Response to u/Termsndconditions on r/HPfanfiction

Charm is a weapon. Use it with care.

And in this issue we look back on recent Hogwarts graduates to see what they're doing, where they're going, and, most importantly, who they're with! The last five years have seen a number of notable bachelors come out of those most sacred halls.

...

Mr. Riddle, perhaps the most accomplished student Hogwarts has seen since Dumbledore himself, seems to prefer staying out of the limelight, and has obtained a respectable job as an antiques dealer. But we have it on good authority that he remains single.

Tom threw the copy of Witch Weekly into the fire, watching his own face staring back at him from the flames. How they got his picture - and such a revolting one, at that - he would never know.

What was more concerning was how they knew so much about him. Not just about his job, but his marital status as well? As if that was anybody's business.

Who was this "good authority?" He wanted to find them, torture them, and kill them very, very slowly.

Trying not to let the meaningless drivel of a poorly written corner shop rag ruin his Monday, Tom left his flat and headed out into Diagon Alley. He was still in a relatively good mood from learning that his latest submission to Magical Theory Quarterly, in which he'd disproved a rather weak and pathetic theory of Dumbledore's concerning love and desire and other nonsense, had been published.

The Alley was unusually busy. He wouldn't have bothered going out at all, but he was meeting a new client that week, and had the need for a finely tailored suit. Madam Malkin, a very unpleasant and easily annoyed witch, had reluctantly agreed to help him at a discount, owing to his flawless charm and her ongoing business relationship with Borgin and Burke's (and their always-in-stock collection of illegal, self-adjusting undergarments).

What he expected when he entered Malkin's shop was her typical short temper and impatience. What he got was infinitely worse.

The bell above the door tinkled as he walked in, and Malkin immediately dropped the measuring tape she was holding over an elderly woman's head and bustled over to him, all smiles.

"Mister Riddle," she said in a low, quiet voice, her eyelashes fluttering like butterflies in the midst of seizures. "How lovely to see you again."

"Madam," he said in response.

"Your suit is all ready. It's in the back," she said, heading toward the other end of the shop and beckoning him to follow with a disturbingly suggestive wink.

She led him to one of the fitting rooms, pulled back the curtain, and gestured for him to enter. Stupidly, he did, and he noticed immediately that there was no suit to be found. From behind him he heard Malkin's low voice again, whispering into his ear.

"I heard you were looking for someone special," she said.

He was getting impatient now. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"I think you do. Poor boy, all alone. You need someone to take care of you, don't you?"

He turned around to ask Malkin what the bloody hell was going on and the next thing he knew she was all over him.

All over him.

He attempted to extricate himself, but this only made it worse.

"Now now, Mister Riddle," she said, her voice surely carrying out to the shop floor, "no need to be coy."

When she tried to lift his shirt he backed away forcefully, fighting the urge to curse her. "Madam," he breathed, clearly flustered, "I must- I must insist that you refrain from-"

"Making your day?"

When she reached for him again he retreated out to the floor, and she finally got the message.

Sighing wistfully, she disappeared into the store room and returned with his finished suit. He took it - rather roughly, as she was reluctant to let it go - threw his money on the counter, and hurried out of the shop as quickly as humanly possible.

It was that bloody article. It had to be.

Tom was no fool. He knew he was attractive, though he only cared about it whenever it was useful. It made the manipulation of certain targets much, much easier.

But that type of manipulation apparently came at a high cost.

Malkin was the first in what turned out to be a string of awkward, nightmarish encounters in the Alley. It seemed that every person he'd used his charm on, every woman he'd winked at or complimented or kissed the hand of, was suddenly much more interested in him than he ever needed them to be.

All because they knew he was single. At least, that was his theory.

The witch at the café, at whom he'd thrown his best smile to get free coffee almost daily, had given him an odd look when he'd gone in for lunch the next morning. Her eyes had followed him from behind the counter, and he'd felt like he was being stalked by a predator. Her face could only have been described as hungry.

Then another woman, one he'd persuaded to purchase a large amount of hanged men's hands at Borgin and Burke's, had found him in Flourish and Blotts that afternoon and thanked him for the good deal, adding that she would be more than happy to show him where she'd put all those hands when she'd taken them home.

The next evening he'd arrived at a small pub in Knockturn Alley expecting to see a crowd of his most loyal followers and allies. What met him instead was a very empty room, with the exception of one woman by the name of Walburga, who had apparently threatened to curse anyone else that entered the place, insisted she was the heir of a powerful pureblood family and could give him anything he wanted, and was "even willing to overlook the whole half-blood thing."

After the landlord in his building - the one he'd charmed so many times she hadn't asked for a sickle of rent in months - followed him the entire way up the stairs and to his door, offering to appease his apparent loneliness, he'd had enough.

He traveled to Croydon, where the Witch Weekly headquarters was tucked away between two Muggle office buildings. The outside looked rather dingy, and there was no real indication that it was related to the wizarding world in any way.

The door opened to a flight of stairs, slick with water that was dripping from a sinister-looking stain on the ceiling, and at the top was a small hallway with a single black door. The rusted sign on the door said "Witch Weekly, T. Misslethorpe, Editor."

Tom half expected a single desk covered in paper, maybe a chair, a shitty carpet. So when he opened the door to a massive, bustling office with fancy furniture, art covering the walls, and employees dressed in peak 1950s fashion, he was a bit taken aback.

"Can I help you?" asked a young woman that looked like a model.

"Yes, I'm looking for the editor. I would like to register a complaint about your most recent edition."

The woman narrowed her eyes and looked him up and down like a pureblood legacy Slytherin. "You couldn't have sent your complaint by owl?" she asked rather rudely.

"No," he said.

She raised an eyebrow. "I see. Wait here." She disappeared into the crowd.

Seconds later a tall, regal-looking man appeared out of nowhere. "Mister Riddle!" he exclaimed. "How nice of you to visit us here. I'm Tobias, the Editor. How can I help?"

"How do you know my name?" Tom demanded.

Tobias smiled. "We know everything about everyone, Mister Riddle. It's our job."

Tom didn't know how to respond to that other than by threatening to kill everyone in the building. With difficulty he said, "well... your latest edition featured an article on-"

"On Hogwarts graduates? Yes."

"Yes, and in the article I was described as-"

"'The most accomplished student Hogwarts has seen since Dumbledore himself,' yes."

"Er- yes. It also mentioned what I do for a living and that I'm-"

"Single? Yes, I remember."

Tom tried with enormous difficulty not to reach for his wand. "Anyway, ever since that article I have had nothing but... trouble. I'm-"

"Being recognized everywhere you go?"

"Yes, and women are-"

"Giving you unwarranted attention? Yes, that can happen." The man smiled benignly, as if waiting for Tom to make his point.

"Please make it stop," Tom said lamely.

Tobias laughed. "I'm sorry, Mister Riddle, but we cannot control the actions of our readers. I assure you, we do not encourage them toward any specific sort of behavior, but I daresay it is your marital status that is giving you trouble more so than the article."

"What the hell does that mean?"

Tobias leaned in close and muttered, "get married. That'll shut them up." He wiggled his eyebrows, slapped Tom on the shoulder, said "nice meeting you, Mister Riddle!" and disappeared.

Tom did not leave his flat until Thursday, when he was scheduled to meet Borgin and Burke's new potential client, who had promised a wealth of enticing artifacts.

Her name was Hepzibah Smith. Smith had never met Tom before; surely she wouldn't be a problem. Unless she'd read that fucking article. Luckily she hadn't been given Tom's name, and had only been told that a representative from the shop would be visiting.

So here, he thought, he would be safe to use his charm the normal way, without disgusting repercussions.

He was wrong.

The house was stately, tucked away somewhere near Cambridge, and judging by the expensive, solid Diasro marble fountain occupying the front lawn, the prospects looked promising.

Tom knocked on the door and was immediately greeted by a small, elderly house elf with a spectacularly annoying voice. "Mistress is expecting you," she said simply, and ushered him inside.

The place was littered with objects of varying worth and significance, stuck here and there between stacks of books, an alarming number of tea sets, and moldy afghans. It was as if the contents of a museum had been dumped on top of an already-existing landfill and then shaken like a snow globe.

"Sir will come this way, please," said the tiny elf, ushering Tom into some sort of room that could have been the kitchen for all he could tell.

A large old woman in heavy makeup sat in the middle of the room, her bright yellow dress sprawled out around her, her giant wig making her look like she'd just escaped the French Revolution. She had a haughty face, which was probably very attractive at some distant point in the past. When she saw him her eyes bulged for a second and her lips curled into a disturbing smile as she took him in.

"Hel-lo," she sang, apparently satisfied with his presence.

He tried not to visibly shudder and fought the urge to flee that he'd developed over the last few days. This was what he was aiming for, was it not?

"Madam," he said, taking her hand, kissing it, and looking up at her with a perfectly timed smile.

"Aren't you just delicious," she purred, sipping from a tiny teacup and gesturing for him to sit down on a horrendous brown bear carcass that was apparently a sofa. "I daresay I might be convinced to give up all of my treasures." She winked.

Tom felt nauseous. "Would there be anything specific you desire to present for appraisal, Madam?" he asked.

She giggled. "Desire? Oh, well, I was going to start with a few simple things, but..." She looked him up and down again, considering something. "Why not start from the top?" She waved at her elf, who apparently knew what she was talking about and disappeared into the hoard. "I know Mister Burke is aware of at least one of these items, as he sold it to me. But I doubt he knows about the other..."

The elf returned with two small boxes and handed them to Smith, who opened the first one slowly while staring at Tom with a hungry look. "This," she said, "is a family heirloom."

The first thing he noticed when the box was opened was a badger crest. His mind began to race as he took in the ornate gold handles and fine engraving of the small, ancient cup. Heart pumping fast, he muttered, "is that? Surely that's not-"

"Helga Hufflepuff's. Yes." She held out the box to show him, but as soon as he reached for the object she snapped the lid shut. "Not so fast," she teased, failing to notice his smile falter. "One more thing."

Unlike the first box, the second was wide and flat. From it she pulled out a long chain that held an ornate locket stamped with the letter "S."

"Slytherin's," she said, enjoying his now apparent interest.

As the locket dangled in front of him, all other thoughts were driven from his mind. He needed it. He had to have it. He would do anything to get it. Anything.

The loud snap of the second box closing brought him out of his momentary trance, and he took a deep breath and plastered a charming smile back on his face. "Madam, I must say, those items are quite impressive, if they're real." He was already listing off in his head the best and most efficient ways he could kill her right that second.

"Oh, they're real," she assured him in a simpering voice.

He was reaching for his wand-

"And they can be yours, if you play your cards right!"

"I'm sorry?"

She smiled - a hungry, dangerous smile - and gave the boxes back to the elf, who disappeared again.

"All of this," she gestured around the room, "can be yours."

Tom could not hide his look of confusion. "If?"

"If..." she wiggled her eyebrows suggestively.

He was beginning to think the offending Witch Weekly article was not the problem after all. "Madam," he said, "what sort of arrangement-"

"Marry me," she unabashedly demanded.

Tom sat there, completely still, mouth open slightly.

All of his searching, all of those hours spent laboring over useless artifacts at the shop, had finally led him to real, undeniable rewards. He was not going to let them go. Kill her now, he considered. Marry her, then kill her. Come back and kill her later...

"Or," Smith continued in a very different, business-like tone, "spend one night with me, and I will give you my most prized possessions."

No object, no matter how meaningful, was worth that price.

"I really should be going," Tom said in a hurry, all murder strategies driven from his mind by the overwhelming desire to flee. He stood and made his way toward the entrance.

"You'll be back, Mister Riddle," Smith called, her giggling following him out the door.

The worst part, he realized, standing on the front porch and trying to catch his breath, was the fact that, for a brief moment, he actually considered marrying a Hufflepuff.

Reluctantly Tom returned to work the next day only to find that things had gotten, somehow, worse.

He came in through the back of the shop and Borgin was waiting for him.

"Thank god you're here," he said, looking disheveled.

"What's going on?" Tom asked.

Borgin shook his head in confusion. "We've been busy all week. People keep coming into the shop and buying small things - trinkets and such - which I normally wouldn't mind, except I can barely keep up with the line of customers."

A bell rang out on the shop floor and Borgin sighed. "And the odd thing is," he continued, "they're all women."

Tom followed Borgin to the front and, sure enough, they were greeted by a long line of witches, many of whom were familiar customers of the typical rich pureblood variety. When they saw him they began to whisper excitedly. It was as if the entire crowd had been electrified.

Borgin didn't seem to notice that Tom was the cause of the fervor. "Take care of the line," he said. "I have to restock some things before we run out. Merlin's beard this is ridiculous." He returned to the back room, muttering to himself, leaving Tom alone with a shop full of women somewhere between ten and a hundred years older than him that looked as if they were ready to... pounce.

"May I help the next guest?" he asked reluctantly.

"You certainly may," said a familiar voice. A black-haired woman elbowed her way to the front, and with horror he realized who she was. "We never finished our conversation at the pub," she said, her voice as sultry as a movie star's and about as appealing to him as finger nails on a chalk board.

"Get out of here, Walburga! You're washed up!" someone yelled.

"Yeah!" said another woman. "Everyone knows that. Whole Black family."

Walburga drew her wand and aimed it menacingly at the entire crowd. "Who said that?" she demanded. Surprisingly, only a few of them backed away. Others got their own wands out.

The next few minutes were a nightmare of chaos, as fighting broke out in the crowd and hexes flew left and right. Tom retreated to the back, where Borgin apparently hadn't noticed the commotion while he was restocking.

"I'm taking the rest of the night off," Tom said hurriedly.

"Wait! You have to help me!" Borgin called after him as he flew out the door.

Diagon Alley had become a shark tank, and every time Tom walked out into the street, it was as if they smelled blood and sought him out, undressing him with their eyes and offering high status and money and large estates or anything else he might desire. At that point he'd have preferred actual sharks that wanted nothing more than to eat him.

So he stayed in his flat, refused to go to work, and did the only thing he could think to do: research what the hell kind of magic was causing this mess.

After only a few weeks he'd gone from attractive bachelor to crazed hermit, tacking pages of research to the walls and marking up all of his books with illegible, nonsensical notes about conspiracy theories.

One morning there was a knock at the door. Apprehensive, Tom readied his wand and peered through the peep hole. There was a man standing there, holding a package.

He opened the door the tiniest bit and inspected the hallway to make sure no one else was there.

"Yes?" he mumbled to the man, who was not fazed by his odd behavior.

"Package here for T. M. Riddle. You him?"

Tom opened the door a bit more. "Yes. Who's it from?"

The man ignored him. "Sign here," he mumbled, thrusting a piece of paper into Tom's face.

He signed the paper and handed it back, and the man shoved a benign-looking package wrapped in brown paper into his arms.

"What is this?" Tom asked.

The man shrugged. "How the hell would I know?" He walked away without another word.

Tom closed the door and locked all seven of the locks he'd put on it, warded it, then sat down to open the package.

Inside the box was a single piece of parchment. On one side was taped a page ripped from a book that described a very simple, very dangerous spell that allowed the use of desire as a weapon.

On the other side was a note.

"Dearest Tom," it said, "Your move. Love, APWBD."

a/n: This is the last prompt I have for now! Thank you everyone for the comments and reads!