Chapter Text
Tom was eleven years old when he recognised that not all wizards were born or made equal. Longer, has he known that he is not liked. That he has no allies, no acquaintances- no ‘friends’, as the other orphans used to point out, giggling like imbeciles.
Tom would torture them into obedience. Not quite physically, he’d only been a child for crying out loud. But mentally, psychologically- he would take what they loved most, like Billy’s rabbit.
He cannot do that at Hogwarts. Not easily. The children here are better, of course they are. Tom can easily say that wizards are superior to muggles.
But even he can recognise that they are still human.
They still look down their noses at him and it makes him grind his teeth. They dismiss him- and how dare they. He is mighty- he is great - But they are older.
Tom sits with his back straight at the table, eyeing the table and its denizens, cataloguing them into who could be controlled, who could be manipulated- who was useful, who was not-
And then he meets the greenest eyes in the world- so green in fact, Tom does not believe he has, or will see, a green so unnatural in a boys face.
One of the rich nobles had come to the orphanage once- and had blue eyes that Tom had trouble staring into until he’d reminded himself he is a wizard- and the man is not. But he still remembers those blue eyes that seems to see straight into his soul, so pale and blue they had been.
This boy- Hadrian Black from memory (and also what Tom had learned was a hat stall), is doing the same thing. Staring at him with narrowed eyes, food forgotten- staring at Tom like he is a threat. It damn near makes him giddy- a pureblood , looking at him like he’s an enemy- an equal . They’d held long and rigorous eye contact and Tom had dissected the boys facial expressions- or attempted to. But the boy was capable of such a mask that Tom could not see precisely the feelings the boy was trying to share through his glare.
Hatred, obviously. Always.
Easily dismissible- though curious indeed, as he doesn’t remember doing anything to warrant such hatred despite simply being placed into the House of Slytherin.
If that is the only source of hatred in him, then he is meaningless. A simple character amongst the many. But the hatred has not been accompanied by the sneer of contempt like that of Black’s brother, who is speaking with… Abraxas Malfoy, he believes. Nor was it accompanied by the usual dismissal that follows making eye contact- as all the other purebloods have done as if to cement the idea of, ‘you are beneath me and not worth my attention’.
But Hadrian stares at him still- dissecting, Tom eventually realises, scanning. Attempting to flesh out an opponent. And his blood jolts with recognition- and pride.
Hadrian Black is surrounded by people. People, who Tom has marked as being salvageable and useful. There is Reinhard Lestrange- who doesn’t seem quite eager to sit next to Hadrian after receiving a scathing look from him, and there is Thaddeus Nott- who Hadrian seems to mildly respect but still holds contempt for- there is Aiden Avery, who has been avoiding eye contact for twenty minutes now. There is also, of course, Abraxas Malfoy, who has been talking about the teachers at Hogwarts and whom Hadrian is deliberately not looking at.
A fascinating relationship to them all. It’s strange.
Tom himself, sits opposite Antonin Dolohov- who can be manipulated quite easily, Mulciber- who is a buffoon in a body and has tried to cut chicken twice with the back of his fork- and Evan Rosier, who is more focused on muttering nonsense to someone who he believed is his older sister.
But Hadrian- Hadrian , Tom will remember him.
He stands over a body of a girl, panic heavy in his chest- she’s petrified. Dead. The basilisk is swaying from side to side-
The blasted girl wasn’t supposed to be here-
He pats his pockets down-
It should be done now, he must- it’s a body and it’s evidence- nobody must know- he’ll blame it on the giant. It will be easy .
Now if he can remember the Horcrux-
No. No this isn’t how it went. Hadrian helped him get the Basilisk out to the Dark Forest where it feasted on Acromantulas. Hagrid still got in trouble but Tom never killed a girl. He wasn’t that careless. Myrtle had left Hogwarts and married some Irish wizard from a coven- not that Tom had paid much attention to her. Where was Hadrian?
He steps around a body on the stares that looks incredibly like Fleamont. Gryffindors, he sniffs, fools. He continues up- and there is a mother- she falls like the husband. A flash of green, a thud on the floor. Easy, simple- distant.
In a crib- a child is staring at him.
Hades?
There is no contempt in his eyes now, a child, staring up at him, not even crying- just staring with eyes too green, too wide- with tears gathering- and he feels nothing- simply a euphoric victory- a certainty that with this success, he will never be defeated again.
No- no he’d been told. He’d been told- he’d known- but to see?
He sees a boy, a stone, a red jewel in his hand- he hears someone talking but he does not care- he needs that stone and he will kill the boy for it- no, no he must kill the boy. Quirrel , kill the damn boy!
There is a boy on the floor, covered in blood and he bubbles in rage. He knows deep in his chest- that he has failed. That an irreparable failure has been besieged upon him by a boy of twelve. And he rages- he writhes. He is going to die, again . No, banish these foolish notions! That blasted old man won’t let him die. He mustn’t- His Horcrux must live- he must live! He is the greatest wizard to have ever lived- he was foolish to make his diary the first Horcrux- so easily destroyable. Basilisks venom- he should have moved the snake elsewhere- but he’d plans, grand aspirations to destroy Hogwarts- to gather control- gone! No- no he will survive.
He MUST survive.
Crude! That version of him had been so crude. Did he not know patience? Or as Hadrian had warned him- simply been too mad?
This cannot be him. The Great Lord Voldemort that he had spent such meticulous years in his youth planning to become. This cannot be him. His skin is chalk-white, an ugly, pallid shade stretched tight over bone. His nose is reduced to slits like a snake’s, eyes red with catlike pupils, and his mouth thin-lipped and cruel. It cannot be him- and yet it is. It must be- because the boy fears him. Writhes against the statue- over the corpse of a Hufflepuff boy. It is dark at night- his followers surround him- fear him- And that must be Thaddeus. And those boys must be Rodolphus and Rabastan- but they look sallow, ill- not Reinhards explorative boys who enjoy travelling. He feels heady with victory- and yet Abraxas is not there. His second hand man is not there- but he spots his son. Lucius- but this looks nothing like the noble, family orientated man he knows.
Thaddeus is too proud to kneel. The boys are all wrong- Reinhard would have had his head if he’d ever done that to him. What did he do to get them to this point? Where is Reinhard? Where is Abraxas? What happened to his triarii!
The Ministry crumbles- and he kills the last of the Blacks male line. Dead- gone- Fallen through the veil- he laughs at it- laughs harder as Potter casts the Cruciatus on Bellatrix-
No this isn’t right. It cannot be. Arcturus is not dead- Orion is not dead- there is Regulus, Sirius- Merlin Sirius- Hadrians godson- he can’t have done that. He’d never do that to Hadrian, he’d never slight his memory like that-
Dumbledore is still powerful- it irks him, writhes in his blood. He will not be defeated like the mere likes of Grindelwald- he refuses. He is greater, he is better- he needs that wand. He needs the hallows- he must possess them. He shall never die-
The rest of the memories spin faster and faster in a vortex Tom can’t keep up with- mere glimpses here and there- none of them have Hades- they’re not his memories. They’re his, Voldemorts- the other, the could have been- the nobody.
And then he gets speared in the side of a head by a shard.
He’s in a forest, waiting, agitated, annoyed. Has he miscalculated the boy? No, he can’t have. Self-sacrificing, brave- reckless- he will come. He must. It is now, or never. He obsesses over it, and in the clearing, only his most loyal followers remain. Narcissa, Bellatrix, Antonin, Lucius- (Where is my Triarii?)
He waits, twirling the elder wand, acquired at last and ignores the crack down it’s length. It is his. He killed Snape. It is his.
And ah- at last, the boy. Come to die. Standing there- broken and covered in dust and plaster- bleeding faintly and hands clenched. That defiant look- he hates it. Hates the way he’s seen, hates it and hates and hates-
He lifts his wand-
No you fool- no, no no- that’s us- there is only Nagini and him do not-
The green envelops the clearing- and Voldemort knows it hit. The contact lances up his spine- but he’s too enraptured in the victory to notice the pain. At long last . It is done-
He is dead.
He is dead-
He killed Harry Potter.
He killed the boy.
He killed the saviour-
He killed Hadrian.
Failure stings- but the duel before he dies- that is something blazed into the back of his eyelids.
Priori Incantatem.
Something he has never achieved before. He has no equal after all- he stands above all others. He is greater, stronger- he has evaded death-
(A niggling part of his mind points out the boy returned from it. He ignores it, it was just a trick after all.)
A part of him that so yearns to understand magic- wishes he could pause this duel- to see the red and greens and the energy intertwined. How a simple Expelliarmus could overpower a killing curse. Does the nature of a spell matter then for it to be more powerful? Or does it rely on the training of a specific magic, or is it in intent? Does the boy wish for his death as eagerly as Voldemort wishes for his? Or does the amount of soul one possesses effect magic output? It must be. Voldemort would never lose if he had all his horcruxes.
And yet he loses, he feels death on the periphery- and then all of a sudden it is there and it is nothing. He is shattered. There is nothing left- no body and he will receive not even a nameless grave-
“HADES!” Tom snarls, choking- but he’s already separated himself- he’s on his hands and knees to the side of Hadrian’s prone body, panting from the exertion and his entire body trembles- sweat dripping down his temple onto the carpet- and his chest heaves to try and drink down air.
He shrieks, an inhuman sound- to try and claw this feeling out of him.
Death. Death, destruction, dread- despair- complete, and utter, despair.
He claws at his hair-
That was not him- that was not him- that was Voldemort. That was a stupid boyish dream from when Tom had resolved to reign high and terrible amongst the wizards who had not sought magic superiority as he had. Had not desired to understand as he had, but rather to simply use. To taunt- to test.
It was a fantasy.
A conjecture, an idea formed wrongly- without knowing. He hadn’t known- Hadrian had shot it down the moment he’d seen it scrawled in the margins of his diary for Merlins sake. Had dissected every theory Tom had held, and every idea he’d created until Tom had realised the path was meaningless, hollow and incomplete. He hadn’t had the knowledge- and then he’d endeavoured on prying it out of Hadrian instead. And pried he had- for he’d found aspects of magic he hadn’t known before.
Magic he realised now- Hadrian, or Harry, had not known either.
Harry.
Tom had had a taste of Harry’s true terror regarding Voldemort, when he’d possessed Barty, however briefly- he should have known then, at Harry’s strange actions, his own incompleteness- Harry was lost, drifting- between two lives that he couldn’t conclude the truth from. Not when the shadow of Mancer hung over him-
And Tom had seen glimpses, however brief, of that.
Of children, of blood and death and terror and a different type of end-
He can only be thankful he’d used a spell. That is had been quick and painless-
He recoils at that line of thought.
He’s helpless against the dichotomy of the two lives. And how one person can send everything spiralling in another direction. Granted, that one person had lived the other life, had known- had seen, experienced- died- lived, fought-
And now Tom knows why Hadrian had stared at him. An equal he had seen, yes, but at the cost of his life and so many others.
He’s helpless, really. He’s been following a path Hadrian had so painstakingly tried to pull him towards. One that wasn’t meaningless, wasn’t full of death or torture- or madness-
Tom can scarcely breathe.
He’d have thought- if he had been Lord Voldemort, he’d have kept his Triarii- that his triarii would be the same. That Thaddeus would still be as keen and intelligent as he is now, his theoreticist, that Abraxas, his right hand man, his strategist, his first friend, follower, ally- or even Reinhard, his duellist, his force- or Avery, his spy, his ears- his eyes-
And Orion.
Orion isn’t Tom’s. Never has been, never will be- and Tom has never wanted the brother like that anyway. But in Hadrian’s absence- Orion was a dead man. As were his sons- his father- but Orion is his representation of loyalty. Orion will be there, will not ask questions until after- he will do what Tom asks out of trust- not fear.
They all trust him.
They do not fear him.
They admire him.
He had thought it a weakness- even now. Admiration is a burden to bear- but he will bear that burden if the only other path, if the other path taken with fear- ended in that journey- that black hole of madness and indulgence and fake-superiority.
He feels ill. Ill.
His Hadrian hadn’t been there. In that life. Orions brother hadn’t existed- and if he had, he’d died or simply never mattered.
A single change- a single person- a single entity that could have chosen to kill Tom in their dorm- or in their school- had chosen not to. To cease revenge and try redirection. Had chosen to forget- if not forgive. It cannot be- he wants to scream to the heavens and demand why- demand why fate must have the one person Tom loves, the one person- to have suffered so greatly by his own hand.
Why must all his success be tainted? Why must all his victories be lathered in sorrow?
Is this why Griffin exists at all? Because Hadrian cannot guarantee that Tom will always be there- always make the right decisions? Or is it because Hadrian sometimes wakes up and sees the monster?
Tom has proven, time and time again that he’s reliable- but in the face of it all what has he truly done? He had not discovered Mancer- though he knew of Mactator- and in Hadrians greatest moment of need- death, he had chosen to try and reach out to him instead of getting revenge as he’d promised.
Why why why must there be another?
Why must he be taunted-
“Tom?” A voice rasps, slipping straight through his mind and he stiffens, hands on his knees, blood dripping down his nose- he can taste it in his mouth. He must have bitten through his lip. He turns back to Hadrian, who is still on his back- eyes slightly glazed still but there- no more memories- though the tears are still dripping out of the corners of his eyes.
Tom pants as he stares, trying to wrangle his rage- he wants to shake Hadrian- wants to demand answers- but he’s gotten his answers.
Most of them. He just-
Seeing, and hearing- are two separate things.
“I need a moment,” Tom grunts, managing to tear his gaze away- he realises that he’s crying when he focuses on the foot of the couch and the details blur. He reaches up and touches the wetness on his cheeks and growls lowly, fisting his pants hard enough to tear. He takes a deep breath and tries to centre himself, only to find his control so thoroughly out of his hands that he can’t even summon his occlumency. He must have wasted all his strength on the Legilimency. “How can you love me?” Springs out of his mouth without any preparation at all. “After all that I’ve done to you?”
Hadrian is silent and Tom doesn’t look at him- no he must- he turns his head and meets those green eyes head on- except they’re so full of sorrow, so absent of hatred. Hadrian looks tired and Tom wishes so desperately Hadrian could have lived well, that he hadn’t known pain. That they could have both sought their dreams- if Hadrian had ever had dreams to begin with.
Now that Tom’s considering it- he doesn’t think he’s heard Hadrian tell him what he wishes. Not properly. Not with seriousness. A joke, all the time. But Hadrian has never sat next to Tom while Tom imagines being Minister, or to begin a school of his own where he can control and teach the way he believes magic should be taught- Hadrian had said he would help and aside from being Lord Black, Tom cannot remember-
“You have done nothing to me,” Hadrian says, his voice empty and Tom turns a sharp look on Hadrian- only to find his gaze not on Tom but the chandelier above their heads. “You have not done anything to me Tom. Voldemort is dead and gone. That life, is dead and gone. I have irreversibly changed it all. What’s done is done.” Hadrian’s jaw works and then he clenches his eyes shut. “Aside from Mancer, it is all done. I cannot bring any of them back.”
Tom closes his eyes, to let that sink in.
“You do not see him when you look at me then.”
“Sometimes,” Hadrian says and Toms breath stutter, dread curling in his chest- “Voldemort was a very ambitious man,” he allows. “Very ambitious indeed. He was incredibly intelligent when it came to magic also and a very charismatic person, or else he’d have not had his followers.”
Their gaunt faces come to mind and Toms lips curl in disgust. Followers. Not allies, not friends, not acquaintances- followers. As if Tom had been a very good leader.
“But his ambitions were not purely his, they were yours too. He was Tom Riddle once, even if you were both not the same. You haven’t been Voldemort since you threw the diary out Tom,” Hadrian says at last, meeting his eyes again, “and I don’t see him in you any more.”
Tom sits there for a moment.
He could bring up Griffin. Ask, ‘Why did you replace me then?’. But he doesn’t, bites his tongue to not. He moves, crossing the distance he’d created trying to get away. He hoists Hadrian up and gets a wince for his troubles.
He wipes hair from his face, ascertains that there is no physical harm to Hadrian and lets fingers fiddle with his shirt. He rests his chin on the crown of Hadrians head and takes a deep breath.
“I am… sorry.”
“It’s in the past.” Tom closes his eyes and tries to leave it there. In the past.
“Hearing and seeing are two different things,” he repeats.
“I know,” Hadrian murmurs lowly. “It is why I am telling you all and not showing you. You saw it’s effects, however brief, on Orion.”
Tom allows himself to nod.
“And you saw…” Hadrian trembled for a moment and then shook it off.
“It was bad enough I longed for Voldemort instead.” The sourness that fills his mouth- knowing the damage he did- the scale of it- the destruction of Hadrian’s only true home in the life- in Harry’s life- the killing of friends, family-
“I would have not forgiven me,” he mutters.
“No,” Hadrian says, in faint amusement. “You are quite a grudge holder I hear.” Tom rolls his eyes, deigning not to answer that. A hand pats his knee. “I needn’t forgive you, as there is nothing for me to forgive.”
Two different people, Tom echoes in his head.
“I wish I could have helped you, I wish I hadn’t been your enemy,” he breathes. “It seems I have made ill on many of my promises.”
“Tom you couldn’t have-”
“I swore I’d avenge you,” Tom interrupts. “And here you sit, unavenged.”
“I’m alive,” Hadrian responds wryly, as if that will erase the harm he’s lived through.
He growls under his breath. “You make me angry, I wish you were angrier at being wronged, so I might find it easier to find the rage inside me to use against our enemies. But you wipe everything off, as if someone has stolen your wand and not killed you. Not eviscerated you.”
“I am angry,” Hadrian snaps, the effect lessened by his voice breaking- Tom summons some water, Hades takes it with shaking hands and a scowl. “I am angry,” he tries again after a sip. “I am but I just want to give up. I just want it to be over. I want no more people to die, I want to stop losing the people I love, and I want to be able to grow old. None of which, I am seemingly going to get. I want to know where I went wrong- I want a great many things, and it’s all inside of me and there is nothing I can do with it Tom. I don’t know where Mancer is right now, or what he’s planning- and he IS planning, his silence grates on me- but Griffin is leading my armies and I am not, and at the end of my tales, everyone I know is going to be going to war for me when I don’t even know if I can go to war myself.”
Tom tries to smile, fails and settles on kissing the inside of Hadrian’s wrist instead.
“We’ll all fight for you, if you want to lay down your sword we will pick it up.”
“They’ll all hate me,” Hadrian mutters. “Did you not see Orion’s face?”
“I’ll simply hex him into seeing reason,” Tom responded pointedly. “Hades I’ve only ever wanted you to be fulfilled and content at my side. It would seem I am failing at both.” Hadrian winces, picking up his double meaning. Tom won’t apologise though.
“I said I would let him go,” Hades responds weakly, pulling his wrist out of Toms grip and looking away.
“I don’t believe you,” Tom says simply. “He is the General to your armies, as you have just clearly stated.” Hadrian winces again. “And unfortunately, I know why. Vampires, are immune to necromancy. You could almost say he’s safer to love.”
“Mancer hates and fears you too much to turn you into a puppet,” Hadrian mutters. “He’ll just kill you.”
“Flattered.” He gets a pointed green eyed glare.
They sit in silence for a while, and Toms thoughts are ticking over at an impossible rate as he tries to catalogue what he knows and how he feels. Resentment. Is one of them. Resentment that he now knows things like other lives- how the future can change when interfered with the past- resentment for knowing about Voldemort at all- resentment for knowing Hadrian lived another live- anger- loathing- he has to swallow it all like bitter glass because underneath that all- Hadrian still inevitably chose him.
Still chose to love and devote effort and time into Tom’s stubborn refusal to change.
He feels betrayed, by himself, by Hadrian- at knowing that his second lover is indeed doing what Tom could not do and has not done. Griffin, is fighting, is actively hunting down Mactator and Mancer and being much more effective at it than any of the Triarii were.
Tom could spew all the excuses he wants- but won’t because his pride won’t allow it. It doesn’t matter that he didn’t have an army at his fingertips- if he’d devoted himself he could have formed an army. He can’t try and argue that Griffin has a few years on him- that’s just a lack of dedication and pursuement on his part.
He takes a deep breath, this time inhaling the smell of Hadrian’s shampoo which still lingers and considers any paths that were rapidly upcoming.
It would seem that between the two of them, there were still some loops in their relationship to get through.
It partially surprised him he even wanted to attempt to get through them. Once upon a time, he would have simply turned on his heels and abandoned Hadrian for this betrayal. Cheating seems laughable in the face of immortality. Tom is sure Hadrian loved in his previous life. Draco, was it? How odd, to know he loved a man that Tom only knows as a boy. It would feel childish to be jealous of him and he believes that Hadrian has long since moved on. Grieved him, yes, of course. Tom would expect little else- is reminded of him at times, but ultimately moves on. It’s not as if Tom can expect to be the only one to his heart- which prods directly at his own and he quells the burning jealousy before it can surface.
Hadrian is immortal, in a certain aspect. Having achieved what Tom so longed for- and Tom certainly no longer wished for it, and if he did it would be to stay purely by Hadrian’s side. He’s seen the pain it’s caused him- the stress- the pain. Immortality in death seems absurd and Tom would rather live successfully once.
He’s clearly already failed once.
But Griffin- he chews on the concept of the man and glowers.
Perhaps, it was because if Hadrian went further back in time rather than forward- after death, he can find Griffin and be familiar with him. Know him. The thought disgusts him but he understands it- which is perhaps worse when he so desires to be the sole one Hadrian knows and loves.
“Are you okay,” he murmurs eventually, and Hadrian shudders.
“I’ll recover.” His voice is so small, so quiet. The weight of this silent war has evidently taken its toll on Hadrian. “I think I’ve ruined it all,” Hadrian admits. “Ekkathion is in… my body, and when I returned, I think I killed the boy. I didn’t remember Fleamont at all and I don’t know how to fix it and even if I do, he’ll only be eleven again and Ekkathion no longer has a real body. I don’t know what to do with Hermione or- well I won’t apologise for Neville.”
Hermione, Hadrian’s friend- dead at his hand and Mancers.
“He won’t be allowed back at Hogwarts until I clear it up with Dumbledore- Dumbledore,” Hadrian exhales with a sigh that borders dangerously on a sob. “I need to speak to him- Grindelwalds out wandering Europe and I haven’t contacted him again-” another thing to look into again. Tom certainly had old words for Grindelwald. They were probably along the lines of Crucio, “and I need to figure out how to fix this fucking situation. But I can’t figure out anything. I’ve tried reverse herbology but for that I need to figure out what Mancer did- and I’ve tried to simply kill him, I invented the most powerful spell I know and that still failed. I channelled death itself and STILL failed. I don’t understand.”
Tom rolls all of that around in his head. “Could he have horcruxes himself?”
“Horcruxes can’t follow him through time, neither can the corpses,” Hadrian muttered. “I don’t even know how he followed me.”
“I’ll figure it out.”
“I know,” Hadrian says with a sigh and Tom ignores the feeling of warmth at the certainty in his voice. “I know,” he repeats. “But we’re running out of time.”
That they were. If Mancer was willing to get violent in Hogwarts and was making bolder moves in broad light there was due to be some kind of war soon.
“So much to be done,” Hadrian murmurs, voice hollow. He shakes his head. “I can’t do this again Tom. I can’t die again and have to restart. I can’t. I won’t.” He laughs bitterly. “This is it. I’m not doing this again.”
Tom is silently thankful for that. He’s not quite sure he can handle another death.
“I’ll give up the mantle after he’s dead I think, maybe before,” Hadrian murmurs, “or pass it on.” Green eyes flit to him. “How do you feel about being the Master of Death?” Tom scans Hadrian’s face, the twitch at his lips, the questioning look-
“Only until Mancer is dead. Then we’ll find someone knew or bury them.” Hadrian hums, eyes hooded- he must be exhausted then.
“It’s a curse to have them.”
“I know darling,” Tom murmurs into Hadrians temple. “I know.”
“Maybe we should give them to Grindelwald,” Hadrian grouses. “He’s wanted them so desperately after all. Let him deal with it all.” Tom just shakes his head.
“He’s untrustworthy.” The irony hits him the moment he says it but Hadrian says nothing, only huffs his amusement. “I love you,” Tom says at last. “Your memories won’t change that, you are aware of that?”
Hadrian seems to sink into that, like steel turning into mercury he goes liquid in Tom’s arms and all the air seems to deflate him.
“None of it? I’m not who I was.”
“Neither am I,” Tom points out sharply, “but I’m sure we can overcome this. I’m sure I can overcome this if you managed to still fall in love with me.”
Hadrian huffs.
“I love you too. But you know this already.”
You chose me, so I must.
“You won’t leave me, will you?” Tom asks.
“Only death can part us,” Hadrian pokes at Tom’s knee, “you know this.” Tom leans back with a wry smirk.
“So I’ve learned.”
So I’ve learned.