I would like to leave this city; this old town don't smell too pretty.
And I can feel the warning signs running around my mind.
And when I leave this island, I'll book myself into a soul asylum.
I can feel the warning signs running around my mind.
So here I go, I'm still scratching around in the same old hole.
My body feels young, but my mind is very old.
Half the World Away - Aurora
So nothing's changed.
You've been lying through your teeth again, the lion's lost its mane.
You've been cornered into you can't win.
What's the point in having something if that something makes you thin?
Thin - Aquilo
•
Tom trudged down Knockturn Alley toward Borgin and Burke's alone, the violin case swinging at his side, his footsteps echoing on the cobblestones of the cold, deserted street. At some point since he had been on the Serpentine Bridge with Luna, clouds had rolled over the moon, making the night darker than it had been before. Luna's face flashed in his mind, alternating between the look she had given him after their kiss and the one she had given him after he had told her the truth, only interrupted by the face of a black-haired little girl, afraid but stubborn, throwing up her hand at him. Only when he collided with a hag shuffling down the alleyway, her sour breath fogging in his face in the cold air, did he quicken his pace, brushing off every inch of his suit the hag had touched with unconscious neuroticism as he hurried away.
It was late. The sign in the dirty window of the door was turned to Closed, but the doorknob was charmed to recognize Tom's hand. It unlocked at his touch, and he pushed the door open, making the bell overhead jingle into the depths of the shop, the sound dampened by the layer of dust on every surface. Tom shut the door behind him and stood as still as a statue for a moment just inside, allowing his thoughts to drift away again, adding one more shadowy shape in the dark amongst the clutter of the shop's wares.
"That you, boy?"
Burke's voice startled Tom out of his mind once more, and he pulled out his wand and muttered, "Lumos." The light from Tom's wand cast strange shadows on his employer emerging from the darkness behind the counter, somehow looking even greasier than usual in faded, blue-striped silk pajamas.
"Of course it's me," Tom answered in a haughty voice, hopeful Burke hadn't been able to see the look on his face in the dark when he'd been lost in thought, unguarded. He'd had enough of being transparent for one day. "If anyone else tried to get past the curses on the door, you would know it."
"Well, what are you doing standing in the dark for? And what took you so damn long? That bloody concert was over ages ago," Burke said, crossing the distance between he and Tom, shuffling into the wandlight. "Bloody hell, what happened to your face?" he asked as he squinted at the dried blood smeared across Tom's upper lip. Without waiting for any response, he turned his gaze with greed at Tom and said, "Did you get it?"
Tom pushed the violin case into Burke's chest, overcome with a sudden desire to be rid of the thing, then rubbed at the dried blood on his face with the back of his hand. "Naturally. Mendes is an imbecile; I can't believe he's been able to outsmart you all these years." He knew he shouldn't antagonize Burke, not so long as he still desired to be employed at the shop, but he was feeling reckless and hostile.
Burke's full attention was on the violin, however, and he ignored Tom's jab. "Yes!" the older man breathed with something like lust, followed by a cackle. "Let's have a look at it, shall we?"
Following Burke to the counter, Tom shoved his empty hand in his pocket, holding the hand with his wand aloft so they could inspect the instrument. In the wandlight, Tom could see each individual hair in the stubble on Burke's face, and he pressed his lips together to mask his own distaste for the man.
Burke laid the case on the counter and flipped it open, letting out a low whistle of appreciation as the violin reflected the wandlight back at them. "Yes, yes, you've done it! The bond is broken, and it's mine!" he whispered, licking his lips. "I've already discussed the sale of this with your pretty little lady friend, and for a pretty Galleon, too. Thought it would make a nice addition to her collection of curios, she did."
"Luna?" Tom blurted without thinking, momentarily confused.
"No, boy, Walburga Black. She's redoing the drawing room over there at Grimmauld Place to make a place to display it, and she'd like it delivered in a week or two. I suppose you can deliver it to her," Burke responded with another cackle and a leering look. "Not that it matters to me how many witches you fool around with so long as it doesn't interfere with my business, but it might do you well to keep them straight, in particular the rich, pure-blooded, socially powerful, and beautiful ones." He paused, then added, "Especially the rich ones. Bit of advice from me to you."
Tom did not trust himself to respond to his boss, who did not seem fussed with a response regardless and had already turned back to the violin on the counter. As Burke picked up the violin with loving fingers to inspect it further, Tom lit the shop's lamps with a flick of his wand, then headed towards the back of the shop to escape to his tiny flat upstairs. He couldn't wait to get out of the ridiculous Muggle suit and be left alone. His rage during the argument with Luna had faded to leave him exhausted and on edge. A throbbing pain had started up behind his eyes, deep beneath his skull, and he had a feeling spending more time in Burke's company would not improve it.
Just before he could slip out of the room and up the steps, Burke called after him, "Oi, boy! Get back here!"
Shoving his wand back in his pocket to avoid hexing his employer in a moment of irritation, Tom walked back to the counter with a sour look on his face. "Yes?" he bit out.
"You did well, getting this for me," Burke said, setting the violin back in its velvet-lined case, then wiping sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his pajamas. "I suppose you can have that time off for your holiday, as we discussed."
Tom blinked. He had somehow forgotten about asking for time to go away from work. This surprised him, as it had been all but consuming his mind before Luna had reappeared. He would have gone even if Burke had refused him the time away, but that would have been more complicated, and Burke, amongst his many other qualities, was paranoid, careful, and a competent wizard. It was easier to play along and ask for permission, something Burke had taken to hold over Tom's head based on his work performance. It appeared securing the violin had satisfied him so much as to allow the holiday without further tormenting.
"Thank you, sir," Tom said, inclining his head toward his boss.
"Albania, is that right?" Burke asked.
"Yes, sir."
"What are you going for again? Visiting relatives or something?" Then, as Tom opened his mouth to respond, Burke waved a dismissive hand and added, "Ah, nevermind, I don't give a damn."
Even with his wand in his pocket, Tom's fingers twitched, but he controlled himself, half because he felt too tired to do anything about it anyway. There would come a day when he no longer needed to be in Burke's good graces. What a wonderful day that would be. Sating himself with the thought, Tom again turned away to go upstairs, this time unimpeded by Burke.
Finally, blessedly alone in his tiny flat above the shop, Tom started peeling off the layers of his tuxedo, tossing the gloves into the corner of his room with disgust and frustration, then adding the coat with its tails, the vest, the bowtie, and the shirt to the pile. When the shirt hit the ground, the cufflinks he had failed to remove thudded on the wooden floor. It was not like him to be so untidy - the rest of his flat, though small and the building old, was spotless and well organized. But he could not wait any longer to be rid of the things he was wearing. Before he could remove the pants, he found himself sitting down on the edge of his bed, his head heavy and aching as he held it in his hands.
These headaches were new over the past few years. He could pinpoint the exact time they had started, though he did not like to admit it, because to admit it would be to acknowledge something that had now become a trend.
After he'd made the first Horcrux, his diary, made from the death of the Mudblood by his basilisk, he'd felt increasingly fatigued. He had lost weight. His insomnia had worsened. Of course, there had been a brief period during school when he had felt better, just for a time when Luna had been present -
His head throbbed more painfully. He clenched his eyes shut. The symptoms had returned to their full force after she had left, but they had been so vague. Tired. Pale. Cold fingers and feet. They could have been attributed to almost anything. He was a poor sleeper already. He was naturally pale and did not spend a great deal of time in the sun. Easy to explain away.
Just after Luna left, during the Easter holiday of his sixth year at Hogwarts, he performed the ritual to make his grandfather's ring his second Horcrux. This was fueled in part by the spitefulness he felt in the immediate aftermath of her disappearance. And so he had rent another piece of his soul off, the part that had become loose and damaged from murdering his father months before, and protectively hid it within the ring. The ring had then been placed under the carcass of the Gaunt family home for safekeeping.
This was when the headaches had started. They came and went, usually quite rare, coming on with stress and becoming exacerbated by bright lights and loud sounds. And by interacting with people. Like Burke.
He sighed and dug his fingertips into his temples. He imagined reaching inside his own skull and somehow alleviating the pressure.
No, Tom knew exactly what event the headaches correlated to. And furthermore, no healing potions had ever alleviated them when they came. Another mark of their Dark origin. The problem was that admitting it concerned him. None of the research he had done on Horcruxes had ever indicated physical symptoms as a potential side effect. He had no idea how to resolve the issue - if it was even resolvable. What if the reason he hadn't found anything about such things in his research was because no other Horcrux-maker had experienced this? What if it was him, his own fault, his own weakness...perhaps as a result of his impure blood? And what if, with each Horcrux he made, things progressively worsened? He already had torn his soul into three pieces, but he wanted seven. In what ways would his physical body be rebelling then?
He had charmed the Grey Lady before he'd left Hogwarts. She had told him where to find the diadem, the beloved possession of Rowena Ravenclaw, and that which he had so coveted for this Dark purpose. He had gone and found it following graduation, too. But when he had arrived in that forest in Albania several years ago, he had found himself uneager, finding reasons to delay the process.
Tom opened the drawer of his bedside table and pulled out the emerald green quill Luna had gifted him for Christmas. The silver snake she had painted lay idle. His head throbbing, sitting on his bed in his tiny flat, Tom now could at least acknowledge the reason he had placed the diadem back in the tree, protected it with spells, and left the country without harming a soul. He supposed the threat of worsening physical ailments had contributed, but more so than this, it had been Luna's voice that had chased him out of Albania the last time, murmuring words she had said on one of their last days together in his mind. She had told him it wasn't too late for him to turn around, and he had asked her how she could know. And plain as day, unafraid and unashamed, she had told him, I know because I love you.
Even in her absence, even after her gutting betrayal, in that moment, these words had gripped him like an animal in a trap. Words he had never heard before, nor did he expect to hear them again.
He set the quill down on top of his bedside table and averted his eyes, looking instead at the dark wood grain of the floorboards. Finally, over three years later - three years of working for Burke, three years of delving ever further into the Dark Arts, three years of ignored headaches and heartaches - he had been prepared to go back and move forward with his plan. He intended to return to Albania and complete the task this time. How odd her timing to have reappeared in his life just before he did so. What an irritating twist of fate.
He touched the skin below his nose again, where his blood had been drawn from his body by the black-haired little girl's magic. Another wave of pain ratcheted up in his head, this time accompanied by nausea, making him press the heels of his hands into his eyes. He slowly reclined in his bed to lay down, resigning himself to attempting to rest until the episode was over. There were things he could not think about right now.
As he laid down, he waved a hand, and the pile of Muggle clothes in the corner burst into blue flames, burning until they were reduced to ash. There was no use in attempting to further think over the current night's events just now. The headache was progressing, and given that none of his potions had ever alleviated it, there was nothing to do but wait. And if it was his own weakness, physically manifesting from the loss of part of his soul to the Horcrux, well...that was just something he would have to smother and snuff out.
•
Luna lay awake in bed, long after Tom had left, long after Lazarus had checked in on her due to hearing all the shouting, and long after she had settled a fussy Violetta down to sleep. She had rarely been one to struggle to sleep, but she couldn't sleep tonight.
Foolish. Foolish. Foolish. The word ricocheted around her head. She had known better. She had decided not to come back here. She had put the Time-Turner away. Even before Violetta. She had known what he would become, with or without her. She had known better. Foolish.
"I'm a right mess," she whispered to the dark room.
Rolling over on her side, the old mattress springs creaking in protest beneath her, she stared at Violetta's cot. She could hear the soft sounds of her daughter breathing, the breaths steady and deep in sleep. It was the most reassuring sound in the world, proof that she was lying there comfortable and safe, and still, her mind echoed on: foolish.
"Little love, I don't know what to do," she confessed to Violetta. Violetta did not so much as stir in response.
How had she allowed this to happen? Looking back over the past three years, she felt nothing but lost, could see nothing but errors in her own judgement. Allowing Tom to manipulate her with Maximiliano. Putting Violetta in danger by coming here. Trusting Doyle. Not trusting her friends enough to tell them about the Time Turner Voldemort had given her. Going with Voldemort to the Riddle House and allowing her father to come looking for her and die. Falling in love with Tom Riddle. Going back in the past at all. It hadn't made a damn bit of difference in Tom, and had only caused herself so much pain and loss.
An image writhed in her mind of Maximiliano in pain, Maximiliano gasping for breath, Maximiliano dying, and all the while with an accusatory expression that screamed at her and her foolishness.
Her guilt interwove with terror when her mind traded Maximiliano's face for her father's, then Violetta's. She gasped and put her hand over her eyes. As if that could block it out.
Her heart ached. She missed her father so much. The waves of that loss had become less frequent, more space in between them, but she still felt like she was drowning when they came. When her mother had died, she could still feel her presence, knew she was just out of sight. Now she just felt alone and riddled with self-doubt. Had she imagined her mother's presence after her death? Why couldn't she feel her parents here with her now? Didn't the universe understand that she still needed them nearly as much as Violetta needed her?
As though sensing her distress, Othello crept up the bed in the dark, stepped onto her abdomen, and settled onto her chest with a low, slow purr. He gave her face a gentle headbutt, and Luna wrapped her arms around his warm, furry body. She took a deep breath and shut her eyes against the dark. Her pulse had begun to speed up with anxiety and pain and loneliness, pumping the same admonition of foolishness through her mind with each beat of her heart. Another deep breath, in time to the steady breaths of Othello's purr. Her heart rate slowed; the echoes of "foolish" faded away. She opened her eyes again, looking in the direction of her sleeping daughter.
"I suppose, my love, that if I had not been such a fool these past three years, I wouldn't have you," Luna whispered. This earned another headbutt from Othello as a way to voice his approval.
There was no point in wallowing in self-pity. She had made mistakes, to be sure. But there was balance in everything. Violetta was proof enough of that.
Scratching behind Othello's ear, Luna asked, "What do you think, my dear friend? Where do we go from here? Where does one turn when one is hopelessly lost?"
The room became quiet except for the warm sound of Othello's purr as Luna considered. She could not justify staying here. She had known Tom would not change - it was why she had not returned to begin with. Still, she could not bring herself to have regrets about coming back here in her heart. There had been no other choice for her to make, not once she found herself trapped in the house in Ecuador with Bellatrix mere feet away. She had done what she had to do. She had kept Violetta safe.
Counting the cracks spread like spiderwebs in the old plaster ceiling of her room, illuminated by the moonlight escaping past the heavy velvet curtains, it was the things that had happened since coming back that made her feel the most ashamed. As if the very sight of Tom had been enough for her to deceive herself yet again.
Othello's claws came out of his paws in a gentle pressure against her skin as he purred on her chest, a reassuring touch in response to her heart speeding up again underneath him. The Kneazle did not open his eyes as he did this, but she understood his intention and gave another ear scratch in thanks.
It didn't matter anymore. All that mattered was moving forward, with Violetta, to keep her safe, to give her the world. So she could not stay here. It was damaging to herself, and dangerous for Violetta. But where to go? To Cat? Somewhere new? Her heart longed to somehow get back to her future, to Harry and Ginny and the rest. But that was unwise, not to mention impossible; it had not been safe there either, and it had taken Dumbledore, the greatest wizard of the age, months to solve the problem of sending her back last time -
Luna's fingers paused beside Othello's ear. "Dumbledore," she breathed. In a show of agreement and encouragement, Othello's purr surged louder, even as he tilted his head to bump her fingers, seeking more scratches. Relief washed over her. Of course. Dumbledore. How had it taken her this long to think of it? Dumbledore had helped her once; he knew where she came from. She could - should seek him out and ask for his aid.
They could leave that morning. Whether Dumbledore sent her back to the future or not, he would know the right thing to do. Hogwarts could be where her family started over, where they found a new path, a new future. Where they could be safe. Safe, away...away from Tom.
A new wave of grief crashed over her, this time for Tom, the loss of him yet again, and for his soul. She wondered if her leaving him again would accelerate his decomposition, or if that thought was a form of self-flattery, inflating her own importance. No, he did care about her, in whatever way he could. Obsessively, resentfully. It would torment him, just as it did her, all over again.
She had injured him, too. Worse, she had withheld his own daughter from him, something she felt both justified in and distraught over.
Perhaps she owed him the decency of saying goodbye.
•
The next morning, Luna rose early despite such poor sleep. She swept back the heavy velvet curtains. The fog of dawn was still coiling up and down Knockturn Alley, refracting the sun's first rays and making the usually grim alley appear to glow.
Violetta and Othello stirred at the same time, both making sounds of protest at the sudden infiltration of light into their sleep.
"I know, darlings, but we have places to be today," Luna responded.
Packing was easy. They owned such few things now, having left most of their belongings in the future. Once Violetta was dressed, Luna carried the child down the hall to where she could hear Lazarus shuffling about his room getting ready for the day. She knocked on the door.
Lazarus' shuffling steps crossed to the other side of the door and opened it. "What is it?" he gruffed.
"I'm sorry for disturbing you in your own time and space, but I must ask a favor of you. Violetta and I will be leaving today. Your hospitality has been most generous, but it is time for us to go. I apologize for leaving on such short notice. I have to run an errand before we go, however. It won't take long. Do you mind keeping an eye on Violetta for me, just for a few minutes?"
The old wizard's dark eyes peered at her between bushy brows and bushy mustache. After a moment, he said, "You're leaving because of Burke's damn assistant, aren't you? What did he say to you last night when he was being such an arse? Why'd he make you want to go?"
Luna smiled. "Have you grown to enjoy having us here, Lazarus?"
Lazarus grunted, then turned around to attend to his tea kettle which had just begun whistling over conjured flames. He waved a hand at her over his shoulder as he walked away. "Keep your secrets, then. What's it to me. I'll watch the girl. We can have a cup of tea. But don't dilly-dally. I have work to do."
"Thank you, sir. And thank you again for your kindness in taking us in."
Another grunt, as he busied himself with his kettle. He paused to look up at Violetta. "Come here, girl, sit with me awhile."
Luna lowered the child to the floor. The moment Violetta's feet touched the ground, she ran to the old man's side, looking up at the kettle with fascination. Luna pulled the door shut on the scene, her smile fading as she continued down the dim hallway, dodging the crates almost as second-nature now.
Pulling on her cloak, she stepped out into the quiet alley, none of the businesses open yet. The mist on the cobblestones was dissipating, but there was still an uncharacteristic lightness to the place. She pulled her cloak tighter around her as she descended the narrow stairs from the door of the White Wyvern to the street. It was still cold.
Crossing the alleyway, she approached the foreboding dark door of Borgin and Burkes. The lightness of the morning seemed to skirt around the dark shop, which loomed over her like a hulking beast. The sign in the dingy door window was still turned to Closed.
She was sure the door would not open with a simple unlocking spell - at best it would remain shut and silent, and at worst it would leave her with an ugly curse if she tried. Besides, she supposed that it was rude to burst into Mr. Burke's shop like that so early and unexpected.
Instead, she knocked, loud enough that the store's strange owner would hear it even from a back room. The sound seemed to land on the dissipating mist itself and echo around the empty street. She peered through the dirty window, looking for any sign of movement inside. When there was none, she knocked again, this time in one continuous stream of insistent sounds.
At long last came the sound of a man cursing deep inside the shop, then a door behind the counter banged open. Through the dingy glass, she could see Caractacus Burke emerging from his private quarters still in striped pajamas, his hair hanging lank on the sides of his head. His face, stormy as he came out of his flat, became downright murderous when he recognized her through the glass.
He crossed the floor of the shop in seconds and wrenched the door of the shop open. Seething, he spat, "What in the bloody hell do you think you're doing, pounding incessantly on my shop at this forsaken hour? Haven't I made myself perfectly clear that you aren't welcome here? Can't you read?" He jerked a thumb at the sign on the door. "The shop is closed!"
"Please, Mr. Burke, I'm not here for business, although I'm sure you are quite clever enough to know that already."
Burke paused, caught off guard by her politeness. His eyes narrowed at her, as though trying to spot a secret insincerity on her part.
Luna continued. "I'm sorry to wake you, but I'm leaving London in short order, and I hope you will allow me to enter your shop to speak with your assistant, Mr. Riddle, before I leave."
"And why should I allow that?" Burke said.
"Because it would be the kind thing to do."
"What gave you the impression I was kind?"
"Well, everyone has the capacity for kindness, just as everyone has the capacity for cruelty."
Burke blinked. "You're an odd witch."
"You are far from the first person to tell me so," Luna answered with a smile.
"He doesn't live here."
"He must. I've never seen him leave the building at the end of the day when the shop closes. His flat must be inside. Upstairs, perhaps."
Again, Burke narrowed his eyes at her. "Observant little thing, aren't you? How do you know he doesn't Apparate out?"
"Surely a wizard so clever as yourself would have placed anti-Apparition wards on the shop. You have highly valuable goods here. You wouldn't want them stolen. And unfortunately, you trade in the sorts of goods that attract precisely the type of person who might be comfortable with theft." She eyed the disturbing array of wares in the dim shop behind Burke's shoulder. "I'm sure that is just one of the many protective enchantments you have placed on your shop, Mr. Burke."
"'Clever'! Your attempts at flattery won't work," he growled, though he seemed to be regarding her with growing, begrudging respect, perhaps realizing she could not be dismissed as silly out of hand.
Luna blinked. "It isn't flattery. You are no fool. I doubt anyone would be able to assign that as one of your faults. Generosity, on the other hand, perhaps you are lacking." She intended this as a mere observation, not as incendiary.
He shook his head at her, greasy hair waving. "Get out of my sight." He started to close the door. Luna's hand shot out to stop the door from closing. Burke glared at her. "Have you a death wish in that pretty blonde head of yours?"
"I don't believe so, although we are all occasionally a mystery, even to ourselves."
"Dammit, woman," Burke swore. "Enough of the nonsense!"
"I'm happy to leave you alone if you let me upstairs to speak to Tom," she said, pushing.
"Fine! For Merlin's sake! Go!" He stood aside and thrust a finger in the direction of the black stairs behind the counter. As she passed by him, he added, "And don't even think of touching anything in my shop. If you do, you will regret it." His wicked grin followed her up the stairs.
There was only one door shut upstairs. She hovered outside it, knowing it must be the one to Tom's flat. Her fist hesitated just before it knocked on the door. Maybe coming here was more foolishness. No, it was the right thing to do. To end it.
Swallowing the moment of apprehension, she knocked on the door.
"What is it?" came Tom's sharp and impatient voice from the room.
"It's me," she answered. She then clarified, as though it were necessary, "Luna Lovegood."
There was a long silence in the room, long enough that Luna thought he might refuse to open the door. Then there were quick footsteps across the floor, just a few before his long legs carried him to the door, and then the door was opened. Tom stood in the doorway, his tall posture and imposing gaze somewhat diminished by his tousled hair and the wrinkled Muggle pants he'd slept in from the night before. Before she realized it, her eyes had skipped over his shirtless torso and noted what appeared to be a linear and barely-healed scar just above his right hip bone, which spanned several centimeters across.
"So you were the one making all the noise downstairs. What do you want?" Tom asked, voice stilted, but oddly no longer hostile.
Luna looked up into his face. The air felt thick, as though it gorged itself on the uncomfortable tension and tenuous calm between them that was following their argument the night before. "May I come in for a moment?"
"What for?"
"Please?"
Tom considered her with an impassive face, then stood aside to let her into his flat and shut the door behind her after she had stepped inside.
It felt strange to Luna to be here, and she walked around the room with a slow and careful gait. This was something she hadn't expected, though what she had expected, she wasn't quite sure. She had been in the Riddle House when he was staying there, but that had been his parents' home, and a space he occupied as Lord Voldemort and shared with Death Eaters. This was different. This was a private space all his own. Small and aged, yes, with no excess, but not an item out of place. Restrained. Controlled. Taciturn. Strange in how it revealed so much and so little about him at the same time.
She dragged her fingertips across the spines of a row of books on his bookshelf, her back to him. The titles of the books alone made her shudder, but they were in alphabetical order by the author's surname. She picked her fingers up and looked at the tips. Clean. There wasn't a spot of dust on the shelf. Luna gave a small smile in spite of herself, then turned around.
Tom was watching her, his arms crossed across his chest. He had smoothed his hair down while her back had been turned. "I thought you didn't want to talk to me anymore." There was a hint of mocking in his voice.
"That is a gross oversimplification, and I will not respond to it."
"I'm not going to ask you again why you're here."
She met his eyes and swallowed before she spoke. "I came to say goodbye. I'm leaving London for a time, and it is likely we will not see each other again. I felt I at least owed you a goodbye."
Tom gazed at her, his face still inscrutable. After a few moments, he said, "I see. And where is Violetta?"
Luna blinked. She had not expected him to ask about Violetta. "She is back with Lazarus," she responded. "Why do you ask?"
"Curiosity. You trust that old fool to watch her?"
"Yes, I do. Lazarus is quite kind."
A scoff escaped Tom. "Kindness does not correlate with competence."
"No, I suppose you are living proof of that." The words did not come out of her from a place of anger, nor did they sound as such. Just as she had to Burke a few minutes prior, she was stating a fact.
Tom knew her well enough to realize this. He shrugged in response and said nothing, uncrossing his arms and placing his hands inside the pockets of his trousers.
She averted her eyes from his, allowing them to skip around the items in the room. "I'm going to Hogwarts. I need to speak to Professor Dumbledore." Luna hadn't come here intending to share this much, but she continued pacing around his flat as she spoke, fascinated by this view into his life. The only mess seemed to be an odd pile of ash in the corner. "I wanted to say goodbye, and I also wanted to apologize."
"You know how I feel about your apologies."
"You have things you could apologize for as well, you know."
"If you came seeking an apology from me, you are going to leave sorely disappointed."
"Don't worry. I have come to expect very little from you."
Tom rolled his eyes. "Ah, just here to antagonize me then. Lucky me."
Luna paused a few steps from his bed in her circling of the flat. "No, not at all. I wish things could have been different. But I think that some things simply can't be changed. I need to...." Her voice trailed off. Something emerald green lying on his bedside table had caught her eye. The quill she had given him for Christmas when they were at Hogwarts together. She reached out and brushed her fingertips across the quill. "You still have this?" she asked in a soft voice, sounding more dazed than usual.
For the first time, a frown appeared on Tom's face. He removed his hands from his pockets and strode across the flat to the wardrobe, pulling out a set of black robes. Pulling them on with his back turned to her, lean muscles moving under his skin as he did so, he said, "I'm leaving London for a time as well."
"Oh?" she said, her eyes leaving the quill behind to focus on him. "Where are you going?"
"Albania," he answered, turning back around to face her, brushing an invisible speck of dirt from the shoulder of his robes. "I have unfinished business there."
She wasn't sure why he was telling her this, except that he found it preferable to discussing the green quill on the table. But it sent her mind racing. "Albania?" she repeated. "Unfinished business? You've been there before?"
"Once. Unfortunately, I left my task there incomplete. It is now necessary for me to go back a second time."
Luna's mind raced ever faster. Was that right? What had Harry told her? That just after graduating Hogwarts, Tom had gone to Albania and made his third Horcrux. Not by murdering someone about to discover his secrets, like Myrtle. Not by murdering the person his hated most, his father. But by murdering a peasant. Just a person who meant nothing to him, who had happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and had been caught in Tom's indiscriminate path. What did he mean by "unfinished business"? Had he not made the Horcrux afterall? What else could he mean?
If he hadn't made the Horcrux yet, then something had changed from the way it was before.
Her eyes darted to the green quill resting on the table. Her heart started to thud in her ears.
Perhaps she had made a difference after all. Not a big one - he must have gone back to Albania to make the Horcrux now, just a few years later, and he still became Voldemort, but she had also left him. She had only been there for a few months, and then she had left him, and still there was this evidence of her presence, small as it might be, evidence that he had made even one decision differently.
Another understanding formed in her head, and out loud, she said, "Oh!" He raised his dark eyebrows at her, but she remained lost in thought.
This was why she was sent to this time, why this was where the Time Turner had taken her. She had changed the timeline, pushed back the creation of his third Horcrux. The Voldemort who had given her the Time Turner was borne of the new timeline, not of the one she had discussed with Harry before ever having gone back in time in the first place. And Voldemort had known that this, as the year 1948 died, was when his past self had returned to Albania to make the third Horcrux. To commit his first indiscriminate murder.
There must have been something about taking that irreversible step to killing without discretion, without thought, without consideration, as though it meant nothing to take the life of another, that marked a point of no return in the man standing before her, that marked and perverted his soul in a way even more unspeakable than the murders he had already committed. Who would know better, after all, than the monster he would become?
His soul must still be salvageable.
Words were escaping her mouth before she even realized she was saying them, her intuition guiding her. "May Violetta and I come with you?"
Tom's face betrayed none of his thoughts to her, as impenetrable as the depths of Gringotts. The thick air still hung between them, the seconds stretching out across it and becoming distended and distorted. Then he said, "Yes."