i am lord voldemort • Tom Riddle

XXXII

"You do not seek to kill me, Dumbledore? Above such brutality, are you?"

"We both know there are other ways of destroying a man, Tom."

—Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix

III

Tom had only arrived for a few minutes when the shockwave came out of nowhere, knocking nearly everyone in the vicinity to the frozen ground. So many were crowded in the vast area that he didn't see it coming until it was too late and all he could manage was to brace for impact, wand still hanging at his side.

An impact that never came.

"Careful, Tom," came a voice from behind him. "One should always be aware of their surroundings upon entering a battlefield."

Tom's jaw clenched. He knew that voice— and loathed it. "What are you doing here, Dumbledore?"

"Professor Dumbledore," Dumbledore corrected genially. He cut his wand through the air, dispelling whatever protection he'd erected around them in an instant. "I'm rather late, I'll admit. It took time to extract an explanation out of your friends as to why one of my students was sneaking out of the case beneath the noses of the faculty."

Irritation flared through him at both everyone he'd left behind in Slughorn's office and the man before him, despite— and in part because of— the aid he'd just provided.

"They told you?" he asked, working to keep his tone level.

Dumbledore swept past him, and past the countless collapsed bodies around them. Unconscious, it seemed. At that observation, Tom hated the flash of relief he felt at Dumbledore's interference. He couldn't have afforded to be knocked out with the rest. Only perhaps a quarter of the original number remained standing, recovering from their surprise.

"Not in so many words," the professor replied evasively.

Tom made to follow, eyeing him with thinly veiled distrust. "And you're not planning on sending me back?"

"I could certainly try," he mused, "but I doubt you'd listen. Stick close to me, Tom."

Dumbledore was right about one thing. Tom had absolutely no intention of listening, and was in fact already making plans to ditch him when he saw her.

Ophelia.

Her hair was different than he remembered, now entirely silver to match the tall man beside her. Longer, too.  He supposed she didn't have much time to waste trimming it if she was constantly on the move. A physical representation of all the time passed since she tricked him into falling asleep in the corridor while she escaped stung bitterly.

Ophelia broke free of Grindelwald's embrace— one arm draped protectively over her shoulder to shield her from the brunt of his explosive spell— and she ran through the maze of Grindelwald's followers, who evidently knew to shield against his spell ahead of time, towards the nearest fallen wizard. Apparently satisfied that the fallen were alive and not in immediate danger, she sighed in relief, her pent up breath smoking up in the chill evening air.

Then, across thestrals white field, their eyes met.

Tom moved faster, knocking into various Aurors and Ministry personal in his haste, leaving Dumbledore to trail far more cautiously behind. Gazes still locked, he saw rather than heard her say his name, her mouth forming the word slowly, like she couldn't believe the way it tasted on her tongue after so many months.