For the Greater Good || Tom Riddle ||

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Golden One

Warning: This chapter potentially contains major spoilers for the Fantastic Beast Series. The theories are not confirmed, but entirely plausible.

Her breath caught in her throat as she stared into the burning fireplace, recalling the days of her childhood that were spent in the small cottage in the valley. The gentle voice of her grandmother would tell her amazing tales of lore, stories about magical creatures of amazing strength and size, anecdotes about magnificent beasts and where to find them.

But no happiness came to her now. As the tinkling laughter echoed inside of her mind from many moons ago, all she felt was the echoing warmth of pinpointed rage fill her. 

Her eyes glazed over as she peered into the flames fueled in the fireplace. With her Inner Eye, images came and went. Shapes and swirls danced in the fire tendrils, outlines of ghosts and green light and empty words—the skeletons and breadcrumbs of memories and of moments breathed out but never inhaled.

She felt it all. Every betrayal and revelation felt like fire on her skin. The sting of abandonment and deceit, the punch of candor. There was power in the truth, but there was also pain. But pain could be sharpened, hardened, and molded. It could be used as a weapon.

Reality warped and melted around her as she was sucked into vision after vision. As her world went up in flames, it was only poetic for the witch to see past, present, and future in the fire. The smell of smoke hung in the air, but she breathed it in even as it burned her lungs.

There was no point outrunning it or shielding herself from it now. She opened her soul to the cosmic waterfall of trauma and anger and smite—the prime motivators of revenge. She invited the chaos in, knowing that she somehow couldn't avoid it, so she thought she could get ahead of it by welcoming it with open arms.

And as night came and she held the same prophetic fire in her hands that once burned in the hearth, she knew what she had to do. With a single breath, she blew the blaze out of her palm and allowed its lashing flares to eat at the walls of her childhood home. The inferno consumed the structure hungrily as it pined for more air, more fuel, more pandemonium. Gwen walked soundlessly through the heat unscathed. The element almost seemed to bend to her will as she greeted the evening sky.

The conflagration did not scare her—no, she was the phoenix consumed by fire, turned to ash, only be reborn from the flames.  She protected herself with a wordless Protego and her pain—it would be her weapon in the war to come. 

***

Apparition had its limits. There was a range and it became increasingly difficult as the distance to be travelled increased. It was advised that inter-continental Apparition should only be attempted by the most highly skilled of wizards and even then, most didn't in fear of the risk of getting splinched, or worse.

Tom had used all of the Floo Powder from Valdrin's house as they fled Albania. There wasn't a broomstick around for miles, and there surely weren't any winged horses or flying cars.

There was Portkey in Dartmoor, however. It was operated by an old wizard that Gwen had come across several times in her youth named Albert O'Grady. He was stubborn, rough around the edges, gruff and a bit rude. He was overpriced too, but Gwen wasn't too worried.

The green hills and white cliffs provided a scenic backdrop as she stood before the wrinkly man.

"What do you want?"

"Munich, Germany."

Albert scoffed and spit on the ground. "Have you lost your marbles?" he asked callously as he rubbed his moustache. "Travel to Germany is restricted cause of the war. Sorry, doll."