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"Mudblood." Muggle-Born filth. Please let it not be true.
"Asterbar." Bastard. Oh, Mother, you must have married Father. You must have. It mustn't be true. I have his name.
"Lavender boy." Homosexual. I'm not. I don't love anyone. I don't even want to touch anyone. Man or woman.
"Creature of dirt." No.
"Cowson." No, no, no.
"Muzzler." No.
"You need to die." No!
Tom pulls out his wand, ready to curse the upperclassmen, to hurt them as much with his magic as they've hurt him with their words. To stop their jeering. To silence them. To destroy the truth they might be sprouting, make it not true.
His wand flies out of his hand before he can begin casting, and it's caught by one of the professors. Professor Potter's eyes blaze with anger as he takes them in. Three sixth-years ringed around a lone third-year.
"Jugson, Nott, Malfoy, and Riddle. Five points each for saying words that don't belong at Hogwarts, for threatening a fellow student, and for using magic in the corridors."
I didn't. I didn't cast anything. Tom swallows the protests, and they stick in his chest, burning as resentment. Unfair. Self-defence shouldn't be punished. And five points each is too little for them. They deserve more.
"If this happens again, you'll have a week's worth of detentions with Mr Pringle to look forward to. Run off with you. You wouldn't want to be late for dinner."
Jugson walks into Tom on his way, knocking hard into his shoulder. Tom glares at him and rubs at the spot.
"As for you, Mr Riddle," Professor Potter says, "I'd like to talk to you in my office."
So, I get to miss dinner. I'm punished more although I didn't do anything wrong. As if Dumbledore distrusting me isn't enough. Now this new one too.
With the resentment in his chest pulsating, Tom follows the professor. He needs his wand back.
As they march down the south corridor on the second floor, Tom glances at Professor Potter through the corner of his eye and quickly looks back down to the floor when he meets the professor's eyes. Professor Potter was already looking at him.
Tom has never been to Professor Potter's office before. He prefers to interact with the professors in class, staying after or coming early when he wishes to discuss something. It's more convenient for everyone involved. Makes him seem keen, but not a bother.
Professor Potter sits down behind his desk, hurriedly clearing it of several empty potion vials before putting Tom's wand down on the surface. Gingerly, Tom sits across from the professor, and when it seems safe, he snatches his wand, some of the tension in his shoulders easing once he has it back, the wood warm in his grip. He takes his time, putting it away, needing to assure himself that it is back before he lets go again.
"Does it happen often?" Professor Potter asks.
"Does what happen often, sir?"
Professor Potter raises his eyebrows. "The older students calling you names."
Tom presses his lips together and lowers his eyes. Professor Potter's green gaze is intense in a way that makes him feel jittery, like he'd better flee. Something's wrong with him. Seriously wrong.
"Their words say more about them than they say about you," Professor Potter continues and despite himself, Tom meets his eyes again.
"What?"
"The things they say only show how poor they are. It's not an insult against you. It's an insult against them, and it only shows that they need to belittle others to feel good about themselves. Their words can't hurt you."
Can't hurt me? What? Does he really think that their words make them look bad and that the truth of what they say doesn't impact me? How deluded is he?
Tom's eyes burn, and he blinks, breaking his wide-eyed stare. And he clicks his mouth shut, stopping it from staying agape. "If this is what you wanted to discuss, sir, I'd like to leave."
Potter frowns, studying Tom, then leans forward. "You think being a good student will help you gain influence and respect. It will in time. It can happen faster if you have help. I can help you."
"No!" he says, surprising himself with the vitriol in his voice.
Professor Potter flushes. Redness spreads up from his collar to his cheeks, and he breaks eye contact, fingers twitching. "Sorry. Just forget I said anything. I'll not keep you anymore. I'm sure you're eager to head to the Great Hall."
In a daze of emotions, Tom is ushered outside the office, and he finds himself staring at its closed door, still coming to grips with what he's feeling.
Anger. Most certainly anger. Shame. Yes. This is shame. He pities me. No one should pity me. I don't want their pity. I'm better than any of them. I'll show them. I'll show Potter. They'll not only respect me; they'll fear me, and I'll make it happen by becoming stronger on my own. I don't need him. I don't need anyone. I'll become the greatest wizard there ever was. I'll defeat death.
-.-.-
Over the next couple of weeks, Tom does his best to forget what Professor Potter said, forget about the offer of help, and forget about the insipid notion that insults reflected more on the one who uttered them than the one they were directed at, but he does think about it. And as he starts to observe Professor Potter more closely, he discovers that the professor pays a lot of attention to him too. More so than any teacher should, and so Tom starts asking questions about the man.
As it turns out, there's a pattern to his behaviour. The students who share Defence Against Dark Arts class with Tom describe Professor Potter as energetic, passionate, and emotional. Everyone else uses words like professional, detached, and cold.
The inconsistency leads Tom back to Professor Potter's door. It's not because I want help. I don't. But I can use that offer to find out what's going on with him. Two birds, one stone, as it were. I want to understand. I need to know if he's different because of me and, if so, why.
After Tom knocks, a sound of shuffling comes from inside, papers being moved and the clinking of glass against glass. Then steps. Then Professor Potter himself.
"Mr Riddle!" His surprise is as borderline exaggerated as every other emotion he shows. It's astounding that I didn't notice it earlier.
"Hello, Professor. I was wondering if the help you mentioned before is something you might still consider giving me."
"Oh." Professor Potter grins in utter delight. "Yes, of course. Of course! Do you want to start now or…?"
"Yes, I'd like that."
-.-.-
Uncovering the mystery is pushed down to second priority as Tom finds himself learning more than expected during his private sessions with Professor Potter. He seems to know Tom better than Tom knows himself, able to explain things in the perfect way, always prepared for whatever topic Tom wished to pursue next, anticipating where Tom's fancies will go. It's uncanny but useful enough that he can overlook the oddity. And Professor Potter is full of oddities. He forgets dates. Talk about events Tom can find no references to. And he drinks more of some strange, glowing potion than can ever be advisable, trying to hide the empty vials from Tom and failing. And then it was his desire to keep Tom close, something that hasn't been missed by the upperclassmen.
The sexual slurs grow in frequency. Lavender boy and muzzler gaining company in homi-poloni, poof, queanie, nymph of the pave, and more.
And Tom has not taken Potter's word about insults to heart. They keep hurting. And he keeps wondering if any of them are true. Perhaps Professor Potter does want that from him. Tom knows he's handsome for his age, and some adults liked their partners young, but he finds no sign that the professor has any such inclinations. He seems content to help Tom study, to have him be close by.
-.-.-
Summer comes, and with it comes a monumental offer.
"You don't have to go back to the orphanage, Tom. You can stay with me."
Alarm bells went off in Tom's head. Here it is. Now it's happening. He wouldn't do it at school, but if he gets me alone in the summer… But no Wool's. No Mrs Cole. Just Professor Potter, and magic. I'll get so far ahead. But at what cost?
Pressing out his answer was more difficult than any spell, than any magical theory, than understanding human nature. "Thank you, but no. I can't possibly accept." An explanation. I have to give an explanation that'll make him take me back next term. At Hogwarts, it's safe. "You've done so much for me already. I can't accept any more charity."
"Oh. I was certain you'd say yes." Professor Potter looks crestfallen. The amount of sadness that is simmering in his eyes alarming. How he keeps it from spilling over when so filled with it, Tom can only guess. "Are you sure? You don't belong in the Muggle world. You belong with your own people."
"Yes. Thank you, but no." Tom cuts that study session short, too uncomfortable to linger, and completely certain that staying away is the right thing to do.
-.-.-
The start of fourth year sees the arrangement resuming, and by Halloween, Tom grows disturbed enough by Professor Potter's potions abuse that he steals a vial and takes it to Professor Slughorn.
"Good evening, Tom, my boy. What can I do for you?"
"I know it's not my concern, but I'm worried about Professor Potter. You know that he's tutoring me?"
"Yes. And what an effect it's had! Now, what has you worried about our Harry?"
Tom presents the vial, and Slughorn takes it, peering at the remnants of potion at the bottom of the small bottle. "He takes several of these a day. I've tried to find out what they are, but I can't, and…"
Professor Slughorn frowns at him. "You're correct that this is not your concern. It's a private matter, an invasion of privacy."
"Please, sir. I only want to know if something's wrong. If there's any way I can help. He's helped me so much, and..." Believe me. Believe that I'm worried. Believe that I care. Believe me because… it's true. He can't be ill. He can't be in danger. I won't allow it.
Professor Slughorn's moustache twitches, and his expression softens. "Of course. I understand. This appears to be a stability solution. It's used to treat some permanent side effects of curses. It keeps the user stable in the condition of the time of imbibing, stalling any return of the adverse effects. You know, Professor Potter lived an exciting life before joining us here at Hogwarts, poor lad. This explains why he would have quit and sought a calmer profession. Though that's not to say that you students don't make things exciting." He chuckled.
"Could the potion affect someone's emotional state?"
"Why, it could, though it shouldn't unless the dosage is very high, which I suppose you said it is. It might make a man more temperate, less prone to emotional outbursts, and I'd say that's a fair assessment of how he acts, wouldn't you agree?"
Tom bites his cheek. Not when I'm around, he doesn't. "Yes. Thank you so much for explaining things to me, Professor. I know you didn't have to, but it has eased my worries more than you can imagine."
-.-.-
Once more, Tom lets go of the mystery of Professor Potter because the man presents him with material that swallows up all of his attention. He learns about his heritage as the heir of Slytherin and, in short order, locates the Chamber of Secrets. And he learns about methods of immortality. He knows Professor Potter is guiding his hand, and he is swallowing it all up, but he can't resist. He isn't a Mudblood. Knowing the truth, the slurs no longer hurt as much, but it still hurts. It shouldn't hurt anymore. The truth should have set me free. There has to be a way to stop it.
Knowing it himself isn't enough. Everyone needs to know. He needs action to make his claim indisputable, and he sets the Basilisk loose. One kill, and then no one will be able to hurt him again.
-.-.-
By the end of April, it's done. A Mudblood girl is dead. Tom's soul has splintered, and he's in the chamber to complete the Horcrux ritual. The magic is dark. Dangerous. It will be painful to make the diary ready to house his soul. My last pain. My last hurt.
"Tom!" Professor Potter's voice echoes through the chamber, and Tom freezes where he's hunched low to the ground, placing the diary in the middle of the arithmantic circle.
How did he? How is he here? He can't be here. Only an heir of Slytherin can get in here. And he can't…
Tom straightens up. He's of a height with the Professor now, and he needs every advantage he can get. His grip tightens on his wand.
Professor Potter's eyes are burning. They're like green flames stuck in his head. "I know what you're planning on doing," he says.
"Are you here to stop me?"
"No."
"No?"
"I led you here. You know I did. I wrote you those passes to take books from the Restricted Section. I recommended titles. I provided books from my private collection. I wanted this to happen."
This has been his plan from the start. But... "Why?"
"Make me your Horcrux."
He's insane. I knew it. He's insane.
"You can't make a living thing into a Horcrux."
"You can. You will, or you have." Professor Potter brushes away his fringe, laying bare the scar that lies there. Tom knows the shape of it, has seen it in firelight and daylight. Has seen it against summer-tan skin and winter-pale, but he's never seen it in this light of understanding. "This used to be a Horcrux. Your Horcrux. Between 1981 and 1997 a piece of your soul lived within me. Then it was destroyed. And so was I. I couldn't feel. I couldn't care about anything. The world turned grey. Without sadness, without joy, without anger, without excitement. I lost everything. My friends. My morals. Myself. Then I found something you'd enchanted, and for a second, the world was vibrant again, and I knew then what I must do. So I came here. I found a way to travel over fifty years and use all the money I make on potions so I don't get snapped back. And it's worth it because being around you is a remedy."
"You feel when you're close to me."
"Yes. And only then, but if I could hold your soul again, I'd be whole. We belong together, Tom."
"How was it destroyed the first time? Why would I trust you with my soul if you've already proven an unfit guardian?"
"I was an unwilling guardian. That's not the case anymore. There's nothing I want more. Nothing. I travelled back in time for it, for you. Please. I'll do anything you ask. Pay any price."
I can't trust him. Not yet. Perhaps not ever. But I'd like to. Belonging together would feel… good.
"You will have to prove yourself. Prove that you'll be loyal to me, and not to yourself. For that is what you are now. You've used me. Don't pretend otherwise. If I'm satisfied, I might grant you your request. We shall see if we belong together. To begin: tell me everything about the future."