Updated: 11/23/2018
Disclaimer: This universe belongs solely to J.K Rowling, based on the Harry Potter franchise.
A/N: Thanks for reading! – Now, no more dillydallying – onwards to the story – !
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All the way through the meal and into dessert, Tom had to deal with the noise. He didn't mind the attention, but the noise… it was grating on his nerves.
He needed peace.
Dumbledore was still trying to maintain eye contact with him, but every time the man made an attempt at his mind, Tom broke off their connection and switched his attention elsewhere – only to return his eyes to enjoy Dumbledore's momentary frustration.
He knew he'd answer to this later, but at the moment, Tom felt vindicated.
The empty platters and half-filled bowls promptly disappeared and headmaster Dippet returned to the stand before them.
"That was delicious!" the asinine old coot proclaimed with glee. "I'm sure you're all tired, however. You may all retire to your dormitories." He then spread his arms wide. "Prefects!" the headmaster shouted, and every prefect, Tom included, stood up.
"The prefects will escort the new students to their respective common rooms. All new students, please follow your prefects, as they will introduce you to your houses. Tomorrow morning, your heads of houses will welcome you personally. That is all – goodnight!"
"Are you coming, Tom?" Euphemia asked as they stood.
"No, I'll stay and help with the new students," he said, surprising them once more. Mathias dared to walk closer to Tom, so he could speak his mind quietly.
"Tom, if this has anything to do with what I said at the stadium, you have to know I didn't mean –"
Tom placed a hand on Mathias' shoulder and stopped him.
"You needn't worry, Mathias. You were in a sense correct. I merely intend to change my level of involvement this year," Tom told them, and Darius raised an eyebrow.
"I thought you told me once you refused to concern yourself with children?"
Tom hummed thoughtfully, glancing at the now fast approaching deputy headmaster.
He was running out of time.
"Well," he started, as he began to walk towards the other prefects at the entrance. The others followed him leisurely, fighting to seem unconcerned by his uncharacteristic behaviour.
"I've never had the best relationship with children," he admitted. "I often find myself unable to relate to them, but – " he paused, as he observed Dumbledore draw ever closer. "Currently, I'd rather mind firsties than be on the other end of Albus Dumbledore's wand, so you'll have to excuse me."
With that, he raised a hand at the prefects and the eight new firsties and pointed directly towards the hallway. He moved past them with hurried steps, the other prefects frenziedly attempting and failing to herd the firsties out of the room in an orderly manner, causing several students from other houses to stare in bewilderment at the unusually disorganized Slytherins.
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"Where is he going?" professor Dumbledore asked, sounding worried.
Darius stared at the deputy headmaster with his arms folded behind his back. "He's escorting the first-year students to our common room, as is his duty as a prefect," he said, and the others nodded their heads. They were endlessly confused about Tom's – escape? – but had to appear unified in public.
Tom was not making this easy.
"I see," professor Dumbledore spoke gravelly, as if the biggest mistake had just been committed and the Slytherins were somehow responsible for its execution. The old man looked at them disappointedly, before leaving the Great Hall, his long periwinkle blue robes swishing everywhere in his hurry.
"Is Tom running from Dumbledore?" Euphemia whispered. Abraxas glared at their transfiguration teacher before he disappeared down the hallway.
"I think Dumbledore gambled on the game and Tom won his money," he concluded, and Darius' eyes widened. "That's highly inappropriate – What do you think Tom will do if Dumbledore confronts him about it?"
Mathias looked uncomfortable. "I've heard what happened to one of the people who tried to take Tom's contract…" he trailed off, and Abraxas zeroed in on him.
"Did he do what he did to me?" he demanded. They were moving down a staircase, keeping their voices down.
"No. I'm not sure if it's true, but if it is…" the Nott shivered, and Darius actually felt sorry for him.
"We left before he did. He was being escorted by the Aurors, so we didn't see anything, but the next day we were fire-called by the Auror department, since they desired our statements about the incident," Mathias continued, his brows furrowed in thought.
"At the office, we overheard an Auror comment that a man who Tom had thrown into a wall was still unconscious, and that they were postponing his trial due to his condition."
"Tom did what!?" Alphard shouted. Euphemia shushed him half-heartedly. The Slytherins who were moving around them in the dungeons were undoubtedly listening.
"This is completely unprecedented," Abraxas muttered, unsettled.
The Slytherins stayed quiet for the rest of their way to the common room. They were taking a complicated, albeit faster route to the dungeon, so expected to arrive there before the prefects.
Abraxas looked deep in thought, and Darius had to admit he was worried, now.
He'd liked it when he saw the high and mighty Malfoy get torn down a peg or two – but if Tom was indeed capable of doing worse – would he still enjoy the sight?
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As soon as they entered the dungeons through the main staircase, Tom slowed down. The two seventh-year prefects, Dalia Jones and Gregorian Goyle caught up to him.
"Why in the name of Merlin are we in such a hurry, Riddle?" Dalia questioned him.
Tom glanced at her. "I'm procrastinating," he announced, and Gregorian raised a thick eyebrow.
"That's new," he commented, before looking back to make sure the firsties were following suit.
"Don't touch anything. Don't say anything important. Don't step on anything we haven't stepped on. Don't listen to things that speak that you can't see. Don't pick up anything shiny. Do not, under any circumstances, go anywhere alone. Don't trust anything," Gregorian told them seriously. The eight fresh Slytherins looked terrified.
Tom inclined his head at the Goyle. "Little much, no?"
"This is the standard introduction for firsties," he proclaimed, sending the young students another warning glare. They were walking two and two, close together and looked as if the walls of the dungeons could swallow them at any moment.
Eventually, they reached a section of wall that Tom recognized very well.
The rough stone walls around them were damp with the water from the lake above them, and the dark foreboding hallway they stood in was cold and uninviting, only a few torches lighting this outwardly unimportant wall. Looking closely, one could spot a tiny carving of a snake on a stone close to the ceiling. There were no paintings around anymore, as the humidity would've ruined them beyond repair, magic or no.
This was the entrance to the Slytherin common room – as far removed from the light as possible.
"Is this it?" a girl with short, black hair questioned sceptically. Dalia moved to stand before the wall and spoke the password. "Flitterbloom."
Quiet little gasps could be heard as the wall slowly peeled away, stone by stone, creating a beautiful arch with large double doors. The doors were intricately carved with thousands of small serpents, interwoven and speckled with green glass, creating a dazzling effect with the light from the other side, shining a myriad of green hues into the hallway.
Gregorian opened the doors, and Dalia shooed the firsties in.
"You will remember where the entrance is. You will remember the password. You will not share the location or the password with anyone outside the house. The password changes every fortnight. It will be posted on that board," Gregorian said as he pointed to said board besides the entrance. "If you forget the password, you will be penalized," he promised as he glared at the new students once again. They looked like the last thing they wanted to do was to forget the password.
"Thank you for that helpful summarization, Goyle," Dalia remarked apathetically.
Goyle provided a curt nod.
The eight young students were utterly mesmerized by the room, as Tom had been when he'd seen it for the first time.
Fires illuminated the space.
The grey stone walls were adorned with portraits of prominent Slytherin students from centuries back, acting as a constant goal of greatness to strive for – their presence providing ideas and motivation to the snakes occupying the den on a daily basis. The back of the room held a couple of large windows, opening up a perfect view of the lake from within – if the dark lake hadn't obscured itself so efficiently, that is. Only once in a while was the giant octopus visible, and few could brag to have stared a mer-person in the eyes.
Several walls had built-in bookshelves, and a large fireplace occupied a sunken lounge area in the upper right corner of the room, with couches, armchairs and low tables in the customary green, silver or dark wood dotting the space.
Two staircases, that went further down, were positioned on each side of the common room, separating the boys' and girls' dormitories.
Dalia looked to the students once again. There were four boys and four girls this year.
"Your dormitories are to the left," Dalia announced, pointing the four small boys to the left-side staircase. "You cannot enter the girls' dormitory and the girls cannot enter yours. Spells are in place to prevent this," she told them, and the children nodded their understanding.
A couple of them then looked to Tom with questioning looks. Dalia noticed, and swept a hand unnecessarily in Tom's direction.
"This is Tom Riddle. He's also a prefect, as can be seen by the badge he's wearing, like my own," she pointed out helpfully. Tom hadn't planned to say anything, but one of the boys chose to speak up, ruining his non-participation.
"Never heard of the Riddle family," the little boy disclosed, breaking the rules immediately. As the common room was currently filled to the brim with other Slytherins, everyone had heard the question and was now actively paying attention to the scene.
"And you won't, fortunately," Tom himself answered, speaking to the children for the first time. The common room was silent around them, but the little Slytherins didn't seem to notice.
"Why not? Aren't you a pureblood?" the boy questioned curiously. "My parents told me only purebloods got accepted into Slytherin."
Tom narrowed his eyes at him.
"There's a lot about Slytherin house that you don't know, little boy," Tom stated ominously. Everyone was observing the spectacle of Tom Riddle conversing with a first year, waiting for the proverbial hammer to fall – or for Tom to finally divulge some information.
Neither thing happened. Tom had other intentions.
Extraordinarily, he moved to stand before the children and spread his arms wide, gesturing to the grandeur of the common room, and everyone in it. Once he was certain he had everyone's complete attention, he started speaking.
"Salazar Slytherin founded this house for the ambitious and the cunning, for the ones determined to succeed and the ones unwilling to accept inferiority," he began, capturing the interest of the smallest Slytherins in the room.
"Slytherins value self-preservation," he continued, "that means that every Slytherin is their own first priority. We weigh our options before acting – we are not Gryffindors, who charge with abandon, but neither are we Ravenclaws, who'd rather use their wisdom to employ others, than to do the dirty work themselves. We are not lazy, but neither are we like the Hufflepuffs, who put emphasis on their dedication. We value self-reliance – accepted as a group. We provide a unified front for the other houses, who see us as shrewd and unreliable – but as a Slytherin, you cannot let other's words damage your credibility. You must remain steady, strong – a leader."
Everyone watched as Tom lectured the children, who stood transfixed and proud, staring back at him.
"In Slytherin, what matters is power," he emphasized. "In any manner it is found. If you are powerful, then you can be anything – do anything. You must never let anyone dictate your place in life, because then you've already lost."
Tom purposely placed his hands in his trouser pockets in a manner that went directly against pureblood customs, a fact everyone noticed and paid attention to.
"Always pay attention to the other players in the game," he then said, confusing everyone. Tom swept his eyes across the room, locking eyes with no one in particular.
"If you and your opponent aren't playing by the same rules, then your tactics are worthless," Tom hissed menacingly, his fierce eyes returning to the boy who'd spoken. The child's eyes were wide, but he stood still, not moving a muscle.
Tom narrowed his eyes at the boy. Everyone waited.
After an appropriately prolonged amount of tension, the dark wizard folded his arms and relaxed his stance considerably.
"Now. What have we learned?" he inquired evenly – also looking to the remaining seven, mildly petrified children. At the attention, the children thought for a couple of tense seconds, before answering loudly.
"Think before acting."
"Always seek to succeed."
"Be self-reliant."
"Lead – don't follow."
"Always appear unified."
"Win no matter how."
"Become your own first priority."
"…Only power determines your place in life," the boy finished, and Tom nodded, satisfied.
"Good," he approved. "Never forget that." A glance at the common room revealed absolute flabbergasted expressions, completely unbecoming of the otherwise composed Slytherins. At least it seemed like the children understood.
He looked to Dalia and Gregorian, who were staring at him as if they'd never laid eyes on him before. He snapped his finger in Dalia's face rudely, breaking her out of her funk.
"I believe that was all," he said, and Dalia nodded slowly.
Dalia then told the new little Slytherins to go to their dormitories, but they hesitated in following her command. Instead, they moved back to Tom and introduced themselves one by one, before leaving for bed.
The display was puzzling to the others, but Tom took it for what it was.
Respect for his position.
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Pericles went to work feeling disgruntled.
He didn't know if any of his co-workers had noticed his mood, because his head was predominantly elsewhere – occupied by his recent obsession.
It'd been a couple of days since his father had absconded with his research, and he hadn't heard from him since. He didn't know what the man intended to do with it.
It was driving him up the wall, just thinking about it.
Pericles had spent a whole night looking through the archives, including archives he wasn't strictly permitted to enter so he could draw the connections he had. It was clear to Pericles that the European Auror departments were selectively publishing information about Grindelwald's movements, leaving what they deemed uncorrelated incidents in the dark.
As a Ravenclaw, Pericles was immensely proud of the work he'd put into his theory, so the notion of discontinuing his research clawed at him on a physical level. He hadn't heard further from his father, and that was a clear indication that he was bidden to stay off the subject.
Pericles was disinclined to do so. He felt he was onto something significant.
Which was why Pericles felt angry, disappointed – vindictive? He wasn't sure, but he knew he had no intention of following his father's orders.
He wanted to know where his leads took him.
However, if he continued in the exact same vein he'd started in, the threads he'd drawn for his father to steal, he'd likely find himself busted by his father and associates – and punished for his disobedience.
Pericles knew that was an extremely likely occurrence, which was why he wouldn't do that.
He would instead pursue another lead he'd found, that he'd thought too incomplete to present – and significantly more controversial.
Amongst the papers and reports he'd sorted through at the department, a certain name popped up irregularly, that wouldn't normally raise any eyebrows. But for Pericles, it most certainly did – and with good reason.
He'd found a possible, albeit thin, correlation between the strange muggle-related attacks committed by Grindelwald and Albus Dumbledore's presence at select few incidents.
It was truly a tentative lead, but Pericles felt he was looking in the right direction. It was common knowledge that Albus Dumbledore had a past with Gellert Grindelwald, what kind was up to debate, but widely acknowledged nonetheless.
Dumbledore was said to be the only known wizard to be on equal footing with the Dark Lord, so his intervention was highly requested, but rarely provided. It drove the other European ministries insane, and now Pericles completely agreed with the sentiment.
If Gellert Grindelwald was indeed keeping Adolf Hitler alive, as Tom had hypothesized, then Albus Dumbledore was criminally negligent in his continued existence and indirectly implicated in the millions of deaths occurring every year.
Dumbledore only chose to participate in an extremely limited number of raids and attacks authorized by Grindelwald, and Pericles was curious as to why that was.
Far from every single attack Grindelwald committed was related to pre-muggle-demolition, but every single one of Dumbledore's appearances were.
Pericles had a theory, but he couldn't bring it to his father. He didn't want to, and he didn't feel secure in its credibility yet.
He did, however, have someone who was likely willing to believe him.
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Friday morning found Tom sitting at the Slytherin table, reading the paper – ignoring absolutely everything going on around him.
It was still rather early, so few students had found their way there. It was so early in fact, that Tom was reading last day's edition, since the newspapers weren't scheduled to arrive for another hour.
Abraxas hadn't brought the latest edition of the Daily Prophet yesterday, so Tom was curious about the current situation regarding what had happened at the stadium. It seemed that sixteen people had died – increased after an elderly gentleman died of his wounds the day after.
Some of the dead were rioters – most had been collateral. Four of them had been children, and a single one of them had been a Hogwarts student from Hufflepuff.
The Daily Prophet described her as "a fourth-year half-blood who had gone by the name of Felicity Goodman," which was really rather typical of them. It was only after the war that the half-blood and muggleborn populations started really speaking up about the discrimination they felt.
Maybe if they'd spoken up sooner, the young Tom Riddle wouldn't have committed such grave mistakes, trying to delude himself into thinking he was something he wasn't.
But as the muggles say; no use crying over spilt milk. What was done, was done, and everyone would have to deal with the consequences. Tom included.
He had no doubt he'd face the music soon.
Eventually, the tables started filling up. Some thirty minutes later, Tom was brought out of his reading by a light tap on his shoulder.
He saw Euphemia, holding a piece of parchment out for him.
"Thank you," he said, accepting what looked to be his class schedule.
The Dark Lord thought it amusing that a little piece of paper was supposed to dictate his activities for the upcoming four months. 'We'll see,' he thought as he perused the subjects.
"…You're welcome," she said, resuming her devastation of the fruit bowl. "Tom – can I ask you a question?"
Tom stole an apple from her bowl and proceeded to take a bite, nodding as he did.
"This is not related to the questions you promised to answer later – to which we definitely need to discuss time limits and directives," she broke in, sending him a look that told him she'd seen through he's vague proposition the day before as the evasion it had been.
Tom sent her a mischievous grin, "go on, Mia – what do you want to ask me? I'll let you know if I don't feel like answering."
"I somehow highly doubt that," she mumbled, after which she coughed awkwardly and straightened her back.
"I would like to know – does professor Dumbledore…? I mean – " Euphemia seemed incapable of phrasing her question correctly. Luckily, Alphard was there to help shatter the hesitancy.
"We would like to know if you won Dumbledore's money. He seems to have it out for you more than usual," Alphard told him ruthlessly.
"Unlikely," Tom answered with certainty. But wouldn't that have been brilliant?
"Then what was all the hostility yesterday about?" Euphemia asked.
"Honestly? I was having fun," Tom admitted blatantly. The group stared at him, exchanging glances. Of course, they wouldn't understand the appeal.
"Well, Tom, you're about to have a riot. Dumbledore is coming our way," Alphard informed him – pun probably intended – prompting him to look to the walk-way between the tables.
And indeed, he was. He was walking quite briskly as well, the not-quite-as-old coot.
"Tom Marvolo Riddle," Albus Dumbledore addressed him. He'd hoped that causing his death would've spared him of hearing him ever enunciate those words again, but it seemed things rarely went the way he expected them to.
People just didn't stay dead sometimes– especially him.
"Yes?" he asked politely, fighting to keep a smile on his face.
"We need to have a discussion. Would you please follow me to my office?"
"This sounds rather serious, professor Dumbledore – and so soon after arriving. Do you mind if I finish my breakfast before we engage in such important matters?" Tom inquired. Breakfast had barely begun after all, but Dumbledore evidently couldn't wait. He understood, but others didn't see the hurry.
"Is there an issue, Albus?" professor Slughorn asked as he walked over, having spotted the situation occurring at the Slytherin table. "Can't imagine Tom here causing any trouble," he added with a goofy-looking grin.
'The unscrupulous tosser,' Tom thought in annoyance.
"Nothing serious, Horace, I assure you. It is just imperative that I speak with Mr Riddle about certain key subjects before the start of classes," Dumbledore told the other professor in a kind, collected tone.
Tom proceeded to eat, as the men conversed.
Horace Slughorn scratched his chin in contemplation. "I don't see why it needs to be at this very moment, Albus. Why don't we have a cuppa, and you explain to me whatever this is about, hm?" the short head of house Slytherin told the head of Gryffindor.
As it seemed Dumbledore was preparing for a comeback, Tom chose to break in.
"Professor Slughorn, it's quite alright. Though I lament the remains of my breakfast, I see professor Dumbledore has pressing matters," Tom told the professors, standing up. His friends looked to him questioningly but knew better to interrupt.
"Are you sure, dear boy?"
'Good gracious,' he thought.
"Yes, have no worry," Tom assured him. He moved around the table to stand with the men, his height surpassing the potion's professor's pudgy form. Slughorn looked hesitant, but Tom knew how to handle the man.
"If you'd like, we can discuss the matter over tea at a later time," Tom offered, and the old Slytherin brightened significantly. Tom had offered him an opportunity to possibly further his relationship with a current celebrity, a chance the barmy professor couldn't pass up on. A Slytherin, however much one tended to forget that fact.
"Brilliant, simply brilliant," the smiling man nodded and shook Tom's hand. "I'll contact you," he told him, before seemingly forgetting about the situation he'd intervened in entirely.
"Well then, professor Dumbledore – shall we be off?" the dark wizard asked his nemesis of sixty years. The currently sixty-two-year-old man narrowed his clear blue eyes at him, before curtly nodding, leading Tom out of the hall.
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The walk to the office was nothing if not tense.
Tom felt Dumbledore's eyes on him like two knives digging into the back of his head, following his every move – likely afraid he'd make another run for it.
But Tom was done procrastinating. Now, he needed results. The next two years of his life, if he indeed committed to finishing his 'education', depended on this meeting.
As they reached the office, Tom himself grabbed onto the handle and upon feeling the wards, shattered them upon contact. Dumbledore hadn't placed very elaborate wards to ensure his privacy, but enough to make a dedicated student scratch at their head for a couple of weeks.
Tom simply broke them with brute force – and it certainly didn't win any points with the professor, judging from his increasingly hostile countenance.
It wasn't meant to.
Dumbledore entered his office, and Tom shut the door behind him.
A hasty, albeit effective, ward was quickly applied by the outwardly older man, trapping them both in the room – alone. He hadn't missed it.
Albus Dumbledore's wand was trained on him when he looked, pointed directly at his heart. The greying man's light blue eyes were narrow behind his glasses, his significantly shorter beard hiding the frown on his face. Tom's anticipation was building. He hadn't seen Dumbledore this affected by his presence in decades.
The dark wizard said nothing, waiting for the other to make the first move. He idly wondered if Dumbledore intended, in the spirit of a true Gryffindor, to attack without question.
He wasn't that lucky.
"Who are you?" Dumbledore asked lowly, wand-arm stretched and ready to fire at the simplest hint of aggression from Tom.
"You know who," Tom said and failed to keep the smile off his face – it was cruel. Dumbledore's brows furrowed in dissatisfaction.
"You are not Tom Riddle," the professor denied with steady conviction. "I've taught the boy for five years. I know his magic," he elaborated, not moving a muscle as he spoke.
"Of course, you are correct," Tom agreed, smile gone. "I am not the Tom Riddle you know – but I am him, nonetheless. I'm afraid you will never again see the young man you knew – he is dead," he promised, face shadowed by the torches.
Dumbledore's wand didn't waver, his expression cold.
"What are you doing here? – Did Gellert send you?"
Tom raised an eyebrow, slightly insulted at the insinuation. "Whatever for? I'm afraid I'll have to disappoint you, Albus. I have nothing to do with Grindelwald."
"Don't lie to me," Dumbledore ordered, a strong pulse of magic backing his words, frustration seeping into his otherwise composed demeanour.
It seemed his presence was causing Albus Dumbledore some undue stress. How unfortunate.
"The war between the two of you is none of my concern," he told him. Tom had yet to draw his own wand, still allowing Dumbledore his blanket of security. "Why would I involve myself with such a petty wizard?"
"You are the same," Dumbledore reasoned, taking a step to the right, still aiming his wand at Tom. "It stands to reason Gellert would draw benefit from a wizard like himself. I just hadn't dared imagine he'd let another Dark Lord possess a student to gain access to me."
"I'm not possessed," Tom denied, "and don't compare me to him. We are nothing alike."
"I don't believe you."
"Of course, you don't. You'd be an imbecile otherwise."
Dumbledore's mind was brushing his own, but Tom wasn't letting him see anything.
"Tell me what you are doing here," the man asked again, clearly not believing a word he was saying. Why he thought repeating the same question would garner better results the second time was beyond his understanding.
"I'm here to finish my education, of course," Tom tells him conversationally, moving away from the door. Dumbledore's wand followed him as he went.
"Of course, I finished it years ago, but it hardly counts anymore."
"You're not making any sense."
"I'm aware. My apologies," Tom told him insincerely, studying the bobs and ends around the room – several of which he recognized from the headmaster's office after he'd taken over the school.
His nonchalance was probably exasperating the older man, so he refocused his attention, spreading his arms unthreateningly.
"I'll have you know I have a written permission from the Auror department to practice self-defence in case of an attack from a magically malignant wizard, and you, professor, look very malignant to me at the moment," Tom grinned, goading the Gryffindor.
"Drop the act. You may look like a minor, but you are not. You are not leaving this room," Dumbledore promised lowly, ready for attack. Tom could feel the magic build in the air between them.
Tom stared at him, amused at the aggression. "You make for a nice show Dumbledore, but think of the consequences," he paused, gesturing towards the door.
"How many students must die, so you can prevent me from leaving – or staying, as it were?"
Now Dumbledore looked positively angry. It was a nice look on his old professor, a look he'd failed to inspire in his early years.
Naturally, taking every single student at Hogwarts hostage was bound to provoke a reaction.
"You are too dangerous," Dumbledore decided, and launched forward – but not how he expected him to.
Tom's world suddenly erupted with pain.
His hands gripped his head as he fought to stay standing.
Dumbledore's Legilimency attack was countered ruthlessly, Tom's own magic stabbing frantically at Dumbledore's mind in turn, causing the other to grunt in unexpected agony.
He needed him out.
His adversary fought on despite the pain however, hammering at his defences, intent on gaining access. Had it been almost any other wizard, Tom could've defended himself easily, but Albus Dumbledore put up a fight worthy of his reputation.
But so did Tom – and Dumbledore was feeling the aftermath of his assault.
But – unbidden, and despite his best efforts, a memory resurfaced – all the feelings and thoughts associated with the event attached, filling both of their heads with even greater pain – and fury.
The noise started then – the endless hissing of a million venomous snakes crept into their minds – and an image.
"NO!" Tom raged, furious, ripping Dumbledore forcefully out of his mind and drawing his yew wand at him. Dumbledore stumbled back several steps, supporting himself at his desk.
With gritted teeth and eyes like two dark abysses, Tom dropped the act and spoke. "Stay out of my mind, Albus."
"What was that?" the older man questioned then, staring at Tom in horror.
Tom didn't answer, too angry to properly focus his Occlumency.
"It didn't look human," he continued, blowing on the hot coals of Tom's fury.
"It looked like a monster," he said as he walked closer, wand still ready at his side. Tom kept his wand aimed at the professor, eyes filled with wrath and sorrow.
"Not a step closer, or you'll feel the monster resurface. I promise you that," he threatened coldly. "Think of the children," he mocked angrily.
"You need to be stopped. For the greater good," the professor said then, straining his wand at him, paraphrasing his old friend Gellert Grindelwald as he always did.
Tom was taking several deep breaths, attempting to recollect himself, but Dumbledore was making it so Merlin-damned difficult. How did he always manage to drive him into such a state?
"I'm not certain the Aurors will feel that way," Tom told him, a sharp smirk snaking its way across his lips.
"They will understand," Dumbledore stated, but Tom shook his head.
"How could they? You'll be murdering a student with no due cause," Tom said. "You will have no way to justify your actions. I have admitted to nothing – committed no crimes."
"You are a Dark Lord," Albus Dumbledore accused him, but his face told the full story. He knew full well Tom spoke the truth.
"Regardless, I cannot let you go – even if I must die in Azkaban for my deeds," Dumbledore vowed, disregarding his own life and the life of several students in the process.
'All for the greater good, indeed.'
"As you say," Tom answered, disengaging his wand from its intended target. "But what of dear old Gellert, Albus? With you gone, what then?"
Tom's expression morphed into one of sadistic glee as Dumbledore suddenly realized the full scope of the situation.
"You cannot have it both ways, Dumbledore. Either you defeat me now and die – or you let me go so you can ensure the downfall of your friend."
Dumbledore looked incomprehensively crushed, his wand hand shaking, eyes filling with justifiable resentment.
"What will it be, Albus Dumbledore?"
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Albus had no words.
The demon who was masquerading as his student was smirking at him – waiting for his move, but Albus wasn't sure any move would qualify as responsible.
If he attacked, then this Dark Lord would fight him to his last, causing untold damage to the castle and killing his students.
The chances of him even getting that far were slim, however, since Albus would likely be stopped by the other teachers, or the Aurors, once they discovered that Albus was attacking what looked to be a student.
And considering the current situation, his attack would seem rooted in personal agendas, and not in an attempt at saving lives. He'd be accused of premeditated assault, stripped of his positions and sentenced to Azkaban to die like his father.
In addition to that – since the likelihood of him defeating this Dark Lord prior to intervention was so – unlikely – he'd be letting two Dark Lords run amuck without supervision, instead of one.
Albus would rather lose his magic than let that happen. It simply wasn't up for discussion.
But if he let this one go… wouldn't the same situation be the case?
Could he even win? Albus didn't know, and it worried him.
He didn't know who he was dealing with. What.
He'd seen something when he'd justly attacked the imposter's mind. A creature so foul – skin paper thin and eyes a sick, bloody red. Sunken in features and a laughing black mouth, emitting shrill noises of heartless amusement as the monster tortured its victim with the Cruciatus Curse mercilessly.
And a noise – unlike any other. It would drive anyone utterly insane.
How could this individual… have memories of being this vile being?
"We need to have a discussion, Albus. I should hope you agree?" the thing said then, clearly taunting him.
'Damn him.'
The one walking in the skin of Tom Riddle then conjured two identical armchairs, offering one to Albus. He eyed the chair sceptically.
Sitting down felt like defeat.
Albus let out a heavy, tired sigh, before sitting down, the Dark Lord sitting down opposite him, crossing his legs at the ankle and leaning back – staring at him with eyes so familiarly hostile, recognizable in their intensity.
Their eyes were trained on each other as they both put their wands on their thighs, their hands resting over them in a universal cease-fire position – a tentative truce if you will – and a promise.
Albus dragged a hand through his beard and regarded his adversary sullenly. "I'm not certain what this is going to achieve. You've put me in an impossible situation."
"Impossible? Hardly. I would discuss the possibility of an… arrangement," the being said, Tom Riddle's dark eyes boring into his own.
"What kind of deal do you propose then?" Albus voiced cynically, "the way I see it, a Dark Lord stands to win no matter what I do."
Albus had never thought he'd be in this kind of situation. He hadn't thought he'd be confronted in the school either. Apart from his sincere desire to teach the future generations of witches and wizards, Hogwarts functioned as his fortress.
No drama was supposed to follow him there.
But it had, and the situation was worse than he could've ever imagined. Theories were swirling around his head like a brewing storm.
'Are the students alright?'
'Is he here for me?'
'Does he know Gellert?'
'…What happened to Tom?'
The dark wizard in front of him tilted his head at him and offered an unsettling smile. Tom Riddle smiled like that.
"You're being awfully pessimistic, Albus. You're overlooking the most important element here."
Confused despite himself, Albus raised a bushy eyebrow. "Which is?"
"Why my intentions, of course," the being told him, "of which I have none, at the moment," he added, his hand performing an uncaring gesture.
Albus narrowed his eyes at him, lips pulled thin. "Why should I believe you? You've made nonsensical claims – why should this be any different?"
"Well said," the being nodded. "I propose an unbreakable vow between us," he then suggested, visibly surprising Albus. He hadn't expected anything like this.
Even if this person wasn't Tom Riddle, it was very clearly a Slytherin.
"For legitimacy's sake, we'll start with a wizard's oath of truth – from my part, of course, so you may gage my sincerity," he said then, pointing to himself. Albus' lips parted slightly, puzzled by the proposal.
Perhaps not a Slytherin after all?
"I will phrase it, so I can omit answering questions if desired. I have rather potent secrets, unfit for certain ears– and as they say, ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies. I like to keep my magic where it is, so be careful," the stranger cautioned, jokingly.
No, definitely a Slytherin. There was no mistaking the self-interest. But…
This individual was risking their magic – their life – to garner credibility. A rather hazardous method of building trust, even to a Gryffindor.
"An oath of truth sounds promising," Albus debated, "but in the interest of your secrets – and magic – what questions do you suppose I should ask? You're risking everything, so I can only assume you're demanding these limitations out of dire need. Am I correct?"
"Very astute of you, Albus. The truth of the matter is rather dull, however," the being drawled. "I simply knew I couldn't hide my presence here from you, which made this confrontation unavoidable in my eyes. A milestone in this existence I have to pass in order to move on to greater things."
Albus shook his head lightly, tired from a night with barely any sleep. "You are still not making any sense to me."
"Oh, how the tables have turned…" the being mused, before continuing. "You may ask me of my true identity, my purpose here, about the recent incident… but there is one question I need you to ask me, so I know you'll believe me."
The being leaned closer and spoke in a very serious tone. "You will ask me how I am here."
"That is a good question, but I don't see how that would be the most important one," Albus doubted.
"Save it for last. I guarantee you'll be more than interested by then," he promised, an extremely uncharacteristic grin making its way across the lips of Tom Riddle.
The deputy headmaster of Hogwarts foresaw a very frustrating time ahead of him.
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A/N: Due to projects, exams and other important matters, the next chapter will be published around Christmas. With luck, several more chapters will be roughly written during this time, after which I'll hopefully be able to update on a weekly basis once again. Current status: chapter 18.
