Disclaimer: I don't own the Harry Potter series or any of its characters.
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June 1966
The rain fell from the sky in small pattering droplets, splashing against the concrete ground. It was not heavy enough to warrant the use of an umbrella, yet noticeable enough to be a hindrance. The sky itself was an ambiguous shade of grey, an in between, a precarious balance on a set of scales.
The not-quite-gloomy weather failed to deter the pedestrians along Diagon Alley, most of whom walked down the street briskly, going about on their daily business with the determined air of those who did what had to be done. A middle-aged wizard took a copy of the Daily Prophet from a paperboy, and pressed three Knuts into the outstretched hand. He glanced down at the front page headline, underneath which a large photo of a slim, dark-haired man was displayed.
RIDDLE BECOMES MINISTER: YOUNGEST IN BRITISH WIZARDING HISTORY
The man in the photograph smiled up at the reader as droplets of rain fell in splotches on cheap paper.
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The Prime Minister was looking forward to the end of a rather gloomy day. Pen poised in hand, he frowned down at the impossibly convoluted-looking document on his desk. All this jargon irritated him. Being a politician, he was supposed to be fluent in the language of bureaucrats, but dash it all, couldn't people write in simpler terms for once? Would it be so difficult for these idiots to not give him a splitting headache?
The portrait opposite him fidgeted slightly but he ignored it. Years of living with a moving painting had numbed him to the sheer impossibility of magic; apathy made endurance an easier task. What he could not ignore, however, was the ugly warlock clearing his throat and saying in a dry voice, "Minister for Magic to see you, Prime Minister."
The Prime Minister stiffened. A muscle twitched in his jaw. One of those visits again. . .
. . . on top of an already lousy day. . .
. . .
. . .
. . . Well, he couldn't say no, could he?
Sighing, he put down his pen and muttered, "Oh very well. I'll see him."
He stared stonily ahead as the green fire roared up in the fireplace – fireplace fires weren't supposed to be green – and a tall, dark-haired man stepped out of it, pale hands brushing the non-existent soot off his robes.
The Prime Minister stared at him. "You're not the Minister for Magic," he blurted out, not bothering with politeness.
The man looked up at him coolly. "I'm afraid I am," he said. His face was smooth and unlined, leading the Prime Minister to wonder precisely how old this man was. Insensible thing to do, really, getting such a young chap to lead a part of the country, he thought to himself. Probably pulled connections.
The young man's eyes narrowed slightly, as if he could hear the Prime Minister's thoughts as they passed through his head. But his voice, when he spoke again, showed no sign of irritation. "My predecessor has completed his term in office," he said evenly. "I am the new Minister for Magic, Tom Riddle. It's nice to meet you." He strode over to the Prime Minister, back facing the portrait, and held out a slim hand, his gaze steady as firelight glinted off the black stone on his ring.
The Prime Minister hesitated, conscious of the quiet, magnetic confidence which radiated from Riddle. It was not a threatening confidence, but it was unnerving. Few possessed this level of self-assuredness, and those he knew had gone on to become powerful and influential in their fields of expertise. This Riddle would probably be no different.
But that wasn't any of his business.
Putting up his articulate politician's demeanour with an effort, he took Riddle's hand in a firm grip and shook it, saying, "Good to meet you. Congratulations on your appointment."
An amused look flitted across Riddle's handsome face. "Yes, thank you," he murmured. The cold, impersonal metal of his ring made unease squirm in the Prime Minister's stomach, but he pushed it down. Making his voice as pleasant as possible, he let go of Riddle's hand and said, "Please, have a seat. Would you like a whisky?"
Riddle shook his head slightly, the moving shadows accentuating the sharp angles of his face. "I'm afraid I have to return to the Ministry," he said, smiling. "This is but an introductory meeting, to keep the Prime Minister informed."
The Prime Minister noted the lack of the word 'muggle' with a trace of approval. The previous Minister for Magic had called him 'the Muggle Prime Minister', which he had found inexplicably demeaning.
"I see," he said pleasantly. "Well then, I am now informed. Are you sure you don't want a drink?"
Riddle declined again. The sleeves of his robes were long and wide, almost covering his hands; only his fingers could be seen. As the Prime Minister made a token gesture to pick up his decanter, Riddle held out a hand to refuse, murmuring his apologies and the Prime Minister's eyes were once again drawn to that large ring, incongruous on the pale, slim fingers which had wrapped themselves around a thin wooden stick, no, a wand. . .
. . . And all of a sudden, the day's worries were swept away and the only thing that mattered was that smooth, achingly beautiful voice which spoke to him. . .
The Prime Minister was only vaguely aware of Riddle stepping back into the green flames. His mind was a warm blur. Continue with what you were doing, the voice whispered to him, so convincing, so utterly irresistible, he had to obey.
He settled back down at his desk, picked up his pen, and continued where he had left off.
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September 1966
"People are saying it's down to either Sedgwick or Nott."
The newspaper rustled slightly as the reader flipped a page. "I'm guessing Sedgwick."
"The Head Auror needs to be proficient at magic though – my bet's on Nott."
"Nott was in my year at Hogwarts – he didn't strike me as being a particularly gifted wizard."
"I've heard he's one of the best now."
"That's strange. . . maybe he's been getting help. Hmm. Who knew?"
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The announcement for Head Auror made it to the third page.
. . . "I have complete faith in Mr Nott's ability to oversee the security of wizarding Britain," said Minister for Magic Tom Riddle. "He has proven to be extremely competent, as well as dedicated to his job as an Auror."
Mr Nott will take over all duties by the end of the week, replacing Jonathan Harding, who is retiring after fifteen years at the helm. "I will do my utmost in fulfilling my duties and responsibilities," he said to reporters yesterday . . .
Reading the paper in his large office, Tom Riddle's expression was impassive, but the glint in his eye suggested something deeper than mere triumph.
A knock sounded on his office door.
"Come in," he said, closing the newspaper and setting it aside. The door opened and his secretary, a brisk, efficient woman with greying hair came in holding a stack of letters. "Good morning sir," she said. "I have already filtered the unnecessary letters to the relevant departments."
"Thank you Edith, just leave them on the desk."
She did so and departed, shutting the door with a soft but decisive click. Riddle set his newspaper aside and picked up the thick pile. The first envelope made his lip curl slightly.
From: Horace Slughorn
Head of Slytherin House
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
It was undoubtedly an insipid letter of congratulations, indistinguishable from the rest. As much as these messages acknowledged his progress to greatness, they were inclined to be repetitive. However, Riddle could not deny that the old man's contacts had given him an advantage in the beginning, however unneeded. . .
He unsealed the envelope and pulled out the parchment within. It was everything he expected and nothing he did not.
Setting the letter down, he picked up his quill, dipped it in a bottle of ink, and began to write on a fresh piece of parchment:
Dear Professor,
Thank you for your note. . .
Once he had finished, he slipped the letter into an envelope and wrote the address in quick, neat strokes of the quill. Then he laid the letter on the side of his desk. The process was repeated for every letter he read. His face remained inscrutable as he settled letter after letter, document after document.
Then when the issue of the morning mail had been settled, he picked up another roll of parchment without hesitation and began composing a letter to the editor of the Daily Prophet. This time, there was a slight change in his manner. The previous cold efficiency was now tinged with a ruthless sense of purpose, his face a carefully controlled mask as his hand flew across the parchment, detailing precisely what he wanted the newspaper to do over the course of the next few months.
Of course, the editor was completely under Riddle's control, subject to his slightest whim or fancy. But he was not, unfortunately, a very bright man, and would undoubtedly be unable to remember the detailed instructions needed to accomplish this delicate task. He would enclose steps outlining how to hide this letter while the instructions were still relevant, and destroy it when they were no longer needed. A minor inconvenience.
Riddle's admirers had congratulated his accomplishment of having made it to the top post. Some had been under the impression that this was a sign of him having achieved the highest, greatest goal.
The Minister's job was a means for the individual to run the country, and better the welfare of its people. And Tom Riddle knew this. The appointment to Minister was a means to an end, and he fully intended it to be a great, noble, righteous end.
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To be continued. Please review! :)