rarepair_shorts | Clue(do) Ficathon: Compassion Can Be A Dangerous Thing (Myrtle/Tom R)

Title: Compassion Can Be A Dangerous Thing

Pairing: Myrtle/Tom R

Rating: T

Summary: Motives are not always clear, not always reasonable and rarely ever remembered.

Warning(s): Character death

Word Count: ~1100

A/N: Written for Clue(do) Ficathon

Myrtle lent her head against the cool mirror above the sink as tears streaked down her face. She kept her eyes firmly shut wanting to imagine – just for once – that Myrtle wasn't the fat, pimply midget that everyone saw and that there might be a chance with Riddle.

... Myrtle Riddle...

It sounded far better than Olive Riddle, she thought.

Although, she knew that if anybody was going to get the cool, handsome boy it would be Olive Hornby. The beautiful Olive. The one who had acquired more boyfriends than any other girl in their year, which she frequently reminded Myrtle.

No-one would ever like the acne-riddled Mudblood. No; instead, they wanted that slutty creature.

She opened her eyes and whispered, "nobody would miss me if I died." The hazy image of herself – whilst blotchy and blurred – was the closest she would ever get to a confidant. She was sure something was listening, though she'd undoubtedly be sent to a permanent ward in St. Mungo's if she ever told anyone.

"I wish I could stay here forever, but I don't want my life to be wasted. I don't want them to get the better of me. Oh, if only Hornby could be scarred for the rest of her life. She wouldn't be nearly as full of herself then..."

But, it was wishful thinking; Myrtle doubted she could ever get the better of the blond haired, blue eyed 'wonder'. Even the Professors loved her.

Something creaked near to her, it was more of a rustling noise than anything else, but it was there. She jumped, in a manner which would send her classmates into fits of the laughter which rarely passed her lips. Then Myrtle ran to the nearest cubical where she found herself falling into hysteria.

Even when she tried her utmost to avoid the snide comments; they still found some way to torture her. Her glasses were no longer of any use, and instead were pressing uncomfortably on her nose – she had been in a rush when she fixed them after Hornby last broke them.

She felt unworthy of being a Ravenclaw. Rowena was probably rolling in her grave. What kind of Ravenclaw couldn’t perform a basic repairing charm?

Seconds, minutes, or hours could have passed with her head in her hands while she perched uncomfortably atop the toilet seat when she heard a voice. She gave a sobbing gasp and tried to listen. It was a male voice so her eyes narrowed and heart stopped for a fleeting moment.

Perhaps a 'friend' of Hornby's.

A cruel grimace worked its way onto her face, giving her a maniac look and she quickly slid the lock on the cubicle door.

This was her calling.

Tom rested in the pipe; his robes scuffed and dirty. Although, he doubted anyone would notice given their rough, second-hand state, aside from Hornby, of course. He held a diary in his hand; one he had been given by Myrtle and, whilst it was nothing special, – and certainly it didn't compare to the pricey gift Hornby had shoved upon him-, it was precious to him. Hornby only ever mentioned him in school term, and really it was only since he'd grown into his looks over the past year. When he had first started at Hogwarts, he had made sure that no one would see through his determined, calm facade, through to the terrified little boy who had been thrown into an entirely new world.

Myrtle had handed the diary to him at the start of term, apologizing for not having sent it in time for his birthday because she didn't own an owl. He had tried to shun anything Muggle, but this one item was the first gift he had received which was his and his alone.

He shifted as he heard a girl speak, fear and excitement welling within him. Tom finally had the perfect person. He could hear her footsteps patter into a stall, and a small sigh escaped his lips because he wouldn't be able to hear her confide any longer.

He waited just long enough; until his wrist was numb. Then, he spoke in Parseltongue and freed the basilisk while telling it to kill the girl. It was momentarily confused, because he had stopped it from killing people before. That was why there was a break in the 'accidents', not because of Hagrid – who had to be blamed, because Dumbledore had so nearly discovered Tom. He hadn't gone into the chamber to kill people; he was after the great tomes which were stored within. He had left the sadistic child behind and tried to make a name for himself.

He called the chamber open and watched as Myrtle pushed open her door. He observed the horror in her eyes as she fell to the ground, lifeless. A strange feeling swelled within him; he felt sick, not as he thought he might.

Quickly, he swallowed the lump in his throat and stepped the few feet to the girl.

It's just a body. He told himself as he crouched down beside her.

"I won't let your death be in vain, I swear," he whispered softly, though he knew she couldn't hear.

With hands more gentle than that barmy old fool - Dumbledore –knew he had, Tom brushed a few strands of offending hair from her cheek. "Now, they can't hurt you like they tried to hurt me."

Tom quickly stood and retrieved the diary from one of his pockets and whispered some incantations; they worked as he hoped they would. His wand clattered to the ground as he crumbled onto his knees, landing in a robe-clad mess on the cold stone floor.

His eyes rolled toward his skull and his body started writhing as fire and ice gushed around his form, expanding and contracting him all at once. Tom never saw the white trail leave his body; he only felt an unbearable burning sensation course through him. Greater than any pain he had ever felt. Even through the pain, Tom remembered that he was beating his fears; he would finally be invincible. That it was worth it. It was then the white cord being pulled between him and the diary finally snapped.

He scrubbed the sweat from his brow, sent the basilisk to the chamber and hurried out of the bathroom without casting a sideways glance.

No one would ever guess his reason, and no one would ever know. He was sure of it; the diary would tell them otherwise, if they ever managed to access it. Lord Voldemort wasn’t a fool; he wouldn’t leave a trail. A smirk crossed his features, sending a firsty scuttling across the corridor.

It was possibly the kindest thing he'd ever done.

Yet, even that was under the greatest of taboos.

Clue(do) Ficathon: Compassion Can Be A Dangerous Thing (Myrtle/Tom R)

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