a/n: thank you to unspeakable3 for being a tremendous help with this chapter!

"Heard about your row with Minerva," said Fogg, joining Tom as he walked down the corridor, which was apparently a prime location for being bothered. "Really cocked that one up, eh?"

"No," Tom muttered, making a note to curse Fogg horribly later. "It was a simple misunderstanding. How do you even know about that?"

"Word spreads quickly here," he said. "Have to be careful. Anyway, if I may offer some advice-"

"Please don't."

"Women like men who can admit their mistakes. All you have to do is apologize."

"Brilliant. Noted." He veered off into a courtyard to escape, and he could hear Fogg calling out behind him:

"They like flowers, too!"

The problem was that he was going to have to apologize, because he did not want half the faculty to despise him in his first year. Hatred too often allowed room for suspicion and, of course, retaliation. He did not need anyone actively trying to work against him out of spite.

It was probably better just to get it over with, anyway.

She was in the staff room, which was a deviation from her normal routine, and he wondered vaguely why she was there. In true Minerva fashion she was surrounded by stacks of papers and diligently writing away like a proper teacher. Had he not been rapidly losing the desire to become a proper teacher himself, he might have been inspired.

He sat down across the table from her. She looked up briefly, saw him, then looked back down at her work.

"Hello," he said.

She did not respond.

"I was hoping we could talk."

Silence.

"About the other-"

"Go away."

If they were alone, he would have been able to remove the memory of their conversation altogether, and the problem would be solved. But they were not alone, as evidenced by Beery, who took a seat at the table and greeted them cheerfully before opening the morning's paper.

Tom ignored him. "What happened the other day was a misunderstanding," he told Minerva quietly.

She glared at him. "You were considerably clear in your meaning. I do not think I misunderstood."

Why was this so difficult? "It was a mistake."

She looked at him briefly before returning to her writing. "Fine," she muttered.

"Fine," he muttered back. "If that's over with, I was wondering-"

"Oi, Riddle," Beery interrupted.

He did not bother to hide the annoyance in his voice. "What?"

"Is it true you tried to seduce a student?"

Minerva's face turned red and she got up and left, not even bothering to take her paperwork with her. Tom watched her go and then rounded on Beery, hoping his rage was evident.

"Er- sorry, son," Beery said. "Didn't mean to interrupt whatever that was. Didn't look too pleasant. If you want some advice-"

"DON'T," Tom shouted at him before leaving the staff room in a fury.

"Do you have a date yet?"

"No."

"Are you even trying to find one?"

"Yes."

"Are you lying to shut me up?"

"Possibly."

Slughorn sighed dramatically and threw his bacon onto his plate in a huff. "Honestly, I don't know why I bother."

"Neither do I."

"I'm doing you a favor, you know. You're not going to find..."

Tom wasn't listening. He was watching Cornelia, who was at the far end of the Great Hall, talking to a small group of older students with their heads bowed together like they were planning the American Revolution. What were they talking about?

Slughorn must have seen him looking at her. "Oh ho!" he exclaimed. "I see, I see. No offense, my boy, but that is a cauldron of disasters waiting to happen."

"What?"

He nodded in Cornelia's direction. "That woman is downright insufferable sometimes. And, frankly, a little frightening."

"How so?"

"Just trust me. Not the date you want. Best to look elsewhere. In fact, I have a few friends in the Ministry..."

Why did so many of his single coworkers insist on giving him unwanted dating advice? "The Halloween party isn't for another two weeks," he said.

Cornelia left the Hall with several seventh years and he watched her go. How long would it take Lestrange to make his assessment? He wanted to know what she was up to now.

Slughorn mumbled something about stubbornness, gave Tom up as a lost cause, and left.

As soon as he disappeared, Minerva took his place.

"Hello," Tom said. "I didn't think you were-"

She slammed a folder down on the table in front of him.

"-talking to me."

Her face was emotionless - her version of a courteous and workplace-professional look of disgust.

"What is this?" he asked, opening the folder.

"Those are the materials given to all new teachers during their orientation," she stated.

"Oh. Thank you. Listen, while you're here-"

"Make sure to read those thoroughly. Wouldn't want you to slip up again."

She stood up and left.

"Brilliant."

A few minutes later Peggy sat down beside him. "Hi," she said.

He hoped at some point that he would actually be able to eat. "Hello. Are you here to give me dating advice or throw things at me?"

"Er- neither. I'm here to yell at you."

"Brilliant."

"I heard what you said to Minerva."

He sighed. "Of course you did. That was a misunderstanding." How many times was he going to have to say it?

"I hoped it was. I told her I couldn't believe you'd ever be that heartless."

"It's really not that significant of an issue. To be honest, she's being quite stubborn about it. I don't see... why..."

He stopped because she was giving him a look that strongly reminded him of the Matron at his orphanage - like she was not above slapping him across the face if he said another word.

"Make sure you apologize," she commanded, somehow sounding like the Matron as well.

"I have tried to apologize. She doesn't want to hear it."

"Try harder."

She got up and left.

When no one else came to berate him he finally attempted to eat, but found that he'd rather lost his appetite.

It had become apparent, given recent events, that something was… off. There were distinct deficiencies developing in several of his more highly prized skill sets, perhaps owing to unexpected distractions manifesting within the surrounding environment, or previously irrelevant concerns somehow forcing themselves to be prioritized higher than immediate interests, and which did not allow the requisite space for him to operate efficiently.

In other words, teaching was horrible, and it was turning him into an idiot.

But surprisingly, Slughorn's obnoxious dating advice that morning had given him an idea - one that would both address multiple pressing concerns and allow him to confirm that he was still capable of employing his most essential skills with success.

Cornelia's schedule outside of classes was more difficult to verify than the rest of the staff; it was as if she made a point to never visit the same place twice in the same week. So he chose a time during classes, in the middle of the day, to approach her. He found her near the dungeons, where she had just finished assisting with a sixth-year lesson.

"Hello," he said with a smile.

"Oh, it's you. What do you want? Is this about the shrunken head thing? You're not still mad about that, are you? I mean, angry."

"No. Actually, I was wondering..."

"Yes? What?"

Impatient, he thought to himself, making a mental note.

"I was just wondering if you would be attending the Halloween Party next week."

She narrowed her eyes. "Why?"

Carefully guarded? Highly suspicious.

"Well, you know, if you're not going with anyone..."

"How nice of you to ask the lowly Potions Understudy. Feeling sorry for me?"

Ego.

"No..."

"Wait, aren't you the guy that tried to ask a student out on a date?"

"What? No, that wasn't-"

"Not a very attractive trait," she said, smiling.

Informed. Rude. Antagonistic.

"Anyway," she continued, "I tend not to associate with teachers outside of work. I prefer people who are a bit more... intellectual."

Arrogant. Unabashedly offensive.

This called for something slightly more confrontational. "I'm sorry," he said, "but I'm not sure a Potions Understudy has any more knowledge than an actual professor." He made it sound as if the thought was unimaginable.

It worked.

Her face became blank for a moment, then she narrowed her eyes at him again, almost as if she had accepted his comment as a challenge - which was exactly what he had intended.

"What would I know? I'm sorry, Professor, but unlike you, I chose not to spend the rest of my life teaching school children some vague semblance of my area of expertise, because unlike teachers, I'm actually competent in my field. I am a researcher. I am expanding the boundaries of magical knowledge while you... grade papers. What do you teach, again?"

It was well done. Feigning ignorance to emphasize that he wasn't important enough for her to even remember his subject. "Defense Against the Dark Arts," he said.

She laughed. "Counter-curses and advanced shield charms, right? I bet you couldn't even perform Dark magic if you tried."

"You would be surprised." Veering slightly off course, but the accusation was unacceptable.

"Really? Do you even know how to determine negative intent ratio?"

"Depends on which method you prefer. Reinhart's Potential Intent Analysis? Or basic non-Gamp positive disintegration theory?"

She was silent for a moment, appraising him. "How to calculate curse area of affect?"

"By measuring conjurational probability density."

"How to make multi-host, multi-result, soul-bonded terminal agreements?"

"Create a unifying, remotely activated, psychosomatic trigger."

"Classifications of the non-physiological effects of Class 5 poisons?"

"Inherent, psychological, metaphysical."

If she was impressed, she hid it extremely well.

"How nice," she muttered. "They've hired someone minimally competent for once. Congratulations on raising the bar."

"Thank you, that means a lot coming from a Potions Understudy."

They stared each other down for a while. Then he remembered why he was there. "So, you're going to the party, then?"

She laughed. "If I am, you can rest assured I will not be taking a date."

"Any reason why?"

"Dates are tedious. Men are tedious. Intelligent men even more so. Anyway, I will have other things to concern myself with while I'm there."

"Like what?"

"Things that would not be of interest to high school teachers."

She walked away, and he thought he could hear her laughing to herself as she went.

He had no idea whether he had won or lost that argument, or if it had been an argument at all and not some kind of verbally abusive trivia game. Either way, he remained dateless. But he had gained a tiny bit of insight into Cornelia's personality and, possibly, her intentions.

And, he noted, her knowledge of the Dark Arts was a bit too encyclopedic for a Potions researcher.

The insight did nothing for his wounded pride, however.

"Professor, I thought we were meant to be going over advanced shield conjuration today?"

'I bet you couldn't even perform Dark magic if you tried.'

"Change of plans."

The test of his manipulation skills did not go as planned, so he decided to test himself another way. Also, he was extremely annoyed.

'Do you even know how to determine negative intent ratio?'

Not that he had anything to prove. He was beyond such pettiness.

Well, he used to be beyond such pettiness.

"Today," he said while outlining the tenets of conjurational probability density on the board for his seventh years, "we are going to learn how to create a curse."

"Is creating curses on the N.E.W.T. syllabus, sir?"

"Most likely not."

He mapped out the steps of the process carefully, replacing unpleasant and problematic terminology as needed.

"You must first decide whether you want the curse to affect your vic- your target internally or externally. External curses require more energy but tend to only produce physical effects. Psychological effects are much more fu- efficient."

When they were ready, they moved chairs and desks away to make a space in the middle of the room for testing the area of effect. Tom had a long and successful history of messing about with the fundamentals of magic (he considered himself an expert) so he insisted on trying the curse first, just to make sure the soundness of their calculations could be tested with proper skill and precision, and so that no one blew themselves up and made a mess of his classroom. Viscera were notoriously difficult to clear up.

He conjured a small teddy bear and placed it in the center of the space. The class waited with bated breath as he pointed his wand at the doomed bear and cast the curse.

At first it seemed like nothing had happened. There had been no sound, no light, no evidence whatsoever that he'd done anything. The bear sat there unharmed, almost mocking him with its pristine condition.

But then a series of events occurred in rapid succession, like a bomb being dropped on a bomb being dropped on a bomb:

First, one of the students said, "sir, what is that?" and pointed to something in the air above the bear. It appeared to be a tiny black line, like a crack in the wall without the wall.

Then another student made the idiotic decision to poke at the crack with his wand. It immediately started to grow, hairline fractures spreading out from it like breaking glass.

Then the growing chasm sucked up the bear, right out of existence, like a miniature cosmic hoover. That was the point at which Tom started to become slightly worried.

Then another student said, "can I try?" and pointed her wand at the thing with impressive determination.

"No, wait!"

He tried to stop her, but he was too late. She had already cast the curse, and a bright blue light traveled at high speed toward the crack, colliding with it and exploding in a blinding flash.

When the smoke cleared, he scanned the room to make sure no one was dead, because whole bodies were even more of a pain to deal with than viscera. They had been pushed back by the force of the explosion, but no one, it appeared, had been seriously hurt.

He then turned his gaze toward the middle of the room. There, in the space where the tiny crack had been, shamelessly existing with no regard for magical theory whatsoever, was a large, black hole.

It hovered over the stone floor like an ominous, faceless ghost. He wanted to say it was about the size and shape of a door, but it did not seem to have a discernible size or shape.

"Don't touch it," he warned the class.

It was difficult to look at, as if it wasn't really there. He circled the thing slowly, trying to perform some sort of examination, but no matter what angle he approached it from, it remained the same: a lightless hole. It did not appear to have any sides or edges. It made no sound and had no smell.

He instructed the students to leave and followed them out, closing, locking, and warding the door behind him.

The great black nothingness was still there when he returned with some of the staff that evening, and they determined through the most rigorous magical analyses possible that it had not changed shape, size, color, or location. It was still just a massive, floating, menacing reminder of Tom's complete and utter cock-up.

"What exactly were you trying to do?" Dippet asked him.

"Demonstrate the application of conjurational probability density. For an advanced shield charm."

They looked at him in confusion.

"You tried to make an advanced charm from scratch?"

"It was completely safe. And the theory was sound," he insisted. "I do not make mathematical errors."

But Dumbledore was examining the blackness, which seemed to exist and not exist at the same time, and shaking his head. "Forgive me, Professor," he said in his kind, respectful arsehole voice, "but I am not sure what else you could describe this as other than a mathematical error."

Ilania looked like she was in love. "I have never seen such a clear violation of the Seventh Law manifested so plainly before. It's beautiful."

Brilliant, Tom thought to himself. The only magical error he'd ever made as an adult and it broke physics. But at least it was beautiful.

"Is it dangerous?" Dumbledore asked Ilania.

"No, not likely dangerous. But I wouldn't touch it. It's simply a manifestation of conjurational energy."

"Can you destroy it?"

She shook her head. "Too many variables. It may already be self-sustaining. I suggest we leave it for now, until I have time to do an assessment. Or perhaps a paper. A book?"

"I was rather hoping it would be gone long before enough time had passed to write a book," said Dumbledore.

"I am not sure what to make of it," Dippet whispered, staring at the thing in awe.

Dumbledore nodded in agreement. "I've been alive a long time, and I must admit, I've never seen anything quite like this."

Tom cursed internally.

After the excitement over the black hole had died down, Ilania completed her assessment, they permanently locked the classroom, and that was that.

Evidently, Hogwarts had a number of sealed rooms, walled-up closets, and hidden dungeons where magical errors were kept. A large number. It was a wonder the castle had not yet dissolved into a pile of antimatter and base elements.

Tom had hoped the year's first Slug Club meeting would reorient his focus after losing an entire classroom, which he was told had never happened to a teacher in their first year in the entire history of the school. Which was just bloody wonderful. He planned to use the Club to launch a wave of recruitment that carried through the year, at the end of which he would have amassed a small army of followers.

But he couldn't even get the damn thing started on time, because Slughorn was late.

The Club's new potentials were seated around the large table in the Potions Master's office, twelve older students, supposedly the best Hogwarts had to offer.

Half of them were Slytherins, and half were from other houses. The Slytherins sat together on one side of the table and were whispering to each other and throwing rude looks at the other students as if they had a moral imperative to embody every stereotype that existed about their House.

Tom was grading quizzes, because that was a thing he did now, and praying that Slughorn would turn up. He had no desire to lead the meeting himself. The attendees were merely prospects, and he needed to be able to assess them properly.

The Slytherin boy beside him caught his eye and leaned in close to talk to him like they were old friends. "Sir," he said quietly, "my father used to tell me stories about the Slug Club. And he said- he said there were never any girls."

"Well, now there are girls."

"And he said that it was only ever Slytherins."

"Things change."

"And he said Professor Slughorn used to give them gin and cigars."

"I'm not giving you gin and cigars."

The door burst open and in came Slughorn. "I have gin!" he announced.

He set a giant bottle on his desk and casually flicked his wand. Glasses started to appear, and once the gin had poured itself, he passed it around and conjured a few plates of food from the kitchens.

He took his seat beside Tom and surveyed the room like he was choosing from a human dessert tray filled with potential celebrities. "Welcome! As most of you know, I am Horace Slughorn, Potions Professor and proud founder of the Slug Club."

A frustrated-looking Hufflepuff raised her hand.

"What is it, dear?"

"I'm just a bit confused, sir. What exactly is the point of this Club?"

One of the Slytherins snorted. "Figures you wouldn't know," he muttered.

The girl folded her arms and glared at him. "What is that supposed to mean?"

Slughorn sighed. "Not again."

"The Slug Club is supposed to be for Slytherins," said the boy. "Everyone knows that."

"Yes, because Slytherins need more special treatment," the girl shot back.

"The Club," Slughorn said loudly, cutting through the noise, "is meant to give young, brilliant, ambitious minds a chance to network and expand their career prospects."

Or, Tom thought to himself, to drink and gossip about the faculty. And apparently smoke cigars. He never got cigars. When did Slughorn ever give out cigars?

"Perhaps some introductions? Let's go around the room, shall we?"

They took turns introducing themselves, and when it appeared that they were not sure why they were invited, Slughorn chimed in.

"Miss Sinistra recently submitted a paper that was accepted into several scientific journals - I have a number of contacts in higher academia - and it was most impressive, from what I hear. What was the topic?" He turned to the girl, who looked like she did not trust anyone around her, which was probably wise.

"'The Measurement of Absorption Spectra Using Semi-Enchanted Mass Lunascopic Astrometry," she mumbled.

Not even Tom knew what the hell that meant.

"Er- right," said Slughorn. "And over here is Mister Calloway, who has shown unique command of elemental charms. I have never seen anything quite like it."

Controlling elements was relatively difficult, and mastering it required impressive skill. Tom took note of the boy's name.

"Hexes, not charms," the boy said. "I like hexes. And fire. I like those two things. I make a lot of fire hexes."

Tom erased the boy's name from his mind.

This went on for a while, and when they had finally made it the whole way around the table, Slughorn looked expectantly at Tom.

"What?"

"Introduce yourself," he whispered.

"They have me for class. I see them every day."

Slughorn threw him an exasperated look and cleared his throat. "And this is Professor Riddle, as you all know. Professor Riddle was one of the Slug Club's most prominent members. Weren't you?"

"That's not really-"

"And," he continued, "I'm sure not many of you know this, but Professor Riddle graduated with some of the highest N.E.W.T. scores the school has ever seen! And he was given a Special Award for Services to the School."

"What'd you get that for?" one of the students asked.

"Er- problem solving," said Tom.

Then a Slytherin girl pointed at him. "Aren't you the teacher that's dating Hester Hopkirk?" she asked rudely.

Slughorn stared at him with less than mild concern.

"No," Tom said, rather forcefully. "That is a false accusation. I do not fraternize with-"

"No, I'm pretty sure it's true," the girl insisted.

"I AM NOT-"

"Let's move on, shall we?" Slughorn said gently, elbowing Tom in the arm.

The meeting was all over the place after that. Two of the students got into a heated argument about outer-planet astronomical vectors, which no one stepped in to break up because no one knew what they were talking about, and the fire hex boy had stolen the remaining gin and disappeared. Meanwhile, the Hufflepuff and Slytherin that had fought earlier had now advanced their feud to glass-throwing and jinxing. That was when they decided to call it a night.

"Other than a slight accusation of teacher-student impropriety, that went fairly well!" Slughorn declared as he waved them all out.

"I'm sorry," Tom said, "were you not around for the last twenty minutes? Did you not see the complete and utter chaos?"

"Eh? That was pretty tame compared to my last first meeting."

"You're not seriously thinking of inviting those... children to the party, are you?"

"Of course! Well, maybe not the hex boy, but the others seemed fine. Speaking of the party-"

"No."

"Do you have-"

"No."

"-a date?"

"Goodnight, Professor."