Welcome! This fanfiction explores a most unlikely pairing, yet I strive to stay as true to canon as possible, paying attention to even the smallest details from the books. I hope you enjoy it! There are three chapters, each roughly 10,000 words long, so get ready for a long ride! I approached this story as a challenge and have come to love it as my favourite fanfiction to date. Please be warned that it deals with dark themes such as death, torture, and emotional manipulation. Enjoy! :)
PART I
June 30, 1945
Each time the restroom door creaked open, it unleashed the jubilant clamour of students making their way boisterously toward Hogwarts Park. As soon as it shut, the room returned to its cold, damp calm. Only a few students chose to forego the graduation ceremony. Tom Riddle splashed water on his face under the tap, studying his pale reflection in the mirror. A droplet traced the line of one of his dark circles, trailing down his cheek like a tear. His visage bore witness to the efforts he had put in; he had worked diligently this year, finally completing his schooling at the prestigious institution of witchcraft.
No one had believed the wizarding world would survive the war, but Albus Dumbledore had ultimately vanquished Grindelwald, who now languished in a prison in Eastern Europe, or so Tom had gathered. Little information had been released about the dark wizard's arrest, but Tom enjoyed certain privileges. A faint smile briefly crossed his face, disappearing when he caught the gaze of one of his Slytherin peers in the mirror. He finished washing his hands and retrieved Marvolo Gaunt's ring from the edge of the sink, slipping it back onto his finger.
He knew he had to hurry. Director Dippet tolerated no delays and naturally expected Tom to be present for the end-of-year speech, given that he was Hogwarts' top student and Head Boy. However, he had a few matters to discuss with his "friends."
"Hold on a moment, Carrow," Tom murmured as he noticed the teenager about to leave. "I have something to discuss with you."
"Fine," Carrow replied, somewhat bored. "What is it... Lord Voldemort?"
The smirk on the boy's face, both amused and impatient, irked Tom to no end. This impudence had been grating on him considerably lately. He hoped the boy would be wise enough not to cause any problems in his future endeavours.
"Don't use that name when there might be students nearby," he frowned.
"Apologies," Carrow sighed.
"Very well. You all know I'll be working at Burgin & Burkes this summer."
The Slytherin students perked up at this revelation. Working at a shop as dark and intriguing as Knockturn Alley's Burgin & Burkes remained a mystery to them. After all, Tom Riddle was Hogwarts' top student, capable of working wherever he pleased... Why choose such a common establishment?
"I'll be available for a while. Send me letters to the shop... No, I expect you to send me letters this summer, understood? I want to be informed of your activities in detail..."
"But Riddle..." Tiberius Rosier interrupted with a dubious air, "what benefit does it bring you to know what we're up to?"
"I'm interested in keeping up with my friends," Tom said with a complacent smile. "This year, at the end of summer or as Christmas approaches, I'll likely send an owl to each of you... I'll organise a gathering somewhat akin to our Slug Club meetings. I hope you'll all attend." He gave a stern look at Carrow. "I'll have something to share with you, and if you're wise, you'll see the advantages of following me..."
"To follow you in what, Tom?" Cygnus Black asked, a furrow of concern creasing his brow.
"You'll see," Tom replied, his eyes gleaming.
The dozen students present regarded him strangely but dared not add anything. They simply nodded respectfully and left the room to head to Hogwarts Park. Benches had been arranged on the grass, facing a platform where Director Dippet and the Hogwarts professors were already seated. Director Dippet looked thinner and gaunter than ever, yet it paled in comparison to Albus Dumbledore, whose appearance was almost eerie. Like the other professors, he sat in a white wooden chair, regarding the students before him with a benevolent yet profoundly weary expression.
Tom understood the reason behind the glint in Dumbledore's eyes. He had discussed Grindelwald's defeat with his Transfiguration teacher, and though he had kept the conversation focused on facts and strategies, Tom had sensed immense anguish in the professor's words.
The professor's wariness towards his student had prevented him from opening up about any potential ties he may have had with the dark wizard, but Tom knew how to probe when he wanted to understand something. He had managed to lull Dumbledore's suspicions, enjoying privileges over other students due to the professor's personal interest in his development. Dumbledore had been the one to inform him of his magical abilities at eleven, while most students received the news by letter. Initially, Tom had found Dumbledore's attention irksome, resenting the intrusion. But over time, he had come to appreciate it, albeit with a lingering suspicion.
Tom was almost certain Dumbledore suspected his involvement in Myrtle's death—the girl whose demise would have gone unnoticed had Tom not made it spectacular. Yet, lacking evidence, Dumbledore seemed to have ceased his relentless scrutiny of Tom's actions. Now, Tom viewed Dumbledore's interest in him from a different perspective.
Tom's reverie was interrupted by Professor Dippet's address. Perched on the platform, he was about to deliver a speech brimming with pride about the school's students:
"To honour the finest members of our school, I would like to award medals to four deserving Hogwarts students. These students have toiled diligently over the past seven years and truly deserve this distinction. May it serve as an inspiration to all. While this is an unprecedented move for us, given the extraordinary circumstances of this year, it is only fitting to acknowledge them properly. The first among them is a Gryffindor student, Minerva McGonagall, who achieved twelve Outstanding in her OWLs."
Professor Dippet smiled at the girl as she stood up. Though she was pretty, her demeanour seemed stern, her movements decisive and rigid. Tom harboured no fondness for McGonagall, regarding her merely as a rigid witch with a knack for Transfiguration. Nevertheless, she lacked even a fraction of his own talent. She had never wielded magic outside of school, while he had already experienced the power of an Avada Kedavra curse through his wand. He hoped one day to unleash it on a Muggle, just to ascertain its efficacy on a larger scale.
"The last student we wish to honour is from Slytherin. You're all familiar with him, I'm sure. He previously received recognition for his services to the school in 1942. He is the top student in all the subjects he studied at Hogwarts. His performance as Head Boy has been exemplary, motivating many of his Slytherin peers to excel. He is also a loyal friend, esteemed by many at Hogwarts. His name is Tom Riddle, and I'm proud to announce him as possibly the most promising student I've ever encountered."
Tom offered a slight smile as all eyes in Hogwarts turned to him. He had expected acknowledgement, but Professor Dippet's praise exceeded his expectations. Even Professor Slughorn stood to applaud him. As for Albus Dumbledore, he watched as Tom approached the platform to receive his medal, a small smile playing on his lips, though his eyes betrayed a hint of scepticism. Tom's demeanour was disconcerting, after all. He was so swollen with pride that he didn't even bother to utter a "thank you" to the professors who shook his hand.
Returning to his seat, Tom caught his professor's gaze, now devoid of its earlier friendliness. Tom furrowed his brow. He disliked it when Dumbledore shut himself off like this. Sometimes, he felt their hours spent together discussing various matters were futile, as the professor's natural suspicion always resurfaced. Despite his efforts to win favour through acts of goodwill, Dumbledore consistently regarded him with unwavering suspicion.
Only after a prolonged visual exchange, during which neither broke eye contact, did the professor rise—slightly limping—to retreat into the comforting embrace of Hogwarts' walls.
XxXxXxX
Tom Riddle was hastily packing his suitcase. He needed to hurry, as the Hogwarts Express was already at Hogsmeade station, and he wanted to speak to his professor about Transfiguration before leaving school. He wasn't quite ready to say goodbye to the castle just yet. The school had given him so much more than his former orphanage ever had, and the professors had taught him such valuable lessons that he already felt an unfamiliar sense of nostalgia creeping in. He had never experienced anything like it outside of Hogwarts. There was an unease in the idea of taking matters into his own hands, as he had planned for some years now.
But Tom had already thought about returning to Hogwarts. He wouldn't last more than ten years away, of that he was certain. His goal was to come back when the time was right… and he hoped that moment would arrive quickly. Perhaps it was the most sentimental thought he had had in weeks, but the school had never let him down. Its countless secrets had revealed themselves to him without him even needing to look hard. It was as if Hogwarts needed him and had been waiting for him all these years. This didn't surprise Tom, who knew he was the last descendant of Salazar Slytherin, the school's most illustrious founder. He was sure Hogwarts' history would bear his name somewhere. He had already tried with the Chamber of Secrets, and although it hadn't gone as planned, he had made sure that someone could pick up where he left off in the future.
Tom climbed the stairs to the third floor, where Albus Dumbledore's office was. He knocked twice on the door and waited for the deep voice of his professor to answer. After a few seconds, he grew impatient and turned the handle. The office was empty, all its belongings gone. Tom wasn't surprised, suspecting that his professor would be spending his holidays somewhere other than Hogwarts. He headed to Dumbledore's quarters, which he had visited two or three times before when their conversations had dragged on. Naturally, he'd want to chat with me for hours, Tom thought. After all, he was the most gifted student at Hogwarts. Dumbledore often remarked that he had never met a student so interested in such a wide range of subjects. Their last conversation had been about the secret and enigmatic languages of the magical world. Tom had spoken about Parseltongue, while Dumbledore had entertained him with tales of the languages spoken by the peoples of the water and the forest, particularly the Sirens and the Dryads—languages the professor spoke of with great reverence.
The door let in a beam of orange light as Tom found himself face-to-face with the professor he both admired and loathed. It was no easy thing to hate and admire someone at the same time. Dumbledore looked surprised but allowed him to enter without a word. The professor's quarters were tastefully furnished: wood dominated the space, from the intricately carved fireplace to the rustic ceiling and the polished floors. The décor was minimal, as the countless bookshelves left little room for trinkets. However, a large jar of lemon drops sat on the coffee table in the living room. The warm evening light gave the room a serene, relaxing atmosphere, and the scent of polished wood invited one to settle comfortably. Suddenly, there was no need to rush. As Tom's eyes met his professor's, it seemed the Hogwarts Express could wait forever. Time felt suspended in that moment.
Tom seated himself in one of the plush armchairs, his posture casual and somewhat insolent, which Dumbledore observed without comment. The professor was naturally indulgent with him, for reasons he still didn't fully understand.
"Good evening, Tom," said Dumbledore in his measured tone. "What brings you here?"
"I just wanted to say goodbye, Professor," Tom replied, his smile barely noticeable to anyone who didn't know him well.
Dumbledore removed his half-moon glasses and polished them with a white handkerchief before placing them back on his nose. Tom could see the mischievous glint in his eyes behind the steel frames.
"And to congratulate you on your graduation. You received the honours you deserved, didn't you?"
"No complaints. I quite liked the headmaster's speech," the orphan confessed, sounding rather pleased with himself.
Dumbledore gave him a piercing look and sat down opposite. He was familiar with Tom's ambition by now, having grown used to it over the course of their discussions, though it hadn't been obvious at first. Despite his attempts to ground him, he had never succeeded in convincing Tom that he wasn't necessarily the most accomplished wizard in England. But no one at Hogwarts helped either; the professors and his peers alike encouraged him, viewing him as their undisputed leader.
"What are your plans for the new school year, Tom? Last time we spoke, you were torn between the Department of Mysteries, the School of Duelling, potion development, and wand making," Dumbledore said with a smile, listing the many professions Tom had once considered.
"I've given up on all of that," Tom said quickly, sounding a little evasive.
Dumbledore smiled indulgently.
"I'll be starting at Borgin & Burkes on Monday," Tom continued.
"And what will you be doing there?"
"Well, I'll be working as a sort of salesman."
"What made you take that job?"
"It's just for the summer. I don't plan to stay there for long."
"Are you going on holiday?" Dumbledore asked.
The question caught Tom off guard and, for some reason, unsettled him. While he was glad the professor had changed the subject, the idea of a holiday was so far removed from his plans that it made him uncomfortable. The question was simple enough to answer, so Tom came up with a plausible lie: "Why not! I need to visit some family soon."
Upon reflection, he didn't feel as though he was lying. He did intend to visit his father and grandparents at some point—though eliminating them was the real reason, which he preferred not to share.
"Oh, you've found family, have you?" Dumbledore asked, looking particularly intrigued.
Tom instantly regretted bringing it up. He hated talking about this with his Transfiguration professor, the only person who knew about his Muggle origins and had some insight into his life before Hogwarts. That was part of the reason Tom felt uncomfortable around him; Dumbledore probably knew more about him than his Slytherin dorm mates. The thought filled Tom with horror. He couldn't stand the idea of Dumbledore imagining he understood him or could see through his mask. And yet, he kept taking risks, engaging in these conversations. Tom couldn't quite explain why he played with danger like this—after all, Dumbledore was the only person capable of stopping him. He had both the magical power and the intellect to thwart him.
But Tom didn't think Dumbledore was as clever as his reputation suggested. Though the professor had long been popular, his name had been mentioned less frequently in The Daily Prophet since his duel with Grindelwald. Tom was certain Dumbledore's reputation was overblown; he saw nothing remarkable in him.
"I've been doing some research," Tom murmured, "but I'll see when the time comes."
"Do you think you're ready to meet them?" Dumbledore asked, his voice concerned.
"I've no idea, Professor. It's just an idea, nothing set in stone."
"I see," Dumbledore replied, leaning back in his chair.
"And you? Any holiday plans?" Tom asked, changing the subject.
"I have a few friends to visit, but I need to stay near London until the new school year," Dumbledore replied.
"Why's that? Doesn't your friend Nicolas Flamel live in Paris?"
"Yes, he does. But I won't be seeing him this year. I've got commitments in London," Dumbledore sighed, though he smiled faintly. "There are things that need my attention."
The tone in which he finished his sentence left no room for further discussion. Tom suppressed the many questions swirling in his mind and remained silent for a few minutes. His gaze lingered on the professor's silhouette, pondering whether Dumbledore's obligations were merely a cover for his inability to Apparate freely. Now that they were in his quarters, away from the other professors and students, Dumbledore's physical state was more apparent. He no longer needed to maintain the facade he'd worn during the graduation ceremony, though Tom knew he was still holding something back. His complexion had paled, his smile had become less frequent, yet his eyes still sparkled intermittently. His body had thinned noticeably, the loose robes failing to conceal the professor's gaunt frame, though the rolled-up sleeves, thanks to the summer weather, revealed frail, pale arms.
"Are you travelling by the Hogwarts Express?" Tom asked politely.
"Indeed, we should hurry. The train leaves in half an hour," replied the professor, glancing at his watch.
"Are your belongings ready?"
"They're already on the train," Dumbledore answered, smiling at his student's curiosity.
"Would you mind if I accompanied you to the station?"
"Not at all."
Tom casually drew his wand from his robes and, with a nonchalant flick, performed a Summoning Charm, "Accio suitcase." He had been proficient at this spell since his second year, continuing to impress his classmates by sending his belongings flying across the vast castle. Tom wasn't absent-minded, but he often needed an extra book or two for research, and so Dumbledore had taught him this particularly useful spell to avoid constant trips during lessons. Albus Dumbledore shook his head, amused, feigning dismay at such a brazen display of arrogance. Tom allowed himself a smirk as his suitcase landed gently by the armchair.
Their exchange was almost conspiratorial; the two wizards seemed to recall all the moments they had shared, where Tom had eagerly absorbed various spells. They rose and left the room without a word. Tom watched Dumbledore's aged hands as he fetched the keys to lock up, the satisfying click echoing in the orphan's sensitive ears. He admired the professor's graceful hands, which, despite their altered appearance, still wielded unparalleled power. Albus Dumbledore had long, slender fingers that manoeuvred a wand with dexterity and elegance. Glancing at his own hands, Tom regretted not having similar ones. If he could choose his appearance, he would opt for longer fingers and hands like Dumbledore's.
The professor gave him a knowing look, as Tom remained fixated on the locked door, pulling him out of his reverie. Tom flushed slightly and averted his gaze from Dumbledore's hands. They walked side by side through the castle, the first few moments filled with silence, punctuated only by the sound of their footsteps. Tom's mind was racing; he didn't want to leave without saying something significant to Dumbledore. He wasn't sure what exactly, but it felt as though the minutes were slipping away like sand through his fingers. He wanted to say something profound to mark their final parting. After all, it was unlikely they'd see each other again soon. Tom sensed their worlds had little in common now, even if Albus Dumbledore hadn't quite realised it.
It was the professor who broke the silence. "I'm still surprised that you chose that particular shop," he admitted. "If you were going to work in a shop, why not apply to Ollivanders? You've always had an affinity for wandcraft, haven't you?"
"True," said Tom, a sudden hunger gleaming in his eyes. "But Ollivander has been working alone for years, and Gregorovitch isn't keen on taking on apprentices."
"Are you prepared to leave the country?" Dumbledore asked, surprised.
"I'd find it hard to stray too far from Hogwarts," Tom confessed. "I'd be glad to return. But I know that one day or another, I'll have to venture to other countries. I'm very interested in learning about different magical practices."
"That can be quite fascinating, indeed. I wanted to travel the world when I was your age," Dumbledore remarked.
Tom smiled inwardly; he relished hearing Dumbledore talk about his past. The professor seemed ancient, almost otherworldly, especially when recounting his stories as though they were relics from another age. Yet, when Tom glanced at him, it was easy to see that the reminiscence had carried him back to a vivid and poignant time. There was a darkness in his eyes now, a shadow that hadn't been there before his duel with Grindelwald, but now flickered often.
"But you know, I'm sure Professor Dippet wouldn't object to you returning to the castle from time to time," Dumbledore added with a note of confidence.
Tom smiled and locked his black eyes on the professor's piercing blue ones, ready to say more. As they descended the marble staircase and encountered some late students in the foyer, Tom remained silent until they reached the Hogwarts grounds. Leaning against a tree, Tom awaited the horseless carriages – which he knew were drawn by Thestrals – that would take them to Hogsmeade. In a conspiratorial whisper, he confided, "I really do want to return to Hogwarts, perhaps even to seek your advice."
Dumbledore looked at him neutrally, with no hint of malice, and gently took Tom's elbow, guiding him forward along the path to Hogsmeade. They distanced themselves from the crowd of students gathered at the castle doors.
"Let's wait here," suggested Dumbledore. "A carriage for the professors should be along soon."
He made no comment on Tom's statement, but his grip on Tom's elbow was firm and reassuring, radiating warmth that wasn't entirely absent. Tom gave the professor a brief smile and allowed himself to be led, his gaze drifting again to Dumbledore's hands. They waited in silence until a carriage approached and stopped precisely before them. They climbed aboard, sitting at a comfortable distance from one another. Their eyes met briefly, and a strange tension, both awkward and euphoric, hung between them.
"Will you still be teaching in September?" Tom asked suddenly, hoping to dispel the odd atmosphere between them.
"Of course!" Dumbledore replied cheerfully. "I could never stay away from Hogwarts for long."
"I thought as much."
"Why do you ask?" Dumbledore teased.
"I'm not quite sure," Tom hesitated. "You just don't seem yourself, and I wondered if you might need more time before returning."
Dumbledore looked at him with a puzzled expression, as if struggling to understand when the line between student and professor had blurred, leading to this strange and sometimes uncomfortable familiarity. He enjoyed their conversations, but when personal questions arose, Dumbledore tended to retreat without warning, as though their discussions were veering into unhealthy territory. Tom knew that Dumbledore rarely pried too deeply with his questions, yet there was still an underlying discomfort when personal matters came up.
This conversation felt different from the others. It felt more urgent, as though time was slipping away and Dumbledore couldn't quite believe that the seven years of watching the boy grow had led to this moment.
XxXxXxX
July 10, 1945
Tom lifted the lid of the dusty wooden box he was inspecting, letting out a sigh as Borgin, his boss, praised his work.
"Yes?" he replied, turning towards the elderly man.
"I need you to fetch me an Adamantine watch," Borgin muttered, chewing on a liquorice stick. Unlike Muggles, wizarding liquorice sticks contained a calming substance akin to opium.
"Right now?" Tom asked, glancing at the objects he was cataloguing.
"I'm running low on stock and need one urgently for a customer," Borgin explained.
"Who's the customer?" Tom asked.
Borgin shot him a sharp look and let out a gravelly laugh. "Why does it matter to you?" he retorted, his tone harsh.
"How am I supposed to find this item with no funds?" Tom evaded with an annoyed tone.
"Prove yourself, and next time I'll give you an advance. For now, get going. I'll know if you've got it in you..." Borgin's tone was dismissive.
"Fine," the teenager sighed, casting a dark look in his boss's direction.
"Don't forget, the goal is to acquire it at the lowest price and sell it at the highest," Borgin reminded him, chewing his liquorice stick in a distasteful manner.
"I won't forget," Tom replied tersely.
Borgin left the back of the shop, leaving Tom amidst the rare objects that cluttered the room. Tom had been working on Knockturn Alley for about ten days, and so far, he hadn't accomplished much. His main objective was to find rare objects to use for his soul transference experiments in the future (though he hadn't decided when, he was meticulously laying the groundwork). But he also wanted to make connections with influential wizards interested in the Dark Arts to establish his reputation. He liked to imagine that one day, everyone would know him as the foremost expert in dark magic. For now, though, he focused on gathering knowledge.
He was pleased that Borgin had given him the task of finding such a sought-after item as an Adamantine watch. The challenge lay in his lack of contacts at the moment; relic hunting was difficult without connections. However, Tom had the advantage of knowing all the backgrounds of his Slytherin peers. He knew their activities, hangouts, and even the contents of their vaults at Gringotts. Tom went to a small wooden locker that held his personal belongings and retrieved a letter from his friend Cygnus Black. He barely glanced at the letter, focusing instead on the address on the back: 12 Grimmauld Square, which he read with a slight smile.
Tom donned his cloak and swiftly left the shop, passing by his two bosses who were engaged in hushed conversation behind the counter. The narrow street of Knockturn Alley was oppressively hot, and Tom immediately regretted wearing such a heavy cloak. He already had in mind the person he was about to visit; it was his only chance of acquiring an Adamantine watch in time. For Borgin, "urgently" meant during the day. It was already three in the afternoon, and he knew Gringotts closed its doors at four. So, he decided to withdraw the meagre amount he had saved over the past seven years from the vault he had set up at the start of the summer.
Tom headed towards Diagon Alley with determined strides. He knew the shopping street well from his previous visits to buy school supplies. Gringotts Bank wasn't far from Knockturn Alley, situated upstream of Diagon Alley between two somewhat neglected shops in the neighbourhood. The only thing Tom didn't want was to encounter familiar faces. He hated being recognised when he didn't wish to be, which made him bitterly regret not possessing an Invisibility Cloak or the ability to become invisible like Dumbledore. He often wondered how Dumbledore managed it, but it seemed neither a spell nor a potion, as none of the books he'd studied mentioned it. Exasperated by these thoughts, which strayed too far from his main objective, Tom sighed loudly, cursing himself for being so preoccupied with the professor.
He struggled to comprehend his behaviour on the last day of school and didn't want to spend more sleepless nights pondering his and his former professor's actions. The sentimentality that had surfaced during those final moments left a bitter taste, afflicting him with enough shame not to entertain parasitic thoughts any further.
As he reached the entrance of the wizarding bank, Tom cast a wary glance around. He admired the building's architecture, though he detested the goblins who had attended to him on his first visit. Their scepticism and sluggishness in assisting him when he sought to open an account stemmed from the lack of recognition of his name in the wizarding world. Tom resented the degrading aspect of his Muggle name—the primary reason his friends called him "Lord Voldemort"—and vowed that his father would pay for the daily affronts he endured because of it.
"Hello," Tom greeted politely, though a fierce desire to put the goblin in its place simmered within him. "I've come to withdraw some money."
"Key and account number," the creature ordered nasally.
Tom shot him a disdainful look but handed over the small golden key without a word. "Vault 109,654," he muttered in a disdainful tone. He knew that having a vault number so far from zero signified that he had secured it recently and was not from an old wizarding family.
"Wait here!" exclaimed the goblin. "State the amount of the transaction here, and I will fetch what you require."
Tom scowled but complied with the goblin's instructions. "See you soon, Mr. Riddon!" the goblin called out, eyeing Tom sceptically, as if expecting him to vandalise the bank in his absence.
"Riddle," Tom corrected mechanically, his tone harsh.
The goblin shrugged and disappeared through a small door behind his counter. Tom muttered disparagingly about the vile, stingy, and witless creatures under his breath.
"Oh, come on, Tom, that's a hasty judgement of a remarkable magical species," a familiar voice chided.
Tom jumped at the sound, recognising the various intonations and timbre of the voice instantly.
"Professor Dumbledore?" he exclaimed, startled and slightly flustered to be caught off guard.
"Hello, Tom," Dumbledore greeted calmly.
"But what are you doing here?" the young man asked, surprised and somewhat annoyed.
"The same thing as you, apparently," Dumbledore replied with a hint of amusement.
"Oh, I'm just here to get some money. I didn't expect to see you again so soon," Tom explained, feeling uneasy.
"Nor did I, it seems," the professor replied slowly, scrutinising Tom with his eyes.
Tom gave him a quick glance and noticed that Dumbledore didn't seem entirely at ease either. They stood in awkward silence, avoiding each other's gaze. Tom pretended to focus on the small door through which the goblin had disappeared, wondering when the cursed creature would return. His heart raced uncomfortably in his chest, and he despised the fact that his former professor could affect him this way. As if he cared that Dumbledore was only inches away from him, after all the foolish things Tom had told him on June 30.
"Did you come to do some shopping on Diagon Alley?" Dumbledore inquired casually, offering a small smile.
Tom inwardly snarled, wishing he could wipe the smile off the professor's face.
"Not really. Can't you see? I'm working," Tom replied dismissively.
"Oh, yes, of course. You're employed at Borgin and Burkes," Dumbledore remarked with a neutral tone.
Tom nodded without saying another word, unsure of what Dumbledore was implying. He glanced at the professor obliquely and noted that Dumbledore's condition hadn't improved. He sighed discreetly and nervously tapped his fingers on the lacquered surface of the counter. Strangely, it was Dumbledore's goblin who returned first, offering the professor a purse filled with large coins that Tom suspected were Galleons. He wondered what the professor needed so much money for but didn't dare ask. After all, it wasn't his concern, and he had no reason to worry about it.
"Here you go, Professor Dumbledore! I hope this suffices. And if not, feel free to return and ask for Gripsec. I'd be happy to assist you, Professor Dumbledore!" the goblin exclaimed cheerfully.
"It'll do just fine. Thank you, Gripsec," Dumbledore replied, smiling at the goblin. "Goodbye, Tom."
"Go... goodbye," Tom began, but he stopped short when he realised that the professor had already turned away and was briskly making his way towards the exit.
Taken aback, Tom didn't notice his goblin return, and he had to clear his throat loudly to prompt the creature to hand him the small purse it was holding out. When Tom took it, he didn't bother to thank the goblin and left with a scowl. He walked with his head in the clouds for a few moments before snapping back to reality, determined to pay a visit to Cygnus Black's father and procure his Adamantine watch at a laughable price.
XxXxXxX
On entering Arcturus Black's grand residence in central London, Tom found no difficulty in securing the Adamantine watch. Arcturus, a somewhat extravagant collector, was unconcerned about the value of individual items. His house was crammed with all sorts of rare and valuable relics, and the watch itself, tucked away in a dusty corner of his opulent living room, was no exception. It gleamed faintly with age, adorned with enchanted diamonds, rumoured to have been blessed by the Founders of Hogwarts themselves, bestowing maximum protection upon its holder.
Despite its impressive appearance, Tom remained sceptical. Stories about Adamantine watches abounded, but most historians dismissed them as mere legends, the fanciful inventions of common folk. The Founders of Hogwarts had hardly seemed the type to collaborate long enough to enchant a single object together. Still, the fact that Borgin's mysterious client had specifically requested such a watch intrigued Tom. This individual clearly had a fascination with the time of the Founders, and there was a possibility they were interested in other objects from that era—perhaps even genuine ones. Tom himself harboured a deep interest in the relics of the Founders, seeing in them a potential to further his ambitions.
After a brief discussion with Cygnus Black, Tom managed to acquire the watch for a mere seventeen Galleons. A pittance, especially considering the aura of mystery surrounding the item, which only added to its allure. But Tom had always been a master of persuasion, and it helped that Arcturus Black seemed particularly gullible.
Back at Borgin and Burkes, Tom wasted no time in flaunting his acquisition, handing the watch over to Borgin with a victorious smirk. Borgin sniffed disdainfully, though he quickly returned the seventeen Galleons without argument. Tom could tell that Borgin was impressed, though his pride wouldn't allow him to admit it. Content with his success, Tom spent the rest of the day lingering behind the counter, waiting impatiently for the arrival of the mysterious buyer.
As the day was drawing to a close and Tom prepared to return to the Leaky Cauldron, where he had rented a room for the summer, the shop's door creaked open. In stormed a rotund woman accompanied by a yapping poodle.
"Miss Smith!" Borgin greeted her with a false smile plastered across his face.
"Evening, Borgin," she huffed, casting a disdainful glance around the shop. "I see you still haven't fixed that blasted door. Every time I come here, I feel like I'm about to get stuck."
Tom arched a brow in amusement. It wasn't the door's fault she struggled to fit through. Ignoring her, he turned his attention back to the shelves of artefacts.
"Allow me to introduce you to the young man who found the Adamantine watch," Borgin whispered eagerly to Miss Smith.
"The Adamantine watch?" she echoed, surprised. "You've outdone yourself this time, Borgin. I didn't think you'd manage it."
"Oh, I think you'll be pleased," Borgin assured her, then nodded towards Tom. "Here he is."
Tom looked up, intrigued. So this was the customer. He had expected someone with a bit more sophistication. She hardly seemed worthy of the relic she had ordered.
"Good evening, madam," Tom said politely.
"You'll be presenting the item, then?" she asked, her gaze flicking over him as though inspecting something mildly interesting.
"I'll fetch it for you," Tom said, quickly retrieving the watch. He placed it before her on a plush red velvet cushion, where it shimmered under the dim lights of the shop.
"It's been certified as from the time of the Founders," Tom lied smoothly. "Rumour has it that the Founders themselves blessed it with powerful enchantments."
Miss Smith gasped, her eyes wide with admiration. "So, it's true! I thought Arcturus Black would never part with it. Has that old fool finally let it go?"
"Indeed, madam. He entrusted it to me, knowing it would go to the most passionate collector," Tom replied, his voice oozing charm.
"Price?" she demanded, turning to Borgin.
"One hundred Galleons," Borgin murmured.
Tom watched as Miss Smith's eyes gleamed with greed. "I'll take it," she declared. Then, with a sideways glance at Borgin, she added, "But if you've got something else, you know I'm always on the lookout for new treasures."
Borgin grinned slyly. "As a matter of fact, I've just acquired something that might interest you." He hurried into the back room and returned with a small black trunk. Placing it carefully on the counter, he opened it to reveal a gleaming medallion.
Miss Smith's face flushed purple as she gasped in awe. "The... Slytherin's medallion?"
Tom's eyes widened. He hadn't expected to see such a valuable relic here. Why was such an important object at Borgin and Burkes, instead of with its rightful heir? Its rightful heir being me, Tom thought with a surge of bitter jealousy.
"Oh, it's magnificent," Miss Smith crooned, her fingers trembling as she reached for the medallion. "I must have it. It'll go perfectly with my Hufflepuff Cup."
Tom's heart pounded in his chest. His jealousy flared into a burning desire. He wanted that medallion. And the Hufflepuff Cup. They should be his, not rotting away in the hands of this vulgar woman.
"I'll take everything!" Miss Smith announced, her face alight with glee.
As she waddled out of the shop, clutching her new treasures to her chest, Tom stared after her, his expression dark. She had made him promise to act as her personal relic hunter before she left, but Tom's mind was elsewhere. He would have that medallion. He would have both of those relics, no matter what it took.
XxXxXxX
July 22, 1945
The mirror reflected an image that was exactly to Tom's liking: dressed in black, he looked much older than his years. No one would suspect that he was barely on the cusp of adulthood. His clothes fit him perfectly, adding an air of maturity. He thought he looked the part of a relic hunter—clad in a long black cloak fastened with small silver clasps at the front, along with austere wizarding robes. As for his boots, they were dark and sturdy, picked up at a reasonable price, and they even added a few inches to his height.
Tom had a meeting with Hepzibah Smith to present a new magical artefact—a golden Gordon. This was a large coin, roughly the size of a dinner plate, favoured by the rich and snobbish for important transactions—or simply as a means to show off. The Gordon, now a rare item, had once been worth about eleven Galleons but had since skyrocketed to ten times that value. Needless to say, it was highly coveted. Tom had journeyed to Albania to find this particular piece, discovering it in a small shop where its true value had clearly been overlooked.
After a final glance in the mirror, Tom was confident he looked mature and credible enough for Miss Smith. He grabbed the bag containing the relic and left his room at the Leaky Cauldron. The wizarding tavern was alive with its usual Friday night buzz, as witches and wizards stopped in for a drink before heading home. Most of the clientele were men who worked at the Ministry of Magic or St. Mungo's Hospital, both not far from the tavern in central London.
The air in the tavern was thick with smoke, forming a greyish haze between the staircase to the rooms and the bar. Tom had arranged to meet Hepzibah Smith at 6:30 p.m., and true to form, she was already seated at the small table furthest from the bar. Tom approached her without rushing, flashing a charming smile. Hepzibah immediately adjusted her garish eyeshadow and flaunted her many jewels, fussing with her hair.
"Good evening, Hepzibah," Tom greeted her with a smile.
"Good evening, Tom," she replied in a sugary tone.
"You look especially beautiful tonight," Tom complimented, adopting an air of charm.
"Thank you!" she beamed.
Tom was almost certain that the witch was smitten with him, marvelling at how easily he could manipulate her. Women were so easily fooled—a simple compliment and a fake smile, and they melted like snow in sunlight. Nevertheless, Tom never underestimated the power of certain witches. Rowena Ravenclaw, for instance, was one to respect. However, history's greatest wizards had always been men. Women, while useful, often played supporting roles. And in this case, Hepzibah had become the most useful woman in his circle, enabling him to acquire two new artefacts to create Horcruxes. All he needed was the right moment to get closer and seize them.
"I've brought you another relic, Hepzibah," Tom said in a sweet voice.
"Will you meet my expectations again?" she asked, casting him a conspiratorial wink.
"I'm certain of it," replied Tom.
He carefully retrieved the object from its protective wrapping and held it out to her, expecting her usual outburst of delight. Instead, she frowned.
"Don't you like it?" Tom asked, his voice tinged with panic.
"Well… it's certainly rare, but I was hoping for something more spectacular."
"Hepzibah, this is a golden Gordon!" Tom whispered, a bit bewildered.
"You've underestimated my expectations. I expect more than just a coin…"
"Look at the size of it!" Tom replied, quickly shielding the object from the prying eyes of other customers. "It's much more than just a coin."
"It has no magical properties..." she complained.
"But it's incredibly rare! There are probably no more than ten of these left in the world. Do you know what I went through to get it?"
"Don't worry, Tom, I'll still buy it," Hepzibah said, smiling mischievously.
"That's not the point. Any serious collector would be thrilled with this."
"It's not even from the time of the Founders," she said sulkily.
"I love objects from that era as much as you do, but this Gordon has survived centuries, including the time of the Founders!" Tom insisted.
"I'll give you fifty Galleons for it," she offered.
"Are you joking? This treasure is worth at least two hundred!" Tom protested.
"My, my, Tom. You're quite the negotiator," Hepzibah sighed, taking a sip of her drink.
"Thank you," Tom said, meeting her eyes with a wry smile.
"You, Burke, and Borgin are bleeding me dry with your relics," she grumbled, shifting in her seat. "Fine, I'll offer one hundred Galleons!"
"At that price, I might as well take it back to the shop. Someone else will snap it up for the full amount without hesitation."
"You'd sell the item you found specifically for me to someone else?" Hepzibah gasped.
"If necessary," Tom replied, his voice steady.
"Fine," she huffed, pretending to be cross. "Fine, because you found me that Adamantine watch and you've got a charming face."
She pulled out her purse and muttered an incantation to count out two hundred Galleons, handing them over to Tom, who passed her the Gordon with a satisfied smile. Hepzibah quickly said her goodbyes and departed, clutching her prize as if it were made of solid gold—which, in a way, it was.
Tom leaned back in his chair, feeling the weight of the pouch full of gold. His employers at Borgin and Burkes paid him far too little for his liking.
Just as he was about to leave, he noticed a pair of bright, mischievous blue eyes watching him from across the room. "Not again," he thought with exasperation. He slouched back into his chair, as if succumbing to fate. Why did he keep running into his old professor? Twice a month was far too often for Tom's liking.
"Forgive me for asking, Professor, but are you following me?" he asked as Dumbledore approached with a smile.
"I could ask you the same, Tom. I have many people to meet and places to be. I assure you, I'm not following you personally. If anything, given my public profile, one could wonder who's following whom," Dumbledore replied calmly, his eyes twinkling.
"I see," Tom muttered reluctantly.
"May I sit?"
"Of course."
Dumbledore took a seat, signalling to the bartender.
"Yes, Albus? A Bourbon Sour, as usual?"
"With extra lemon juice, please," Dumbledore replied cheerfully. "And what will you have, Tom?"
The bartender seemed confused. Tom smirked.
"He means me. Thanks for the invitation, Professor," Tom quipped.
"You're welcome."
"I'll have a Firewhiskey," Tom said, ignoring the professor's disapproving look.
"It's a bit improper to drink alcohol in the presence of your teacher," Dumbledore remarked.
"You started it," Tom retorted with a grin.
"But we are both adults now, responsible and accountable," Dumbledore mused.
"Quite right."
"You seem to be making a good living these days," Dumbledore observed, nodding towards the pouch of Galleons.
"Just a well-earned reward after a hard day's work," Tom replied, though his smile was slightly forced.
"Was it a difficult day? I saw you with Hepzibah Smith. She's well known around here," Dumbledore said.
"Nothing too challenging. Just business as usual," Tom replied, ignoring the implication.
Dumbledore paid for the drinks, and Tom was surprised by how at ease his old professor seemed compared to their last encounter at Gringotts. But despite the professor's casual demeanour, Tom could sense a seriousness underlying their conversation. He didn't like the knot forming in his stomach; he would have preferred Dumbledore to be distant and cold, as he had been before. That way, Tom wouldn't have to second-guess his intentions. Instead, he found himself imagining his professor's piercing blue eyes haunting him even during his moments of quiet in his room. It was unsettling.
"You seem to have taken on more than just a shop assistant's role," Dumbledore commented.
"I'm lucky to have employers who trust me enough to make sales outside the shop," Tom answered, his discomfort barely showing.
"I almost didn't recognize you at first. In that outfit, you could pass for a relic hunter."
Tom stiffened but quickly recovered.
"As you said, it's just a costume. What does it remind you of?"
"A relic hunter," Dumbledore said with a knowing smile, before taking a sip of his drink.
"And what's wrong with that?"
"Relic hunters have a reputation for being thieves and cowards," Dumbledore remarked lightly.
"Well, that's not me," Tom replied confidently.
"Still, be careful, Tom. Your activities don't seem entirely straightforward. Many who've dealt with Borgin and Burkes have found themselves in Azkaban."
"It won't happen to me," Tom said casually. "Besides, it's just for the summer."
"I know, but it's always wise to be cautious."
"Don't worry, Professor," Tom said, his confidence returning.
He enjoyed these conversations with Dumbledore, though he couldn't stand the way his old teacher tried to see beneath the surface. Dumbledore may have been a brilliant wizard, but Tom would never allow him to discover his true intentions.
However, he appreciated Dumbledore's wisdom. The professor was like an inexhaustible source of knowledge. To Tom, he represented a vast and uncharted library, possessing more knowledge of magic than anyone else. This fact irked Tom, who would have liked to compete with him. Yet, it seemed too presumptuous for the time being.
"What are your plans for the holidays, Professor?"
"I think I answered that question just ten minutes ago, didn't I?" Dumbledore replied, lowering his voice slightly.
"You don't spend all your time meeting people, visiting the bank, and having drinks with your former students, do you?" teased the orphan, flashing a dazzling smile.
"No," admitted the professor, "but apart from my usual activities, I don't do anything exceptional. I stay at home, like everyone else."
"Do you have a home?" Tom asked, clearly surprised.
"Of course, I have a home," Dumbledore replied, giving Tom a curious look.
"I never really pictured you outside of Hogwarts, to be honest."
"I suppose most Hogwarts students think their teachers have no private lives."
"Do you live with someone?"
Dumbledore stared at the boy for a long moment, as if weighing the seriousness of such an indiscreet question. He finally regained his composure, crossing his arms and offering a wry smile.
"You ask a lot of questions," he remarked before finishing his drink.
"Does it bother you? These are perfectly ordinary questions that adults can ask one another, I believe," justified the teenager.
"I feel like there's something behind them. Besides, I'm not accustomed to sharing my personal life with just anyone."
"But I'm not just anyone, am I?" replied Tom, sounding somewhat offended.
"No, but just a month ago, you were still my student."
"I know, but today I am no longer," Tom murmured. Then, hesitatingly, he added, "Some people say you're very close friends with Amelia Bones." Tom looked down at his firewhiskey, suddenly embarrassed by his own boldness.
"She is a friend, indeed, and a trusted confidante, but nothing more."
"So you live alone?" the orphan asked, looking up at him.
For some reason, Tom had never warmed to this Amelia Bones, who was presented as Dumbledore's closest confidante. He didn't like the idea of someone being close enough to the professor to know all his secrets. Tom knew exactly what his teacher wanted to hide from the wizarding world. Moreover, he didn't think Dumbledore particularly liked women. Tom had picked up on it whenever Grindelwald was mentioned. He was sure that man had been more than just a friend. In any case, the barely concealed sadness in his teacher's voice had convinced him.
"Indeed. But I imagine the Daily Prophet would have already found out if someone shared my life," Dumbledore said lightly.
"Maybe," Tom agreed, "but you are still quite mysterious."
"I suppose in that respect, we are much alike, wouldn't you say?"
Tom locked eyes with his teacher, a little taken aback but didn't respond. There were no suitable answers, for they both knew exactly what he meant. In that moment, Tom realised that his teacher was probably not as easily fooled as he had believed. Was Dumbledore aware of his plans and the bewitched diary? No one could say for certain, but a strange unease began to form in Tom's stomach.
Their silence was broken as Dumbledore rose, his smile fading into a more serious expression. His blue eyes were clouded by something intense—a look that Tom frequently saw in the eyes of certain individuals. Sometimes they were people who served his interests; other times, they were those he sought to manipulate. Yet never had he seen it in the eyes of someone he considered more powerful than himself. Tom remained seated, feeling a strange mixture of seriousness and concern. He extended his hand to shake his teacher's, and it seemed the contact lasted longer than it should have.
Something had just shifted, but Tom had absolutely no idea what it was. Dumbledore's thin but gentle hand slipped away, and he disappeared into the crowd, his gait as uncertain as ever. Tom eventually tucked his hands into the pockets of his cloak, looking serious and preoccupied. If he had spent a lot of time pondering in vain after their last day at Hogwarts, he had a feeling that this time he could think for hours and hours again, and still, no answer would come to illuminate his foggy mind.
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SamaraXX