Float On
A Harry Potter x IT crossover
A Harry Potter x IT crossover
Summary: Tom Marvolo Riddle did quite a bit of wandering for ten years after killing Hepzibah Smith. We know that during this time, he built up his knowledge and mastery of the Dark Arts. But what we don't know precisely is where he went. I've been re-reading a certain book and the most delicious plot bunny popped into my head. If you do a little research, you'll find that the timelines even match up perfectly. I may or may not pursue it any farther than this (as I say with all of the works I post) but it's fun to see how far I'll go.
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Tom Riddle fingered the brim of his felt fedora as he surveyed the dusty used car lot. A sign, once cheerful and bright, now faded and worn, proclaimed in the soft streelight:
Gus’s Used Car Lot! Best Deals in Kittery!
Muggles weren’t good for much, but he would secretly admit to himself that they had a head for producing machines capable of rivaling the wizarding world’s own modes of transportation. Of course, nothing was quite so convenient as the International Floo Network or even a portkey. But still, there was something alluring about the sleek lines of metal and the rumble of the engine that called Tom to one of these cars.
He glanced around the lot, making sure that he was unobserved as he walked down the short rows of vehicles wand raised high with a Lumos spell shining, languidly kicking a tire there, running his fingers along a side mirror here. Yes, these cars were certainly shiny.
He paused for a moment in front of a 1956 Plymouth Fury, though he didn’t know the make or model of the car, nor would he even have cared if someone had told him. All he knew was that the bright apple red was pleasing to his eyes and the bright sheen of the metal invited him to take a closer look.
A quick murmur (“Alomohora!â€) and the lock clicked softly, giving him access to the interior of the beast. He eased himself down onto the cushioned bench and wrapped his hands around the steering wheel, closing the door as smoothly as he had opened it. He sat there for a moment, admiring the metallic harmony of the machine as it thrummed with dormant life, waiting to be unleashed. The dashboard clock showed a quarter past 7.
This was madness.
What was he, Lord Voldemort, proud descendant of Salazaar Slytherin, champion of blood purity, and defender of wizard superiority, doing in the Colonies, the state of Maine to be precise, caressing the steering wheel of a filthy, muggle-built contraption?
What bothered him was that he had absolutely no idea. For the last ten years, he’d traveled the dark corners of Europe, scoured the shadows of the Orient, and traipsed through the moist, savage jungles of the Dark Continent.
There was nothing of interest in the United States, no secrets to uncover or places of power in to peruse. No, there was nothing here to aid him in his quest for power and mastery of the Dark Arts. North America was much too young to harbor any dark secrets. The colonies were nothing more than a continent to drift through as he made his way north from the ruined temples of the Mayans, prying their bloody secrets from the specters of the past. But for the past two weeks, he had lingered in New England, a nameless feeling compelling him to stay.
He was far more attuned to the dark powers now than he had been in his youth. He had paid a heavy price for all of newfound knowledge, but he paid it gladly and without really considering what he was giving away in exchange. This feeling, he assumed, came from these acquired powers of his.
He’d concentrated on that feeling, honing in on it like a bloodhound on a scent, dogged and fearless. It drew him from Boston, Massachusetts and up into the north-eastern most tip of the country: Maine. And once he crossed the border from New Hampshire into Maine, that feeling coalesced into something more tangible; he began to hear whispers in his mind that were alien to him.
Why not go a little further north, Tom? The autumn leaves are so pretty and you have all the time in the world. Time enough before you have to return to that nasty business over the Pond. There’s something ever-so-interesting right over the next rise, and if not that one, then surely something over the next hill. You’re a sort of scholar, aren’t you Tom? Don’t you want to learn what’s over that hill, down the lane, and under the bridge? You’re almost there, Tommy boy. Just a little farther. Float on, Tom, float on.
Without quite realizing what he was doing, he listened to that voice, curiosity aroused. Far from being afraid of that dry voice that spoke easily into his heavily defended mind, he was curious. As he drew ever closer to the source of the voice, he began to reconsider his assessment that there was nothing of interest in the US. The further north he went…the stronger this feeling of his became. It wasn’t wholly dark. But it still felt…off. Yes, off was the right word.
“Yes, why not go a little further?†He whispered, not aware that he had spoken aloud. He tapped the steering wheel once, twice, and the engine came alive with a low purr. The wonderful thing about magic was that one could make things work without really knowing how it worked. Any schoolboy could fire off a Stunning spell without knowing the theory behind it. And so, Tom merely spelled the car to drive wherever he wished without him having to put the car into gear or any other such thing. Magic was terribly convenient sometimes.
And so Tom Riddle pulled out of the lot, headlights flickering on, and onto the road. He needed no map to show him the way. That compelling feeling guided him as unerringly as a compass pointed north. Within a half-hour, he was on the interstate and out of Kittery. He leaned back into the seat and closed his eyes, letting the car drive itself to wherever he needed to go.
The gentle swaying of the car on the pavement lulled him to drowsiness. Distantly, he heard the strains of a song filter quietly through the radio.
Forever, my darling our love will be true.
Always and forever, I'll love only you.
Just promise me darling, your love in return
May this fire in my soul, dear, forever burn…
The soft tune pushed him over the edge of sleep and he tumbled into oblivion.
~*~*~
He awoke in a cold sweat, a yell dying off in the back of his throat. He looked around wildly in the darkness for a moment before remembering where he was. The car was parked in front a largish building that bore a slight similarity to a townhouse he had seen in London. He breathed easier when he felt the reassuring coolness of his wand nestled against his arm in its holster. He forced himself to calm down, reminding himself that dreams had no power over him. He had not had a bad dream since his days in the orphanage.
He gripped the steering wheel, brow furrowed as he tried to remember the specifics of his dream. But the memory slipped away like so much mist between his fingers. It left him feeling uneasy. A quick Drying Charm dissipated the sweat from his person and he stepped out of the car, adjusting his tie.
He shut the car door behind him and marched up to the dim glow emanating through the glass doors of the building.
Gold lettering on the glass told him that this building was the Derry Townhouse, which confirmed his suspicions that it was a hotel of sorts. He absently patted his wallet, stuffed full of transfigured American greenbacks. They wouldn’t last forever, but Tom was always careful to make sure he was out of town every two weeks or so. He doubted he’d be treated kindly for paying his way with blank paper.
The receptionist was a middle-aged old man, with a balding pate and half-moon glasses perched on the end of his nose. He glanced up from his newspaper and seeing that he had a customer, set it aside.
“How do you do, sir? Lucky you caught me before closing time.†He remarked as Tom approached the counter. Tom had to pause a moment and mentally translate what he had heard--
“How do yeh do, sir? Luckeh you cawt me befoah cloasin’ time.â€
--into recognizable English.
“I’m well, thank you. I’d like a room for the foreseeable future, if you please.â€
The receptionist raised an eyebrow at that. “In town on business, are you? We don’t get very many Brits in these parts.†He reached under his desk and brought out the register and a ballpoint pin, laying it in front of Tom.
The dark wizard opened the register and hurriedly scribbled in a fake name. “Real estate,†he without thinking. He slid the register back across the marble counter. “My company has a vested interest in some commercial ventures throughout New England.â€
“Well uh, Mr...Anderson--†the receptionist somehow managed to read Tom’s purposefully bad scrawl-- “standard room is fifteen a week and a suite is five dollars more.â€
Tom merely brought out his wallet and fished out two twenties. “A suite will suit me perfectly.†The receptionist took them without batting an eye. “And call me George.â€
As he tucked the money away into the register, the man asked, “Where are you coming from tonight, Mr. Anderson?†Tom wasn’t sure if the man had deliberately ignored Tom’s attempt at being friendly or simply hadn’t heard him.
“Kittery.†Tom didn’t want to seem unfriendly and so elaborated. “It was a nice, short drive. I couldn’t have been on the road more than an hour and a half.â€
“Must’ve been bookin’ it then. No one I know that drives the speed limit can make it here in less than 3 hours from Kittery.â€
Tom’s own eyebrows raised in slight surprise. It had been around 7:30 when he left the parking lot in Kittery. He was sure that he had carefully spelled the car to drive normally. Where then, had that other hour and a half gone? He put that thought aside for the moment. He needed to cover his blunder.
Tom grinned, winking. “I’m a bit of a speed demon.â€
“Ayuh. My kid brother’s the same way.†The receptionist agreed, also smiling.
Tom was then handed a key with a numbered tag tied to the loop on the end. “Suite 4. Up one flight and down the hall. Have a nice stay.â€
Fifteen minutes later, Tom had finished modifying the interior of the small suite to be more of a loft in London and lay more than a few heavy muggle repelling charms on the threshold of the room.
After a light dinner, Tom lay himself to sleep, burrowed beneath the emerald covers of his king-sized bed, so similar to his own bed in Hogwarts, but bigger.
On the edge of sleep once more and not a little bewildered as to how he ended up in the tiny town of Maine, of all places, Tom somehow felt...complete. Whatever he was looking for, he’d find in Derry, one way or another.
Just before he slipped into a deep sleep, he murmured, “Float on, Tom, float on.â€
Tom Marvolo Riddle had come to Derry.