Chapter 1

Travel back in time with me to the September afternoon when I first noticed Tom Riddle. It was the first day of double Potions for the Hufflepuff and Slytherin first years, and, as was my custom to ensure maximum drama, I entered the classroom after all the pupils had assembled around the lab tables on which I had placed steaming cauldrons of the potions they would learn to create this year that I would ask them to identify in this lesson.

Shutting the dungeon door behind me, I strode to the front of the room and pivoted to regard my silent, scared students with a broad smile. Then, I greeted them, "Hello, boys and girls. My name is Professor Slughorn, and I will be your Potions master. I am not adverse to being your advisor throughout the course of your years here should you wish to cultivate my acquintance outside the classroom. I assure you, I am not a killjoy, even if I am old enough not to want to tell you my age."

Here, I chortled at my own jest. Nobody chuckled along with me, but that wasn't surprising, since first years were always shy about enjoying a joke at an instructor's expense. Although no one laughed, a few people offered tentative grins, as though they were afraid to act truly amused but also didn't want to end up on my bad side so early in the term.

"Now," I continued, my manner becoming more brisk as I got down to business. "We'll start out today's lesson by taking a look at some basic potions that you ought to be able to not only recognize but concoct by the end of our year together." At this point, I paced over to a table at which four Slytherin boys were clustered, snatched up a wooden ladle, scooped up a bit of the Babbling Beverage boiling before them, held it aloft so that the entire class could see it, and then poured it back into the cauldron. After I had shown everyone the contents of the cauldron, I demanded, "Which of you can identify this potion for me?"

Instantly, the hand of the tall, dark-haired boy across the table shot into the air.

"Yes?" I nodded at him, making a mental note of this student's enthusiasm.

The lad swallowed down the nervousness that seemed to brew in his throat when my eyes and the eyes of everybody in the class fixated on him. Then, he answered in a quiet yet distinct voice, "It's a Babbling Beverage, Professor, which prompts the drinker to talk nonsense until the effects wear off in about an hour, hence its name."

"Exactly right," I declared, stepping over to the next table and holding up a foamy, pearly white potion for the class to examine. "Who can tell me what this one is?"

Again, the dark-haired boy's hand whipped through the air before anyone else's.

"Yes?" Somewhat taken aback, I pointed at the lad again.

"It's a Calming Draught, sir," he told me.

"Quite right," I agreed, beaming and deciding that I would be keeping my eye on him. As I approached the third table and displayed a silvery syrup, I asked, "Which one of you can tell me what this potion is?"

Again, the black-haired boy's hand was the first to soar into the air, and he responded in a tone that was a tad louder than it had been the previous two times he had spoken up, "It's a Hair-Raising potion, and rats' tails are responsible for the silver color."

"Excellent, excellent," I approved, watching as the boy's pale cheeks flushed, and a small smile broke acorss his face. Realizing that I should know the name of the child with such impressive banks of knowledge, I added, "May I ask what your name is, my boy?"

"Tom Riddle, Professor." The flames on his cheeks gained more heat, and I surmised that it was because his surname made it clear that he was a rare non-pureblood in Slytherin.

"Of course you are." I chuckled, remembering that many of my fellow staff members had been commenting on how bright the Riddle boy was. Well, obviously, they hadn't been exaggerating, although now that I thought about it, I remembered that the staff had also remarked on Tom's status as an orphan raised by Muggles. As I realized that the smart boy before me was an orphan, I felt the customary twinge of pity that any decent being would experience in such a situation.

Then, it occured to me that the lad must be extremely talented if this was how far he had progressed while living among Muggles. Yes, not only would he be a powerful connection to have a decade or so down the road, but he would be an easy person to earn the gratitude of, since all I would have to do would be to show him the affection and the attention denied him when he was raised in an orphanage.

Now, if you have been paying proper attention to my tale, you might point out that I said earlier that I loved Tom like a son, but what I described just now seems to contradict that. Such a criticism is fair. I won't pretend that I was selfless and noble when I started treating Tom indulgently. However, I will argue that as I spent more time with the boy, I came to love him. Perhaps there was still something self-serving about it, and maybe Tom deserved better, but it was genuine and until you devote yourself to guaranteeing that every orphan knows the benefit of unconditional love, don't condemn me. After all, the brand of love I offered Tom was better than no love at all.

I'm getting ahead of myself, though, as is wont to happen to a tired man of my years. Tom Riddle and I had just met, and I was only just about to say the words that would form the foundation of our fateful relationship: "Fifteen points to Slytherin, Tom, and be sure to see me after class. I'd like to talk to you for a moment."

"Will do, sir." Tom nodded, looking anxious, and when the bell rang, ending the lesson, he packed up his battered books and slung his stachel over his shoulder. As everyone else jostled out of the room, he stepped hestitantly up to my desk, his fingers toying with the frayed cuffs of his robes, and reminded me, "You wished to see me, Professor."

"I did, indeed," I agreed, clapping him gently on the shoulder. For a second, he stiffened as though unaccustomed to being touched, and then his muscles uncoiled. "There's no need to look so fretful, dear boy. You aren't in trouble. I just want to speak to you."

"Oh." Tom grinned in relief. "What would you like to talk about, then, sir?"

"I understand that you are an orphan," I said as delicately as I could.

"Yes, sir," admitted Tom, biting his lip.

"I know that it's tough enough for children with parents to adapt to life at school," I commented. "How are you faring?"

"I'm doing well enough," Tom answered, shrugging. "All of my professors seem satisfied with my performance."

"I'd be hard pressed to see why they wouldn't be," I informed him jovially. "So far, your Potions work has been most impressive. I just want you to know that, even though you are an orphan and this castle can sometimes feel frightening, you are not alone here. I will be in my office if you ever need to talk to someone, and I have plenty of wonderful books that can't be found in the library that I would be happy to lend you."

"Thank you, sir." Tom's eye shone. "I'll be sure to stop by your office, then."

"There is no need to thank me." I waved a dismissive hand. "It is my duty as a professor to provide you with the tools you require to learn, and it's my responsibility as your Head of House to offer you guidance. There is no cause to thank someone for fulfilling their obligations."

"Oh, but there is, sir, when so many people don't do their duty," pointed out Tom.

"Well, there is still no need to thank me when you make doing my duty a pleasure," I blustered, although I had to admit that I was charmed.

"You make learning a pleasure, Professor," he countered, grinning.

I issued a hearty laugh. "Tom, you are quite the master of flattery for one so young."

"It's not flattery if it's true, sir." As he established as much, Tom's smile widened.

"Off to dinner with you before your silver tongue make my head too big for my neck to support," I ordered, wagging a mock-scolding finger at him.

"Yes, sir." Obediently, he turned on his heel and departed, leaving me delighted at establishing a rapport with such a promising young man.