INTERLUDE XI

Summer 1948

Tom had thought the Magisterium would be more civilised than Hogwarts, a place where the finest magical minds in the world could meet and push the boundaries of magic together.

Instead, what he got was a collection of masters who were past their prime and fellow apprentices who had earned their places by being born with the right connections rather than what was between their ears.

Still, it wasn't all bad. The Magisterium itself was a marvel of magical architecture, a city within itself and far from the outskirts of the Confederacy capital. It was divided into six different colossal structures, each made of white marble and golden arches, all representing the six Esoteric Arts as they housed and trained the sorcerers who studied them. Each building was connected by a web of crisscrossing Mermish Crystal bridges that gently carried the students who would not deign to walk the vast distance between these great academic halls.

These halls were home to the apprentices who found a master willing to teach them, so it made sense that Tom was forced to rent a cheap apartment in the city instead.

Aside from the indignity of having to having to watch far less talented sorcerers be picked as apprentices before him, what Tom found most humiliating was the fact that he was still lying to his brother about it.

Before graduation, Tom had made a fuss about withdrawing from the Corps, not wanting his duties as an Auror to interfere with his studies, and Matthew had not hidden his disappointment. With every day that passed over these past couple of years, the thought of returning home with his tail between his legs made the insult of the hand-to-mouth work that he had been forced to take on easier to bear.

Even when he returned to London last spring for his brother's wedding, he had kept up the pretence of his acceptance into the guild. Despite clearly knowing the truth from word of mouth, Matthew had allowed him to keep his lies, perhaps too ashamed to even correct him.

Still, if there was one bright spot in his life it would be the Magisterium Library. As Lord Hoca had wished to make knowledge universal, it was open to all who sought out an education, provided they proved themselves disciplined enough beforehand. When the Masters of the Six Guilds had first denied him an apprenticeship, Tom had stubbornly remained and demanded to be allowed use of the library.

He passed their tests with contemptuous ease. For some reason, that turned their disinterest into outright dislike.

Despite this, he felt he had still come out of it on top, as he found new knowledge hidden away in the library's depths with each passing day. It shouldn't have surprised him, as the Magisterium's library was as large as Hogwarts itself.

Today he sat on the floor in a narrow and dimly lit aisle, cross legged with Consciousness or Spirit: A Treatise on the Human Soul laying open across his lap. His eyes flickered back and forth as he read the words that he had spent so long searching for within Hogwarts, only to find it here on a whim. He read:

Paradoxically, the soul is the most fragile and durable part of a man's being. It can never be harmed, much less destroyed by another, and it can only be damaged by the one who possesses it. Only the individual can decide which deeds will leave an impact on their spirit, if at all.

The soul is the source of our emotion and intent, and therefore, the source of our magic. While it can never be destroyed, it can be transformed both willingly and less so. This transformation can lead to the greatest of strengths and the most susceptible of weaknesses-

"Believe me, friend. You do not want to travel down that road." A deep voice spoke in accented French.

Tom looked up, startled. He had not sensed anyone approaching but nonetheless, a man was now leaning on the bookshelf across from him with his hands in his pockets. He was tall, lean and wearing a checkered pullover vest, a white shirt with rolled up sleeves and a crooked bowtie. With his neatly combed blonde hair, Tom thought he looked more like a university student he would spot in London rather than an apprentice of guild.

Realising that the man was waiting for a response, Tom gave him one. "What makes you think this interests me on a personal level?"

The stranger made a show of looking around before answering. "It might have something to do with you hiding in the most distant corner you could find."

"I am only allowed to remain here on a technicality." Tom said, as he went back to his book. "If the Guild Masters realise that I am still taking advantage of the loophole they left open I am afraid they would make some excuse to be rid of me." That was not true, but he wanted the stranger to be distracted from what he was reading, and he could think of no better way to do it then by exposing a vulnerability.

It wasn't a true vulnerability of course. The Masters were more than aware of his continued presence here, as well as the fact that they could do nothing about it.

Surprisingly, the stranger didn't fall for it. "I know immortality can seem alluring, but its more trouble than its worth."

Tom could not help but roll his eyes, as he was far too used to having this discussion with Matthew. "To conquer mortality is to conquer humanity's collective weakness. Sorcerer or Muggle, we are all susceptible to the ravages of time on both our bodies and minds. If we can overcome this weakness, we will have all the time necessary to solve the rest of the world's problems, if eternal life itself doesn't do it already."

"You would want to make everyone in the world immortal?" The man seemed mildly horrified at the idea.

"Of course not. I would only bestow this on the worthy."

The stranger's tone had a dark edge to it as he asked, "Oh? And who would you consider to be worthy?"

Tom raised his hand in order to point at himself, but realising that would be giving too much away, he tapped his temple instead. "Only the wise and cunning would make real use of such a gift."

Something about what he had said made the man look at him strangely for just a moment before he withdrew a hand from his pocket and extended it towards him. "I don't think I caught your name?"

Tom would have ignored him if it weren't for the golden Ouroboros that glinted on his wrist. "Tom Riddle." He was too startled at the sight of someone no older than him wearing the Ouroboros of a Sage.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Tom." The man said with clear honesty. "I am Nicolas Flamel."