Author's Note: Oh, I love you all! Thank you for so many inspiring reviews!
I want to especially thank Hilzarie Potter, Cat Samwise (Thanks always,
Cat!), lostgirl, candy, and Narya (Wow -- It's extremely nice to be thought
of as Tom). Four hundred reviews!
Chapter Twenty-Two -- In His Hands
Tom Marvolo Riddle, reluctant Hogwarts professor, stood at the front of the classroom. The desks were decidedly empty but the anxiety was beginning to build. He could feel it churning in the pit of his stomach like carbonated water against the sides of a tumbler. The students would be waiting for him to give them direction. So many impressionable young minds, waiting for him to craft them into adulthood. Waiting for Tom Marvolo Riddle -- the one- time Dark Lord -- to craft them into adulthood.
Why hadn't he realized the responsibilities of a professor before?
Tom sighed deeply, wiping his palms on the front of his robe. "Just relax, Tom," he thought to himself, shaking his graying hair out of his eyes, trying to grasp some composure. "After all, these children are better of in your hands . . ."
And Tom heard the click-clack of heels out in the corridor.
"Oh god," Tom groaned, slumping down into the nearest chair. "I wasn't meant to be a professor . . ." Tom dragged a sheet of paper out from his upper desk drawer -- the schedule.
First Class -- Gryffindors and Slytherins (6th years)
"Of all the houses -- It had to be my own," Tom grumbled, pushing the schedule onto the floor. Tom's bout of antipathy towards the Slytherin students had not gone unnoticed. Many of the children had felt betrayed by their resident heir -- especially due to the fact that he seemed to favor the Gryffindors (Not to mention the fact that he was romantically involved with the Gryffindor Golden Boy). "Well, at least there's Harry . . ."
The door creaked open to reveal the infamous Trio -- Ron, Hermione, and Harry. They sauntered into the room and took their places, taking out their textbooks and their wands. Tom smiled graciously.
"G'morning Professor Riddle," Ron muttered, dipping his quill into the nearest inkwell.
"Good morning Mister Weasley," Tom nodded. The newly designated professor noticed that a crowd of children had gathered in the doorframe, peering into the classroom nervously. "You may all come in, if you please," Tom called and there was a collective shudder throughout the student body. One by one, they shuffled into the room -- their eyes locked on the floor at all times. They straggled into their seats and waited for the class to begin.
"Right," Tom breathed, taking in the wide eyes and tight-lipped frowns. He took temporary solstice in Harry's nonchalant grin before continuing. "Attendance. Your professors call attendance every class, correct?"
"Yes Professor," Hermione responded -- speaking up when no one else dared.
"Right then. Lavender Brown?"
A trembling Gryffindor in the back row sputtered, "H-h-here."
"Oh god," Tom sighed, shaking his head somberly. "Look -- I don't know what you're all thinking but I'm here to teach you, not hex you into oblivion." Another one of those collective shudders. "So you can all relax in my classroom."
No one relaxed.
"Millicent Bulstrode?"
The Slytherins weren't half as meek as the Gryffindors. They spoke with a tinge of resentment, a slight chip of each of their shoulders -- "Here," they would bark, making themselves known throughout the classroom. Tom had to admit -- Gryffindors might be brave but Slytherins were bold.
The names were read off one by one -- Vincent Crabbe, Seamus Finnigan, Gregory Goyle, Hermione Granger, Neville Longbottom . . . Well, they had a slight problem with Neville Longbottom who almost fainted dead away when Tom Riddle called out his name. Luckily, Hermione was able to revive him in record time. Draco Malfoy . . . A sharp glare from Lucius' son, as was to be expected. Pansy Parkinson, Parvati Patil, Dean Thomas, Ron Weasley, Blaise Zabini . . .
"You forgot me . . . sir," Harry commented, the word "sir" sounding extremely awkward in this situation.
"Tom, please," the professor quickly corrected. "Harry Potter?"
"Present, Tom."
"Right. I've become aware of the fact that your training has been rather . . . lacking over the past couple years. Your professors have been fairly inadequate, is that correct?"
"Yes, sir." The answer was from one of the Gryffindors -- Dean Thomas. Seamus Finnigan nodded his head sharply in agreement.
"I find that the best way to begin a Defense against the Dark Arts class," Tom announced, scribbling some words onto the blackboard, "is with the Dark Arts themselves. Does anyone know how to cast an Unforgivable?"
"Professor Moody went over some aspects of Unforgivable Curses," Hermione answered.
"Constant vigilance!" one of the students exclaimed and the entire class erupted into peals of laughter. Tom, familiar with the world-renowned Auror, smiled. Yes, that was like Alastor, wasn't it?
"Good. Well, at least we have a starting point then. Are you all capable of casting an Unforgivable?"
"No," stated an extremely adamant Neville Longbottom. It was the first time that Tom had heard the Longbottom child speak. It didn't surprise Tom that Neville was concerned about using an Unforgivable -- after all, Tom remembered the child's parents under the Cruciatus curse . . .
"Right," Tom nodded, making a note on a scrap of parchment about Longbottom's aversion to the Unforgivable Curses. "That's where we'll begin then -- casting an Unforgivable Curse."
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"Avada Kedavra," Harry sighed, swishing his wand from right to left in a half-hearted motion. "Avada Kedavra . . . Avada Kedavra . . ."
"How on earth did you get to be the savior of the wizarding world?" Tom exclaimed, stepping forward and grasping the boy's wand firmly in mid-air before he could make another feeble attempt.
"I think you know that," Harry smirked.
"If you don't put forth the effort, Harry, you know I can't do anything to help you. You have to learn how to defend yourself . . ." Harry rolled his eyes like an annoyed child. "I know you've heard this lecture thousands of times before, Harry. But you have to trust me on this. If the day comes when you are forced in battle and you cannot defend yourself, you will be killed."
"I've survived until now," Harry countered sharply. "I've survived everything that's happened to me so far. I'll survive in battle."
"Don't be overly-confident," Tom warned, extracting his wand from the inside pocket of his robe. "Try casting it once more. And actually try this time."
Harry sighed with mock-fatigue and straightened up. He held his wand out and, with a clean-cut movement, he cast his spell: "Avada Kedavra."
A flash of green light. An unsettling silence.
The mouse that had been placed in the middle of the room lay dead.
"Perfect," Tom breathed, his pupils dilated to an unsettling degree. "Absolutely perfect. You're a natural, Potter. I always knew you would be . . ." There was something chilling in Tom's demeanor, like man who sensed power and would try to contort it to his own will. Old habits never truly go away after all . . .
Harry stood there for a moment or two, just staring at that dead mouse in the middle of the classroom. Then, suddenly, he dropped his wand onto the cobblestone floor.
"I think I'm going to ill," he proclaimed before bolting out of the classroom, slamming the door shut behind him.
"Well . . ." Tom stammered, somewhat unnerved by the display. "Miss Granger, I believe it's your turn . . ."
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"It's the spell that was used to murder your parents, is that what bothered you?" Ron asked later that evening while polishing up Harry's broomstick for the Quidditch match the next day. Harry had been skittish since casting the Killing Curse and, although Ron didn't want to push him, he was somewhat curious.
"Yeah, partially," Harry mumbled, sitting on the windowseat in the Gryffindor dormitory. "It also just seems so . . . strange. Casting a curse like Avada Kedavra in front of Voldemort . . ." The name was said with a level of distaste that Ron rarely heard Harry use. "It just makes me uncomfortable, that's all."
"Maybe Tom wasn't the best candidate for Defense against the Dark Arts," Ron shrugged. "Maybe he's better off being a . . ." Ron paused for a moment. "What exactly does Tom Riddle do at this school?"
"He's working on some projects for Dumbledore," Harry replied. "But I don't know anything about them. He refuses to discuss them." Harry sighed half- heartedly, tugging the curtains closed. "Tom's a wonderful Defense against the Dark Arts professor. I'm just not ready to train under him, I suppose . . ."
"God, that's right," Ron laughed, the idea striking him as obscenely funny. "We're being trained by Lord Voldemort!"
Chapter Twenty-Two -- In His Hands
Tom Marvolo Riddle, reluctant Hogwarts professor, stood at the front of the classroom. The desks were decidedly empty but the anxiety was beginning to build. He could feel it churning in the pit of his stomach like carbonated water against the sides of a tumbler. The students would be waiting for him to give them direction. So many impressionable young minds, waiting for him to craft them into adulthood. Waiting for Tom Marvolo Riddle -- the one- time Dark Lord -- to craft them into adulthood.
Why hadn't he realized the responsibilities of a professor before?
Tom sighed deeply, wiping his palms on the front of his robe. "Just relax, Tom," he thought to himself, shaking his graying hair out of his eyes, trying to grasp some composure. "After all, these children are better of in your hands . . ."
And Tom heard the click-clack of heels out in the corridor.
"Oh god," Tom groaned, slumping down into the nearest chair. "I wasn't meant to be a professor . . ." Tom dragged a sheet of paper out from his upper desk drawer -- the schedule.
First Class -- Gryffindors and Slytherins (6th years)
"Of all the houses -- It had to be my own," Tom grumbled, pushing the schedule onto the floor. Tom's bout of antipathy towards the Slytherin students had not gone unnoticed. Many of the children had felt betrayed by their resident heir -- especially due to the fact that he seemed to favor the Gryffindors (Not to mention the fact that he was romantically involved with the Gryffindor Golden Boy). "Well, at least there's Harry . . ."
The door creaked open to reveal the infamous Trio -- Ron, Hermione, and Harry. They sauntered into the room and took their places, taking out their textbooks and their wands. Tom smiled graciously.
"G'morning Professor Riddle," Ron muttered, dipping his quill into the nearest inkwell.
"Good morning Mister Weasley," Tom nodded. The newly designated professor noticed that a crowd of children had gathered in the doorframe, peering into the classroom nervously. "You may all come in, if you please," Tom called and there was a collective shudder throughout the student body. One by one, they shuffled into the room -- their eyes locked on the floor at all times. They straggled into their seats and waited for the class to begin.
"Right," Tom breathed, taking in the wide eyes and tight-lipped frowns. He took temporary solstice in Harry's nonchalant grin before continuing. "Attendance. Your professors call attendance every class, correct?"
"Yes Professor," Hermione responded -- speaking up when no one else dared.
"Right then. Lavender Brown?"
A trembling Gryffindor in the back row sputtered, "H-h-here."
"Oh god," Tom sighed, shaking his head somberly. "Look -- I don't know what you're all thinking but I'm here to teach you, not hex you into oblivion." Another one of those collective shudders. "So you can all relax in my classroom."
No one relaxed.
"Millicent Bulstrode?"
The Slytherins weren't half as meek as the Gryffindors. They spoke with a tinge of resentment, a slight chip of each of their shoulders -- "Here," they would bark, making themselves known throughout the classroom. Tom had to admit -- Gryffindors might be brave but Slytherins were bold.
The names were read off one by one -- Vincent Crabbe, Seamus Finnigan, Gregory Goyle, Hermione Granger, Neville Longbottom . . . Well, they had a slight problem with Neville Longbottom who almost fainted dead away when Tom Riddle called out his name. Luckily, Hermione was able to revive him in record time. Draco Malfoy . . . A sharp glare from Lucius' son, as was to be expected. Pansy Parkinson, Parvati Patil, Dean Thomas, Ron Weasley, Blaise Zabini . . .
"You forgot me . . . sir," Harry commented, the word "sir" sounding extremely awkward in this situation.
"Tom, please," the professor quickly corrected. "Harry Potter?"
"Present, Tom."
"Right. I've become aware of the fact that your training has been rather . . . lacking over the past couple years. Your professors have been fairly inadequate, is that correct?"
"Yes, sir." The answer was from one of the Gryffindors -- Dean Thomas. Seamus Finnigan nodded his head sharply in agreement.
"I find that the best way to begin a Defense against the Dark Arts class," Tom announced, scribbling some words onto the blackboard, "is with the Dark Arts themselves. Does anyone know how to cast an Unforgivable?"
"Professor Moody went over some aspects of Unforgivable Curses," Hermione answered.
"Constant vigilance!" one of the students exclaimed and the entire class erupted into peals of laughter. Tom, familiar with the world-renowned Auror, smiled. Yes, that was like Alastor, wasn't it?
"Good. Well, at least we have a starting point then. Are you all capable of casting an Unforgivable?"
"No," stated an extremely adamant Neville Longbottom. It was the first time that Tom had heard the Longbottom child speak. It didn't surprise Tom that Neville was concerned about using an Unforgivable -- after all, Tom remembered the child's parents under the Cruciatus curse . . .
"Right," Tom nodded, making a note on a scrap of parchment about Longbottom's aversion to the Unforgivable Curses. "That's where we'll begin then -- casting an Unforgivable Curse."
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ------------------------------------------
"Avada Kedavra," Harry sighed, swishing his wand from right to left in a half-hearted motion. "Avada Kedavra . . . Avada Kedavra . . ."
"How on earth did you get to be the savior of the wizarding world?" Tom exclaimed, stepping forward and grasping the boy's wand firmly in mid-air before he could make another feeble attempt.
"I think you know that," Harry smirked.
"If you don't put forth the effort, Harry, you know I can't do anything to help you. You have to learn how to defend yourself . . ." Harry rolled his eyes like an annoyed child. "I know you've heard this lecture thousands of times before, Harry. But you have to trust me on this. If the day comes when you are forced in battle and you cannot defend yourself, you will be killed."
"I've survived until now," Harry countered sharply. "I've survived everything that's happened to me so far. I'll survive in battle."
"Don't be overly-confident," Tom warned, extracting his wand from the inside pocket of his robe. "Try casting it once more. And actually try this time."
Harry sighed with mock-fatigue and straightened up. He held his wand out and, with a clean-cut movement, he cast his spell: "Avada Kedavra."
A flash of green light. An unsettling silence.
The mouse that had been placed in the middle of the room lay dead.
"Perfect," Tom breathed, his pupils dilated to an unsettling degree. "Absolutely perfect. You're a natural, Potter. I always knew you would be . . ." There was something chilling in Tom's demeanor, like man who sensed power and would try to contort it to his own will. Old habits never truly go away after all . . .
Harry stood there for a moment or two, just staring at that dead mouse in the middle of the classroom. Then, suddenly, he dropped his wand onto the cobblestone floor.
"I think I'm going to ill," he proclaimed before bolting out of the classroom, slamming the door shut behind him.
"Well . . ." Tom stammered, somewhat unnerved by the display. "Miss Granger, I believe it's your turn . . ."
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ------------------------------------------
"It's the spell that was used to murder your parents, is that what bothered you?" Ron asked later that evening while polishing up Harry's broomstick for the Quidditch match the next day. Harry had been skittish since casting the Killing Curse and, although Ron didn't want to push him, he was somewhat curious.
"Yeah, partially," Harry mumbled, sitting on the windowseat in the Gryffindor dormitory. "It also just seems so . . . strange. Casting a curse like Avada Kedavra in front of Voldemort . . ." The name was said with a level of distaste that Ron rarely heard Harry use. "It just makes me uncomfortable, that's all."
"Maybe Tom wasn't the best candidate for Defense against the Dark Arts," Ron shrugged. "Maybe he's better off being a . . ." Ron paused for a moment. "What exactly does Tom Riddle do at this school?"
"He's working on some projects for Dumbledore," Harry replied. "But I don't know anything about them. He refuses to discuss them." Harry sighed half- heartedly, tugging the curtains closed. "Tom's a wonderful Defense against the Dark Arts professor. I'm just not ready to train under him, I suppose . . ."
"God, that's right," Ron laughed, the idea striking him as obscenely funny. "We're being trained by Lord Voldemort!"