51|| Rook to A2
Tom Marvolo Riddle is inflamed by anger at the threats paid against Hermione Granger, prompting a fire to light the tattered clothing of the dead Snatcher near their feet. But to the extent where he let it control him in the past, Tom wishes for the opposite here, knowing he cannot act like a mindless dark force when fighting the darkness itself. Despite his deep and unending desire to torture Bellatrix with the nastiest, most painful curses for the rest of her miserable life, he knows she's a masochist in this sense: that satisfaction would come from pain. Maybe then, the most torturous thing would be the simple removal of her power with the easiest of spells.
Perhaps it's the sudden movement at the threat, or maybe it's simply the amount of power he radiates, but when Tom steps around the corner, Bellatrix looks immediately upon him, eyes widening. And just as quickly, such a daze for Hermione to watch, spells are flying with the deep voice of her dark savior.
"Expelliarmus! Stupefy!"
The wand so perilously and crookedly perched in Bellatrix's hand comes shooting free of its home, across the room and into Tom's relaxed hand. And in the same instant, the woman herself goes sailing back into the nearest wall with the sheer strength of the spell alone. Tossing her wand to Harry, the Boy Who Lived is only right in firing next.
"Stupefy!"
This time, almost humorously, it's Lucius Malfoy that goes down. Dropping to the ground at the boy's spell, the wineglass within his hand does not hesitate in shattering upon the hearth, maroon in hair and on hand. At the attack on the family, Narcissa and Draco Malfoy do not hesitate to draw their wands, returning the fire of Tom Riddle and Harry Potter with desperate strokes and sparks, minutes dancing away before their very eyes.
"Stop or she dies!" Harry and Tom freeze at that, 'her' only being one person and truly damning Bellatrix to hell. The previous Dark Lord is nothing but fear-inducing and powerful as he turns towards the risen Bellatrix, somehow reawakened in the time of battle. In her arms is a particularly limp Hermione, the skin on her forearm bleeding greatly and bearing some instance of a scar. With the knife perched at Hermione's neck, Bellatrix threatens, "Drop your wands."
Tom is not quite so open to abiding, given he's never taken directions well and always paved his own path. But, in the past, he never had someone else to care for and protect. Now, with Hermione in the arms of Bellatrix and with her life on the line, Tom does not have much choice in his actions, though stares balefully at the woman all the same.
"I said drop them!" she shouts, but the decision for Tom has already been made.
"Fine," the boy relents, quickly flinging the traitor's wand away as if it is no use to his further purposes. But to an extent, the wand really is not necessary with his wandless magic accessible and capable of defending for some time. Harry does not follow in Tom's lead, but decides the same--for Hermione's sake--as he throws Bellatrix's wand away.
"Pick them up, Draco. Now!" The boy scuttles over the floors at the command of his crazy aunt, picking up the scattered wands of Wormtail and Bellatrix, as well as a piece of cloth Hermione herself lost. None of the three boys seem to notice, listening to Bellatrix's taunts: "Well, well, look what we have here. Harry Potter. All bright, shiny and new again. Just in time for the Dark Lord."
They need to leave now. But Harry is always caught up in the words of others, gazing across the room and into a mirror to see that the Stinging Hex has disappeared from his facade, revealing the image of Harry Potter, scar and glasses and all. Tom does not do the same, still eying the group of Death Eaters warily and with an especially keen eye as Lucius rises from his stupor to a continually leaning position on his feet.
"Call him, Draco," Bellatrix 'mentors' the nephew, the boy obviously hesitating before the eyes of all parties. But, given his upbringing, Lucius does not, raising his puckered sleeve to press a mangled finger upon his Dark Mark that's so very different from Tom and Hermione's. But as the call is sent, Harry grimaces in pain under the pinching of his scar, Tom turning to look at him with slight concern. He didn't choose this life.
Bellatrix chuckles darkly and crazily at the sight of Harry's pain, her knife consequently digging deeper into Hermione's neck as some blood spills into the crevice of her shirt. Tom growls loudly at this, taking a threatening step forward as Bellatrix grins wickedly, finally acknowledging the unknown boy.
"And looky here, the other ugly is quite the opposite. You deserve far better than this filthy little Mudblood," Bellatrix spats, not forgetting Tom's protective actions over the damaged Hermione, now in Bellatrix's arms. But the boy does not seem to notice the reference to blood purity, despite the darkness of his magic, as he stares concerned at Hermione and Hermione alone.
"She deserves far better than me," he responds, Hermione simply blinking as she meets his look, blank-faced yet so devoted to Tom Riddle.
But Bellatrix is confused at the tone and reaction, the boy not seeming so lovestruck as he is honest. He's coming from a place truly darker than Hermione Granger. And it makes Bellatrix wonder: which person in darkness would ally themselves with the light...with Harry Potter?
"Who..." the woman begins as a grinding noise radiates from the walls around them, none more than the ceiling. Glancing up, the three boys see the expensive glass chandelier begin to tremble under an unnatural motion, the tinkling of the glass alerting Bellatrix to the ceiling. With the distraction present, Tom charges forward from Harry and Ron's side, none too soon as the ornate chandelier breaks from the ceiling and plummets downward. The target obvious, Bellatrix bolts from her stance, releasing Hermione from the bloody sight and leaving her to escape. And though she only manages to stumble a few steps, Tom is there to carry her the remainder of the way, deep in his arms and feeling more safe than ever before.
Towing her back, the chandelier collides with the ground, Tom coddling Hermione tightly in his arms, never intending to release her as the others act in the insanity. As the glass pieces explode, the youngest Malfoy screams and crumbles, presenting Harry with the opportunity to pounce and snatch the wands of Draco, Bellatrix, and Wormtail. Of course the boy puts up a fight, and a fight that's long enough for Lucius to encroach dangerously upon Harry.
"Stupefy!" Tom shouts, the strong spell again colliding with Lucius and sending him back into a wall, unconscious to the lunacy of the moment. Never once releasing Hermione at the wandless magic, Tom holds her to him and consequently keeps her from falling to the ground, her body too weak to even stand on her own.
"You dirty little monkey! You could have killed me!" Bellatrix rages, alerting Tom and Harry to the chaos across the room. The loon herself is storming at the little elf, size no matter, as Dobby stands fearlessly in the hurricane of hate, committed to Harry's cause and nothing else in his short life.
"Dobby meant only to maim or seriously injure, not kill," the elf responds, prompting Tom to smirk slightly at the almost perfect solution to all forms of war and treason. But, in another world, Bellatrix seems infuriated.
"For God's sake, Cissy, you've got a wand! Use it!" Bellatrix shouts at her sister, Narcissa looking extremely hesitant to act. And in that moment of thought, Dobby pulls the wand from her hand with the crack of his fingers and exemplification of elf magic.
"How dare you take a witch's wand. How dare you defy your masters!" Bellatrix criticizes, obviously not knowing the history of Dobby, not that she would ever care to listen. Tom finds this as another fault within these current day Death Eaters: their lack of knowledge and obvious shortcoming to all the motives of the Dark Lord. If only Voldemort knew.
"Dobby has no master! Dobby is a free elf, and Dobby has come to save Harry Potter and his friends!" the little elf shouts in pure rage. Harry, from feet beside Tom and Hermione, tosses a wand to the previously incapacitated Weasley, grabbing Hermione's bag along the way and moving closer to Tom near the center of the room.
"Give the Dark Lord our regards," Harry offers, almost a taunt much to Tom's humour. Reaching out for Dobby's hand and placing another on Tom, the room begins to spin in visibility at the strange instance of elf Apparition. But, being ever-observant, Tom does not miss the dagger that Bellatrix throws, the gleam of silver in the growing darkness before it finally extinguishes into nothingness...and then something.
It's antonymous in atmosphere from the dark and tight confines of Malfoy Manor. The beach upon which they land, cold in the spring air and humid from the sea, is almost pristine in the whiteness of the sand trailing into the pastel ocean, light grey clouds ghosting over the light sun of the colder months. And though it all seems so soft, the landing is hard on the worn feet of the travellers, and the waves are loud in the ears of previous screams and silence.
As Harry staggers about at the woozy landing, Tom falls gently into a sitting position, letting Hermione collapse into his lap as he continues to support her hurt form. Harry looks over at his friends, their faces forlorn, and his ally, looking cold and concerned. Ron perches on his toes beside Tom and Hermione, clearly and obviously worried for his female friend despite her salvation from the devious Bellatrix Lestrange.
Hermione's never quite felt so conflicted with the state of her being. Her body aches of all things possible, head to toe and every cell in between, in the book's reminder of the aftereffects of the Cruciatus curse. But no part of her hurts more than the cuts on her arm, 'mudblood' now visible for all eyes to see. Her left arm has seen much and is overly conflicted, with the Dark Mark on her upper arm and the 'mudblood' on her lower. And she lost the scarf. Maybe that's why her arm hurts more than anything else: it's where she's lost and gained much of today's attention.
But in the same instance of such physical hurt, Hermione's never felt more at home than when she fell into Tom's arms: the boy who saved her from a chandelier and a loon, the Dark Lord's old self yet her own protector. He never released her once, even when he shot that spell at Lucius, but kept her perfectly tight into his chest, and even as her knees stopped working, he held up her heavy form. Tom's body is lanky, but Tom's body is homely and perfectly fit for Hermione, in this moment and surely the next. She hurts, but she's home.
"It's all right, Hermione. You're safe," Harry reassures her, something she does not need but is unwilling to deny. "We're all safe."
The three--Tom, Hermione, and Ron--do not see as much. Numb eyes cast past Harry's form to something terrible, or so Ron reflects back at him.
"Harry..." Tom whispers with informative comfort, calling for Harry's attention at another site altogether. Half expecting to see Voldemort--given the demure look in Tom's eye--Harry does not quite understand as he turns past Griphook to see Dobby, his rags now adorned with a silver dagger through the heart and a smile on his face.
"Dobby...no..." It's a desperate cry for the gods to have mercy just once, a cry for a merciful blessing upon an innocent creature that did nothing to deserve the dagger of an evil woman. Harry sprints to the elf, scooping Dobby up as the elf crumbles and eyes turn skyward. Like how Tom holds Hermione, Harry holds Dobby across from them, both victims of such torturous lives, yet one promised survival...despite the darker things she has done.
"It's okay... Here...Just hold on, Dobby...I'll fix you--" the boy cries, looking at the incapacitated Hermione, though she is now tensed in what seems to be misery. "Hermione--your bag--you must have something--Essence of Dittany--something..." She's not moving to help. "Hermione! Help me!"
Perhaps it is the desperation in Harry's cry, like to the gods themselves, but Tom is drawn to action as he attempts to place Hermione into Ron's arms and stand up himself. But Hermione is the same as him in all possible ways, clinging to him as they both stand to wobbly feet, her eyes leaking many tears. Hermione knows nothing can be done.
And Dobby seems to think the same.
"Such a beautiful night...to be with friends. Dobby is happy...to be with his friend...Harry Potter..." the little elf remarks, his chest rising with each rib perched, shivering, and then falling into a stilled position...for as long as time will last.
Tom had never seen a creature die naturally as far as he can remember. He'd always used the Killing Curse, or come across the body following the person's death. This is what he did not want...to die. And he can understand why: the tragedy that hits the heart, causes his organs to tense, and his eyes to blink rapidly, almost with tears. But Tom Riddle does not cry, just shivers with shock at reality, that another would die for his safety simply because he's with good people. Creatures will take on death for righteousness, for love of one another.
And suddenly, Tom Riddle realizes that death is indefeatable, that life cannot continue endlessly without the loss of one's soul and sanity. But he also realizes that life can be prolonged through the love of another, through the sacrifices that love makes. The closest that humanity will ever come to immortality is through the actions and commitments of love, and love alone. Dobby will forever be remembered for the love he had for Harry Potter.
The heavy breathing of all four company is lost to the wind as heavy footsteps approach the scene from ahead of Hermione and Tom and behind Harry. Looking up, another red-haired wizard (likely a Weasley given the tone) and Luna Lovegood come rushing up, a cottage visible in the distance and still along the sea.
"Fleur's seeing to Ollivander. Anyone else need tending--" the other Weasley offers, his voice wandering off as he sees Harry curled around something...a body. Hearts freeze--like Dobby's did moments ago--as Harry yanks the dagger from Dobby's chest, throwing it to the side with no wish to see it again. Pulling off his jacket, the Boy Who Lived wraps the lean body of the little elf in nice cloth for the first time in Dobby's existence. His shoulders heave in their hunched position, tears falling into the white sand of the beach as he communicates about the heartbreaks of war to the gods and to Mother Nature herself.
Only Luna is courageous enough to step forward, kneeling beside the boy savior with her gentle breath near his ear: "We should close his eyes. Don't you think?"
It's rhetorical, no one being particularly capable of speaking other than Luna herself, which she understands. Her soft and white hands reach out from the colors of her clothing, placing two long fingers on Dobby's eyelids and shutting them for a final time, tender and kind and perfect by all means.
"There. Now he could be sleeping." It's a trick of the mind, and that may be what they need. "Harry. It's all right. That it hurts. That's what reminds us how lucky we are to be alive."
And that's what reminds us that life continues. Harry's swampy green eyes turn to the serene facial features of Luna Lovegood, so in touch with the spirit yet genuine by all means. He'll take her words for once, looking at Dobby as if he is in a permanent sleep, just comatose due to wrackspurts or whatnot.
But his body is wracked with anger at all this. That Lord Voldemort could take the life of an innocent and good elf without even knowing. His head wheels quickly towards Tom Riddle, the boy who's holding Hermione up. And yet, Harry takes no notice of his female friend in the frustration he feels towards the past figure of darkness.
"You understand it now?" he almost cries in anger, something that might have invoked fear, but this is Tom Riddle.
And yet, in that moment, Harry Potter sees past the facade of the previous Dark Lord for the first time. His eyes, now a noticeable green, hold depth of emotions: of frustrations, of understanding, of loyalty, and of love. Tom Riddle looks conflicted by all meanings of the world, knit with a new and complete soul with ties to the past, stringing him behind. But his internal conflict is not serving him, cold when everyone else is warm, vengeful when everyone forgives. He cuts the ties to what he was: all the pains of his childhood, his anger at Dumbledore, his position as a Dark Lord, and his obsession with immortality...everything that does not allow him to accept this new era. This is his rebirth.
"Yes." His response is stoic, but Harry sees a man in the response--not a shell--with emotions clinging to that persistent facade. He's no longer faceless.
Harry turns to the remainder of the group, at peace with this expressive Tom Riddle, now a friend, the present lapping against him like the waves upon the shore. "I want to bury him properly. Without magic."
They concede.
With three spades, the Golden Trio dig a grave with a true friend, Hermione refusing to sit idly by as they mourn someone she knew so well. Tom stands nearby, but not too close, as the three become numbed by the simple task and he is left to reflect on the dead body in his arms. How many innocent creatures has Tom killed in his madness? No, not him, but Voldemort, the off-shoot of the Tom Riddle who was corrupted by desires and the past. Of course, Tom cannot and does not wish to know how many he's killed, but with an elf lying dead in his arms--the arms that held a sobbing Hermione--he cannot hinder his guilt at the prospect.
It digs away at him until the three hollow out a piece of the seashore, overlooking the seaside and all that's beautiful on earth, to be protected by the gods who showed no mercy. Harry replaces Tom's hold on Dobby, placing him softly into the ground with every care he ought to have piled on the elf. But what's dead is gone, and he refills the hole with his two friends, an easier task than before. And when they are done, only Harry can look at the subtle lump in the ground, the others gazing at him as Harry promises to get a proper headstone if nothing else.
Within an hour of their arrival, Dobby is dead, Tom is reborn, and a new grave paints the list of wartime casualties.
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