Thank you so much for all your wonderful reviews!
To My Old Readers: This is a chapter you should definitely read, because here a lot of things change, the plot included. Well, except for the third scene; this one remains unchanged.
Chapter 3. Compulsive Consequences
As predicted, Tom discovered the interior of Snape's office as soon as the evening came. The man stormed into the common room, where the boy was flipping through the pages of the Charms textbook along with Greengrass and Bulstrode, grabbed him by the elbow, and dragged to his private office for a Talk. Thankfully, not the sort parents gave.
The place mirrored the Potions Master's personality perfectly: the cold and the gloom lingered everywhere from the vials-filled niches in the walls to the stony surface of the floor, to the almost black wood of the furniture. It didn't even have an enchanted window, like all the corridors and rooms in the dungeons seemed to have – in its place Tom saw rows of bookshelves full of tomes.
At least he seems to tidy up. There is no dust floating or lying around here.
Snape released Tom and strode to a straight-backed wooden chair that reeked of asceticism. He moved with a strange sort of grace, both brusque like a soldier's march and soft like a cat's steps.
A man's walk is important; it tells a lot. One's habits, state of mind and state of health... I can know it all if I read it all the right way.
"Riddle!" Snape suddenly called out, and Tom had a sense of déjà vu. Through clenched teeth, the man ground out, "What do you think you are doing?"
"Standing, Professor Snape. Waiting." Tom adopted a mockingly innocent expression, his hands tucked behind his back.
He had been observing Slytherins all this time and figured out the way the House dynamics worked.
Outside the House, the quality of acting defined everything: Slytherins applauded skilful manipulators who controlled others as easily as they would move a chess piece on a board. Malfoy mesmerised the crowd with the tales of his father's machinations, which became a riveting story when spilt through his lips, and many whistled at Maura Zabini's creative murders, while Nott narrated tall tales of his father's rule in Wizangamot.
Pretence, fake, act – the words described Tom's housemates' modes of behaviour perfectly.
Of course, some – generally underclassman – stray Slytherin would be openly hostile with others, but they did not last long on the hierarchy staircase. Fighting in the corridors resulted in the loss of points, and an irritable prefect would love to show everyone involved the error of their ways. Tom had seen those guys in action once, and remained reluctantly impressed.
With their own, though...
Here the dynamics swapped for the complete opposite.
The strong won. Arrogance paraded around in every movement, while cheekiness and wit and daring prevailed against shyness and fear.
Obviously, those who drowned in unfounded conceit soon found themselves pushed off the imaginary social ladder, but if they proved themselves, they acquired a wealth of loyalty from the crème de la crème. And prove himself Tom would.
"I do not tolerate cheek, Mr. Riddle," Snape began in soft tones. He didn't shout, but Tom tasted danger in the air all the same. "And you do not possess your classmates' connections to stop me from landing you in detention for the rest of your schooling."
A scornful smile flickered across Tom's face.
"You're right, professor, I don't. But you will have a hard time justifying an endless array of detentions when I'm a model student."
"The academic year has just begun, Riddle. Unless you have developed Seer abilities overnight – which cannot happen, since they pass along Light lines, not going to upstart muggleborn brats – nothing guarantees your remaining in the 'genius' position," Snape retorted sharply as a nasty smirk bloomed on his face.
"I can guarantee myself that, and it's enough."
Only confidence shone through in Tom's voice. He believed in himself. If others didn't, they could blame themselves. Snape narrowed his eyes.
"Presumptuous little knobhead," the man hissed threateningly, leaning over the table and furrowing his eyebrows. To Tom, he resembled an overgrown thundercloud. "Hogwarts' curriculum is riddled with obstacles that only the diligent and the intelligent can surpass. It is not even insolence but naivety speaking when you claim to be brilliant."
"I know I am, and my classmates are coming to know this, too," Tom said simply. "I impressed even other Houses today and, if anything, you should be happy with me, dear Head of Slytherin House."
When Tom stressed the professor's title, Snape looked as if his face was twisted by a powerful toothache.
Tom ignored the pang in his chest.
"You are cavorting with other Houses."
"Slytherins value the forging of connections," Tom easily ping-ponged back. "You said it yourself: I'm not influential. Simply an orphan with no connections. Shouldn't you praise my desire to rise, Professor Snape?"
"Choose another family, then." Snape levelled him with a considering look, for once forgetting to sound condescending. "Speaking with my godson will bring you a lot of prestige, Riddle, if he likes you."
"Your godson?" Tom blinked. Snape had a family?
The man let out a put-upon sigh before muttering, "Muggleborn. Of course." He lifted his head to look straight at Tom and said sharply, the sound akin to a drum beat in the night, "Draco."
Tom snorted and crossed his arms over his chest. He walked to an armchair that engulfed him like shadows as soon as he primly landed in it.
Snape didn't comment on it even if Tom hadn't asked for permission, but he continued with an unpleasant smile, "Of course, my godson will want your respect-"
"And a huge chunk of my pride," Tom interrupted with a scoff. Snape inclined his head in agreement, vicious triumph swimming in his black eyes.
"True."
Tom shook his head. "I can get it all with other wizards supporting me, too. No sacrifices on my part involved, no listening to Malfoy's whinging."
"You believe that the Potter boy will give you more?" Snape asked coldly. "Don't fool yourself. Even if he could, the Potters are selfish creatures who never care to extend a hand without their own gain. Unless you give him something in return, Potter will not care to help you in any way nor offer you his fickle friendship."
Despite being aware of the erroneousness of Snape's words, Tom still sucked in every drop of new information like a sponge. All the implications exploded in Tom's mind.
"You hate him," he said simply. At first he had believed that Snape disliked Potter because of the other being a clever Ravenclaw who stole points from the Slytherin House, but the more he talked with the man, the more he saw a fuller picture.
Snape's hatred ran personal.
The past dictated the present, and Tom ached to discover the events which had led to the current state of affairs.
The older Slytherin's lips spread in a tight-lipped smile, as cold as Arctic breeze.
"You have assured me that your ego is in a nice condition, Mr. Riddle, assuming you have the right to declare such fantasies. I have not treated Potter any different from any other student outside of my house. I do not hate him in particular; I loathe everyone equally."
Did he just try to make a joke?.. Obviously not. It's Snape.
"Except for Slytherins."
"I never claimed to love all my snakes." Snape stared pointedly at Tom. The boy mustered up a smirk and ignored that hollow feeling that spiked again. "I merely restrain myself when it comes to the loss of points from my own House. Yet I have no qualms about assigning detentions to those who act out of line or show open disrespect to me. And you are trying my patience, boy."
"I'm simply waiting for answers." Tom inclined his head, his dark eyes blinking innocently. "Is it not the job of a teacher to provide them?"
"I have offered you answers, and I have offered you advice," Snape responded in irritation. "What more do you want from me?"
"Why do you hate Potter?"
Because Tom always got his answers.
Snape snarled at the insistent niggling, and Tom's smirk widened.
"The discussion is over, Riddle. Vanish from my office this second-"
"Why do you hate Potter?"
And Tom pushed a torrent of magic into the question, like he had done with Greengrass in the Great Hall, and like he had done with the orphanage's inhabitants time after time. Triumph swelled in Tom's heart when he felt his power tingle in the atmosphere, and a gasp slipped past Snape's lips, and the boy envisioned all the delicious secrets he was going to cajole out of the man-
It didn't work.
Tom felt it immediately: as fast as he had summoned it, the magic evaporated. Its presence simply left; emptiness took the place of the control he usually experienced when he did that.
It didn't work.
Why?
Almost tangible tension hung in the air. Finally, Tom armed himself with enough bravery to meet Snape's stare dead on, no barriers raised because he could not pretend that nothing had happened. In the man's eyes he read a multitude of emotions, a vortex too colourful for the dark shades.
Shock.
Anger.
Intrigue.
Excitement.
Slight fear.
And... was that reluctant respect growing there?
For some reason, Tom felt nervous despite being sure that what he had attempted to perform didn't mean much in the Wizarding World. Indeed, wizards magically forced other wizards to do their bidding every day! Certainly!
(And yet the memory of Dumbledore's pursed lips when Tom had told him of his skill danced on the forefront of his mind, and he remembered a discussion about the importance of free will he had read in a text on magical theory, and suspicion crept in.)
Calm down, Tom told himself. I can probably pass it off as a burst of accidental magic if I care enough to. I simply asked a question. And simply tried to force him to reply. Surely, this is not a big deal at all?
"Compulsion," Snape finally spoke to the room full of tension. His fingers gripped tightly a quill Tom hadn't noticed he held. "A first year, and it seems like you are already learning the spells on the wrong side of magic. Or, at least, what others would call the wrong side of magic."
"Compulsion?" Tom mused aloud to himself. "Yes, I suppose it can be called that, though I prefer the word 'persuasion'."
Snape sneered. "Persuasion means the option of free choice. Compulsion excludes it immediately."
"Doesn't necessarily exclude, professor," Tom corrected with a smirk. Lifting his chin, he continued smugly, "A person can throw it off if he has a strong mind."
Once, and only once before had another person deflected Tom's magical charms.
"Not my fault that most people – even your precious Slytherins, sir – don't have it, and thus get- ah, persuaded to comply with whatever I want them to do."
Snape massaged his scrunched-up forehead before throwing a sharp look at Tom.
"Now, tell me who is the upperclassman imbecile that agreed to teach you the Arts."
"Excuse me? I'm perfectly capable of discovering and polishing my skills myself. Not to mention that no Slytherin would be caught dead with helping a 'mudblood'." Tom sneered at the insult. While it didn't really hurt him, he found the comparison with mud offensive and sought to rectify the way they addressed him in the near future.
He didn't wish to focus on that right now, because a flurry of concerns was plaguing his mind already: digging up those books about magical theory and free will, since what Tom did apparently counted as some "Arts"; figuring out Potter; fixing the way others treated him (he had to make them revere him); unveiling the secrets of the magical world...
At least, he had enough time to complete all his goals. He had lots and lots of time, and if his natural lifespan was shorter than the finish line to the fulfilment of his ambitions... he would make it longer.
Tom saw no sense in being a wizard if he couldn't cure such a simple thing as death.
"And this is what we get for suppressing Dark Magic all the time; a dragon's load of preconceptions about these fine arts – and imbecilic children end up compulsing the mind out of others at random, too afraid to turn to the masters of the craft and get some informal schooling," Snape muttered to himself in irritation.
Confused by the new information, Tom blinked when the man rose to his feet, striding to one of the farthest bookshelves. His long finger trailed the spines of the books until it stopped at one of them. In a swift motion the man pulled out a thin brownish booklet of sorts without a title or any notable marks.
Flipping it open, Snape examined the table of contents before stretching his hand out to Tom. His eyes radiated cold despite the helpful gesture. Tom didn't expect them to soften.
The people of the orphanage hated him, and he didn't let it hurt.
His Head of House hated him, and he wouldn't let it hurt.
"Take this, Riddle, and read. Scrupulously, painstakingly, you will transfer all the knowledge found here into your – allegedly – genius mind." Snape sneered as he ground out the last words. "If you have any plans at the end of the month, you will either shift them to another time or cancel them completely. I will not wait for you to sort out your childish trifles. You will arrive when I call you, and I will quiz you on everything you will have memorised by this time." Snape waved the book in front of Tom's nose.
The boy narrowed his eyes at the snide tone, but stamped down the urge to snap and scowl at the disrespect.
"You're helping me, then?" he asked instead.
Even if he does, I doubt it is out of the goodness of his heart – if he has any, mind.
Tom didn't know whether he referred to the "goodness" or the "heart" in that phrase, but with Snape either worked.
"My aid comes with a cost, Mr. Riddle. I will gather the price when we discuss the matter again."
The smile on Snape's face didn't promise tea and crumpets. Not that Tom liked sweets, of course.
Bring it on, old man. Whatever you throw at me, I'll be sure to thwart your cranky self.
Tom treaded carefully with other students at the moments, still unsure of their skill level, and he didn't have his favourite muggle victims with him to release stress, and he decidedly refused to think about the ever-mysterious Potter guy (who was probably enjoying himself while Tom was stuck with Snape, and resentment bubbled up in Tom's chest), so playing games with Snape sounded like a deal. Something to pass the time when learning got unbearably tedious.
Tom felt human only when he brought other humans down.
As soon as Severus had seen the boy, he had tasted the darkness of his magic. How could he not, when he met a fellow compulsor?
Light wizards mistakenly thought that when two Dark wizards met, their magic would welcome each other with a hug of kinship. How erroneous and typically naive. Then again, Light wizards strove to make the world more Hufflepuff, so even when a Dark wizard patiently explained matters, they still refused to believe that not all types of magic were kind to each other.
The wielders of Dark Arts viewed each other as rivals, and their magic fully adopted their opinions, and adapted itself to act accordingly: it would snarl, and threaten, and consume, and tear apart, if forces matched. If not, and if a correct ritual was invoked, the inferior power succumbed to the superior one, and the mind of the weaker wizard distorted. Just a little – but enough to secure at least some loyalty to the stronger mage.
Such was Dark Magic, both beautiful and horrifying, built on submission and control. Severus supposed it could be expected, considering that Dark Arts governed over the mind.
Thus, Tom Riddle had caught his interest immediately.
For the first time, Severus encountered someone in whom Dark Arts spoke louder than in himself. His magic had coiled around him in wary expectation during the entire lesson, and when later in his office Riddle had used compulsion on him, for a moment Severus actually feared that it would work.
Thank Salazar for small mercies. Snape and the humiliation at the hands of a dunderhead with no magical education on him did not combine well.
Yet...
His intelligent mind was calculating the possibilities the Riddle problem presented. Their society could do with another Slytherin leading figure. And Severus hadn't had a protégé since-
He grimaced.
-yes, since the Potter boy fiasco.
That was why Snape would wait this time. He wasn't going to show his interest until Riddle assured him of his competence.
A boy with such potential promised either ruin or prosperity, all depending on the influence on him during the years in which he formed his personality.
For once, Severus was planning to bring about positive changes.
On the second week of September Tom was already used to the flurry of owls delivering letters and packages to the fellow students. The boy himself had never received one, aside from his Hogwarts letter, but didn't let it faze him as he watched Malfoy gleefully open a box of house elves-made biscuits.
Tom was seated with his head facing the rest of the Hall, between a sleepy Greengrass and Zabini, who was whining to Nott about how unfair it was that they couldn't keep their own brooms. Malfoy wholeheartedly agreed with him, once again mentioning his father.
As usual, the talk flowed into the awed singing of praises to Lucius Malfoy and his countless merits.
I wonder how many points will be taken from me if I hex him right now, Tom thought with irritation, piercing the tender meat on his plate with a little more force than intended.
He couldn't help it. In the past two weeks Tom knew all about the Malfoy family, up to the way Narcissa Malfoy was dressed on her son's third birthday.
Unfortunately, most curses were in the Restricted Section of the library – a fact Tom resented greatly. Why did they feel the need to deny students knowledge? And then had the gall to say that children weren't interested in anything scientific, when they themselves mercilessly strangled their drive by setting up boundaries. True, it wasn't the legal kind of sciences Tom was interested in, but still.
A regal-looking owl dropped a newspaper in front of Greengrass, who was sitting with her face buried in her arms. Tom almost sneered at the soft snores coming from her.
Without asking to – he didn't feel up for pleasantries – Tom grabbed the newspaper. His eyes immediately came across a headline on the front page that made his breathing shallow with anticipation.
Miracle Done Again! Healer Potter's New Potion!
The article spoke of something called 'apparition' and how that way of travelling brought along with it not only convenience but grave injuries as well. Tom leaned forward in interest as he read about people finding themselves with their limbs across the oceans because of some small mistakes.
The same was said about portkeys – a faulty portkey could leave a person with their head somewhere in Ireland, torso in Paris, arms in Boston, and nether parts in the Ukraine.
Tom found it vastly amusing. A girl sitting at the Ravenclaw table, Su Li or something, had an obvious way of showing her disagreement – by gasping in horror at the gory details and photos.
Healer Lily Potter apparently invented a way around splinching by creating a potion, which, if ingested before the apparition, worked as a kind of super glue and cemented a person's insides together. This way, even if the destination would be different from where they actually ended up, this person would at least be whole, without their limbs and intestines spread throughout the world. Tom didn't know half the properties of the ingredients mentioned in the articles but thought it was crafty enough.
His attention, though, was mostly snatched not by the article itself but by the photograph of the woman, who reminded him of a certain someone sitting at the Ravenclaw table with his nose buried in The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) by Miranda Goshawk. Tom berated himself for stal- observing the boy once again and decided to look at the moving photo once more.
The woman at the front mirrored greatly McGonagall in her mannerisms and even in appearance. The same stern lines around the eyes and proud straight back. Lily Potter also had a crimson mane of hair, and her brilliant green eyes had dancing sparks of warmth in them despite her otherwise rigorous appearance.
"Potters." Malfoy, who was sitting a couple of seats away from Tom, scoffed and glared at his half-finished goblet of pumpkin juice. "I bet they are enjoying the attention."
"What did they do this time?" Nott asked in interest, leaning across the table to take a look at Malfoy's issue of the Daily Prophet.
"Mrs. Potter did a good thing," Bulstrode said, looking aside from her Charms textbook. She was silent most of the time, talking only when she either didn't comprehend something or when it was coaxed out of her. "I don't understand why you are so miffed about it."
Zabini waved her off, taking a swig of water from his goblet to wash down the omelette.
"Don't mind him, Bulstrode. He is just annoyed that James Potter almost got his father jailed on one of the Auror raids."
Tom sent a disgusted sneer as Zabini was talking with his mouth full. Honestly, those people were purebloods. Aristocracy or something. Older Slytherins were good enough: cool, reserved, with sharp eyes speaking volumes of the intelligence behind them. Their younger counterparts, though…
Tom would have looked away from the pitiful picture if only the topic wasn't so engaging.
"From then on he hates all things Potter," Greengrass said through a yawn as she finally woke up.
"My godfather is against them, too!" Malfoy protested, glaring at them for not backing him like good little lapdogs. "My father and my godfather can't both be mistaken!"
"Get a mind for yourself, Draco," Zabini said and wiped his mouth with a napkin, sending a look of pity at his friend. "Potter in our year is a decent enough bloke, and Lily Potter has done a world of good, too."
"How about we finish with the subject of Potters and go to the classroom?" Davis interrupted, for some reason looking fretfully at Nott. The latter was already standing with a closed off expression and speared Malfoy with a glower.
The blond noticed it and paled drastically, muttering a quick sorry and averting his eyes in shame.
Intrigued, Tom raised an eyebrow at Greengrass in a silent inquiry. The girl flushed at having his attention directed at her before clutching his shoulder and leaning in to whisper in his ear.
"Healer Potter helped Theo's father when he was on the verge of dying. He feels so thankful he hates it whenever someone badmouths any of them."
Her solemn expression twisted into an impish one as she whispered once more, "Draco can expect great talking-to from Lucius Malfoy, if Theo tips off his father. The Notts are as high up as the Malfoys, and old snakey Lucius would be forced to do something about his son's loud mouth."
Tom smirked in pleasure. He didn't like the boy's obnoxious personality. Malfoy deserved to be brought down a few notches.
Tom would most certainly enjoy the show if it happened.
In Harry's childhood his father used to tell stories about Hogwarts.
Funny stories, beautiful stories, wistful, and sad, and happy, and puzzling – day after day he would sit with his parents in Godric's Hollow and listen to his father's smooth baritone whispering of mischief and danger, while his mother laughed and stroked his hair, his head on her lap.
Those evenings had been a time of bonding for them, a reunion after a day of hurrying around with various separate tasks.
Harry used to wish for those quiet times to come back, everything to feel the embrace of a loving atmosphere
He used to wish-
It doesn't matter now. From today on, I will create my own stories, and they will be no less riveting than James's.
A decision made, Harry slipped out of the Ravenclaw Tower in search of a story.
Down, down, down in the castle, another person roamed the dungeons in search of quiet place to appreciate the discoveries made in a thin dog-eared book, desperately hoping to avoid any adventures that night.