Book 1 : Veiled Machinations

Chapter 1 : The Inception

Author's Notes :

1) Alright, more delayed than I would've liked, but chapter 1 is here!

2) The more I've thought about it, the more I've confused myself... what's the pairing y'all wanna see? H/Hr, HP/DG, other?

3) Could've made this chapter a little longer, but the ending seemed to perfect for me to keep extending it. However, this does mean that Chapter 2 should be up sooner :)

4) Enjoy!

~ Harry ~

The Burrow buzzed with the clatter of plates and the smell of a hearty breakfast. I was still rubbing the sleep from my eyes when I joined the Weasleys at the wooden table.

Mrs. Weasley peered at me over her steaming teapot, her face etched with a frown.

"Did you not sleep well, Harry?"

Ron, his own red hair a tangled mess, chimed in from his seat beside me. "Yeah mate, your eyes look all baggy," he added with genuine concern. "You okay?"

I flashed them both a tired smile, "I'm fine, really." I mumbled, not too convincingly, I would find out as I trudged back up the stairs upon Mrs. Weasley's insistence.

To be honest, I didn't mind retreating to the attic; today, most of the Weasley children had been conscripted into the garden for a bout of weeding, a place I'd had enough of after the whole 'de-gnoming' episode.

I chuckled, wondering what bizarre thing awaited Ron and the rest. Over a year in the magical world, I'd be hard-pressed to admit what I'd discovered amounted to more than a drop in the ocean.

Like Tom Riddle's diary.

By now I wasn't feeling there was anything to be alarmed by the existence of the diary itself. It's sentience I was able to accept, after all Hogwarts was full of paintings, armors and statues of the same sort ... what irked me more was why a man like Lucius Malfoy would have it, and what his motive was when slipping it into a little girl's cauldron.

Mr Weasley was Head of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts office at the Ministry of Magic. His daughter getting caught in possession of a muggle diary infused with magic would certainly lead to Arthur having to face some embarrassing questions, principal of which would be where could she gotten it from. The Weasley patriarch being careless with his confiscated items would be the obvious presumption...

Perhaps it was a bit farfetched, as any of a thousand things could go wrong with that plan, and one of those did, but it was a plausible definition, and I was happy to settle for it for now, even if I myself knew I hadn't filled in all the loopholes with this story.

But that's the point.

I wanted to settle for it. I enjoyed talking to Riddle.

We came from similar backgrounds; being orphans raised in the Muggle world, him in a rundown WW2 era orphanage, and myself in a place somehow even worse, which alone put him a lot higher on my figurative 'list'. After months of being inundated incessantly with 'I'm sorry about your loss' and how they could 'understand' my pain, which more often than not was said more out of courtesy or as a throwaway than genuine emotion.

Even if I was still quite young, I was sure they 'understood' nothing.

I doubt they had to go to bed on an empty stomach for no other reason but their uncle 'feeling he didn't deserve it today'. I doubt if they had to sneak out to suck on toothpaste because they were too hungry. I doubt if they had to sleep in a cupboard at night. I doubt if they had to let themselves be subjected to endless taunts, admonishments and...

A wave of raw emotion surged within me, threatening to breach the carefully constructed walls I had erected around my painful memories. The mere recollection of Vernon's disdainful gaze, that look he would hurl at me as if I were something less than human, sent a shiver down my spine. I clenched my fists, angry not just at him but at the entire unfairness of it all. The resentment, like a bitter aftertaste, lingered in my mouth as I forced myself to push those memories aside, locking them away once more.

We've digressed. My point was hearing it from someone who WOULD know something about it was refreshing, it didn't feel empty, or done out of social obligation.

And Tom's appeal went beyond just this common premise. His intelligence was nothing short of remarkable, even from the amount of interaction we'd had, I could tell his knowledge of magic and wizarding history was both extensive and enthralling. It was as though he held the answers to the questions I had carried with me for so long.

How does my mood affect how I cast a particular charm, how do the Hogwarts 'wards' work, how does one go about creating their own spells, and why the bloody hell did the goblins rebel so much?

He also possessed a charisma that was impossible to ignore, and one I hoped to emulate.

Over the course of the memories he showed me, I observed his commanding presence reflect in several ways. First was his impeccable posture and the confident way he carried himself. With each step, he exuded a sense of purpose and self-assuredness. When he spoke, it was as if the entire room hushed to listen. His voice, delivered in a steady, almost melodic tone, had an uncanny ability to hook your attention. He had a way of articulating his thoughts that made you hang on to every word.

However, to me, it was in the way he held eye contact that he truly shone. Tom Riddle's gaze was nothing short of intense and piercing. It was a look that conveyed that he was fully present in the moment, absorbing every detail and nuance of the conversation. You couldn't help but feel that he was truly engaged, analyzing not just what was said but also what remained unsaid.

His gaze wasn't warm or comforting, but it held a magnetic quality that compelled you to be honest and open. It was the kind of scrutiny that made you want to share more, to reveal your thoughts and emotions, even when you might not have intended to do so. The only other person whom I could remember having this effect was Professor Dumbledore.

So yeah, I guess you could say I liked Tom Riddle from the start, and that might have factored in why I decided against mentioning about the diary to anyone.

Glancing at the window, I could see Ron, Fred, George and Ginny weeding the garden.

Yeah, that's going to take a while

Grabbing the diary from its hiding spot among my books, I sat in the Maplewood chair. Dipping my quill in ink, I began writing

"Hello, Tom."

Riddle responded with a somewhat enthusiastic welcome, which put me at ease.

"So, Harry, what's your favorite subject?" Tom inquired eventually

"DADA" I wrote without hesitation. Despite the unsettling nature of their first Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, I'd thoroughly enjoyed the course, even if it was somewhat limited in the first year.

"Ah, yes, you seem the type," Tom replied. "What about other subjects? How did you perform in your first year?"

I eagerly jotted down my grades, hoping to convey to Riddle that I was not unintelligent either.

Defense Against the Dark Arts: O

Transfiguration: EE

Charms: O

Potions: A

Herbology: EE

History of Magic: D

Astronomy: A

"And you are happy with it?"

"I think it's decent, kinda good actually" I replied honestly. "Merlin, just the fact that I passed Potions is enough for me."

"Let me take a wild guess – you don't like Potions?"

I let out and a chuckle and scribbled a response with a small doodle of a deerstalker used by detectives in old movies. "Goodness, Mr Holmes, you've done it again! What gave it away, the obvious relief at having passed it?"

"It was one indication," just from the text I could make out the amused expression on Tom's face and the tinge of sarcasm and laughter in his voice if he were to speak those words rather than write them.

Before I could go any further, more words began materializing

"Come with me."

I had a better idea of what might happen next. Right on cue, the pages of the diary began to twist and distort, just as I myself himself did. The world around me spiraled out of control, and once again I was drawn into one of the diary's memories, wondering if I disappeared in the real world, or what I looked like right now if I didn't.

This time I found himself not atop the soaring heights of the castle, but deep within its bowels... back in the dungeons, all too early for my taste.

A young Tom was chopping an ingredient I couldn't identify as a fire burnt steadily beneath a cauldron, its flames casting a warm, amber glow that lit up the murky room host to potions classes for decades.

What caught my eye was the nonchalance with which Riddle proceeded with his chopping as the cauldron rested on a metal grate above the fire, wisps of smoke curling and dancing upwards. In contrast, I would find myself constantly peering back into my cauldron, apprehensive that some unnoticed mistake, some miniscule error in measurement, some one-in-a-million possibility could occur and deteriorate my concoction into a chaotic mixture of ruined components, with Snape's sadistic smirk swiftly gliding over to my table, all too keen to remind me of my incompetence.

"Wiggenweld Potion, taught in the second-year during my time, and most likely in yours as well" offered the specter of a teenage Tom, whose abrupt ingress onto the scene I'd grown accustomed to by now.

"Yeah I remember the name" I affirmed "It's the first one we'll do this year, had to do a write-up as holiday homework"

"This is me in...yes, November of my first year" Riddle casually dropped another example of his brilliance "Yes, I still had that ghastly combover the orphanage barber used to give me"

"Does Slughorn still teach Potions?"

"Hmm?" I mumbled absentmindedly "Oh, no, I... dunno who that is, to be honest" I replied, refocusing on the conversation

"We've got Snape teaching us"

Perceptive as ever, my new friend picked up on the faintest scoff at the mention of the current Hogwarts Potion Master. The Slytherin shot me a curious, inviting glance, silently encouraging me to elaborate on my feelings about Snape's teaching.

"He's a bully" I spat out "...Yeah, I think that's a pretty succinct summary of what Snape is. He turns a blind eye to everything his house, Slytherin, does but 'punishes' the rest for the littlest things... and because of some history with my father, I get the 'Greasy Git : Deluxe Edition' or something"

"Deluxe edition" Tom repeated with amusement

"You try dealing with it!"

Tom smiled knowingly. "Exactly"

"Huh?" I replied eloquently

"What you just said - try dealing with it"

"Oh, sod off!" I almost screamed in vexation, and Tom was taken aback "I know, I know 'learn to live above it, Harry', 'you have to rise above it Harry'" I mimed with a squeal some of the more bootless suggestions I had been given on 'dealing with Snape'. "Rise of above it, pffft, thanks, and how?" I ranted to no one in particular.

My companion's brief moment of stupefaction was swiftly replaced by a subtle glint in his knowing eyes, and a mischievous smirk curled up the corners of his lips.

"When I say deal with it, I don't mean wallow like a pathetic weakling,"

That piqued my interest. Was he suggesting -

"I see you've caught on," he remarked, his observation keen as ever. "Individuals like Snape, throughout their lives, are perennially buffeted by those they perceive as superior. I'm quite certain he still is. They channel this bitterness outward, onto those whom they believe to be beneath them—'bully' is indeed a fitting analysis. Yet, the inherent flaw with bullies lies in the fact that, at their core, they remain pitifully ensnared by their own insecurities, an identity they've conveniently forgotten."

Even if my vocabulary back then wasn't robust enough to decipher all of Riddle's words, I grasped the message loud and clear. And given the information I possessed about Snape's history, his analysis made perfect sense.

Assured I had grasped everything, Tom continued, "All you have to do is reintroduce them to the harsh reality of their inherent inadequacy. By showcasing your strengths, proving their underestimation wrong, and standing resilient against their attempts to demean you, you compel them to confront their own shortcomings. It's not about stooping to their level; it's about demonstrating a strength that transcends their petty power games. In doing so, you make them rue the day they dared to underestimate you. That, my friend, is the essence of true elevation—rising above it, as you put it... with grace, strength, and an unwavering sense of self."

"Dumbledore - the Headmaster, chooses to ignore it, and he's pretty much the only one who rein him in... But your look says otherwise" I added at the end noticing his prevailing predatory stare

"There's always another way," Tom declared with a measured simplicity. "At times, we unearth it on our own; at others, it reveals itself through the guidance of another." he left the words hanging in the air.

I was enthralled, eager, ecstatic at the idea. But even if I wasn't, I would at least hear the man out, especially considering the matter at hand.

For Inaction irked me. Scratch that, it made me furious. Allow me to cite an example from my life before I knew of magic.

My childhood was a series of joyless moments, a tale of thin frames and tattered clothes that spoke louder than any words could convey.

During my Dursley years I was thin to the point of being on the brink of malnourishment, sporting worn-out apparel and spectacles that were held together by tape, and my lunchbox was usually no more than a morsel of bread with a paper-thin layer of marmalade.

Amidst sympathetic glances and pitiful eyes, countless as they were, how many reached out with a helping hand? Not a single one. It's a stark reality—one that forces us to confront the unsettling truth that mere empathy, while abundant, often falls short without the transformative power of action.

I don't put too much blame on the children. In fact, I don't hold much, except perhaps a tinge of jealousy at their comfort and the smallest pill of resentment.

Their wills were prisoners of those who held authority over their every action - the 'adults'. Defying authority in such circumstances is the true determinant of character, but they were, I reiterate, just children. They don't know much, and even if some do, they rarely have any means of manifesting their will, for even in this category most are subdued by their subservience to parental authority. Case in point, most children did not speak to me because their parents told them not to.

Some might argue I myself am the shining example, and not much older than they were then, but for all humility, even I will accept I am more headstrong, independent and rational than the average kid.

As loathsome as my my cousin Dudley is, and as comfortable it is to hate him, looking at the situation objectively I would have to say he is the way he is because he doesn't know better. Yet. The day he chooses not to know better, or continues to be his horrid self despite the fact, he will fall into the other category.

My point is this, scapegoating the powerless is a coward's game, and an easy way out of the real problem.

The 'other' category is those who elect inaction. Not those who have been imposed with it, but those who chose it.

Everyone could see my abjectly poor state, yet the adults in the Muggle world did nothing. Instead, most just dismissed me with a sneer or offered sympathetic smiles that did little to alter the harsh reality I faced. Social services should have intervened long ago, but they were never called upon. Even if they were, I never met them, and that, in my young mind, exacerbated the situation—they failed to act too, even if one were to excuse them for not knowing the depths of my problem; after all, it is their job to know.

Instead, they lived on in apathy.

This painful experience etched a profound sense of justice in my heart, for I keenly understood the suffering their inaction subjected me to. They possessed the capacity to help, to alleviate the injustice that loomed over me, but they chose not to act. Their indifference, their failure to intervene, made them complicit in the silent symphony of suffering that echoed through their everyday lives. The weight of their inaction was not lost on me; it became the driving force behind my fervent belief that one's moral duty extends beyond mere empathy—it demands action, a willingness to confront the injustices that persist in the shadows of our collective humanity.

Now, I found myself thrust into a similar predicament.

Until this moment, I had resigned myself to the belief that I was powerless in this matter. Yet, here stood someone who begged to differ.

I shared that excerpt of my life to underscore that the burden of those memories pressed upon me, a weight too heavy to cast aside. The opportunity before me beckoned, demanding acknowledgment. It wasn't just a debt owed to myself but to all the mercilessly tormented children like Neville, and to every student forced to abandon Potions in their NEWT years due to Snape's colossal demands and inadequate support.

In revisiting the two distinct 'categories' I had earlier delineated, I understood that, not giving whatever Tom had in mind a fair chance would put me in the same boat as the indifferent.

Hence, putting my own enthusiasm aside, my sense of responsibility as someone capable of catalyzing change, echoed by whispers from my past, compelled me to hear the man out.

"I saw my brewing skills impressed you" noted the Slytherin "That's step one - become uncriticizable."

I grimaced involuntarily. Potion-making was, at the least, tedious on my best day. "Easy for you to say, you make Potions look like cooking breakfast or something"

"Interesting analogy" Tom asked with a raised eyebrow "Tell me, perhaps an oversimplification, but is potion-making essentially not executing a recipe?"

My impulse was to tell him to give it a rest, except there was a flicker of recognition in the analogy he drew.

Noting my receptiveness, the memory continued to elaborate on the cooking analogy.

"A good cook," Riddle began, "needs to be able to follow the recipe. Similarly, in potion-making, understanding what the potion requires and what each ingredient contributes is crucial. It's about precision. If you know the requirements and the effects each ingredient brings, it cuts down on the need to 'remember' what to put in. Plus, you don't have to worry as much about the results because they are set. This allows you to focus on other aspects, leading to an objectively better brew."

I listened, absorbing the logic in Tom's words. The idea of approaching potion-making with a more systematic understanding appealed to me.

It made it seem more like a science than an arcane art.

"For example," Riddle walked over to his younger self, "let's consider two ingredients you'll work with this year in various potions: Doxycide and Flubberworm shells." he elaborated, pointing to two ingredients on the table.

He hailed me closer as Memory Tom deposited what I recognized as finely-chopped dittany leaves into his cauldron.

A chorus of bubbles rose from the cauldron, the potion boiling with an energetic fervor. The air crackled with a magical charge as Memory Tom, absorbed in his craft, carefully added two-teenths of doxycide

"Doxycide, when added, allows the ingredients to heat up without the solvent, in this case, water, evaporating. However, it's acidic nature will hamper the effects of dittany leaves - the ones you just saw go in, as well as that of Horklump juice," he pointed to a flask to his right which Memory Riddle now emptied, "both of which the core ingredients of a Wiggenweld brew... That's where the Flubberworm skins come in; they neutralize those effects."

"Is it necessary to use Doxycide?" I tilted my head "Surely there's another way?"

"Doxycide IS the other way" explained Riddle "you need to either prevent the solvent from evaporating, or keep replenishing it gradually. The latter is quite inconvenient, and while the former does have alternatives, this method is the most hassle-free"

"Why isn't all this in our book?"

"It is" contradicted Tom "Check the Appendices."

"All that stuff at the end of the book means something?"

"Evidently so... and even if it doesn't it'll put you well on your way to connect the dots, if you are willing to make the effort... When's the last time you used a referred to another book than your prescribed Guide?"

As Tom explained, my skepticism gave way to a thoughtful glint, and a gentle exhale signaled my unspoken concession to his compelling logic.

"Okay... but why?" I folded my arms, eyebrows knitting together in confusion.

"Credibility" the older boy answered shortly. Seeing my continued puzzled expression, he elaborated "You've got to turn the tables back on your adversary. Now, like you said, the system is with him; you're disadvantaged. You'll need support if you're going to circumvent or strongarm a man like Dumbledore,"

I missed completely the scorn with which Tom took the ancient wizard's name. It was a rare slip-up, and one I should have, and would have picked up on, had I not been distracted by my own emotions towards the man I was conspiring against

"A poor craftsman blames his tools," Riddle instantly composed himself. "That will be one of Snape's defenses—accusing you of being a disgruntled student trying to hide your own shortcomings. You have to shut down that option completely, eliminate as many excuses as possible. I-"

"But what if he simply doesn't grade me fairly?" I interrupted.

In response, Tom flashed me another small smile. "You mentioned he's the Head of Slytherin? Actually forget that, if he's got a lick of common sense, he won't make himself so blatantly culpable... No, he'll have to be fair then. Your strategy should be to persist in your scheme regardless of your grade. You'd be surprised at how much more credible you'll appear with an 'Outstanding' on your report card."

As I finally accepted I would have to study Potions after all, Tom moved on to the other parts of his scheme, his cunning, perception and precision impressing me in no small measure.

Unbeknownst to me at the time, this conversation, which I held submerged into a 50-year old diary while seated on a rough chair inside the Burrow's dingy attic was the inception of the influence Tom Riddle would have on my psyche.

A prelude to the symphony of magic, mentoring, and manipulation that would crescendo in the Chamber of Secrets roughly a year later.

That's all for now, see you all next time!