The Other Side: A Harry Potter FanFiction

Chapter XXXVIII

Dumbledore stood before the great, large doors that lead into the Great Hall.

            The Entrance Hall was still, in a way, how he remembered it. Besides the large hole in the front doors, the cobwebs and the emptiness of it, it remained almost the same. It was still lit by torches, and the ceiling was still so high it was near impossible to see. The same two sets of armor guarded the double oak front doors, though one had apparently been smashed when Sirius had blown his way inside; its head lay at the other end of the hall, its limbs and torso having been reduced to chunks. The flagstone floor had been cracked slightly, but it was still the same floor that he, Albus Dumbledore, had once stridden across freely, without any worries.

            It is my only wish, he thought as he placed his hand on the door, That others will be able to do the same.

            Slowly, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.

            The Great Hall was a large room. Four long tables stretched along it, tables that used to be used by hundreds of students daily. Dumbledore’s eyes lingered on the tables as if he could see the ghosts of the students still sitting there, enjoying their dinner and chatting about classes and Quidditch and whatever else students talked about.

            Then he looked to the High Table.

            It was another long table, like the other four, but it was raised on a platform at the other end of the room, and it was positioned to face the other tables, so teachers could watch students.

            In the middle of the table was a chair that was more like a throne. Sitting in it, draped in long black cloaks, was Tom Riddle.

            When he’d been sixteen, he’d had jet-black hair and dark eyes. Now, his black hair wasn’t as dark, strands of gray and white standing out. His dark eyes had gone cold and empty, and as they scanned Dumbledore carelessly, he greeted in a low voice, “I had wondered when you would come to me, Dumbledore.”

            Dumbledore didn’t move. “I remember when you were just a boy, Tom.”

            Something flickered in Voldemort’s eyes. “That is no longer my name, Dumbledore. You of all people should know that.”

            Dumbledore stepped towards the first long table. “You would sit right here,” he said, letting his finger glide along the flat surface. “At the Slytherin Table, with all of your friends. Or were they followers, really?” 

            “My followers are my friends,” Voldemort replied with a grin, though he continued to stare coldly at Dumbledore.

            “You were such a good boy,” Dumbledore said, “You never got into trouble. You helped teachers. I suppose you were just trying to get on our good sides, though.”

            “And it worked,” he said with a superior tone. “Every teacher at this entire school trusted me completely. That is, everyone except for you.”

            “Maybe if you hadn’t tried so hard, I would’ve trusted you, Tom,” Dumbledore said, memories flashing before his eyes; a boy in an orphanage, a teenager hiding a deadly secret behind his charming smile, a man racing away furiously, the headlines of the Daily Prophet that read THE MINISTRY HAS FALLEN: DARK LORD TAKES RULE and seeing that same man grinning triumphantly.

            Though his expression stayed the same, one of Voldemort’s long fingers twitched slightly. “You’d best stop calling me that, old man.”

            “You had the capability to do great things,” Dumbledore whispered, “You were always a great wizard. I’d just hoped you wouldn’t take the wrong path.”

            “I didn’t,” Voldemort said, and he lifted himself from the chair slowly. “I’m the most powerful man in the world. The greatest wizard of all time! I’m greater than you ever were, old man. And I’m about to prove it.”

            With speed Dumbledore couldn't catch, Voldemort pulled his wand from his cloak and pointed it directly at him.