devotion till violence. professor riddle

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ XVII. meet me at the hanging tree

flashback one; at the age of thirteen
flashback two; at the age of seventeen

THE AIR FILLED HIS lungs, laden with longing for their purpose, as the water receded in torrents, pouring out of his mouth more and more, as if his insides were composed only of the strange liquid. The muddy shore of the lake gave in under his hands, sinking deeper as he tried to rescue himself even before he had opened his eyes.

The iron grip on his ankle loosened the moment he left the cold water that had wrapped itself around his body like a leaden blanket, and the even colder, even more bitter autumn breeze embraced him like a thousand knife wounds. His clothes, heavy and dripping, clung to his body.

His throat burned as if he had been screaming for hours, and his lungs bled as if he had inhaled shards of glass.

The wind whipped Tom Riddle's face as he lifted his head and stared into the forest, which stared back at him as if disappointed. Listlessly, he dropped onto his back, his limbs trembling with cold and weakness after pulling himself out of the lake whose depths had threatened to swallow him for all eternity.

The Heir of Nothing looked up at the sky, almost completely obscured by the tall tree crowns, except for the hollow just above the centre of the lake; the moon reflecting on its black surface. Oh, how beautiful the cruelty of it all was.

It was so cold, yet he could not move, his limbs already frozen by the creeping season's temperature.

Again and again the moment replayed in his mind; again and again until it was burned into his mind and he could think of something else as he pleased, though the scene continued to play in the background.

The face kissed by youth, the eyes so hollow and devoid of the light of life, staring back at him.

A figure from the theatre of his own young mind, wandering through his dreams and seeming to wait for him wherever they were. A ghost, a friend, an enemy, a lover?

There she stood, in the middle of the lake, where she belonged and where her kingdom lay; water dripping from the white nightgown as Tom was pulled into its depths, his eyes wide open, greeted by blood instead of the dark green of the water.

Tom believed to be dreaming, or to have been consumed by madness entirely, as his mind began to clear and he sat up, gazing across the surface of the water. He did not like to forget, but it seemed he had forgotten everything as he sat in the mud, listening to the silence of the Silent Woods.

The mist crept out of the darkness created by the trees, almost like snakes, and something so familiar suddenly stirred unease in the boy. With weak legs he rose and wrapped his arms around his wet body, feeling eyes watching him.

A certain peace spread within him, merging with that of the woods, numbing all thoughts and feelings as he turned around. Step after step he walked into the very darkness that had tried to kill him.

Tom knew he wanted to throw his head back and laugh hysterically until that very sound replaced the quiet of the Silent Forest. Why didn't he? He should scream that it had failed to fulfil its deepest wish and that Tom was an innocent soul corrupted by circumstance and the universe, the gods or whatever was out there laughing at them could see that too.

Innocent people did not die; those chosen by the Greater could not be killed.

With trembling motions, he dragged himself out of the darkness of the woods, walking between bushes and shadowy figures he had never noticed, and never will. The moon was so bright that night, yet only a few rays of its light managed to penetrate the canopy.