Updated: 12/25/2018
Disclaimer: This universe belongs solely to J.K Rowling, based on the Harry Potter franchise.
A/N: Merry Christmas everyone!
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Ravenclaw common room was – aptly – placed in Ravenclaw tower, the second tallest structure after the Astronomy tower. Entrance was granted by answering a riddle proposed by a bronze doorknob, encouraging the virtue of wisdom that was the goal of every eagle at Hogwarts.
Upon entering, the common room opened up to a large circular chamber topped with a dome, painted with a starry night sky, with constellations flittering across the ceiling intermittently in a dazzling demonstration of enchantment.
All the walls, sans the fireplace, were covered with endless rows of bookshelves, filled to the brim with tomes and journals. Armchairs and couches were aplenty for the ever-reading population of Ravenclaw tower, providing a cosy, studious and calm atmosphere in bronze and blue.
But Torben wasn't there to study – he was there for results.
He hadn't spoken with his brother since the Slytherins pulled him into the train at the platform, but he'd spotted him sitting with Riddle at their table, as stone-faced as the rest of them, so he supposed Mathias must've been busy. And despite the new position, it was rather typical.
His brother had explained that their house didn't tolerate 'improper behaviour,' which Torben guessed categorized anything even remotely resembling an emotional reaction other than contempt.
It was always difficult to see what was going on at the Slytherin table. The upper years were rarely seen speaking, no drama ever evolved and due to a liberal use of privacy spells, the Slytherins were personally responsible for the perception of 'shady business' being conducted at the table.
Even if their reputation was iffy, their influence certainly wasn't. Even the third-years in Ravenclaw knew that much.
It was estimated that ninety percent of Slytherins were purebloods, or at the very least half-bloods with no muggle parents, and absolutely zero percent were muggleborns – but that had certainly changed recently, hadn't it?
Not even a day at Hogwarts, and Torben had already heard fourteen different explanations being made to curious muggleborns or half-bloods, confused as to the sudden interest being paid to the middle of the Slytherin table – to Tom Riddle.
If Torben had to be honest with himself – and he tried to be, as a general rule – he found it quite funny. He played around with the idea that the reason Tom Riddle's blood status wasn't yet known, was because the Slytherins were too proud of him to ask.
Nonetheless, he knew he couldn't allow himself to be picky either. Torben knew that Riddle was an exceptionally talented wizard – every Ravenclaw knew – so even if he turned out to be a mudblood, he'd accept his teachings. Seek knowledge where knowledge is found and all, as they say.
When Torben thought he'd waited long enough, he spotted Florent Gladstone enter the common room.
Gladstone was a sixth-year half-blood from an old wizarding family, both his parents being magical, but since he had one muggle grandmother, he couldn't be classified as a pureblood. One must have four magical grandparents and two magical parents to be a pureblood, and even that wasn't always good enough for the older families. Righting that wrong was, in general terms, considered 'purifying the family,' and when Florent Gladstone married the right witch and had magical children of his own, the family honour would be 'restored,' in a sense.
The Gladstones' saving grace was their well-off businesses, which Torben supposed helped them a long way in retaining some respect. But the Gladstones would never be considered an authentic pureblood family ever again.
Pureblood numbers decreased every year, and for as long as he could remember, Torben heard his family agonize over foolish purebloods sullying their families with the lesser blood of muggles and half-bloods.
As a Ravenclaw, and not a Slytherin like most of his family, he attempted to maintain a firm distance from this unnecessary drama. The whole matter was overrated, in his personal opinion – though he did seek to spare them the pain in the future.
"Gladstone!" he spoke up, catching the wizard's attention. The bespectacled sixth-year stopped up and looked to him.
"Nott," he greeted politely. "What can I help you with?"
Torben grinned at him and proclaimed proudly, "I would like to cash in the bet."
Florent Gladstone looked sceptical. "Well, I highly doubt that," he countered, smiling arrogantly at him as he pulled out what looked to be a thick collection of parchments.
"I'm pretty sure I have it figured out. I've done my research this summer and assembled all my results in this report, which I'm giving to Professor Kettleburn for extra credits."
"…But I know what it is. You can't just decide you've won your own bet without hearing me out!" Torben exclaimed and Gladstone had the decency to look slightly embarrassed. He let out a gruff noise as he responded.
"Very well then Nott, what do you think it is?"
Torben offered another wide grin. "An Acromantula!"
Gladstone, the prick, chortled. "Ehm, no. Afraid not, Nott," he denied with a satisfied smirk as he stared him down. "My research clearly shows that the perpetrator of the attacks was a Streeler – a poisonous snail."
He couldn't help himself. Torben laughed him in the face. "Oh Merlin, a snail! If only," he laughed, causing the older boy to redden in anger.
"It doesn't matter what you think, Nott. My report supports it, so your scepticism is unneeded," he dismissed. Other Ravenclaws from different years were sniggering around them, listening to the discussion, but Torben remained unperturbed.
"And your report doesn't matter shite, Gladstone, because I have very reliable sources of my own," he claimed with confidence.
The sixth-year raised a dismissive eyebrow. "Yeah? You're a third-year. There's no need for your posturing."
"Wait a second, Florent – I wanna hear about this source of his," one of Gladstone's mates said then, several other eagles chiming in, curious as ever.
"When and where did you acquire this source claiming Acromantula, Nott?"
The smile slid off his face and Torben couldn't help becoming slightly hesitant. They waited patiently as his bravado escaped him.
"Well…" he started, mentally preparing himself for a lengthy explanation. "It definitely took some convincing, that's for certain. We went to the Battle of The Birds…" he trailed off, frantically searching for the words needed to properly explain the context.
Everyone quieted at his words and Gladstone looked notably distressed.
A moment passed as the silence became apparent to him.
"Oh…" someone said quietly in realization.
"…You spoke to Riddle," Gladstone concluded unexpectedly. Torben simply nodded, slightly surprised he'd caught on as fast as he had. Gladstone grimaced uncomfortably in response.
Had Gladstone really not thought to do so? Torben thought it unlikely that he wouldn't have.
The sixth-year looked at his report with a pinched expression. "Where in the good sense of The Founders did Rubeus Hagrid manage to find a giant illegal spider...?" he mumbled irately, looking defeated – apparently not even for a moment reconsidering the credibility of Tom Riddle.
Torben took a moment to enjoy it, having not expected Tom's name to work quite so effectively.
Conclusively, Florent Gladstone agreed to concede his win to Torben, after which the surrounding eagles clapped politely. The sixth-year then took five very long steps towards the lit fireplace, tossed his elaborate Streeler research report into the fire, then left for his dormitory in a huff.
After several congratulations, Hubertus Mulciber, a fourth-year student he'd befriended, approached him.
"Congrats Ben – on the bet, but also on your successful vanquishing of the prat," he complimented. "What did you win?"
"Forty-two Galleons from the pool and a nice amount of satisfaction." Torben grinned mischievously, Hubertus returning a much similar expression.
"Decent," the other nodded.
Torben then riffled through the pockets of his robes and produced a couple of small knives.
"Say, Bert, do you know of anywhere I can practice? It's really important," he said inspecting the sharp little tools.
Hubertus looked uneasy but sighed and led him out of the common room.
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"I hereby swear on my magic to tell the truth as I know it, and only the truth, for as long as I maintain the magic of this vow – retaining the option to not answer if the question is undesirable. So mote it be."
Albus hummed, fascinated. "The vow is in effect," he confirmed, surprised despite himself. They'd specified the wording of the vow for the past half an hour, but Albus had to confess that he hadn't expected the other to really agree with his wishes. The only compromise he had to make was allowing the other to control the lifetime of the spell – which was fair, in all honesty.
Not that Albus thought anything about this whole affair was fair to start with, but he supposed he had to take what he could get.
The dark wizard looked expectantly at him.
"Very well then…" Albus said, taking a deep breath. He repositioned his glasses slightly and stared into the stranger's eyes. It was a shame Legilimency was out of the question because his opponent's poker face was simply impeccable.
"What is your full name?"
'Let's go slow, to start with,' he thought.
"Tom Marvolo Riddle."
Albus' lips parted slightly.
He stared at the other, only now really taking in the individual's appearance and countenance. The black, wavy short hair. The deep brown eyes. The long limbs. The self-satisfied smirk.
"Truly?" he whispered, eyes widened slightly behind his spectacles.
"I don't like repeating myself," Tom informed him with a notable undertone of displeasure. "Yes, I am indeed, myself," the wizard added unnecessarily. "Can we move on?"
"No," Albus decided straightaway, mildly breathless in his deliverance. "Answer me this: What did Tom Riddle hide in his wardrobe when I first met him?"
He'd never uttered the happenings of what transpired that day. He'd scarcely begun his collection of memories, and that particular one still sat nesting in his subconscious to this day.
Forcibly stolen memories were known to be hazy and incomplete the farther back in time they occurred. No imposter, possessed or otherwise, could possibly have access to this information.
But… he suspected this was no imposter.
"Questioning whether my identity is a delusion? Very well," Tom drawled. "I was hiding whatever I'd stolen from the other children of the orphanage – after which you demanded I handed them back. Which I never did. Now," he reiterated, vexed, "can we continue?"
"Perform a spell," Albus quickly interjected.
Tom Riddle sighed with obvious exasperation and took hold of his wand. Albus' hand hovered over his own.
"Avis," he said as he swished his wand in a small arch, causing a small murder of canaries to appear out of thin air, twittering as they disappeared off to somewhere in the office.
"Unbelievable…" Albus muttered, having never been so fascinated by the Avis spell being performed in his whole life.
Its existence, as well as the answers he'd been provided, proved beyond a doubt that the person in front of him, the Dark Lord… was indeed Tom Riddle.
"How is this possible?"
The wizard said nothing. Apparently, that was not the correct question. They'd discussed this already, but he supposed the silence served to remind him.
As it stood, Albus was too amazed to care.
"Right," he said, coughing slightly to mask his lapse of control. "Why are you here?"
Getting back to business – even if this is Tom Riddle, he must surely have an agenda.
"This is a fortress, is it not?"
"That does not answer my question… Tom."
"Ah, but do I lie?"
He did not – which grated on Albus' nerves in a way that couldn't properly be articulated. An oath of truth might spare him of lies, but he still risked being bereft of answers.
Tom offered a poor imitation of a placating smile and chose to answer his question regardless.
"I'm here to enjoy Hogwarts – a small vacation from the absolute tragedy that has been my life if you will," Tom told him with a put-upon tone of voice. Albus had never heard the other speak in this manner.
"Besides fixing some mistakes that were made, I intend to research in my free time and explore the castle."
Albus placed his hand on his forehead and leaned back, nonplussed.
"That is everything you want?"
Tom Riddle smiled and said nothing. Of course, that isn't everything he wanted. Slytherins with their five thousand and thirteen hidden agendas – always must there be a mystery in the making. But Albus had taught and interacted with many a Slytherin during his time here and wasn't unaware of their ways. Horace himself made certain to remind him on a weekly basis.
He decided to rephrase his question.
"What are you currently doing here?"
"Exercising my self-control," Tom snapped at him. "I have been in the castle for barely sixteen hours and all I've managed to accomplish is distracting you from your duties, performing my role as a prefect and failing to finish breakfast – which is entirely your fault, as you know."
Tom Riddle had never been this chatty before.
Neither had he been a Dark Lord.
Albus narrowed his eyes at the young wizard in front of him, his ire rising. A lot of things didn't add up.
"What are you?"
Tom raised an eyebrow at him, very subtly amused, but answered nonetheless.
"Human, male, wizard, dark wizard, Dark Lord – Slytherin." Albus nodded slowly.
What an interesting way to remind him of his ability to speak to snakes… He'd told him nothing surprising, but to have such information confirmed was disconcerting. And yet – validating. He could ask for a demonstration, but it felt entirely redundant at this point.
Another confirmation caught his attention, however. His – status.
Few people actually knew what it took to become a Dark Lord. Albus had studied magic for decades, all kinds, and even he wouldn't have stumbled upon that specific piece of information if it hadn't been for his old mentor, Nicolas Flamel.
Being the apprentice of a five hundred and fifty-year-old wizard allowed you access to the most fascinating knowledge and accounts, most of which were personal. When Gellert had reappeared as a Dark Lord after a long time of inaction – and though beyond disheartened, Albus had been morbidly curious about the foundations of the change.
He'd sought out Nicolas during this awful time and the old wizard had looked at him so sadly, when he'd asked.
"To become a Dark Lord… one must discard all regret. They live only for themselves – courting powers unfit for the best of us. Remember Albus… their magic feels like the caress of death."
Albus had since met several Dark Lords and Ladies – all powerful in their own right. And though oftentimes dramatic and revolutionary – his mentor had been correct. Drowned in madness or not, Dark Lords were devoid of regret. All of them criminals in one way or another – enemies of the natural order.
Dark Lords were made from a lack of remorse for their actions or goals – infamously uncaring in whichever manner they are achieved. Immensely dangerous and motivated more than any others. Physically, they all had but one common denominator, however.
They were all at the very least in their forties or fifties… Evidently, it took time.
So how could Tom Riddle have managed it?
"How did you manage to become a Dark Lord this young?" he asked, his curiosity warring with his peace of mind.
Silence ensued and Albus felt slightly frustrated. Wrong question.
He took a moment to remember their earlier discussion, intent on getting his answers. It was then that he remembered the other's… request.
The older wizard then hunched forward and clasped his hands together, regarding his silently glowering student as he would an outstandingly daring chess opponent.
"How… are you here?" he asked.
He was momentarily taken aback by the sudden expression of chilling wrath that took over Tom's face.
"I died," Tom spat at him, apparently very angry about that fact. Albus refused to believe what he was hearing.
"That makes no sense, Tom Riddle! How are you here if you are dead?" Albus questioned him in immense frustration, gesturing towards his clearly very alive body.
"I haven't died yet, Albus. But I did… in the future. Several times, in fact," Tom confided sullenly. His words forced a terrifying reaction out of Albus – as if all the blood left his body at once. No…
"…You cheated death…" Albus breathed, astonished and horrified simultaneously.
"Yes." It was pleasure and disgust wrapped up in one word.
"How did you manage it…?"
'Did he find them…?' he thought, dreading the answer though he demanded it all the same. How could he not? The implications were frightening to contemplate.
"I'm not certain how I am here specifically…" the Dark Lord trailed off thoughtfully. "I know I must have died. My failsafes were definitely destroyed – but I was merely hit by a disarming spell. Clearly, something went very wrong."
Albus let out a long exhale and rubbed his eyes behind his glasses, unsure how to process this information. The words both reassuring and immensely confusing. The wizard before him seemed uncaring of his predicament however, seemingly focused on his reminiscences.
"I believe it must've been the sixth time I tried casting the killing curse at that particular opponent. Same result," he told Albus, sounding slightly morose at recounting his failed murder attempt.
"Tom…" he practically begged, but Tom Riddle seemed unconcerned by his discomfit. He quieted though, providing him time to get his whirling thoughts in order.
Albus took off his pointed wizard's hat and dragged a hand through his hair, thinking. The young wizard in front of him waited, observing him.
"How far back did you travel when you… died?"
Tom hummed slightly in response. "I arrived on the nineteenth of August. After my… defeat, I woke up in this body almost fifty-five years in the past. I am from 1998."
"Unbelievable…"
Tom then lit the end of his wand and sent Albus another eerie smirk.
The oath was still very much active… No lies had been told.
Tom Riddle terminated the vow – the two powerful wizards sat then in silence, regarding each other – one in shock and the other cautious.
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Tom decided at that point to cancel the vow.
The younger Dumbledore in front of him sat hunched over his own knees, his wand hanging loosely from one hand. It would be a simple task to dispose of him in that state, but it was also exceedingly unnecessary.
Albus Dumbledore couldn't hurt him, because the consequences would be too extensive. Similarly, Tom couldn't very well get away with hurting him either – unprovoked, that is.
They were at a stalemate.
Albus could do nothing, and Tom could only react. Neither particularly pleased with the situation.
"Of all the people to travel back in time… it would be you," Albus murmured unhappily, bereft of his usual cheer. Tom elected to not take it personally. He was in truth rather baffled himself.
"To summarize – in the future, you become a Dark Lord, and travelling back in time did not change that," Albus voiced, and Tom nodded, his gaze moving to the window. It was raining.
A couple of minutes went by. The atmosphere gradually lost its tenseness as the water drizzled down the coloured glass of the windows. Tom closed his eyes as he waited for Albus to collect his thoughts.
He idly decided that he liked the sound of rain, the sound of the droplets replacing the residual noise his memories kept haunting him with.
Albus took another deep breath, drawing him out of his slight lapse of meditation.
"I'm aware the vow isn't in effect any longer, so I might not know if you lie," the man paused, "but could you tell me – what happened to you? To turn you into –"
"Don't even think of mentioning what you saw," Tom interrupted him, his eyes opening to regard the other wizard with clear contempt. "I do not wish to be reminded of my mistakes in such a way."
"Mistakes – Do you mean to tell me that you regret?" Albus asked him, sounding surprised.
"I have a very wide collection of regrets," he admitted with minimal intent. "I do not – cannot – dwell on them." His eyes narrowed pointedly.
"I'm sure you're not unfamiliar with the concept," Tom told Albus unkindly, and the other nodded reluctantly, looking displeased.
"I understand that," Albus told him, "what I don't understand is what happened, Tom. What did you do?"
"Very dark magic, the likes you've likely never experienced before. But I'm sure that doesn't come as a surprise. The problem was – I ruined all my chances too early," he stressed, and Albus furrowed his brows.
"When?" he asked.
"Now," Tom said seriously, "this year was the start of my descent into madness. I was so young… so foolish," he reminisced.
"This year…" Albus murmured. He then narrowed his eyes and lifted his wand once more, but not very far. His grip was strong with the urge to apprehend him, no doubt.
Tom didn't have to wonder where Albus' mind had travelled.
"So, it was you… wasn't it?" He sounded upset and disappointed.
"One of many unwise decisions made this year," Tom confirmed, uncaringly.
He didn't see the need to mask his previous mistakes from the wizard. Acknowledging them put them into perspective and though the thought of sharing an opinion with Albus Dumbledore would've sounded absurd in any other context – he knew certifying his sanity though another could be beneficial.
And he was sure to receive quite the perspective indeed.
"Why?"
"You are aware I can lie, no?" Tom reminded Albus, amused at his persistence. Albus said nothing, just looked at him with those characteristic, disappointed eyes he always reserved for no one but him.
"Her death was merely a stepping stone for me," he continued, answering Albus' question regardless.
"I thought myself so invincible… thinking I was able to control the darkness. I wasn't. I was merely a child, playing with powers beyond my control. My mistakes ruined my entire life."
"Oh, Tom…" Albus breathed sadly, looking at him with such pity through his distress. Tom sent him a look filled with anger.
"Spare me your songs of redemption, Albus, and leave the singing to your infernal bird. I do not care for it."
Albus Dumbledore ignored his comment. "Acknowledging your mistakes is a big step forward – a step I wasn't aware a Dark Lord could make."
"I wouldn't exactly categorize my decision to become a Dark Lord as a conscious one."
Albus pursed his lips in confusion, stroking his beard once more. "In what manner do you mean?"
Tom took a moment and massaged his forehead, shoving his consternation about the entire situation to the back of his mind.
"I became completely and utterly insane. Unaware of my own thoughts and feelings. But it was more than that," Tom said, levelling Albus with an angry stare. "We don't need to pretend like you didn't see. I wasn't human any longer," he hissed. The professor suddenly looked the age he remembered him by.
"To think… I failed a student to such a degree."
"Descend your ivory tower, Albus. This has nothing to do with you. I've killed hundreds, completely voluntarily. You tried to defeat me for decades with minimal luck – I made my own mistakes and I would've made them regardless of your interference. Besides – "
Tom felt a sly grin spread across his lips.
"Your willingness to sacrifice the lives of your students to defeat me was top-notch effort – best I've seen from you, in fact. What interesting times we live in, hm?" he smiled, but it didn't seem like Albus appreciated it one bit.
He said nothing though, watching him.
Tom gave the physically older man another minute to burn a hole into his forehead before he grew tired of the wait.
"I suppose you see now why an Unbreakable Vow is in everyone's best interest?"
He'd agree – in protest no doubt, but Tom knew a vow would be the only way to achieve any kind of civility during his time here. An odd achievement, but a necessary one. One could only be a participant in a single Unbreakable Vow at a time, and Tom knew the fool couldn't possibly miss a chance to play the martyr. For the greater good – he'd risk everything he had.
Albus Dumbledore stood and moved to a window, twirling his tan wand in his hand.
"…You have two years left of your education," Albus voiced, looking out into the rain. Tom casually observed him, interested to hear where the professor's thoughts led him.
"If you are to… take your leisure time here, then I have certain guarantees that you must make me, Tom Riddle."
"It almost sounds like you don't trust me, Albus."
As he went ignored, the other man moved to his desk to find a piece of parchment and a quill. He started writing.
"I do not have the time or inclination to breathe down your neck at all times, and I'm guessing it'd be very unwanted as well," he trailed off questioningly.
"Quite," he agreed.
The man continued his scribbling.
"Suppose we were to make an Unbreakable Vow, I'd need the basics covered," the man told him distractedly, and Tom raised an eyebrow.
"I'm at the edge of my seat," Tom drawled.
Albus paused abruptly in his scribbling to regard the Dark Lord with a look of complete exasperation.
"Whence did this sarcasm originate?" he wondered in obvious befuddlement, if not with a touch of approval.
Tom grimaced lightly and turned his head away from the other man. He thought he heard Dumbledore huff out a laugh, but it could've been his imagination.
Bloody Albus Dumbledore.
"Right then," the Gryffindor declared. "I have six fundamental requirements that must be met if I am to agree to let you stay in the castle."
Tom sighed and stood. He moved dispassionately to the desk, took hold of Albus' list and read.
"Don't kill or harm anyone.
Don't leave the castle.
Don't smuggle dark artefacts into the school.
Don't practice dark magic.
Don't corrupt other students.
Don't tell anyone you're a Dark Lord from 1998. "
Tom squinted at the last one. "As opposed to a Dark Lord from 1967? Completely understandable. Those years were particularly daunting."
"I don't know whether to encourage your newfound sass or to be insulted by it," Albus pondered aloud.
"Regardless, I cannot accept any of these… 'fundamental requirements' of yours," Tom dismissed, replacing the parchment on the desk.
"What is the matter with preventing you from harming my students?"
"The fact of the matter that we are in a school filled with uncontrollable children and teenagers, most of whom are currently angry with me for one reason or another, and that you somehow expect me not to defend myself if attacked or dishonoured?" Tom questioned sceptically.
"Alright, I concede that might've been a tad ambitious of me," Albus allowed. "How about vowing that you will not kill on purpose or injure with the intent to harm?"
"Specify harm."
"Merlin…" Dumbledore moaned, palming his face.
They subsequently missed lunch.
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'What an interesting muggle term… racism. I'm not entirely sure I understand the fixation on skin colour. The book alludes to a much broader definition from what I can gather…' Darius wondered.
He sat reading in the Slytherin common room, pausing infrequently to debate with himself the meanings of words and concepts he'd never heard of before. The book was undoubtedly an interesting read, filled with information he would've never encountered had he not acted on an impulse – but Darius held no illusions to its origin. He knew where Tom had acquired it – who had written it.
He added the word 'racism' to his mental catalogue of words he needed his leader to clarify for him. He simply dreaded the thought of consulting a muggleborn, so he hoped the resident Slytherin enigma could – would – assist, eventually.
Abraxas lounged on the couch beside him, studying his potions book. Apparently, the Malfoy was convinced he'd need to memorize the entirety of the book's side-notes to impress Professor Slughorn, but Darius knew Abraxas could impress the professor simply by coming to class. The man adored him – a prized piece in his collection, as everyone in their group was.
The half-Greek wizard was then summarily interrupted by two fifth-year Slytherins, standing in front of his seat and casting a shadow over the pages of his book.
The school year had only just started – surely, they weren't already making a go for it?
The smaller one to the right – Wilson? – sneered down at him and gestured with disgust at his copy of Tom's book.
"The cover of that book reminds me an awful lot of a mudblood's. Did you steal it or something?"
The topic of confrontation wasn't surprising in the least – he would've likely done something similar, had the circumstances been reversed. Though undoubtedly with far more class than what was currently being exhibited by his would-be opponent.
Darius merely kept silent, giving them time to reconsider.
His aloofness didn't fall on good ground, however, and the two fifth-years swiftly grew flustered with embarrassment and anger. Their aggressiveness was as unflattering as their attempt at humiliating him.
"Are you reading a muggle book, Carrow?!" the taller – perhaps a Harris? – repeated, upping the volume of their idiocy.
'Lovely, now there's no excuse,' he thought tiredly. Tom's situation clearly wouldn't be an isolated affair.
Despite the loudness of the boys, the blond beside him merely twitched an eyebrow in annoyance, concentrated as he was on his book. Darius couldn't fathom how facts about the breeding grounds of a Moonlight Mushroom could be direr than his plight –
No, he could. This was exceedingly tiresome. He sort of understood why Tom had kept his hobby to himself.
Darius supposed he was on his own then.
His thoughts cycled through a few appropriate possibilities before he closed his book and looked to the two little annoyances before him.
His dark stare caused them to grab onto their wands in preparation. They looked uneasy, their actions speaking of completely unnecessary hostility.
"Do we have a problem with my reading material?" Darius questioned them casually, his face maintaining an outwardly friendly façade, while his eyes dared them to continue their antics.
Their embarrassment slowly receded from their faces, replaced by doubt. The boys then visibly assembled their backbones and nodded at him defiantly. They were looking around them, seeking support.
Harris' and Wilson's eyes fell on Abraxas, but he didn't deign to grace them with his attention. They knew they were on their own.
"Are you completely certain you want to do that?" Darius questioned them again, leaning back in his seat. The fifth-years' feet shifted slightly, but they were evidently convinced they could get the upper hand on him by accusing him of consorting with muggle objects. They remained resolute.
After their confirmation, Darius nodded slowly and let out a soft sigh. He absentmindedly studied the cover of his book as he spoke to them once more.
"Tomorrow morning, Professor Slughorn will be made aware of your secret stash of illegal potion ingredients, that you've hidden behind the bookshelf in your room."
"We have no such thing!" they sputtered.
"Don't you?" Darius asks them, raising an eyebrow. "Are you completely certain of that?"
They look frightened in their denial.
"I'm certain that if Slughorn riffles through your belongings tomorrow, he will find incriminating evidence to the contrary."
Darius smiled at them lazily and reopened his book. Getting caught in possession of illegal substances was a definite way to contract Slughorn's anger. They'd get the boot within a day.
"Now, do we have an issue with my reading material?"
They shook their heads quickly, and sensing that they'd lost the game, they stammered out small apologies, before scampering off.
'Amateurs. Didn't even think to consider where I'd acquire the ingredients.'
Abraxas finally looked to him
"It's your own fault for reading Tom's silly muggle book in the common room," he told him languidly, seemingly unaffected by the whole affair.
Darius shrugged uncaringly and continued reading undisturbed.
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Not an awful lot was going on at the Gryffindor table. The students of red and gold had just finished their lunch and were now discussing schedules, teachers and summer stories.
Odette Davenport herself was sat beside her friend Lazarus Prewett, reading the Daily Prophet he'd received via owl mail. She didn't quite understand most of what was written, having been brought up in the muggle world, but she was making a valiant attempt nonetheless.
She let out another giggle as her ginger friend read another theory out loud for the table.
"A Welsh witch in her mid-fifties recently claimed to have heard of a Riddle family while she was travelling through Albania. The family was said to have been called so because they never told anyone their names, and so were dubbed the 'Riddles,' because they believed their name was taboo – and therefore shouldn't be said! The witch also admitted to having been smoking generous amounts of aconite leaves prior to this interview, so her account remains unsupported!"
Lazarus guffawed. "Oh Merlin! This is better than the theory that he was banished here by the magical military of Croatia! I can't breathe," he wheezed out, laughing his face into the table.
"Oh goodness Lazarus – here, drink some juice," Odette offered as the boy let out another gasp. She smiled wide at the hilarity, enjoying the absurdness of it all with the other Gryffindors around her.
"I feel like the more theories I read about this Slytherin, the more I wanna meet him!" Lazarus exclaimed boisterously.
Odette twirled a strand of her short blonde hair between her fingers and nodded agreeably.
Meeting a Slytherin? She hadn't had the pleasure of more than a couple of acquaintances from that house. She knew her… status was slightly controversial.
This boy that the wizarding papers were spinning tales about seemed like he could need some support, however. But to think – someone had to die before they even noticed he existed. He was in their year, she probably even had classes with him, but then the awful incident with The Chamber and Hagrid happened, and now he was the first Slytherin besides Malfoy on anyone's mind if asked to name a snake.
What a sad thing to be remembered by. Death and conspiracy.
"I wonder what the Slytherins think of this?" Lazarus asked rhetorically in a wistful tone of voice.
"Got a better shot at kissing a Veela than getting any straight answers out of that lot," Odette's dorm mate, Patricia, joked.
"True! – but could you imagine? Slytherins hate this kind of attention. I think there's complete anarchy down there! The slimy snakes are probably conducting their dark rituals over a bonfire made of Daily Prophets!" Lazarus laughed out, slapping the paper onto the middle of their table and performing a great show of miming the ritual dancing he seemingly suspected was going on down there.
"You think this is fucking funny?" an older Gryffindor boy interrupted them, aiming spiteful eyes at Lazarus in particular.
"Do you even understand why they're writing about him in the first place?!" he continued, glowering at them. "He caused a bloody riot! Sixteen people died! SIXTEEN!" the Gryffindor choked.
Odette looked at him sympathetically. "We… we know that – and it's horrible, but Riddle couldn't have –" she tried to placate him but was cut off almost immediately.
"If you're laughing – it's the same as condoning it!"
"Now wait just a minute, Wood! We're not condoning anything, and Riddle didn't cause whatever happened there!" her year-mate Alexis butted in, pointing a finger at the angry boy with a serious expression on her face.
"I think the World Wizarding News had the right idea. It's obvious that the Quidditch League wasn't equipped well enough to deal with the riot! And I've read criticism detailing the Aurors' failure to use Petrificus Totalus, when they instead decided to herd people like cattle towards a single exit, hoping to bottleneck the crazies – not realizing that they were causing people to panic, especially after they put up anti-apparation wards on top of everything! They could've thrown portkeys at people, but no~" Alexis mocked, "that's way too expensive!" she ranted on, her arms crossed as she huffed. Odette had to confess she was impressed by the other girl's tenacity.
The boy – Wood? She was terrible at names – gritted his teeth at Alexis, clearly disagreeing with her analysis.
"None of that would've happened if Riddle – the bloody snake, hadn't decided to cheat his way out of poverty!" Wood informed them roughly. "If he hadn't been there to incite a riot, my cousin would still be alive!" he cried angrily as he pointed to the Hufflepuff table, attracting attention from other students around the hall.
Prompted, Odette and the others remembered then that – yes, a student had died this summer.
They'd heard Headmaster Dippet mention it, but he'd glossed over it so casually, that it seemed like the matter had already been dealt with. He'd barely even mentioned the student…
Had the student from Hufflepuff been Wood's cousin?
Now Odette felt absolutely awful.
"We didn't mean anything by it," Odette told Wood timidly, imploring him to believe her sincerity. Lazarus nodded as well, laugh lines replaced with a genuineness that couldn't be mistaken for anything else.
Wood studied their faces depressingly for a moment before he stomped out of the hall in a rush, wiping the tears that had been ebbing in his eyes away as he left.
Minutes passed in silence, the mood thoroughly ruined. Odette was quite sure funny muggle facts couldn't salvage the atmosphere, so she wasn't even going to try.
She stared into the table, but out of the corner of the eye, she spotted the Daily Prophet and squinted uncertainly. She pointed to it, attracting her friends' attention.
"Did you notice this?" she inquired curiously, prompting Lazarus and the others to glance at the paper once more.
It was a picture of Tom Riddle as he appeared on the banner at the stadium. The quality wasn't ideal, but most of the writing was decipherable.
"Oh… so that might be why they keep making all these wild theories…" Patricia murmured. "I thought they were just doing it because he was an orphan."
"Undetermined?" Odette read questioningly, looking to Lazarus for guidance. Said boy noticed the girls were focusing their attention on him.
"What?" he asked.
"What do you mean 'what?'" Alexis burst out. "I spent all my summer with my mum's muggle parents and Patricia and Odette were raised in the muggle world. What do they mean by 'undetermined?'"
"Well – you said it yourself. He's an orphan. The papers claim he was brought up in an orphanage," he told them, scratching at his curly red locks. "His blood-status is unknown. Apparently, the Aurors weren't forthcoming with information, but the journalists did manage to piece together that he secluded himself in the muggle world to avoid them – the press, that is."
"A Slytherin hiding in the muggle world?" Patricia mumbled disbelievingly, shaking her head.
"Which orphanage?" Alexis questioned instead.
Lazarus was about to answer, but he closed his mouth before any sound escaped. He looked thoughtful.
"Now that you mention it, I don't think I've read the name of the orphanage anywhere. I think there's only… one or two orphanages for orphaned witches or wizards in England, so I suppose it must be one of them?"
"Can't have been that difficult to find out then. Why haven't the Daily Prophet informed it? They would definitely do that, wouldn't they? I don't see them respecting anyone's privacy in any way," Alexis said, sounding frustrated.
"Do you think…" Odette thought out loud, staring at the picture.
"What's on your mind, Dot?" Lazarus questioned her, encouraging her to speak her mind as he always did. So different from the muggle boys she knew – she adored wizards. Most of them, in any case.
She bit her lip, working through the question in her mind.
"Lazarus… is there a Riddle family in wizarding Britain?"
Patricia raised her eyebrows and gestured towards the papers. "It sure doesn't seem like the papers have any clue where he comes from."
The Prewett pursed his lips as he thought. "I've read about all the major families of England, Wales, Scotland and Ireland during my classes with the tutors," he started, before looking to the girls. "I know you haven't had the same kind of education I've had, so basically…" he paused, and his face transitioned into an expression of vague discomfort. It was clear he didn't think they'd like what he'd explain next.
"…There's not a lot of pureblood families in England left. Many old families today are off-shoots of only twenty-eight families, of which my family is one. This means… most of us purebloods are in one way or another related."
"…Please explain what you mean by that," Patricia asked hesitantly.
Lazarus sighed. "In order to remain pure, the sacred twenty-eight have had to only marry witches and wizards with pure blood, and with a limited about of pureblooded families, this means…"
"Incest," Odette concluded, appalled. "…Oh my world," she said followingly, burying her face in her hands. Lazarus looked away uncomfortably, avoiding the girls' eyes.
Alexis grimaced slightly. "Alright, I kind of knew that… My family is related to the Macmillans – but it's not like you marry brothers and sisters, right? It would be cousin to cousin."
"Today, everyone is someone's cousin, however many removed they may be," he explained reluctantly. "Some families, like the Blacks, Gaunts and Selwyns are known to marry first cousins, and sometimes even siblings together, however, while this is heavily frowned upon… it's not exactly illegal," he summarized, and Odette felt kind of sick.
He then slapped his hands onto the table and broke them out of their thoughts. "ANYWAY!" he almost yelled, "my point is… I've heard of most, if not all the wizarding families of the British Isles in my classes, but I don't recall ever hearing of a Riddle family," he concluded.
"Right…" Patricia said and then looked to Odette. It'd been her question, so she supposed she had to finish her inquiry, despite the disturbing distraction that had just transpired.
"If there's no Riddle family, do you suppose Tom Riddle might be a muggleborn?"
The question sort of hung in the air like a bad joke at a funeral.
Alexis looked highly sceptical. "That is presuming that the Slytherins somehow accepted that…" she said, gesturing over her shoulder to the green and silver table.
"It has been theorized in a round-about way, but I've heard that muggleborns simply don't get accepted into the house," Lazarus said.
"But muggleborns can be cunning and ambitious as well," Odette insisted, and Patricia nodded.
"They most definitely can," she agreed, "so I don't see why that couldn't have happened. Why should Slytherin be inherently different from the other three houses in that way? Godric Gryffindor made that sorting hat, not Salazar Slytherin. I have a hard time believing he'd enchant the hat to specifically avoid putting muggleborns in Slytherin."
"So could he be a muggleborn? It would explain why the Daily Prophet didn't know the name of the orphanage he grew up in, and why he went to the muggle world to get away from it all," Odette theorized, pressing Lazarus for answers. He raised his hands in defence.
"I have no idea? In my personal opinion, judging from his very alive state of health, I think he might be a half-blood… or he's been pretending to be?" he trailed off suspiciously.
"Oh my God," Patricia said, failing to substitute 'God' with 'Merlin,' contrary to wizarding custom.
"What if the papers just outed him! What if the only reason he's been functioning in Slytherin is because he'd successfully out-Slytherin-ed them, hiding his status!" she exclaimed, almost sounding impressed and inventing a new word while she was at it.
"If that's the case, then Riddle is very fucked."
"Language, Prewett!" Odette admonished, but the red-haired boy of sixteen merely grinned roguishly at her.
Alexis looked very thoughtful, drumming her fingers against the surface of the table.
"But what if that really is true… then not only is Riddle dealing with people like Wood hounding him for an awful incident he didn't cause, but also with surviving Slytherin as the only muggleborn in the house… That's so messed up."
Though Lazarus remained doubtful – Odette immediately understood Alexis' point, as did Patricia.
'What was Riddle going through? Was he all alone? Who was helping him?'
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A/N: Here's to hoping the next chapter will be out next week. Thanks for reading!