Chapter Text
Tom Riddle walked through the old, narrow streets of Calea Vrăjitorului, the romanian Magical Alley somewhere deep in the city of Sighișoara.
The city was bursting with life, thronged people coming and going —locals, wanderers and everyone in between— drawn in for the Samhain Festival. Excitement was palpable through the air, and magic lingered like a heavy blanket above the streets of the citadel where it sat upon a hill, encircled by mountains and stretches of land on every side; even the forest brushing the outer edges of the magical settlement seemed ready for celebration, its trees painted in oranges and yellows and deep set greens, blending into one another in one big sea of colours.
Tom Riddle however, had no time for festivities. He was on the hunt for a dark creature, an undead being that stalked the streets of this very city, as infamous as the tales that surrounded his birth and just as vicious: Vlad The Impaler, the son of the Vampire that would later inspire the Legend of Count Dracula.
The Vampire had something Tom wanted. It was not an object, or a person. It was not even Vlad himself.
It was knowledge.
Somewhere along the line, decades, perhaps even centuries ago, the arrogant creature had let slip one little, insignificant secret. Insignificant of course, for those that didn't value the information brought upon them.
Vlad knew (or perhaps, it was more accurate to say, had known) the only Wizard who had been capable of producing a Horcrux successfully in all of known history.
And Tom Riddle craved for that information with a hunger only few mortal men had the misfortune to have ever experienced in their lifetimes; it was all encompassing, bleeding his vision black around the edges and making his heart beat insistently strong, excited and ready to eat the world whole if the opportunity ever arose.
So far the vampire had avoided Tom successfully.
But no longer.
Tom had been able to pick a trail of Death that could only come from a living being with a heart that no longer beat, somewhere near the entrance of the magical alley. It seemed the Vampire had gone out to hunt for muggles, sometime recently.
Tom's perception of the world was wrapped in colours and shapes, in magic and dust residue, bright everywhere he looked in the magical world, and terribly dull and boring in the muggle world. Every person, every creature that carried magic in their body shone a different light, some dim and pale and others as bright as the moon. But, none shone like a star.
Not one shone like Tom.
Muggles, in comparison, were all gray and dull in their existence, devoid of light and colours to accompany their lack of magic. In Tom's experience, he often wondered if the lack of magic made them more prone to violence. If perhaps they knew they were missing something important, something vital that pulsed through the very veins of the earth but not their own bodies. They were creatures living on borrowed land, and they destroyed everything they touched.
As it was, Tom's Magic was able to pick a trail from the deserted street just outside the magical alley like it was a beacon calling home. Even Vampires carried their own unique magic, and surrounded by the grey world of Muggles it was child's play to grasp the thread and memorize the feeling of it, the cold residue, the edges of death and bloodcurdling hunger and madness leaving a bitter tang on the back of his tongue.
If it was not Vlad, then he was being led around by the nose by another Ancient Vampire like a fool.
The odds were in his favour.
Tom stepped around people and carts, weaving through archways and up the hill leading out of the city. Tables had been set up for a night market —trinkets and crafts and talismans on display further clogging the already narrow road. The murmur of the crowd followed in his steps like one big heartbeat, rising and falling in a steady thrum that was making his head throb.
He was annoyed to no end. He had been running around in a wild goose chase, following the thread of death magic for no less than five hours —ever since the sun had dipped beneath the mountains and the feeling of the vampire moving had alerted Tom that the creature was on the move.
He couldn't seem to catch up to him, no matter how long he searched and watched and stretched out his senses. Just when he thought the creature was just ahead of him, on the bend of an alley or a side street, hiding behind curtains hung around stalls or walking up the stairs to a crowded bar, the thread went cold. The Vampire was playing with Tom.
And Tom was annoyed, now. He could feel the curl of anger and magic rising steadily like lava on his veins. (And if the dammed creature kept playing this game with him he was not above levelling parts of the city at a time to find him.)
The goose chase continued for another hour, before the scenery around Tom started to change.
He was at the very edge of the magical alley, where the cobblestone road gave away to a dirt path that ended on a wooden bridge crossing over a small stream. An arc made of tangled vines with a crooked sign at the very top indicated the end of the alley, and the entrance to the ancient forest surrounding the city.
Tom sighed. He was being lured into a trap, he knew.
Going into an unknown forest at night while chasing a vampire would be a terrible decision, no matter the gain.
He would try again, tomorrow. After all, he already had the unmistakable feel of the foul vampiric magic imprinted on his mind, on the back of his tongue. He would be able to follow it anywhere, now.
Tom chose early mid-day to explore the forest.
If the creature wanted him here, then he would investigate his surroundings first before deciding the next best course of action.
However he was unaware of a small, tiny, truly insignificant flaw on his rather simple but logical plan. He hadn't thought to ask the locals.
Had he been more aware, better prepared, he wouldn't have walked into the dense tree line with the confidence of someone who was sure a vampire would not hunt while the sun was out.
However, as Tom walked deep into the forest he was rudely made aware of his mistake.
The sun disappeared not ten steps in.
Tom spun on his heel, almost blinded by the sudden lack of light, but it was too late.
The path he had just been following had disappeared into the shadows. The trees had grown crooked all of a sudden, reaching in his direction with no leaves in sight. It was a stark difference to the pretty oranges and yellows that had swayed on the breeze not a moment ago.
He stood still and tried to stretch out his senses. He could not feel any magic distorting his vision. It was not an illusion.
And if it was an illusion, it had been placed around every single inch of the forest, on every single tree and branch and leaf, it had to have been drenched in magic so subtle, so powerful it made his senses miss it completely.
It was illogical.
It was the only explanation.
Tom walked.
He walked with no direction for what felt like hours. He swore he passed by the same tree at least ten times, gritting his teeth at being turned about without rhyme or reason.
It was a nightmare come true.
Finally, when it seemed the vampire had tired of watching him make a fool of himself, he appeared out of nowhere and blended right out of the shadows. He wore old fashioned clothes, Tom noted with disdain. His red eyes were wide and deep set, an insane and gone glint in them that warned him off more than the long fangs or the bloodied lips ever could.
"Vlad the Impaler." Tom spat, back straight. He was confident he would be able to fend him off, if push came to shove.
He was not there for chatter after all, and ripping into the mind of the undead was unpleasant but not impossible. The long stretches of their minds sometimes made Tom's own head pound for days in response to the centuries of information crammed into one being, but he had enough practice to know it was a necessary evil. Vampires didn't mix with Wizards, after all. They kept their best secrets tucked deep into their hollow chests.
The creature only smiled in answer, showing off his crooked fangs. His teeth were yellowing, and his once pristine and fine clothes had turned to rags. Covered in maroon splotches that could only be dried blood in some places, broken off in others, as if they had caught onto the low hanging branches of the trees surrounding them and had simply decided their fate was best served by the trees.
"Wizard," the creature uttered with disgust. His red eyes kept looking Tom up and down, assessing him, possibly sizing him up as a snack.
"I have a few questions for you, and then I'll be on my way." On my way with your head on a spike, Tom didn't say. But he didn't plan on the vampire surviving past his need. It was necessary. No one could know where he had been snooping around.
The creature tilted his head, matted brown hair hanging off a shoulder. "I guess I could feed again." He mumbled around his fangs. And that was that.
The vampire attacked with impressive speed despite the clear state of decay about him. Feeding on Muggles surely didn't compare to magical blood. It was outlawed to feed on humans without explicit consent, however, and no respectable Witch or Wizard wanted their blood drawn by a bloodsucker, no matter how ancient.
Vampires could not survive only on pig blood.
Hence, the hunger.
As it stood, the vampire was no match for Tom Riddle. The boy had no trouble pinning him to the ground with a wave of his hand, roots ripping from the dirt to wrap around the vampires body. And no matter how much he struggled, how much superhuman strength he had, he was no match for the raw magic that made up the threads of Tom.
All that was needed was a moment, a fragment of a second for red incredulous eyes to lock onto stormy blue ones and he was in.
Tom lost himself on the memories, disjointed and unorganized —much of them covered in bloodlust and shadows so dark it was impossible to discern their contents.
He was not there for those, however. He delved in further, onto almost forgotten territory.
And he found what he was looking for.
Triumph tasted sweet on his tongue, and he viewed each precious memory of Herpo the Foul with greedy eyes.
He was so deep into the creature's mind, he didn't pick up on the feeling of alarm rising through the back of his neck, down to his arms and to the very tips of his fingers.
The second creature attacked while Tom still had his back turned, deeply concentrated on the man he had tied on the forest floor. He was slammed against a tree trunk far from where he had stood, and he grunted in pain.
It was not the hit that had him the most hurt, it was the sudden severed connection from another mind that made his head ache and blood drip down his nose like an open fountain.
When he tried to move, he discovered one of his arms had been broken.
He snarled and looked through the haze of pain and tethered memories at the creature trying to rip the roots off the vampire.
It was another vampire, impossibly older than the first.
It would pay, too.
He tightened his hold on the wood surrounding the fallen man and with a burst of magic impaled his body full of wooden stakes.
Vlad the Impaler struggled no further.
(And if the wood wouldn't kill him, Tom had brought plenty of other methods to end his miserable eternal life.)
The second creature turned on Tom with an inhuman screech and for a single beat of his human heart he was aware of the fact that —Tom had miscalculated. This man, impossibly older than Vlad the Impaler and remarkably similar to the now dead (very, very dead) vampire, could be no other than his father.
The vast (or rather hollow) feel to him was impossibly old, eternally big.
The creature was on top of Tom before he could even blink or attempt to orient himself.
A slash on his neck was all he needed to be reminded of his own mortality, of the reason why he had sought out Vlad the Impaler in the first place. He had no Horcrux to fall back on, not yet.
Tom Riddle would die here. He would die of blood loss and possibly be mutilated after by a creature centuries his senior, with hatred burning through his being and the same insanity that had been on his son's eyes.
He would die alone, as he had always been, somewhere deep in a magical forest and would be remembered by none.
He would not even have an unmarked grave.
He would not be granted such mercy.
Tom struggled to breath, to move his Magic to the source of his pain, but it was like trying to hold onto water, and it just kept slipping through his fingers.
His pulse slowed.
He watched with narrowed eyes as the creature kneeled by his son and caressed his matted hair with stilted motions, as if he didn't remember how to do it properly.
Tom struggled to breath.
His vision was turning dark around the edges, his fingers were growing cold and his eyes were closing on their own volition.
Minutes passed like this.
He didn't want to die.
He didn't want to die alone in some fucking forest forgotten by the rest of the world.
But more than anything.
He didn't want to be so cold.
The ancient vampire approached him. Had he been able to, Tom was sure the man would have been crying.
As it was, a stone hard face greeted him in his final moments.
And, just then —a ball of flame slammed onto the creature. And it set the man on fire.
But Tom could not hear the screams of agony, see the twitching limbs trying to rip its own flesh apart to save whatever it could, because Tom had closed his eyes, and his breathing had slowed.
He was so cold.
A warm weight dropped on his chest, making it even more impossible to breathe. It was a losing battle, trying to pull away from the darkness that was starting to drown him. At least the ball of fire was chasing off the cold.
He supposed he didn't mind it all that much.
Then.
Then, the most extraordinary thing happened.
His body was enveloped in a gentle sheet of magic, so thin it was almost unperceptive to his senses, save for the warmth it gave off. A warm liquid wrapped around his torn throat and willed his own magic to cooperate. His skin closed slowly, reluctantly, and his blood started pumping more fiercely through his veins. His breathing deepened and his headache receded just the tiniest of stretches into the back of his mind. His bones mended back together even if the bruises remained. The creature seemed to deem those unimportant at the moment.
The warmth seemed to stay for what felt like hours, while Tom tried and failed to regain consciousness.
Finally, hours or an eternity later, he was able to open his eyes without pins and needles stabbing straight through his eyeballs.
He was back at the entrance of the forest, where the light shone gently through the dense canopy of trees.
When his eyes finally focused, he found a bird sat on his chest. Its red head was tilted, enormous green eyes staring down at him with curiosity. Some of its feathers were ruffled, and the small ones around its black peak looked silvery wet. The creature was impossibly warm.
It was a Phoenix, no doubt.
It had cried on him.
(It had also set fire to the Vampire trying to kill him.)
(It was warm.)
The Phoenix on his chest thrilled a gentle song, making his attention snap back like a rubber band. His head still throbbed faintly.
Tom was terribly confused. How in the seven hells had he stumbled upon a Phoenix on a forest in the middle of nowhere in Romania? Why was the bird still here with him, on the floor? Why had it cried on him in the first place?
His head threatened to split open once more. He would wonder another time, then.
Now. Now, he needed proper rest. He had what he had come looking for, after all. (And, maybe something more).
The bird rubbed its massive head against his jaw insistently, pecking his skin with gentle motions. The creature was warm, but it was also incredibly heavy.
"Off," Tom grunted, breathing still labored. The Phoenix turned to look him in the eyes, green meeting dark blue. It seemed to understand, as not a moment later it hopped gently down to the ground. It stayed close enough to Tom for him to be able to feel its warm magic closing around him like a protective bubble. It felt pure, and sweet on the back of his tongue. Tom knew then, instinctively, that the bird meant him no harm.
It tilted its head at him, eyes judging.
"What?" The bird only narrowed its eyes in response.
Tom's sluggish brain tried to connect the dots, to make the pattern. But his head still throbbed, pain pulsing behind his eyes and memories not his own threatened to pull him under. A thought passed through, just then. Phoenixes were rather intelligent creatures, and very picky about their company.
Oh.
How very silly of him.
"Thank you," he muttered, voice soft. And he truly was thankful. If not for this beautiful creature he would have been gone.
The thrilling song that sprouted from the bird's beak in response was truly remarkable. It made something warm settle gently on his belly, like a warm hearty meal after a long period without.
The bird hopped from foot to foot, waving its massive wings at him. It sang at him insistently, urging him up and off the floor.
Okay, then.
Tom made the attempt to stand, even as his body protested fiercely. Everything hurt, from the roots of his hair to the tips of his toes.
His vision swam as he tried and failed to sit, blood rushing just about everywhere but his brain for a moment, making his breath catch in his throat and his pulse stutter. He might've blacked out for a second, as in the next moment the Phoenix was back on top of him, making distressed sounds.
Then it caught on fire.
And Tom did too.
Dying in the warmth depths of magic of an immortal bird felt like coming home.
~
Tom, to his own surprise and bemusement, woke up in a sterile hospital room.
Baby blue walls surrounded his bed, the only one in the room. The view from the entrence was covered by a thin curtain, and soft morning light was streaming through a big window on the other side of the room.
Abraxas Malfoy sat by his bedside, blond hair tied up in an uncharacteristic mess of a bun on the top of his head, with more than one strand falling down around his pale face, as if he had been running his hands through it insistently. His friend sat with his head leaning against the wall, face pulled taught even in his sleep.
Tom tried to speak, and found that his throat had dried up and closed around the air coming in against his will. He coughed as he tried to breath, lungs burning and magic stirring irritably through his veins.
"Here, drink some water," warm hands handed him a cold glass, and he drank greedily. Abraxas worried, clear blue eyes stared at him from over the rim. "How are you feeling?" How was he feeling? He wanted to scoff, but feared it would only prompt another fit. His muscles burned, his throat threatened to close again, the scare of almost dying-but-not-quite was sure to give him nightmares for the rest of his life. And his head hadn't stopped hurting.
"...like shit." He settled on.
Abraxas grimaced and sat back down. "I figured. They put you in an induced sleep for two days. You were in pretty bad shape, Tom. I had to tell them we had a freak accident with some dark artefacts down at the Manor, but that didn't explain away that damned annoying bird—" nothing Abraxas said was making any sense in his head.
"Stop," Tom interrupted, his thoughts in disarray. "Start again. How did I come here?"
"The bird brought you here. Here, St. Mungo's," Abraxas answered, hands restless where they lay on his lap, an anxious habit Tom had tried to get out of him but to no avail.
A beat of silence passed between them. "And you were notified?"
Abraxas blinked owlishly at him. "Of course. Father set you down for any emergencies. Just in case." And that was something Tom hadn't expected. A thought for another day, perhaps.
"They questioned you." Tom's blue eyes settled on Abraxas light ones, the concerned tilt to his brows, the lines around his mouth and eyes.
Abraxas nodded slowly, reluctantly. "Yes, they were rather baffled by the lack of injuries and the magical exhaustion." He answered, one delicate hand ran through the hair on his bun, making it impossibly messier. "And the bird."
Ah, yes. His saviour.
"The Phoenix?" It was not currently in the room, but by his guess it was not yet gone. He could feel the warm magic where it lingered in some places, around his bed mostly, and by the windowsill.
"It comes and goes. The nurses told me it mostly stays at night."
"How long?" How long had he been out, indisposed and vulnerable in a hospital bed for anyone to come and prod at him?
"Two days and two nights."
"Great," Tom let out a frustrated huff, head throbbing. He had been picked up like a kitten by his scruff and brought back to England via temperamental Phoenix without his say-so. To a hospital. Then the Malfoy's had been notified of his prolonged presence in the ward, possibly for Magical Maladies as the injuries had been treated by the same bird that was now missing.
As if called into existence, the air at the foot of his bed trembled and then burst into flames.
Abraxas startled from where he was sitting badly enough to fall to the ground with a yell, eyes wide and scared.
Tom wasn't scared. The feeling of pure magic settled any doubts to rest.
The Phoenix appeared from between the flames, feathers ruffled and less neat than the last time he'd seen them. It watched Abraxas with apprehensive eyes before settling on Tom and jumping in surprise. It tilted its head at him before approaching him, like a cat seeking a sun beam on a winter afternoon. It settled contently belly down by his side and nudged its head on his arm until he sighed and brought a hand down to pet it, setting the feathers back to rights and enjoying the warm feel of its body.
His hand caught on a couple of broken quills, sticking out rather unpleasantly from the bird's coat. They bleed magic against his own skin, making him frown down at the creature.
"Did something happen?" He asked, without turning to look at his friend.
Abraxas watched the interaction with wide eyes.
"Um," and when his friend didn't say anything else for a couple of moments, Tom turned to look down at him, still petrified on the floor.
"Did something happen, 'Brax?" He coaxed gently, runnning a hand slowly down the bird's coat.
"They, uh." Abraxas' blue eyes had not left the Phoenix dozing by Tom's side for one moment. The blond forcefully cleared his throat. "Someone tried to, uh, get it out? There was a commotion, I heard. Several, in fact."
Something angry and violent curled in Tom's gut. "They tried to capture it, didn't they?" A long pause followed his statement, Tom's magic angrily crackling in the cold air like lightning during a storm.
"Well, not at first. I heard from the Head Nurse that they tried to get it to leave so they could tend to you properly without interruptions, and, well, a few nurses were scared of a flammable creature being in the hospital at all," his friend paused for a moment and gulped. "Then the rumor spread until the entire hospital and beyond knew there was a Phoenix in the ward."
"And what, they thought that just because it was here it was up for taking? Just like that?"
"I mean, one has not been sighted in decades and to think it just stumbled here... It turned pretty aggressive on anyone not a nurse coming to your room. Father tried to bribe him with fresh meat, and then fruits and nuts, and then he begged to be let in just so we could see how you were doing, but it wouldn't budge. Then Orion came, last night, and he went right through."
"It let Orion through but not you?"
"Yeah. Then Orion sat and talked to it, I don't know. And we were allowed back in your room."
"Just like that."
"Yes, just like that."
"And the person who tried to capture it?"
Abraxas anxiously moved his hands in his lap where he still sat on the cold floor. "We don't know where he went." His friend mumbled between his teeth.
Tom sat back against the pillows of his bed, taken aback. "I beg your pardon?"
"They disappeared in a burst of flames and by the time we came back the bird was alone."
"I see," Tom said, but he truly didn't see it at all. How had someone been allowed to come into the warded room of a patient who was clearly sick and defenseless to any external threat? He could understand why the bird had tried to keep watch, even if it had gained unwanted attention.
Owning a Phoenix was sure a luxury many would boast about.
The creatures were thought to be in the very brink of extinction, as very few sightings had been recorded over the last century. They were thought to be immortal, yes, but even Magic has a beginning and it has an end.
The bird under his hands purred as it borrowed its head deeper into his side.
Tom sat up against the headboard and brought the bird up into his lap with gentle motions. It was arguably the size of a medium dog, or a rather large cat. It had looked bigger and more powerful in the forest when it had been aflame with magic and vicious as it attacked the ancient vampire. Now, it looked fragile and rather skinny. Its feathers were a dull orange, with some broken quills sticking out here and there. Some feathers at the tips of its wings were of a darker colour, almost maroon and looked painfully torn in places.
Tom ran a hand down its back and felt the lines of its spine stick out like a sore thumb. The bird nuzzled its head against his stomach and sighed, deeply content.
With sure, precise movements, Tom plucked out the broken quills one by one, his other hand gently smoothing the bird's coat as he let his magic ripple out through his fingertips, closing the wound instantly —though leaving a small bald spot— ready for a new, healthier quill to grow in its place.
The bird flinched each time a feather left its skin, but settled soon enough at the warmth that enveloped it afterwards.
Ten feathers later, and its coat looked much better.
"There. All better." The bird lifted its head from his lap, green eyes glassy and heavy. Tom rubbed gentle fingers around its beak and down its neck. The thrill that left its beak was low, almost a purring sound. Tom hummed in response, before laying back down on his own pillows.
"I should call the nurse in. Tell him you have woken." Tom closed his eyes and sighed. He nodded. The sooner they deemed him healthy, the fastest he would be out of there.
Despite them not being his legal guardians, they let him leave under the watchful eye of the Malfoy Lord. Achlys Malfoy could be scarily convincing when he wanted to be, after all, Tom wasn't really supposed to be out of the Orphanage during holidays.
(But what Dumbledore didn't know, wouldn't hurt him).
(He was also not supposed to take an illegal portkey to Romania while being underage and without a guardian).
The bird settled on Tom's arms and refused to let go.
Achlys Malfoy had been startled upon setting clear eyes on them when they were ready to leave the hospital bed behind, but the Lord had refused to comment until they were behind the safety of his Manor's Wards. Then and only then, the Malfoy Lord turned on him with narrowed eyes. "Is there anything you would like to mention, Tom? Anything at all you feel is imperative I know?"
Tom pulled a face at him, already knowing where the Lord's mind had gone off to. "I'm not trafficking animals."
"I hadn't thought you were." Achlys pursed his lips, a contrite expression on his face that said he thought otherwise.
Tom sighed, tired and still hurting despite all the potions that had been shoved down his throat. "It saved me."
A long pause followed, Achlys' stormy eyes searched his face for any hint of deception. "Start from the beginning." He demanded as they sat down for tea.
Tom narrowed his eyes at the man. He couldn't very well tell him he'd been after horcrux knowledge, now could he?
So, he lied.
The Phoenix watched from the where place it was perched on his lap, intelligent green eyes judging as they followed the conversation while Tom lied through his teeth.
Turns out, having a pet Phoenix as the tweeting bird perched on his shoulder attracted unwanted attention.
Having a Phoenix for a companion was also a peculiar situation for any Witch or Wizard.
Having a brat for a Phoenix was another thing entirely.