Invictus [Tom Riddle / Tomione]

Snapshots of July 1949

Tom woke in a cold sweat. He jumped up immediately, swinging his long legs over the side of the bed and rushing to the loo.

He emptied his stomach, retching violently, his entire body racked with tremors.

For three weeks he had been like this. He'd been plagued by dreams of his future, of Hermione's memories replaying over and over, of the snake-like monster he'd become...

... of the grave mistakes he'd made.

He dreamed of Hermione in pain, being grievously tortured.

As sure as Tom had always been of himself, as calm and confident a face he presented to the world... deep inside, behind his mask, he was a nervous, anxious individual.

He thought and overthought his every move to the point of insanity.

He had always been very sure of his plans until now. He'd even imagined them to be foolproof.

Now, he doubted himself, which was something Tom Riddle wasn't used to.

Foolish. That's what he had been in his arrogance.

It was plaguing him. Driving him mad. Each night he woke and spent the early hours of the morning deep in thought, his mind racing over the details of the future, everything he'd missed or overlooked.

Tom lived in a constant state of self-editing, his perfectionism like an invasive plant whose vines often overtook everything in his life, wrapping themselves around him and choking the life out of him.

But pride... pride was his worst vice.

His deadly sin.

It was a seed that germinated within him as it had Lucifer, and it alone caused him to make profound mistakes.

He walked back into the bedroom, his eyes adjusted to the pervading darkness, allowing him to see that Hermione was still sleeping peacefully.

He stared at her for several moments, thinking about just how much his life had changed. How much she had sacrificed and overcome just to be with him.

Tom was having difficulty processing the emotions he was feeling.

He'd never thought himself incapable of emotional intelligence before, but now he found himself fighting the depth of feeling the witch wrung out of him.

He came to stand beside her, reaching a hand out to brush a strand of hair from her face. She stirred slightly.

Tom swallowed back the thick bile that rose into his throat. The first light of dawn was beginning to peek through the windows, its rays virginal as they painted the room in a swathe of pink and pale gold.

He turned and left the room silently.

He made his way out to the french doors of the terrace, where Perdita was waiting with the morning paper. He took it and gave the bird her favorite treat, sugared violet.

He retreated back into the flat and brewed his coffee, unease still simmering in the pit of his stomach. While he waited, he lit a cigarette and unfolded the copy of The Daily Prophet. His lips spread into a grin as he read the headline.

Wizengamot Verdict Finalized: Rosier Acquitted!

——————-

Tom held the old fountain pen in his open palm.

It had been his father's, and the leather box bore his own initials, etched in fine gold lettering.

Time was a strange thing.