. I’ll continue this if it gets a bit of a response (yeah that means reviews). I've already got some idea of what direction I'll be taking it in. No, this won't be a PWP, but there will be much more graphic scenes after this. So think of this chapter as the prologue.

Tom Riddle…

He certainly was a riddle.

One Dumbledore had been puzzling over for six years. Yet, with graduation looming, the answer remained elusive. He frowned, more to himself than the teen in front of him.

“Tom, why don’t you tell me who it was that opened the chamber?” he questioned.

It was just before lunch time, on a beautiful Thursday. Most students were out and about but the professor had been lucky enough to corner this one after a Transfiguration lesson. Now here he sat, uncomfortably rigid in what should have been a very comfortable armchair, with his guarded gaze cast toward the floor. For – whether conscious of it or not – he was apparently wise enough to know never to meet a teacher’s eye. “I don’t understand, Professor. Do you mean the Chamber of Secrets?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it was Hagrid. Surely you remember…?” he asked.

“My mind is quite as sharp as ever. Yes, yes. I remember that ruse. It was a clever one, and you have this old man’s admiration, to be sure. However…let us stop playing these games, for the moment.” He said gently, peering over the top of his halfmoon spectacles at the boy. Any other student might have looked up by now. His presence nearly commanded it. Not this one, though. Tom Riddle was determined, he would be given that. “You opened the chamber…didn’t you?”

“I’m sorry, Professor,” came the quick, slightly offended response. “You’re wrong.”

“Ahh, Tom, but why should you be sorry?” he persisted, sliding out of his chair to circle around the desk. Standing beside the seventh year, peering down at his head of midnight black hair, he could see that the young man had visibly stiffened. Dumbledore smiled faintly. “Only the guilty apologize. And you’re not.”

“…That’s right.” Riddle agreed, wary as he was forced to pause in what was probably a well rehearsed song.

“Of course,”

Riddle examined his longfingered hands with an intense curiosity. He flexed the fingers, not looking up as he did so, because to look up would be the worst mistake. He knew. Somehow, by Merlin’s good grace, he knew.

“Of course you’re not guilty. Well, few sociopaths are.” The words were spoken softly – tenderly – warmly -- understandingly. They were all that was needed. The boy looked up. His first mistake.

“Sir?”

For he had already made the first mistake, and a grave one it was.

Never turn your back on the enemy.

By letting his attention wander, he had successfully evaded any attempts at Legilimency, but, in the same stroke, he had allowed the professor to take the step he needed to ensure he triumphed.

The lion was closing in on the snake, slowly.

**

He stood.

“Sir, I’m not sure I –,”

“Shhh, Tom. You understand. More than I do, perhaps. Now please, share.” Dumbledore said, smiling a half smile, taking a step forward.

Never before had Tom thought of his teacher as intimidating. But now, as he took a step back, and as he looked into those sharp blue eyes (the mother of mistakes to be sure), he felt an overwhelming surge of fear. It left him feeling weak kneed. Another step back didn’t solve that, nor the other after that. But suddenly, he could not get enough distance between himself and Albus Dumbledore. Not looking where he was going, his hip connected with the edge of the desk. He inhaled sharply, though remained standing as still as one of the basilisk’s petrified; rooted to the spot by a gaze that tore through his defenses, penetrated his soul, and left him feeling naked. He licked his lips nervously. “There’s nothing…nothing to share.”

“Another lie, Tom? Try telling the truth.” The professor suggested. With each step Tom retreated, he advanced, narrowing the gap. And if he claimed the look of discomfort and terror that twisted those regularly calm features didn’t bring him some small mount of pleasure, he would be guilty of lying himself.

It felt like a blade had been pushed right between his ribs. “Stop it.” He mumbled. It was sinking deeper – deeper – deeper, and he needed to get a reign on this feeling, this – emotion? Or else he would be sorry, so very sorry…

“Stop what, Tom?” Dumbledore asked. He had leveled him with a perfectly calm, perfectly violating stare. Tom saw it and flinched. Dumbledore tilted his head back, looking only mildly curious as he continued. “Nothing is happening. We stand here, a teacher and his student, sharing a discussion. Because you are guilty of nothing and I was a fool for ever suspecting. Isn’t that right?”

“That’s…” he murmured, eyes twitching to the side, where they locked on a painting that depicted the lake outside. Thinking was impossible with those crystal blue eyes burning into him. Hot as ice. Cold as fire. Even with his head turned he still felt it. And did it make sense? Not really. His mind was usually so logical, and orderly. But it wasn’t anything of the sort right then. His thoughts were spinning wildly out of control, the situation with it. He wanted to sink into the floor and disappear. Slither away like a snake, even. Anything to get out of the confrontation which might not have been a confrontation at all...he reached up, running his fingers through his hair. Have I been drugged? He had to wonder. “…that is…”

“…Tom?”

He was looking up, again, despite his common sense, into the eyes. Merlin, how they burned. He had to close his own against it.

A pair of hands closed around his shoulders.

Were they holding him in place? Or simply holding him upright?

He couldn’t tell.

He didn’t care.

The eyes…

“What…”

Shapes were playing out against the blue black darkness of his eyelids. They spinned and twirled, forming intricate patterns, before taking full shape, becoming images. They moved at such a fast pace he couldn’t hope to grasp them. Seconds later he would stop trying.

Sound and colour blended to create a fantastic array of nothing. He was reminded of a carnival ride, the sort that tilted, twirled, and whirled, absolutely out of control. Clutching his stomach, he thought he might be sick, right there, wherever there was. Gradually, the ride slowed, thoughts returned, and he could see –

A professor holding his student fast to the wall.

He could hear, and he could feel too –

Buttons flying away, a belt being unbuckled.

He could see –

A young boy, twisting, fighting to break free.

He could feel –

Hands on his shoulders. Bruisingly rough. They held him still as he twisted, fought to break free.

“Don’t make me hurt you, Tom.”

“…no…”

He could feel –

Clothes being pulled away. Flesh being exposed to the cool air of a cluttered office.

“…what…”

He could see –

Albus Dumbledore looming over him, prepared to penetrate his body. Not mentally, like the last time, but physically. He sobbed. It was useless, but he sobbed, and he cried, and silently he made a vow. At the age of twelve, he swore never to let himself be this exposed again.

He could hear –

“Just tell me the truth, Tom. Who did it?”

He could feel –

A fierce burning. Worse, perhaps, than a knife sinking into flesh, but only because it was accompanied by the sick, sick feeling of being forced open, stretched unbearably wide, as though he were elastic – and he wasn’t! He wasn’t! He didn’t, couldn’t, shouldn’t go that way, but somehow the professor was fitting himself in, and it hurt so badly -- he had no choice but to scream!

“What did you do to me?” the present day Tom gasped, breaking away from those long forgotten memories. Dimly, he could still feel – hear – and see all of it.

“Everything,”

His knees buckled. The hands were loose on his shoulders, now unable to be bothered to hold him in place. He pitched over sideways, filled with the uncontrollable desire to land on a spot of ground that was as far away from that man as it was possible to be.

“Only everything.”

**

When he came to, he was sitting in that same comfortable armchair, in front of that same desk where the last shred of his purity had been stripped away. Five years ago. Five. He had to tell himself that or else he might end up thinking it had happened five minutes ago, because that was what it felt like. The memories were so clear. And it hadn’t been drugs, or magic. It was all from looking into Albus Dumbledore’s eyes. The truth was there, had always been. It was only a matter of the memory charm wearing away.

Gritting his teeth, Tom looking over his shoulder and saw him there.

He was smiling a faint half smile and looking rather sad and apologetic at the same time. “I’m afraid you might have dozed, Tom,” he said, stepping forward. His gaze didn’t waver but he seemed to miss the twitch that crossed over the pale face below him. “As I was saying: who did it?”

He asked so plainly, so nicely.

Tom shuddered, glancing toward his professor’s hand, where something was being held, clasped between the fingers.

Dumbledore frowned, looking down as well. And all at once, his eyes regained their benign sparkle. “Oh. He said, unfurling them to reveal a small tin can. “Lemon drop?”

A/N: Review? Thanks! I appreciate every single review I get. No flames though, please.