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Transcendence	By : ChapterEight Category: Harry Potter AU/AR > Slash - Male/Male Views: 11845 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I am not J.K. Rowling or any of her licensees, so I do not own Harry Potter or make any money off of this story.

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Tom landed in front of a high iron gate that rose into spikes at least five feet above his head. Abraxas walked towards the gate and, with a shimmer of familiar Dark magic that Tom recognized as his own, passed directly through it. Tom followed him up a narrow walkway, peering through the unnatural Darkness on either side that stopped him from actually seeing more than a few feet away from the path. It was clearly malevolent. And clearly his own magic.
The house, at least what he could see of it, appeared to be an abandoned manor house built at least a century before. Abraxas had told him that the Muggle owners had been killed, but the entrance hall was still filled with unmoving Muggle portraits of the family that appeared to date back at least six or seven generations.
Abraxas breezed past them without looking and stopped in front of a pair of large double doors.
"Ah, Malfoy," came the hiss from inside, an odd mix of English with a Parseltongue accent.
He apparently took that as permission to enter and slipped through the doors, but Tom lingered outside, suddenly nervous about what he would find inside.
"My Lord, Edgar Bones is dead, along with his wife and children for good measure."
"Good, I am glad to hear it." Voldemort's voice was high and cold, and even Tom couldn't tell whether he was actually glad or just saying empty words. "Is this your doing?"
Tom didn't hear Abraxas's reply, because he had stepped through the door and was staring in horror at the mutilated face of his other self. The skin was as pale as snow and appeared stretched over features that seemed somehow blurred, as if someone had tried to erase a chalkboard but only succeeded in making a mess. The gleaming red eyes drew him in, and he felt like he was sinking deeper and deeper under black water.
He pulled himself out of the Pensieve so hard that he slammed himself against the back of his seat.
"That…" he began, then trailed off, utterly unable to keep the shock and disgust out of his voice. He looked up at Malfoy, who was watching him nervously from a chair across from him. "How did that happen?"
"I don't know for sure, My Lord. In hindsight he began to change even when we were still in school." Here he glanced at Tom, who knew they were both thinking that it had probably started with his own creation. "It came on so gradually at first that those of us who spent time with him every day didn't notice any change. Then he left on his travels, and when I saw him later it was… shocking, My Lord. And he only got worse as the years went on. I can't even imagine the things he must have done to himself."
Tom could well imagine some of the things his other self had done. He had begun planning many things before he'd been put into the diary. What he couldn't imagine was why his other self hadn't stopped at the first sign of such horrible side effects.
"And his mental state?"
Abraxas looked pained for a moment, as if he were reluctant to answer truthfully lest Tom Cruciate him for it. "Similar to his physical state."
Was all of that just because of the Horcruxes? Or was he affected by other rituals or experiments, too? wondered Tom. If it had been just the Horcruxes, then he really had to wonder whether creating six of them was really such a great idea. Surely any benefits derived from having a seven-part soul couldn't possibly outweigh those consequences.
He let out a breath that was the only outward expression of his thoughts he would allow himself.
He needed the other Horcruxes before he went after his other self. He needed to study them, and, more importantly, if his other self was as affected mentally as he was physically, then he needed control of the other Horcruxes so that Voldemort wouldn't think he was expendable. Tom knew that if he were confronted with another version of himself popping up out of the woodwork, he would probably view it as a threat. He could only imagine how someone who had fallen as low as his other self would react. So an insurance policy was definitely needed.
Tom really didn't want to have to dodge Fiendfyre from Lord Voldemort.
"I need other followers. My Knights."
He didn't really want to involve anyone else, and he had been undecided about doing it until he'd seen Abraxas's memory. Now he knew that he couldn't do it without them, no matter how much it absolutely galled him to have to admit it, even in the privacy of his own thoughts. The time in the diary must have made him more circumspect, because he couldn't imagine thinking any such thing before.
Still, he would only use—and only reluctantly—those he knew personally.
Abraxas explained, "Rosier's dead. Broken heart, I think; he was a shell of a man after his only child was killed by Aurors. Avery died in a magical accident a couple of years ago. Dolohov is in Azkaban. Only Lestrange, Nott, and Mulciber are alive and free, excepting myself."
"Mulciber already knows, or at least suspects. He seemed hopeful at the idea of my return," Tom mused aloud.
"His son was caught near the end of the first war and put into Azkaban, and Mulciber lost his position at the Ministry as a result. It only made him more determined to follow you."
"What about Lestrange and Nott?"
"My Lord, you know that Lestrange would do anything you asked of him, especially with you looking like this." A smirk had appeared on his face, but at Tom's cold stare it quickly slipped back off. He cleared his throat. "He is loyal, My Lord. He has two sons who were sent to Azkaban for torturing Aurors in your name, and he gave up his post as a Hit Wizard rather than publically denounce their actions and therefore you. He's lucky he was able to escape and abscond to France before they could toss him into a cell next to his children."
If Tom recalled correctly, it had been Lestrange's ambition to become a Hit Wizard since before even coming to Hogwarts. If he was really willing to give it all up rather than denounce his lord, then he was indeed much more loyal than all of the others who had scrambled to convince the Ministry that they had never been his followers. (The Malfoys included, he thought bitterly.)
"And Nott?"
The corners of Abraxas's mouth tightened. "He was never suspected in the first war and has gone to great lengths to avoid those of us who were, or even those of us who have family members who were accused or convicted. He has a son Draco's age, but the boy has never been allowed to be friendly with Draco."
"That is a disappointment," said Tom, his voice cold and high.
"Yes, My Lord, but may I suggest—that is, you may not have considered, given that you only have memories up to a certain point, but many of the other Knights also had sons who were among your most trusted Death Eaters. Avery, for example—"
Tom pinned him with a calculating stare, and he immediately stopped talking.
"I have considered it." Tom offered no more explanation than that, but Abraxas bowed his head in deference and thought it best to remain silent.

The Muggles' prison was much more tolerable the next time Tom visited. Granted their physical states were worse—Granger's hair looked as if vermin had taken to living in it—but at least their closet was clean.
"You see that I have kept my word," Tom said to the girl. "I will likewise keep my word to make things much worse for you if you give me a reason. Will you cooperate now?"
She rose shakily from the bare floor, using the wall to support herself, and mutely followed him out of the closet. She looked longingly at the bed as they passed it, and she sighed as they passed the open bathroom door, but she kept her peace. She hesitated briefly when she caught sight of the same chair where he'd restrained her the last time, still sitting in the middle of the kitchen floor, but at his pointed stare she gingerly lowered herself into it.
He saw no need for restraints at this point. He appeared to be gaining some modicum of her trust—or at least her reluctant faith that he would keep his word—and he had enough experience with weak children to know that he could get more out of her through mind games than through physical ones.
Still, he took out his wand. She flinched as he pointed it at her, then a glint of recognition lit up her dull brown eyes.
"Recognize it, do you? It's still his, you know. I didn't win it from him, but rather he carelessly threw it away in his haste to see about poor little dying Ginny. He's quite stupid, your friend; almost as stupid as you, the Mudblood who didn't have her wand on her when Lord Voldemort invaded her home."
She drew in an indignant breath but mercifully didn't speak. Tom smirked.
"Ah, good, you're learning. There might be hope for you yet." He pressed the tip of the wand to her temple and she drew in another breath, this time a gasp of fear. "It doesn't really matter that the wand isn't mine. It isn't as comfortable as my own wand, but I am extraordinary and can perform magic you can only dream of, Mudblood, even with my enemy's wand. For instance"—he pressed the wand harder into her skin—"I could invade your mind and take every thought, every memory, away from you. I could find out your worst nightmares and make you believe that you're living them until you go mad."
Granger shuddered but remained defiant.
Tom prodded her with the wand until she tilted her head back and met his eyes. "I can also take away everything that makes you who you are: your personality, your intelligence…. Imagine your poor parents' reactions when I return them a daughter who thinks she's a teapot, with the intelligence to match," he said casually, as if he were speaking to a friend over tea. "I think I'll let you keep your memories, though, so that you'll remember what you've lost."
He wasn't really good enough yet to do exactly what he'd said—certainly he could scramble her brains, but he didn't have the finesse he'd described—but he would be soon after he convinced his other self to teach him. And in any case, the Mudblood had no reason to doubt him.
Her eyes had gone wide now and she stared at him in horror, her gaze darting back and forth between each of his eyes as if trying to determine if he was telling the truth. He gave her a cold smile.
"Which is more important to you, Hermione Granger: your mind or your silly delusions about courage?"
He really ought to have phrased it as herself or her friend Harry Potter, but he figured that she would be more likely to succumb this way. He was correct, of course; she dropped her gaze to her lap and drew a shuddering breath.
"What do you want me to do?"
"Do?" he echoed, a hint of amusement in his tone. "That's an interesting turn of phrase, but I confess you'll have to give me time to think of things for you to do for me. For now I want the same as before: information."
She had stiffened again. "Please, I was telling the truth before. I—I really don't know anything else about the Chamber."
Tom stepped away from her, feeling no need to be in such close proximity now that she was cooperating.
"Indeed, I would have known immediately had you been lying. What I'm interested in is something else you mentioned: the previous time Harry Potter and I encountered one another."
She blinked up at him owlishly. "Th—the Philsopher's Stone, you mean? Do you need it for immortality even though you've already got another body?"
"It is not for you to question me, Mudblood!" he snapped. Internally, his thoughts were racing. The Philosopher's Stone… Of course! My other self is in need of a body. Could Potter have defeated him another time? With barely any external pause, he continued, "You will tell me about our little adventure from Potter's perspective."
She bit her lower lip at his outburst but, after a short pause to collect herself, explained, "We found the Cerberus in the beginning of the year and I noticed that it was guarding a trapdoor, although we didn't learn until later what was down there. We thought all year that it was Professor Snape who was trying to steal whatever Fluffy was guarding, and that he was the one who let the troll into the dungeons as a distraction and cursed Harry's broom. I went for help while Harry faced you, so I didn't know until he told me afterwards that it was you—that you had possessed Professor Quirrel."
Tom narrowed his eyes at her. Possession, of course… He must be too weak to do much else without his own body.
"And how did Harry Potter defeat my—me?" he asked, almost slipping and saying "my other self."
Granger swallowed nervously. "It's like I said last time: Professor Dumbledore told Harry that Professor Quirrel couldn't stand his touch because you couldn't stand his touch, because his mother left him with protection on the night you killed her…. I—I'm sure that Professor Quirrel's body was only being kept alive through the possession because of the unicorn blood, so he was probably particularly susceptible to—"
"Yes, that's quite enough speculation from you, Mudblood," cut in Tom, even though he figured that she was probably entirely correct. He just didn't want to hear anymore.
Unicorn blood. Merlin and Morgana, what had his other self gotten himself into? He wondered if now he'd have to deal with some mystical unicorn curse on top of the already formidable obstacles associated with getting an at-least-half-mad Dark Lord a functioning body. It had better all be worth it—his other self better have retained his knowledge and experience—or else Tom was going to be severely put out by the whole thing.

Lucius was standing stiffly in the front drawing room when Tom Apparated back to the manor. He executed a formal bow that did nothing to hide his displeasure.
"My Lord, both Lestrange and Mulciber are waiting for you in Father's study."
Poor Lucius was taking it quite badly that Tom had called in other followers. Apparently he did not like to share.
"Time does tend to get away from me when I'm having fun," replied Tom.
He really had lost track of time, but truthfully he hadn't found his discussion with the Mudblood the least bit fun after she'd started her story. Now he found himself in the unenviable position of not being in control of the situation, and he mentally cursed himself and the Granger girl quite soundly as he walked towards Abraxas's study half a step behind Lucius.
Lucius stopped at the door and reached out to open it for Tom, but Tom smiled grimly and pressed his wand into the man's side. "After you."
Malfoy's eyes widened in surprise and a little fear, but he stepped through the door willingly.
Tom smirked a bit at his own paranoia about entering the room first or leaving Malfoy at his back, but all the same he kept his wand in his hand by his side as Lucius stepped aside and Tom stepped into the doorway. He knew that they couldn't really harm him short of using Fiendfyre or basilisk venom or something equally as destructive, but old habits died hard when he felt out of control.
Mulciber was staring at him with his mouth hanging open, and Lestrange's blue eyes were comically wide and his face pale as a sheet.
"Ah, My Lord, welcome back," greeted Abraxas, the corner of his mouth quirking upwards and a hint of humor in his voice. "As you can see, Richard and Rastaban had not quite accepted the idea that you could be back."
Lestrange stayed glued to his seat, his gaze likewise glued to Tom's face, but Mulciber flew out of his chair and onto his knees.
"My Lord, I had hoped for this since I heard the Potter boy speak about the diary!"
Tom allowed himself a brief smile, just a slight upturn at the corners of his lips that everyone except Lestrange probably wasn't paying enough attention to catch. "Yes, I saw as much in Lucius's memory."
Lestrange startled out of his frozen stupor, apparently brought back to reality by the sound of Tom's voice. One moment he was in his chair and the next he had all but knocked Mulciber over in his haste to kneel before his lord. He didn't bow his head but stared up into Tom's eyes with a searching gaze.
"Master," he said on an exhale that seemed to have been torn from his throat. "Please believe that I never doubted your ability to return. I was only afraid that what Malfoy said was too good to be true!"
He seemed unable to say more but looked up at Tom imploringly.
Tom examined the lines around the man's eyes and mouth, which certainly had not been there the last time he'd seen Rastaban Lestrange. He wasn't sure that he would ever get entirely used to seeing the teenagers from his memories as middle-aged wizards fifty years later. By now Mulciber had righted himself and given Lestrange a little shove in retaliation that the man hardly seemed to notice. Tom did notice, and he curled his tongue against the roof of his mouth even as he gestured for the two to remove themselves from the floor.
"I wonder, with all of this dedication so freely offered to me now, why none of you"—here he looked up at the Malfoys to include them in his indictment—"bothered to try to find my other self in the intervening decade."
Mulciber and the Malfoys all flinched and opened their mouths to try to excuse themselves, but it was Rastaban who spoke first, as earnestly as Tom had ever heard anyone speak.
"I did try to find you—him! My sons were doing my bidding when they were caught, and after I fled the country to escape their fate, I followed every lead I was able to get from my contacts back in Britain. I swear it!"
"I well believe it coming from you," allowed Tom. Rastaban looked as if Tom had presented him with the grandest prize he could imagine. "Still, I doubt that Lord Voldemort will be particularly appeased by your hopes and dreams, given that they amounted to nothing."
Lestrange deflated all at once, looking as pained as if Tom had kicked him right in the bollocks. Tom did not soften his glare at all, but after a few moments he turned it on the other three occupants of the study.
"As for the rest of you, who never tried to find him at all, I imagine that he will be angry beyond all description. Yes," he added to preempt the words that were clearly on the tip of Lucius's tongue, "even at you, Lucius. Do you truly imagine that Lord Voldemort is going to be pleased that you released me into the world? Do you imagine that he will see me as anything other than a usurper that you unleashed by disobeying his explicit instructions to keep me hidden?"
Lucius looked ill, as did his father, who was clearly worried for his son's life.
"However…" he drew out until they were all hanging on his words, "if you help to bring him back now, then he might be more forgiving of your previous failures than otherwise. And, gentlemen, I will be pleased with your efforts should we succeed."
He did not feel the need to add that he would punish any of them who failed him. They all knew it; he was not as insane as Voldemort, but three of them well remembered his temper even at school, and Lucius had experienced enough of it in the past weeks since his return. Silence reigned as they all mulled over his words, until finally Lucius, by far the boldest of the group, ventured the question Tom knew they all wanted to ask.
"My Lord… Forgive me, I mean no offense and certainly no treason by asking, but I admit to being curious…. I wonder why—and please know that a word from you will silence me forever on the subject—you want to bring him back at all, if he will view you as a threat."
Tom laughed the high laugh that was utterly at odds with his appearance, and all four of them shuddered at the sound, more so Lestrange and Mulciber, who were as yet unused to hearing the sound again outside of their memories.
"Do you think that he will never find a way to return? He came close to succeeding a year ago and was only stopped through unforeseen circumstances beyond his control." Tom thought it best not to mention Lily Potter's apparent protection, or Potter's involvement at all. He allowed his cold gaze to take in all of their reactions. "I see that none of you had any inkling of this, although you certainly should have known that he cannot truly die and would have come back eventually."
He swept across the room and took a seat in one of the regal chairs across from Abraxas's desk. Mulciber and Lestrange, who had both been standing, immediately lowered themselves to their knees so as not to be higher than their lord. Lucius followed suit a second later, and Tom thought to himself that having his other Knights around was going to have a profoundly positive influence on the man.
"My friends, it is better that we take the dragon by the horns and control the circumstances of his return, than that we wait for that inevitable time when he manages it himself. This way you can earn some of his forgiveness, perhaps even his favor, and I can show him that I have no wish to be a threat to him."
Their expressions and a quick mental scan of their surface emotions told Tom that they were all on board with his plan and agreed that it was necessary and perhaps even the best course of action. He was glad that it had been so easy to gain their support by feeding into their fears and their hopes for Lord Voldemort's favor, because he could never have admitted the entire to truth to anybody.
That is, Tom was not going to get very far very quickly without his other self's expertise, and unbeknownst to them, his followers were going to help him gain the means to control Lord Voldemort.

Tom was absolutely incensed and not a little disbelieving. He had nearly cursed Lestrange for a presumptuous liar when he'd come forward with the information, but in the end he supposed that his other self probably was mad enough to have done it. And Lestrange had been nothing but earnest when he'd explained that the Dark Lord had given him one of his precious objects to keep in his Gringotts vault and had said enough to him that he believed one other was hidden in Tom's mother's house.
Little Hangleton. It left a bitter trail through his mind when he mentally spoke the name. In one part of his mind it seemed like it had been only weeks since he'd come here, and in another part of his mind he fully felt the span of five decades between then and now.
Did he absolutely lose his fucking mind?
The welcoming wave of familiar Dark magic that washed over him as he approached the horrible little hut was answer enough, and he actually allowed a hiss to escape.
"Absolutely bloody barking!" he exclaimed in Parseltongue, addressing his other self as if he was actually there to hear Tom's rant. "Albus fucking Dumbledore knows our middle name, you utter idiot, and it isn't as if there's a surplus of Marvolos who speak Salazar's language forming a queue to get into Hogwarts! As if your bloody loose-lipped pillow talk with Lestrange wasn't bad enough!"
The door to the Gaunt shack was clearly heavily magically reinforced, and a brief examination revealed that it would take a blood sacrifice and a password to enter.
"Because Dumbledore couldn't at all manage to get past your little wards after you've left them here without any maintenance for who knows how long!" he continued to hiss aloud. "Open!"
The door opened for him without the sacrifice, and Tom hoped that it was only because it recognized his magic and not because the protections had deteriorated so much that they would have let anybody in without it.
He was still muttering to himself as he bent to fit through the low doorway, which is no doubt why it didn't immediately occur to him that the voice that greeted him was also in Parseltongue.
"Master?" it asked, sounding a bit torn about it. "You feel like him and speak like him, but you don't smell the same…."
Tom blinked and increased the intensity of his light to illuminate the entire room, which wasn't difficult given how cramped it was. There was a snake of unidentifiable species rearing up a body length away from him. The part of its body that was off the ground was almost as tall as he was, and the rest of its length was situated in large coils.
Oh, well, at least he thought to protect it using more than just a bloody door! He almost rolled his eyes, but cursing his absent other self out in Parseltongue was quite enough childishness for one day.
Clearly the serpent was of magical origins, and although he couldn't identify it he assumed—hoped—that controlling it was much the same as controlling the basilisk.
He allowed his voice to fill with his magic. "I am your master. I have come to remove the ring from your care; it is no longer safe here. You will not hinder me."
The snake gave no response and made no move as he edged towards the corner of the little room that seemed to almost pulse with Dark magic, so he assumed that it had worked. Even if it hadn't and the snake decided to attack him suddenly, what were the chances that his other self had bred some new species of magical serpent with venom that worked like that of the basilisk?
Actually, now that he'd thought about it, Tom thought the chances were pretty high.
He kept one eye on the snake as he crept towards the small, elaborately decorated chest. Something inside pulsated in time with his own heart, and it was difficult to keep his attention trained on anything other than the feeling. His pulse hammered throughout his entire body and blood pounded in his ears, and his magic thrummed along with it in perfect sync with the Dark magic bleeding out of the chest.
He forgot entirely about the very real snake looming over him as he knelt down and ran his fingers reverently along the top of the lid. The carved snakes decorating the chest came to life and slithered toward his hand, hissing warm greetings and seeming to bask in the warmth of his magic.
With a last touch, he hissed, "Open, my love."
Whether the chest worked on the same Parseltongue password as the Chamber's entrance and the shack's door, or whether the Horcrux inside really had answered his call, Tom neither knew nor cared. The lid had clicked open and that was all that mattered. His uncle's ring gleamed up at him, its own inherent Darkness seeming somehow to have overtaken everything surrounding it. He reached out and caressed it, and it seemed to flood his body with itself and return the touch from the inside out.
Tom moaned from low in his throat, a completely involuntary action on his part. The other Horcrux seemed to pulse with reciprocated feeling.
He slipped the ring onto his finger, and all was right in the world for a few blissful seconds.
Then the pain shot through his finger and up his arm, and he hissed out several colorful phrases and ripped it back off his hand. The curse seemed to struggle to gain hold of his body, and he involuntarily shook his shriveled hand in a vain attempt to alleviate the pain, until finally the magic seemed to wear itself out. With nothing to latch onto, the curse dissipated, and Tom watched through narrowed eyes as his hand returned to normal, much more slowly than when he'd cut or burned himself but still quickly enough that he wasn't worried.
He opened his other hand to look at the ring resting innocently in his palm. It pulsed through him again, and Tom wasn't sure if he was imagining it or if it was laughing at him.
"Go ahead and have your laugh," he told it in their magical language. "You just wait and see whether I take the time to remove that curse."
This time Tom was quite sure that his fellow Horcrux pulsed in protest.

Author's Notes: Edgar Bones was Madam Amelia Bones's brother. He was killed in the first war along with his entire family (as we find out from Susan Bones and Moody in OotP), and if you'll recall, Amelia Bones was killed in the summer of HBP, some think by Voldemort himself. (According to JKR's interviews, Edgar and Amelia's parents were also killed in the first war, but no one says this in the canon.)
As in my other story, I've used my little head canon here regarding Lestrange Sr's name. Rabastan is JKR's bastardization of the star's actual name, which is Rastaban (meaning "head of the serpent," actually in the constellation Draco), and it bugged me enough that I had to think of why the characters would have changed it. So in my head canon the brothers' mother dislikes her husband's given name and Sr. didn't win the battle to have his first son named after him, hence Rodolphus, but by the time the second son was born he'd managed to get his wife to accept the bastardized version, Rabastan.
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