milliways_bar | (no subject)

"Evening, Tom." Bill looks down at the rolls of parchment. "We're still on?"

His manner might be a bit more reserved than usual.

*Tom grins, knowing - and understanding - that this is a delicate subject*

Hullo, Bill. Yes, we're still on if you'd like. Do sit down.

Bill sits, but on the edge of the chair, ready to leave at a moment's discretion. He can't help it: after his months in captivity he's nowhere near close to trusting a Death Eater or future Dark Lord, no matter how vehemently Young Mr Riddle professes his innocence.

It has to be proved.

But Tom's already done him a favour; Bill knows that must be acknowledged. "First, thank you for the frame. I trust I compensated you adequately for it?"

You did, and again, it was my pleasure.

*An awkward moment of silence lingers between them. Tom unrolls one parchment roll nervously.*

If you'd rather, I can leave these with you for your perusal. I made notes on this one, compiling all the information I've collected.

Bill shakes his head: he wants to watch Riddle's face when he hears what he's learnt. "Go ahead, tell me. I'd rather hear it from you than read it myself; otherwise I could have owled Dumbledore for a book."

It's a multi-step process. Rather like a job interview, really.

Right.

*Of all the things he's confessed, of all the wrongs he's tried to right, talking about this with Bill is difficult. He knows much is on the line here, and he would like Bill's friendship.*

Firstly, whoever did this was powerful and no doubt highly skilled with mental manipulation. From what I've heard of the Death Eaters, I doubt any of them would fit that description. Implanting memories to this extent is something I'd never heard of, but I'd, well, I'd wondered about the possibility. That leads me to think that... Voldemort likely was the one responsible. With that in mind, do you still wish to speak with me?

Immediately, his jaw clenches tightly and his eyes shut... but just for a moment.

Then he lets out a laugh. "Why, yes. If I'm important enough for Voldemort himself to take notice of me, then I'd best hear about it before I get too full of self-importance thinking on it."

He eases back in the chair just a bit, motioning over a wait-rat. "I'm for Ogden's: you? More than just the tea, or is that a strong enough brew to get you through this conversation?"

*He chuckles nervously. *

I was going for soothing, but yes, I'll take one as well.

*He waits for the wait-rat to return with the much needed drink*

You also need to know that I don't allow any books containing Dark Arts around me. Everything I've researched comes from Defense books.

"That's good."

Bill watches the rat traverse the bar and then come back, impossibly balancing a tray with one bottle and two shotglasses. He relieves the rat's burden, pouring one glass for himself and another for Tom Riddle and still, there's a very big part of him that's in denial: he is not sitting at a table at a bar at the end of the universe talking with someone who purports to be Tom Riddle from 1954.

The firewhisky burns as it goes down his throat, even more than usual. It's nerves, he knows that. And this is why I need you, little bottle. Don't let me down.

"I'm ready whenever you are, Tom."

*It's been a long while since he's drunk Ogden's; the familiar burn reminds him of too many unpleasant memories. He wishes now he hadn't ordered it.*

As I said, other than giving suggestions to people post-Obliviation, memory charms like the one you've been given are rare. I only found a few mentions of anything even closely resembling what's been done to you.

From what I can glean, you are the recipient of an intricately woven Falsifying Curse, aided and abetted by a potent dose of Dark magic.

Bill shivers.

But just for a moment; he regains his composure and leans forward. "You think so, Tom? I'm not sure about that. Of course, if it were skillfully done I wouldn't know, would I. I suppose there's only one way to find out if what I know in my heart is true: I did not divulge any of our secrets."

His eyes narrow and his brows knit; there's obviously some inner conflict playing out on his face. "Tell me before we go any farther: what do you know of the goings-on in my time, and of your future self or not self, and about what Albus Dumbledore is doing?"

Making sure he doesn't give away any ideas for the future -- should Tom prove to be false -- has to be paramount. The safety of the Order is at stake.

*Tom blinks.*

Well, I assumed the cause of the memories was magical - do you believe this is not the case? I only researched magical means...

As for what's going on in your time, I know that the Order of Phoenix exists to fight Voldemort. I know that Tonks is a member of the Order, as are Minerva and Dumbledore. I don't know specifics, and I know nothing of what is being plotted or planned by either side.
I didn't even know Lucius Malfoy when he arrived here, although I knew his family. I've not met with Dumbledore again, although Minerva has mentioned he'd like to speak with me.

*He pauses*

I will not betray you or my friends.

"I'm a member also."

He turns aside and lets out a deep sigh, as if that admission has cost him dearly. Eyes closed, his head resting in his hand, he continues very softly.

"I need a Legilimens. I would ask Tonks, but... our relationship is somewhat strained since the whole breakup between her and Charlie; I'm very fond of my brother and I don't know that I could work with her at the moment. To be quite honest, Dumbledore is my first choice but I can't get to him. It's rather a measure of my desperation that I've turned to you; please don't be insulted. It's difficult to put a lifetime of training aside and take the leap of faith that even this simple conversation requires."

He turns to look straight into Tom Riddle's eyes.

He sees no hint of betrayal. He sees no hint of evil -- at least, no more than any man might show -- and he sighs.

"I want you to do it."

*Tom opens his mouth to respond and then closes it again. A moment goes by before he finds his voice.*

I haven't... I haven't used Legilimency since I arrived here.

"But would you be willing to use it now?"

That appears to be the question on the table. He finishes the Ogden's in his glass and pours another, drinking that quickly as well. It means leaving himself open to so many areas of vulnerability; the concept is daunting.

"Will you?"

*He looks down into his drink. He would like to use his skills again. They were only used to harm before, but surely even they can exist to help.*

I would.

Bill's not sure whether to be glad for that or not. But he did ask; it was his idea.

"Go ahead, then."

Er, now? Here?

*Tom is more than a little startled by the request. His Legilimency skills are also more than a little rusty.*

"If not here, then at a time and place of your choosing, Mr Riddle, but I ask you to let it happen quickly. I'm not looking forward to having my thoughts probed yet again; I endured that for three months and there's no joy in it at all, no fond memories. I need to know what happened, and I need to know I'm not secretly a danger to my friends and family, or to any member of the Order. I'm most interested in knowing if there are any suggestions implanted whereby I might -- unbeknownst to myself -- cause anyone harm. I've fought for the side of good and I don't know that I could bear it if I brought anyone to injury."

Knowing Voldemort better than Tom does, most likely, he leaves off the end of the thought: or death. Because that would be the most likely instruction Voldemort or his minions would have left and Bill knows it only too well.

This has not been easy; the request was not made idly. But he refuses to play at guilt by convincing Tom to do this as a method of gaining each others' trust. That piece is one that will either happen or not, but it cannot be predestined.

"I just... need... to know."

*He sees how much Bill needs to know. It won't be hard to tell if his memories are touched with Dark magic or not. He can do this.*

Then why don't we go ahead now. It will only take a moment to tell if a curse is at work or not.

"Good."

The rapidity of his heartbeat belies the outer calm he hopes he projects; fortunately nobody else can hear how loudly it pounds.

He grits his teeth; to go into this willingly is not easy.

Bill closes his eyes; his hand is wrapped around the glass of Ogden's.

And he is perfectly still.

*Tom focuses on what he intends to do: look into Bill's mind without harming, without delving too deeply. He'll look for traces of magic within the memories; he'll sift through them with care. He points. He looks Bill squarely in the eyes - Legilimency depends upon eye contact.*

Legilimens.

*And he sees a bazaar, must be in Egypt, and Bill is running, running, the sound of dragon-hide boots echoing off the stone-and-dust ground. This shifts to shadows standing around Bill, hands on his arms, on both of them, and he tries to kick his way to freedom and can't. Then he's in a darkened room (for now Tom is seeing through Bill's eyes as he goes deeper into the memories) and a hooded cloaked figure hisses "Mr Weasley, so nice of you to stop by. Don't worry: by the time we're done, you won't be in a condition to remember any of this." Tom shivers, knowing he's seen himself in his future that will not come to pass, but he's still Bill and a wand is pointed at his temple. The pain is exquisite. A voice comes out of the darkness, Tom can't tell whose it is, since Bill cannot, "Tell us what you know of Dumbledore's plans and you'll be freed."*

Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck. It's all he has time to think before he's forced to relive the memories, the snippets, the pain, a series of snapshots playing out inside his head.

None of it is new but a lot has been buried. Some of it he's remembered only in dreams, some in waking life. Painful though it is, it's validation: this really happened.

It's one of the things he's been wondering.

He can no sooner break contact with Tom than he could with his captors; his eyes are wide and his hand still grips the glass unknowingly.

*Dark dank basement, walls and floor of stone, a door that opens from time to time with barely enough food or water to keep someone from dying. When the door opens, there's most always an accompanying flash of wandlight and intense pain.

And then, almost jarringly, a woman's voice with hot food and warm blanket. You'll tell us what we want to know, won't you, Bill? as she wipes his forehead with a warm wet cloth but no, no, he pushes back. No. I will not tell you what you want to know.

Egypt again and a hooded figure with eyes that are mere red slits watching him from across a cafe, a smaller hooded figure whose hand moves with a flash of silver at his side.

He is huddled in a corner, half-starved, wracked with uncontrollable sobbing.

Tom is almost too deeply inside the memories; he pulls himself back somewhat, still sifting carefully, looking, examining...*

It hurts.

It hurts too much.

It hurts.

And then, something happens: a sort of warm haze wraps itself around his thoughts, his brain; his body relaxes visibly (if one were watching).

[Hullo, Susanne. How's the baby, did he behave himself today?] He walks in and takes off his travel cloak. They've no house-elf, but he doesn't mind; the flat is small enough that they can care for it themselves. He kisses her on the cheek. [Something smells delicious.]

[How was work, Bill? Oh, wait, love, wait right there.] She walks down the front hallway and turns into a room, reappearing a moment later with a year-old boy in her hands. He looks up: [Dada!]

[Hullo, Charlie! How's my boy? Were you good today?] He holds his son up and up and up until the baby giggles with glee and he loves this life: he loves it so very much. Nothing can match it, nothing can touch it.

Nothing.

*And as he examines the vivid, painful memories - and temple and arch, they hurt - new memories flood into view. They are too perfect, too pleasant... but they are not marked by any kind of magic, Dark or otherwise. He withdraws from Bill's memories.*

That's... that's enough.

*He is shaking and breathing hard. Bill will likely feel worse, and Tom reaches out a hand to steady him, should he collapse.*

Susanne reaches out to touch his face...

There's a rush of thought, the mental equivalent of falling off the edge of a cliff: the thoughts get farther and farther away and suddenly he finds himself sitting at this table, his hand holding an empty glass, his heart pounding, his eyes damp.

Bill lets go of the glass and holds his hands out in front of him: they're shaking. Swallowing hard, he looks at Tom Riddle.

He can't speak. Not yet.

Can I get you anything?

*He watches Bill carefully.*

He shakes his head.

Then he reaches for the Ogden's. When his shaking hand touches the bottle it steadies: all he needs is something to stabilise things.

Still, he doesn't speak. The whole thing was far too... intimate, in a way: his thoughts, so carefully tucked away these many months, have become an open book.

He pours a hefty amount of Ogden's into the glass and drinks it in one gulp.

That's better. Charlie would be proud.

"That... the memories at the end there: what happened? They felt different."

They were different. I think those last were the fake memories, I'm sad to say.

However, I could detect no traces of magic within them. Your memories were not changed with Dark magic - there was no sign of a curse or a hex or a spell of any kind.

*He is quiet for a moment, and he looks down at his hands, which are none too steady either.*

You were treated horribly.

I'm sorry for that, even though it wasn't me who hurt you.

"It's over, mate."

Bill pours another drink for each of them. Tonight, he will keep drinking until he can't stand to drink another drop.

And after this night, he won't need to any more.

"Thank you."

*Tom nods and drinks. The whiskey burns in a wonderful way, and he doesn't think about anything from his past. His future is enough to keep him occupied.*

I'm glad I could help.

Where do you think those other memories came from, if they weren't implanted?

He shakes his head but sets down the Ogden's.

And taps his fist to his heart.

And his eyes fill with tears, so he turns away and looks into the fire, blinking the wetness away.

*Tom keeps his eyes down, not wanting to make Bill uncomfortable by prying into his business further. He's already seen the man's very thoughts; he won't intrude on this private moment.*

Bill rubs his eyes and takes a deep breath or two.

Or three.

Then he turns back. "Tom: remember what you saw. Don't let it happen. Don't let it happen to anyone else. Promise me that. Make this have been worthwhile."

Standing, he picks up the half-full bottle of Ogden's. "This is mine tonight. I'll see you around."

He nods; he knows that Tom won't speak of what he's seen. He knows it.

But if he's proved wrong, he'll know Riddle is nothing but a liar.

Right now, he doesn't care.

I promise.

*He hopes Bill heard him. Tom is more shaken than he thought he would be by such the experience, but he shouldn't be surprised - it's been a long time since he used Legilimency and in that time, he'd had his own mind violated in the Tower of Ghenjai.

He stands and heads for the House of Arch painting and the safety of home. *

Smeagol, also in search of tea, stops at the bar. He peers openly at the parchment, and then at Tom.

Perhaps he's being a bit rude, but Tom just seems different.

Hullo.

*He grins at the - is this a child? or a small man?*

Neither. Smeagol defies categorization, whee!

He tilts his head curiously.

"Hullo."

I'm Tom. What's your name?

"If you know it, will you promise not to hurt me?"

Um. Yes, I promise.

*He looks a little confused, and hopes giving the boy his name wasn't a bad move*

"Smeagol."

He watches for signs of recognition.

Smeagol?

*Tom read the Lord of the Rings not too long ago. Tom also appears in a book himself. He gives no reaction. He knows how disconcerting it is to find out strangers from other worlds know parts of your life story.*

Nice to meet you, Smeagol.

Smeagol continues to watch him warily.

"You're not a regular big person, are you?" he asks carefully.

Erm, I'm a wizard and an Opener, but we're not from the same world. You're not a regular little person, are you?

"A wizard." Smeagol looks slightly nervous. "What kind of wizard?"

He considers lying, but now that he thinks about it, that's never worked very well.

"No. Not really."

I'm a good wizard. Not an evil one.