fic for cedarlibrarian: The Pursuit of Knowledge (Tom Riddle, R)
Title: The Pursuit of Knowledge
Recipient: cedarlibrarian
Rating: R
Character(s): Tom Riddle
Warnings: Mentions of drug use and Aleister Crowley.
Summary: The pursuit of knowledge and power takes Tom Riddle to strange places.
Author's Notes: I hope you like it, mystery giftee!
--
Finishing school forever, departing from Hogwarts, leaving behind the only real home he'd ever known, Tom Riddle felt both free and sad. It was a strange sensation, this elation at being seventeen and free from the Underage Use of Magic laws and the sadness of leaving. He had enjoyed his time at the school, had learnt a great many things. However, no matter how much he learned, no matter what he had achieved, it was still not enough. He had found the Chamber of Secrets and made it and the basilisk within his own; he had flattered the information about Horcruxes out of Slughorn's mind and started creating his own; he had won awards for services to the school and been Head Boy and Prefect. He had achieved so very much, more than anyone might have expected from a mere orphan.
A mere orphan indeed! Tom snorted to himself as he remembered how in his early years at the school people had said this of him. Their tunes had changed now, oh yes. He had followers, others of his own age and younger who were charmed by him, believed his words and felt moved by them, felt him to be a new and better option than the current political system of the Wizarding World. Most of his followers were pureblood wizards; a few were Muggleborn, like himself. All of them were fanatically loyal and had sworn oaths created out of dark magic to be faithful and true to him and his cause.
Tom still thirsted for knowledge, despite having left school, and he knew that even the wonders contained within the British Museum and the London Library would not content him for long. He had no more revenges to seek, not since he had completed the task of repaying his father for his…treatment…of his mother, and his uncle for his own disgusting existence. There was much to learn and much to see, and Tom was determined that he would learn and see everything he could before he put his political plans into action. He needed a few more years behind him before others would accept him without derision, and he was prepared to wait - but only by using that time productively.
The year was 1943 and the war still raged in the Muggle world. Grindelwald had been only recently defeated by Dumbledore, and there was hope that with the Dark Wizard's defeat that the Muggle war would also soon end. Tom cared little for such things, but he would never forget the terror he had felt, huddled with other orphans in the shelters as the sirens wailed in the sky and the bombs fell. No matter how far he went or how high he rose, some things could never be forgotten. He would learn from them instead, he decided - he would study Muggle sciences, even though he had little respect for the Muggles who created such devastating and clumsy weapons; but then, all knowledge was power and he would be a fool indeed to ignore one entire civilisation's worth of knowledge because of his prejudice. And Tom Riddle was not a fool.
However, there would be time for such study later. He would apply to study at various Muggle institutions, perhaps Oxford, creating papers proving himself to be a wise and gifted student from London. However, while the war still raged, Oxford could wait. For the moment, there was magic to be learned and power to be gained and there was someone in London who interested Tom a very great deal. A very great deal indeed.
Reports had infiltrated the Wizarding press regarding 'The most evil man alive,' and Tom had read them first with a sense of amused derision and then with interest. The man described by the press was one Aleister Crowley and his books of magic; his interest in Thelema and the creation of his Ordo Templi Aurealis fascinated Tom. He intended to discover whether or not this Crowley was a Wizard or simply a Muggle who had stumbled upon magic by pure accident.
He wrote letters to Crowley, a great many letters, praising his writings, asking questions about theoretical magic, the concept of eternal life, the use and misuse of power. At first, there was no reply, but Tom continued to write the letters, supposing that someone as intelligent as this Aleister Crowley was reputed to be would not be able to dismiss them for long. During the day, to support himself, Tom took work at Borgin and Burkes, and in the evenings, he read and read and wrote and wrote.
It took a year, but finally, in the middle of winter of 1944, Tom received a reply. The handwriting was shaky, but legible, and Tom felt a sense of excitement as he opened the cream coloured envelope and took out the neatly folded letter within. The letter was thick, close to twenty pages, and Tom read it carefully and then reread it. Aleister Crowley might well be the most evil man alive in the Muggle world, but his words impacted upon Tom's mind like sledgehammers. Tom was enthralled. He read and reread, and as dawn was breaking, he penned a long and detailed, posting it by first class mail as soon as he was done.
For weeks, the two corresponded, talking of various magical theories, ideas, beliefs. Tom found himself becoming quite fond of the old man, for Crowley was in his seventies now, and, he told the young man, approaching the end of his life. In one of his letters, he wrote that he hoped Tom would have more success in the area of prolonging life than he himself had, and Tom had replied and said that he wished for that more than anything. Finally, in late spring of 1944, Tom received an invitation to visit the man at his home in a boarding house in Hastings.
Tom was not expecting much - he had seen mortality at work, after all, and he wasn't there to see Crowley's body so much as he was there to speak with the man and, if he could, Legilimens into his mind. He wore his best Muggle suit, polished his shoes and Apparated from the tiny bed-sit in Wizarding London where he lived to the Hastings boarding house where the renowned magician resided.
He was shown into Crowley's room by a quiet housekeeper, who bobbed a curtsey and left them alone together. Crowley was old, his hair white and his beard closely trimmed. He walked with the aid of a cane and his skin was wrinkled. But there was nothing old about his eyes, they were piercing eyes that immediately saw everything, understood what they saw and observed more than what was said. As Tom sat in the offered comfortably upholstered chair, the magician sat on the edge of his bed and smiled.
"And so we meet at last, young Mr. Riddle."
"Indeed, Sir. It's an honour." And it was, Tom admitted privately, because for all his physical frailty, there was nothing frail about the man's mind or his power. This was the man that MI5 and Ian Flemming had wanted to assist in the war effort, to interrogate Rudolph Hess and devise a secret code using Crowley's knowledge of Enochian magic.
"No, it's I who is honoured." Crowley smiled, and it was a warm smile. "I wish we had met earlier - I would have been delighted to have been your mentor in magic and in society."
Tom smiled in spite of himself. "I would have liked that, Mr. Crowley," he said honestly.
"Aleister, please."
"Aleister."
The old man chuckled softly. "I'm dying, Tom," he said, getting straight to the point, "and none of those who flock around me like a pack of vultures are worthy of my legacy. Yet here you are, out of the blue, from that society that I eschewed so many years ago, far more worthy of my knowledge and skills than anyone I have ever met.
"I wish we had more time, but time is not on our side. This war will end, and I will be dead soon. A fitting end, I think. But I want you to have all my notes," he waved a hand negligently and a large box flew across the room to land beside Tom's chair, "everything I discovered, all my work. You will, I think, benefit from what is within more than anyone else I know. Britain is not ready for this knowledge, yet, but you are an exception to that. You are powerful, gifted and talented. You will be able to keep an open mind as you read and study and you will remain neutral until you have performed your own experiments and arrived at your own conclusions. That is what magic requires, young man - an open mind, all the better to appreciate the power."
Tom drew in a deep breath. He hadn't expected to be so honoured with Crowley's entire collection of notes, especially not at their first face to face meeting. "I don't know what to say, Aleister," he said softly. "I…thank you."
"You're welcome, my boy." The magician opened a drawer in his bedside cabinet and removed a vial and a syringe. He pulled a wry face. "My medication," he explained. "It does little to halt the aging process or illness, but it does dull the pain."
Tom nodded. "I understand. Have you considered seeing a Wizard healer?"
Aleister laughed. "I have and he was as terrified of me as any of the idiots who call me the most evil man alive. There are others far more evil than I. Idiots, all of them. No, Tom, none of them - Wizard or otherwise - can help me now. Only this chemical concoction that they call heroin -- created, did you know, by the Nazi's -- can ease the pain." He sighed reflexively. "Even though it has it's own evils."
"I don't intend to die," Tom said firmly. "Ever."
"And so you won't," Crowley said calmly. "You are young, you have the tools. Now, all that remains is for you to use them. Use them well, Tom, and use them wisely. And you will be the most powerful wizard who ever lived."
*
Every day for the next three years, until Crowley's death, Tom would visit the old man, and they talked, discussed magic and history, politics and philosophy. No one knew of these meetings and when the old magician died, Tom was one of the few who attended his funeral. When the body was laid to rest in the tradition of the Old Ways, Tom resolutely turned on his heel towards his destiny, aided with the knowledge that Aleister Crowley had given him.
Recipient: cedarlibrarian
Rating: R
Character(s): Tom Riddle
Warnings: Mentions of drug use and Aleister Crowley.
Summary: The pursuit of knowledge and power takes Tom Riddle to strange places.
Author's Notes: I hope you like it, mystery giftee!
--
Finishing school forever, departing from Hogwarts, leaving behind the only real home he'd ever known, Tom Riddle felt both free and sad. It was a strange sensation, this elation at being seventeen and free from the Underage Use of Magic laws and the sadness of leaving. He had enjoyed his time at the school, had learnt a great many things. However, no matter how much he learned, no matter what he had achieved, it was still not enough. He had found the Chamber of Secrets and made it and the basilisk within his own; he had flattered the information about Horcruxes out of Slughorn's mind and started creating his own; he had won awards for services to the school and been Head Boy and Prefect. He had achieved so very much, more than anyone might have expected from a mere orphan.
A mere orphan indeed! Tom snorted to himself as he remembered how in his early years at the school people had said this of him. Their tunes had changed now, oh yes. He had followers, others of his own age and younger who were charmed by him, believed his words and felt moved by them, felt him to be a new and better option than the current political system of the Wizarding World. Most of his followers were pureblood wizards; a few were Muggleborn, like himself. All of them were fanatically loyal and had sworn oaths created out of dark magic to be faithful and true to him and his cause.
Tom still thirsted for knowledge, despite having left school, and he knew that even the wonders contained within the British Museum and the London Library would not content him for long. He had no more revenges to seek, not since he had completed the task of repaying his father for his…treatment…of his mother, and his uncle for his own disgusting existence. There was much to learn and much to see, and Tom was determined that he would learn and see everything he could before he put his political plans into action. He needed a few more years behind him before others would accept him without derision, and he was prepared to wait - but only by using that time productively.
The year was 1943 and the war still raged in the Muggle world. Grindelwald had been only recently defeated by Dumbledore, and there was hope that with the Dark Wizard's defeat that the Muggle war would also soon end. Tom cared little for such things, but he would never forget the terror he had felt, huddled with other orphans in the shelters as the sirens wailed in the sky and the bombs fell. No matter how far he went or how high he rose, some things could never be forgotten. He would learn from them instead, he decided - he would study Muggle sciences, even though he had little respect for the Muggles who created such devastating and clumsy weapons; but then, all knowledge was power and he would be a fool indeed to ignore one entire civilisation's worth of knowledge because of his prejudice. And Tom Riddle was not a fool.
However, there would be time for such study later. He would apply to study at various Muggle institutions, perhaps Oxford, creating papers proving himself to be a wise and gifted student from London. However, while the war still raged, Oxford could wait. For the moment, there was magic to be learned and power to be gained and there was someone in London who interested Tom a very great deal. A very great deal indeed.
Reports had infiltrated the Wizarding press regarding 'The most evil man alive,' and Tom had read them first with a sense of amused derision and then with interest. The man described by the press was one Aleister Crowley and his books of magic; his interest in Thelema and the creation of his Ordo Templi Aurealis fascinated Tom. He intended to discover whether or not this Crowley was a Wizard or simply a Muggle who had stumbled upon magic by pure accident.
He wrote letters to Crowley, a great many letters, praising his writings, asking questions about theoretical magic, the concept of eternal life, the use and misuse of power. At first, there was no reply, but Tom continued to write the letters, supposing that someone as intelligent as this Aleister Crowley was reputed to be would not be able to dismiss them for long. During the day, to support himself, Tom took work at Borgin and Burkes, and in the evenings, he read and read and wrote and wrote.
It took a year, but finally, in the middle of winter of 1944, Tom received a reply. The handwriting was shaky, but legible, and Tom felt a sense of excitement as he opened the cream coloured envelope and took out the neatly folded letter within. The letter was thick, close to twenty pages, and Tom read it carefully and then reread it. Aleister Crowley might well be the most evil man alive in the Muggle world, but his words impacted upon Tom's mind like sledgehammers. Tom was enthralled. He read and reread, and as dawn was breaking, he penned a long and detailed, posting it by first class mail as soon as he was done.
For weeks, the two corresponded, talking of various magical theories, ideas, beliefs. Tom found himself becoming quite fond of the old man, for Crowley was in his seventies now, and, he told the young man, approaching the end of his life. In one of his letters, he wrote that he hoped Tom would have more success in the area of prolonging life than he himself had, and Tom had replied and said that he wished for that more than anything. Finally, in late spring of 1944, Tom received an invitation to visit the man at his home in a boarding house in Hastings.
Tom was not expecting much - he had seen mortality at work, after all, and he wasn't there to see Crowley's body so much as he was there to speak with the man and, if he could, Legilimens into his mind. He wore his best Muggle suit, polished his shoes and Apparated from the tiny bed-sit in Wizarding London where he lived to the Hastings boarding house where the renowned magician resided.
He was shown into Crowley's room by a quiet housekeeper, who bobbed a curtsey and left them alone together. Crowley was old, his hair white and his beard closely trimmed. He walked with the aid of a cane and his skin was wrinkled. But there was nothing old about his eyes, they were piercing eyes that immediately saw everything, understood what they saw and observed more than what was said. As Tom sat in the offered comfortably upholstered chair, the magician sat on the edge of his bed and smiled.
"And so we meet at last, young Mr. Riddle."
"Indeed, Sir. It's an honour." And it was, Tom admitted privately, because for all his physical frailty, there was nothing frail about the man's mind or his power. This was the man that MI5 and Ian Flemming had wanted to assist in the war effort, to interrogate Rudolph Hess and devise a secret code using Crowley's knowledge of Enochian magic.
"No, it's I who is honoured." Crowley smiled, and it was a warm smile. "I wish we had met earlier - I would have been delighted to have been your mentor in magic and in society."
Tom smiled in spite of himself. "I would have liked that, Mr. Crowley," he said honestly.
"Aleister, please."
"Aleister."
The old man chuckled softly. "I'm dying, Tom," he said, getting straight to the point, "and none of those who flock around me like a pack of vultures are worthy of my legacy. Yet here you are, out of the blue, from that society that I eschewed so many years ago, far more worthy of my knowledge and skills than anyone I have ever met.
"I wish we had more time, but time is not on our side. This war will end, and I will be dead soon. A fitting end, I think. But I want you to have all my notes," he waved a hand negligently and a large box flew across the room to land beside Tom's chair, "everything I discovered, all my work. You will, I think, benefit from what is within more than anyone else I know. Britain is not ready for this knowledge, yet, but you are an exception to that. You are powerful, gifted and talented. You will be able to keep an open mind as you read and study and you will remain neutral until you have performed your own experiments and arrived at your own conclusions. That is what magic requires, young man - an open mind, all the better to appreciate the power."
Tom drew in a deep breath. He hadn't expected to be so honoured with Crowley's entire collection of notes, especially not at their first face to face meeting. "I don't know what to say, Aleister," he said softly. "I…thank you."
"You're welcome, my boy." The magician opened a drawer in his bedside cabinet and removed a vial and a syringe. He pulled a wry face. "My medication," he explained. "It does little to halt the aging process or illness, but it does dull the pain."
Tom nodded. "I understand. Have you considered seeing a Wizard healer?"
Aleister laughed. "I have and he was as terrified of me as any of the idiots who call me the most evil man alive. There are others far more evil than I. Idiots, all of them. No, Tom, none of them - Wizard or otherwise - can help me now. Only this chemical concoction that they call heroin -- created, did you know, by the Nazi's -- can ease the pain." He sighed reflexively. "Even though it has it's own evils."
"I don't intend to die," Tom said firmly. "Ever."
"And so you won't," Crowley said calmly. "You are young, you have the tools. Now, all that remains is for you to use them. Use them well, Tom, and use them wisely. And you will be the most powerful wizard who ever lived."
*
Every day for the next three years, until Crowley's death, Tom would visit the old man, and they talked, discussed magic and history, politics and philosophy. No one knew of these meetings and when the old magician died, Tom was one of the few who attended his funeral. When the body was laid to rest in the tradition of the Old Ways, Tom resolutely turned on his heel towards his destiny, aided with the knowledge that Aleister Crowley had given him.