Chapter 38

NOTE: This is a translation of a Chinese HP Fanfiction by 墨玉绿

parseltongue

September 1, 1942

September first was the most important day in Hogwarts' calendar. This was a very special day when the solemn and magnificent castle opened up its gates to welcome back the future of the wizarding world.

One year had passed in a breeze and soon, it was September first again. This year's back-to-school day was especially meaningful to Tom, because he was returning as a cultured fifth-year Slytherin and a newly minted Prefect.

This was his first taste of institutional power. Although his authority would be severely limited inside the school, its taste was still rather sweet and satisfying... at least, for now.

Tom sat down at the end of the Slytherin table. His head kept low and his expression pleasant, his long, dark eyelashes casting a shadow that just managed to hide the conceited cruelty in his eyes. His slender, long fingers stroked the brand new Prefect badge pinned to his chest.

"Hello, Tom. Congratulations on making a Prefect," someone sat down next to him. Tom instantly recognized the newcomer by his familiar drawl.

Tom looked up and rewarded the newcomer with a smirk. "Long time no see, Abraxas."

"What do you mean... long time no see? If memory serves—" The platinum blonde teenager winked at Tom playfully. "— I seem to recall running into you in Knockturn Alley yesterday."

Tom, who was ever so composed and proper with not even a strand of hair out of place, replied calmly. "Oh? I think you must be mistaken... I've only visited DiagonAlley yesterday."

Abraxas smirked knowingly. "Ah, yes. I must be mistaken then."

Deep obsidian eyes met Abraxas' inquisitive glance. Tom's eyes glinted in a magnetic brightness that revealed the youth was in a rare good mood.

The two Slytherins shook hands in greeting, two young politicians-in-training who understood each other perfectly.

Every year Hogwarts accepted less than two hundred new students. Soon, after the annual ritual of the sorting hat's off-tune song, the nervous young boys and girls settled down at their respective house tables.

"Welcome to Slytherin," Tom greeted the first-years with a welcoming smile, slipping into his duty as a Prefect instantly. Although if anyone was paying attention, they might've noticed the chilling apathy reflected in the handsome youth's dark eyes.

"Attention!" The plump, kindly headmaster stood up from his seat, as all eyes in the Great Hall turned toward him. "Before we commence with the feast, I have some very exciting news to announce. Listen carefully, students of Hogwarts—"

He paused, then nodded in satisfaction when the students all sat up straighter and listened with rapt attention.

"I trust that you have heard of a little event called the Triwizard Tournament. Oh, and the Goblet of Fire, of course," announced the headmaster with a wide grin. He even paused for dramatic effect as whispers spread throughout the Great Hall at once.

Tom didn't react, but Abraxas did.

"Merlin's ancient socks! The Goblet of Fire!" The blonde's eyes grew wide.

Many Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs yapped with surprise, even Ravenclaws couldn't help but talk excitedly amongst themselves.

The Headmaster raised a hand to silence them.

"Hogwarts is very honoured to host this year's Triwizard Tournament. The Goblet of Fire will soon choose one student from each participating school, which includes Hogwarts, to act as Champion for their respective schools. Because the tasks of the competition are extremely fierce and dangerous, the Ministry of Magic have rules set in place to prevent students who are under the age of seventeen from participating—" this was greeted with a particularly loud round of boos"— Now, please give a warm welcome to our friends from Durmstrang and Beauxbatons!"

The arrival of the Beauxbatons' girls drew the attention of all of Hogwarts' boys.

"Merlin, look at 'em— how they sway when they walk!" Goyle, a giant boy who sat across from Tom, gave a low whistle as he leered at some girls' backside. He barked with a digesting, vulgar laugh.

The standard of Slytherins has really dropped off, Tom sneered as he took in the lewd, stupid look on the boy's face.

"I have to agree. French girls sont belles," Abraxas leaned in to whisper to Tom, before a look of realization came onto his face and his expression changed to a teasing smirk. "Oh right, I forget they are not... your cup of tea."

Tom's smile reminded fixed in place. He ignored Abraxas and instead, the young Prefect turned to explain the upcoming tournament to some first-years in a most patient and kind manner.

Yet Abraxas persisted. He patted Tom's back to regain his attention. "Hey, look. I think those are more suited to your taste."

Right this moment, the boys from Durmstrang, with their thick fur-lined cloaks, matched into the Great Hall in two neat lines.

Instantly, Tom's eyes were drawn toward a tall boy at the very back of the line. Tom's eyes narrowed, dark pupils as fathomless as the midnight sky as he fixed onto his prey.

Abraxas followed Tom's eyes to the boy. He raised an eyebrow, "Ugh, don't tell me that's your aesthetics?"

The boy in question wasn't very good looking at all. He had beady eyes of a vulture, with a thin hook nose like a bird beak. The boy sulked behind everyone, his face gloomy and unpleasant like that of a vulture hovering above dead things.

Again, Tom didn't answer; his mind was occupied. Tom recognized that expression on new boy's face— as that boy entered the Great Hall, when he was once again placed at the end of the line, Tom saw his face twisting with anger and resentment. Yet... Tom saw something else in the boy's eyes... the green glow of a greedy hyena. It almost reminded Tom of his old self... his foolish self before the perfect disguises and the polite mask.

Tom's bony fingers rubbed the stem of the wine glass, as his eyes grew darker. His lips curled up.

Something told him — that boy from Durmstrang would make a useful ally.

"— And finally, let us welcome our Triwizard judges." The Headmaster reached over to hug the headmasters of the two foreign schools. He beamed at his students, before adding, "We must also give our sincerest thanks to the Ministry of Magic, for ensuring the safety and functionality of this tournament. I'm happy to announce Aurors from the Ministry would be joining us shortly."

Tom was still observing that vulture-like boy, coldly calculating how to take advantage of the foreigner. Personally, he wasn't interested in some silly tournament. Although he had to admit that the fame and glory that came with the title of Triwizard Champion was alluring, but still... a title wasn't very practical... not like real power and authority. Besides, he wasn't yet seventeen, so it would be too much hassle to enter the tournament. Right now, Tom didn't want to draw attention to himself, because he was so close to finding the Chamber of Secrets.

He could care less about Triwizard judges or Aurors or whoever... as long as they were smart enough to stay out of his way, of course.

Tom's red lips curled into a beautiful smile, which mesmerized the blushing first-years sitting close by.

"Oh! Oh! I haven't announced the judges officially, have I?" The plump Headmaster continued to rumble on as he was prone to do, regardless of the fact that everyone had already tuned him out. The old man waved his wand to summon a roll of parchment. He put on his reading glasses. "Yes. Er... Here they are... The panel of judges for the Triwizard Tournament will consist mainly of the three headmasters of all participating schools, as well as Aurors from the Ministry. Please welcome — Alphonse Tullson, Joan Vail, and... Harry Potter. A round of applause, everyone."

The students respond with a scattering of unenthused applause. Evidently, rather than the panel of judges, the children were more interested in getting the welcoming feast started.

Tom snapped to attention. Instantly, he found a familiar face from the group entering the Great Hall. Tom's dark eyes fixed onto the young man's face, tracing the man's features carefully, from the dishevelled black hair that curled at the tip, to the wire-framed round glasses perched on the youthful face, to the uniquely lightening-shaped scar hidden beneath those overly long bangs — it was most definitely Harry!

His Harry.

Suddenly, Tom recalled the words Harry uttered to him as he had boarded the train.

The young man had told him with a smile, "Rest assured, Tom. I'll see you soon."

So that's what he meant! — Tom looked down, concealing the turmoil burning in his eyes. This was a habit of his, because Tom never liked to show his emotions. So he always kept on a mask of perfect tranquility, shielding his eyes from inquisitive gaze in those rare moments when he lost control of his emotions, to hide away his anger, ecstasy, panic, and bloodlust.

Harry pursed his lips. He couldn't predict how Tom would react to seeing him at Hogwarts.

The boy might be... angry.

Harry gave a wry smile. These were the formative years when Tom opened the Chamber of Secrets and made his first Horcrux, and so, of course, the boy wouldn't welcome any outside interferences.

But Harry had to interfere... before it was too late.

"Harry, it is not your mission to change him," Hermione had told him.

Yes, he understood her words. He had felt Fate's invisible hands tightening around his neck, whispering that he was powerless— weak — against the tide of history. He was never able to change him... to stop him. Everything Harry had done for Tom Riddle was one-sided, born out of Harry's own naivety and affection... Maybe Tom never saw him as family... Maybe it was all wishful thinking on his part... He had foolishly believed that he had saved the boy from edge of the abyss, without realizing that he was the one who was sinking into its endless, dark depth.

So now, it was time for him to reassess his goal: what was his mission? His mission was to find Voldemort's only weakness. And that was it! His role in the past should be that of a bystander. He should've never gotten involved, but he just couldn't... leave him.

So when he was offered a chance to come to Hogwarts, to be closer to Tom, Harry took it without hesitation.

The Triwizard Tournament. Harry was rather familiar with the event, and not only because he had competed in one, but also because... he had lost a dear friend as a result. A young man with a bright future had lost his life; the wizarding world had lost its state of peace for fourteen long years.

Sometimes, in his dream, he still relived that fateful night in the graveyard— the sinister and glowing dark mark, the black robed Death Eaters surrounding him, and Cedric's ghost emerging from a wand tip, asking him quietly, "please take my body back to them."

Harry tried to stop these fatalistic thoughts from overwhelming his mind. His eyes stung, but he couldn't afford to cry. After all, he was the Chosen One, with the responsibility of many people's lives tied to his choices. Few years ago, on August 27 1939, he had made his choice to protect and to save Tom Riddle's life... and in doing so, he inadvertently had forced his friends of the future into a difficult situation.

Harry turned to look at the handsome boy sitting by Slytherin table, with his head hung low and his new Prefect badge displayed proudly on his chest. Suddenly, Harry felt lighter and his smile turned less bitter — still... that boy was his son, whom he had raised and loved for many years.

And so... no matter how difficult was the future, no matter how painful, he must bare it alone. He was the Chosen One, and this was his fate and his responsibility. To be labelled a 'saviour' meant he must bare sacrifices, make hard choices... Wasn't that always the truth?

Even if the future was unalterable, etched in stones, indestructible, he must challenge it head-on, plunge onward until he was bloodied and exhausted and spent his last breath — this was Gryffindor's spirit, a knight's honour and bravery.

Harry retracted his gaze from Tom, as the boy never even looked up once. He followed Joan to the high table.

"Harry, my boy, how wonderful it is to see you." The wise old professor winked at Harry, blue eyes twinkling with his customary warmness. The future Headmaster smiled kindly, his voice as gentle as Harry had remembered.

Harry suppressed the emotions welling to his eyes. "Wonderful to see you too, Professor Dumbledore."

"WHAT? So that was your Harry?" In the Slytherin Common Room, Abraxas jumped out of his armchair in a rather undignified way that was unsuitable for a Malfoy. His mouth hung open as he shot Tom a disbelieving look. "Merlin! He doesn't look a day over twenty!"

Tom looked calm, his eyes were beautiful like the nebulas of deep space, pitch-black and unreadable yet with splashes of lights that seemingly encompassed the secret of the whole universe. The youth's lips curved into a sarcastic smile. "True. From when I was four to fourteen, his appearance never changed."

"Wait! What did you say is his last name?" Abraxas suddenly realized something.

"Harry Potter, why?"

Abraxas' eyebrow knotted. He tried to recall the Auror's face which he only had glimpsed briefly during dinner. He remembered the man was rather attractive, but not much else... Abraxas' frown deepened. Didn't the Auror have thick black hair like a bird's nest, and a scrawny frame beneath his robe?... Didn't he look rather like a Potter?

"What is his relation to the Potter family?" Abraxas asked. The gears spun rapidly in the blonde's mind— the Potter family tended to have only one son per generation, and they don't have cousins or branch families in Europe. So the only Potter of this generation should be Charlus. Who was this Harry Potter?

Tom raised an eyebrow. "Potter Family?"

"Yes, I suppose you haven't met them. The younger generation of Potters had graduated right before you entered Hogwarts... So I suppose it's only natural that you haven't heard of him." Abraxas then explained the current situation of the Potter family to Tom. Then, he added thoughtfully, "I wasn't paying attention before, but now... is quite obvious. Harry and Charlus... both have very similar appearances."

The young Dark Lord's pupils constricted. He pondered Abraxas' words over and over again in his head.

— Very similar? What could that mean?