Several weeks had gone by and, to his own amazement, Tom hadn't killed anyone.
He'd certainly threatened death enough times for it to be concerning, not to mention torture and the occasional maiming. He deserved a merit medal for the level of self-control he'd managed to maintain that first month.
But his innocent streak almost came to an end on a Friday evening, when he walked past one of the study hall rooms to find a crowd of unaccompanied children talking and carrying on, not a teacher in sight.
That particular study hall belonged to Grayson. He had thrown Tom a rude and unnecessary comment about age one night at dinner, and so the next morning his name was beside thirty-six different study hall sessions.
Tom threatened the children with general flaying if they moved and set out to find the old man.
He knew exactly where to look, because he had made a point to start memorizing the other teachers' habits and schedules, and Grayson only ever visited three places in the evening: the staff room, the Great Hall for dinner, where he got most of his sleep, and his quarters.
He was in the staff room, standing by the fire, reading the Daily Prophet like it was a lazy Sunday morning.
"Mr Grayson, there is a study hall on the third floor that requires your attention, I believe."
He cupped a hand to his ear. "What?"
"I said you are supposed to be taking the study hall-"
"What? What ball?"
"THE STUDY HALL-"
"Oh, right. No need to shout, son. You young people these days are so angry."
Tom sighed. "I can't imagine why. So you'll take care of it, then?"
"Hm? No, I don't do study halls, mate."
"But your name is on the-"
"What? Sorry, can't hear you." He turned around abruptly and shuffled off and Tom was so annoyed that he actually had his wand out and pointed at the back of the man's head before he stopped himself.
The fact that an old wanker with selective hearing loss had managed to render his ultimate bureaucratic weapon useless by simply walking away was infuriating.
In truth, he realized as he made his way toward the Great Hall, he'd been feeling uncharacteristically powerless of late.
And to make it worse, his age proved to be consistently problematic in a number of ways. All of the older members of staff, with the exception of Slughorn, either threw him a constant stream of useless, patronizing advice or made jokes about how he was "barely" out of school.
But he was faced with another problem: in the month that he'd been teaching, he had not taken any time to explore the castle, investigate the things he needed to investigate, or attempt to search for anything meaningful that could be of use to him. There wasn't time.
Nor had he made any progress in recruiting followers to his cause. He hoped the Slug Club would assist him in that endeavor, but for the moment, he needed a way to identify potential assets and establish himself as a mentor.
He was deep in thought, brainstorming methods of recruitment and wondering how best to attract young minds, when he nearly collided with a group of girls in front of the Great Hall. He moved to pass them, but one of them blocked his path.
"Hi," she said, the girls behind her giggling so hard they looked as if they were seizing.
"Can I help you?" he demanded.
She smiled shyly. "My name's Hester."
"And?"
"Hester Hopkirk."
He stared at her.
"We- we went to school together. Technically."
He must have heard her wrong. "I'm sorry?"
"I was a second-year Slytherin when you- when you graduated."
"I don't think-"
"We never met properly," she said quickly, her cheeks turning red. "I mean, you were always so popular, and I was just..."
He shook his head. "You are mistaken. There is no way that I... was..."
He did the math in his head.
Shit.
Why had this possibility never occurred to him before now? Of all the glaringly obvious things...
"Well, I was wondering," she continued, her friends appearing to be in the process of suffocating to death in silence, "I turned seventeen last summer, and..."
"And?"
She gave him a suggestive look. "And, there's nothing illegal about a da-ate," she sang.
"'A date?'"
"Yes!"
"What?"
"I would love to go on a date with you!" she said in a loud, excited voice.
At that moment, because the universe was a cruel, cruel bastard, Minerva turned up behind them. Her eyes darted back and forth between the girls and Tom, and there was a look of shock on her face.
"Go to your common room now," he snapped, almost yelling, "and do not speak to me again."
They ran away cackling like hyenas, and he was left with a very, extremely, apocalyptically cross Minerva.
Uncharacteristically powerless indeed.
She had started to march down the hallway, her anger almost visible, and he followed in order to attempt an explanation.
"That was not what it sounded like," he told her.
"What that sounded like," she said in the stern disciplinarian's voice she used when she was furious, "was a teacher attempting to fraternize with a student. An underage student. An underage student that said teacher is responsible for counseling and keeping safe."
"Well, technically she's seventeen, but-"
Minerva glared at him with a rage so intense he thought she might try to curse him. Evidently, pointing out the technicality did not help.
"Anyway," he continued, "that was not what was happening, I assure you. I don't even know who she is."
They had made it to her office, and she stopped just outside the door. "In," she commanded.
He walked inside and turned to face her. "Honestly, there is nothing to-"
"Sit." She pointed at a chair near her desk.
"Minerva, this is ridicu-"
"Do not talk."
If at any point in the future Minerva McGonagall decided she wanted to become a Dark witch, she would probably take over the world in a matter of weeks, and her rule would be efficient and uncompromising.
He had never been inside her office and was surprised to find that it was a small-scale disaster area. Papers and books were strewn everywhere, several mice fought each other inside her tea mug, and he had to move a cage of opossums to get to the chair.
She sat down behind her desk and rolled up a piece of parchment that was at least four feet long, placing it precariously on top of a poorly transfigured vase made of bats.
"What happened here?" he asked.
"If you must know, I'm working on mid-term exams, and it's a bit overwhelming this year."
"Mid... term? But it's the end of September."
She looked at him like he was mad. "Tom, have you not started drafting your exams yet?"
"Oh, yes," he lied, "yes, of course I have. I was merely suggesting that you need not overwork yourself so early in the term." He tried to give her an encouraging smile.
Which she ignored.
"Back to the matter at hand," she said, fixing him with a scrutinizing stare reminiscent of Albus Dumbledore circa 1943. "I trust you know, as you were undoubtedly told in your orientation, that any fraternization with students is strictly forbidden."
"I didn't-"
"Strictly."
"Yes, I understand. Though, to be honest, I never received any sort of orientation. But that's beside the point. There was no fraternization of any type occurring."
"Then I am to believe you were not scheduling a date with Miss Hopkirk?"
"That is correct."
She stared at him a bit more, clearly assessing the truthfulness of his statement. Evidently she believed him, which was nice, considering it was one of the few times he wasn't actually lying, and she seemed a bit less furious.
"At any rate," she said, "you should be more careful about interacting with female students."
"I do not 'interact' with female students. Admittedly, I receive an excessive amount of unwanted attention from them, for some reason."
He knew very well what the reason was, but he did not want to sound arrogant.
She snorted. "Frankly, Tom, it's a bit naïve to be surprised by it."
"What?"
She looked at him pointedly, as if she really shouldn't have had to explain it. "You are trapped in a castle surrounded by the most dangerous beings on the planet: hormonal teenagers. I can't tell you how many times I've caught boys looking at me like roast dinner, fresh out of the oven. It's disgusting."
So, he didn't come off as arrogant. Just thick.
What he had meant to say next was: "that is ridiculous. Why would they dare to look at you that way? Surely they have more respect for you than that." But what came out was:
"That is ridiculous. Who would look at you that way?"
Minerva stared at him for a moment, her cheeks turning bright red. "Right," she muttered, standing and gathering a mess of papers in her arms.
He cursed internally. "Wait, I didn't-"
"Right." She strode quickly across the room and out the door.
He followed her out into the corridor. "Minerva, I only meant that-"
"Do please enjoy your excessive unwanted attention while you can," she said in an unusually high voice. "Those good looks won't last forever."
She disappeared around a corner, leaving Tom standing there like an idiot, something he seemed to be doing a lot of recently.
"That looked painful," said a voice behind him.
Dee Carson was leaning against the wall with her arms folded and looking at him with mild pity on her face.
"What?"
"Minerva's a tough one. Even you will have trouble crackin' that nut."
"I beg your pardon?"
She smiled benignly. "I know what it's like. You've got the looks and you're clever enough to use them. I bet no one ever tells you 'no,' am I right?"
He shook his head. "I don't know what you're implying."
"But sometimes," she continued, "you're gonna hit a brick wall. Minerva's a brick wall, my friend. Better to spend your time on whatever other nefarious deeds you've been using that charm for, eh? Besides, like the lady said, those good looks won't last forever." She slapped him hard on the back, smiled, and walked away.
He continued to stand there like an idiot, trying and failing to process what had just happened.
Won't last forever.
What the hell did that mean?
Won't last forever.
He'd spent the first half of the day being annoyed that he was too young to be taken seriously, and the latter half of the day feeling the inevitable wheel of time suddenly bearing down upon him, pulling him closer and closer toward the frailty and disfigurement of old age.
No, he was beyond such superficial concerns. Age and attractiveness and other nonsense became irrelevant in the pursuit of power and immortality. He had a higher calling. A self-appointed destiny. And when he succeeded, it would not matter what he looked like or how old he was.
But after the third round of standing in the bathroom and staring at his face in the mirror, trying to convince himself of this logic, he realized he might have a problem.
When in doubt, ask Slughorn.
Slughorn knew everything about everything.
And he seemed to know even more when he was drinking.
"I won't lie," Slughorn said late that evening, sitting at his desk with a large glass of brandy in hand, "teaching ages you."
Brilliant.
"You know," he continued, "there aren't many who teach at Hogwarts that came with the intention of teaching forever. Take Tyre, for example."
"What about him?" Tom asked, wondering if this entire conversation had been a mistake and if he was going to come out of it feeling even worse.
"Well, not sure if you know this, but poor Cillian used to be at the top of his field."
He used to make a point of knowing everything about his teachers while at school, except for the ones that seemed useless and unremarkable. Tyre had been one of the useless and unremarkable ones. "I did not know that," he said.
Slughorn downed his brandy and poured another glass. "Oh yes, quite a genius. His research was going to revolutionize Charms theory and application. He'd even had a patent in for a new form of instantaneous travel, if I remember correctly."
"What happened to him?"
"Well, there wasn't much money in magical research back then, so he came to Hogwarts for a steady income, and to utilize it as a base of operations, so to speak. For his own research, you know. And then he just got... stuck."
"Stuck?"
"Stuck," Slughorn repeated, gesturing with his glass and slopping brandy onto his shirt. "And look at him now. Can't even get rid of those ruddy horns properly."
"How long did he-"
"Fifty-five years," Slughorn muttered. "No, wait - fifty-eight."
This entire conversation was a mistake, and Tom felt much, much worse.
As if reading his thoughts, Slughorn poured him a glass of brandy before continuing. "Same thing happened to Herb," he said. "Did you know Herb wanted to be an actor?"
Tom pictured the large, red-faced Beery in his mind and could not imagine him as anything other than a squat potato. Hardly a performer. "How did he end up teaching Herbology?"
Slughorn thought for a moment. "You know, I'm not sure. Just... one day, an actor, and the next, an Herbology professor. Then thirty years go by-"
"Thirty? Good lord." Beery had been another one he'd categorized as useless and unremarkable.
He took a sip of brandy.
Useless and unremarkable.
He drank the rest.
"By the way, while you're here..." Slughorn reached into his desk and pulled out a small piece of parchment. "Don't usually start this early in the year - I like to launch things at the Halloween party, you know - but I don't see why we need to wait, since you're here to help."
He handed the parchment to Tom. It looked to be a list of names.
"What is this?"
"Slug Club potentials. Nice crop this year, I think. Lots of legacies, a smattering of nouveaux riche, a prodigy or two."
He read a few of the names, noticing with annoyance that many of them were Slytherins to whom he had given detentions in the past for generally existing. "When did you start recruiting girls to the Slug Club?"
"Right before I was shut down by Dumbledore the last time. I thought doing so would satisfy him enough to leave me alone, but no luck."
"Is it wise to recruit girls?" He did not want his progress to be hampered by more... unwanted attention.
"They're a right lot better than the boys most of the time. Smarter, too."
How nice. Slughorn was apparently now an equal opportunity favoritist.
"And," he continued, "if Dumbledore finds out, we can just say we allow anyone to join."
"But we don't."
Slughorn shrugged.
Tom felt uneasy. "We don't, do we?"
"Relax, Tom. I know what I'm doing. I discovered you, didn't I?" He chuckled merrily, then downed the rest of his brandy and lit a cigar. "Anyway, plan the meetings for me, won't you? I'm focusing on the Halloween party. I've almost nabbed Dathi Bogue as a special guest. A few more letters should do it."
"Who?"
Slughorn stared at him, blowing smoke into the air. "Good lord, boy. He's only the greatest operatic vocalist the magical world has ever produced."
"Right." Tom got up to leave.
"And one more thing," Slughorn added, pointing with his cigar and dropping ash all over his desk, "make sure you have a date for the party."
"What? Why?"
"Because it's a party, Tom. Honestly. It wasn't as embarrassing when you were a student and would show up alone. But now..." He shook his head. "You need to get on that, anyway. You're not getting any younger, you know."
Tom slammed the office door on his way out.
"Why am I spying on Americans?" Lestrange asked, carefully eyeing every person in the Hog's Head and monitoring their movements as if they were all enemy operatives that would pull their wands out at any second and strike him down.
"Because I have instructed you to do so," Tom said. "And it's not spying. It's intelligence gathering." Cornelia was just the first on a long list of investigations he was launching into the staff at Hogwarts in an attempt to exert a bit more control over his situation.
"Right." Lestrange looked down at the photo Tom had given him. "Does this have anything to do with her being young and pretty?"
He'd always been a no-nonsense sort of person, and very, very blunt. It likely came with the territory - he was an extremely skilled assassin and spy.
"No," said Tom with a twinge of annoyance. "It has to do with her being a potential enemy."
"Does it have anything to do with her being a potential enemy that is also young and pretty?"
"No, Lestrange."
Lestrange narrowed his eyes and looked down at the photo, then up at Tom, then down at the photo again. "Right," he said. "If I find her, should I take her out?"
"What? No. I know where she is... most of the time. And I don't need to be tied to a coworker's murder investigation right now. Just find out whatever you can."
"Suit yourself. Any idea what she's into?"
"Illegal Potions trade, possibly."
Lestrange sat back in his chair and folded his arms, looking disappointed. "That's it? Potions?"
"Trust me, it's relevant."
"To what?"
Tom glared at him. "Are you questioning my strategy?" ...Of petty revenge, he added in his head.
"No."
"Good."
"Well, sort of. I mean-"
"Just do it, Lestrange."
Casting his eyes around the pub one more time in refined paranoia, Lestrange pocketed the photo and stood up. "Yes, sir," he said simply, and left.
It was refreshing to have someone follow his orders for once. Why were assassins easier to deal with than children?
Still, despite Tom's instruction, there was about a fifty-percent chance that Lestrange was going to murder Cornelia anyway.
Oh, well. Things happen.