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Hogwarts seemed so large and so important when first a young Tom Riddle had arrived at its gates so long ago. Back then, the castle had been full to bursting with secrets just waiting for him to unlock, knowledge just waiting for him to find—and unlock those secrets and find that knowledge he had. Nothing was beyond the abilities of the heir of Salazar Slytherin. He learned, he watched, he probed. But upon what should have been a triumphant return for the second half of his sixth year, he found the school somehow diminished in his eyes. No longer could he grow his reach inside its walls, not when he remained subject to the whims and scrutiny of his instructors.
It was to one such whim that he journeyed that evening. Professor Slughorn frequently threw little parties for his favored students at the start of a term. Tom had often attended them in the past, but that was out of a necessity he no longer had. The get-togethers were otherwise long, tedious affairs that required him to interact politely with those typically beneath his notice.
He would have preferred to gather his followers for a meeting after so much time apart from them for the holidays, but it could not be helped. Dumbledore was watching him more closely than ever. And, after all, Slughorn had been a great help to Tom as of late. Never let it be said that he did not repay people for their services.
He arrived well after the party began. The dungeons were teeming when he stepped inside. So many bodies pressed together in the heat, so many voices chattering away pointlessly at once—it was enough to make his head throb. Still, so much the better for Tom. If he could get through the night unnoticed and without the usual cavalcade of useless introductions, he would consider the hours merely time wasted.
“Tom, my boy!”
A scowl flickered across his face as he heard the booming voice of the potions professor cut across the room. He carefully rearranged his features just in time for Slughorn to clap him on the shoulder and force him to turn around. Tom’s teeth clicked together in agitation at the touch, but Slughorn did not seem to notice.
“Hello, Professor.” Tom inclined his dark head.
“I thought you might not be able to make it! When I spoke to your friend in class today, he told me you—”
“I was able to trade my prefect duties with Nixon for the night,” he cut in smoothly. “You know I would never miss one of your parties so long as it is in my power to attend them.”
Slughorn chuckled. The rogue in his cheeks soothed Tom somewhat, as did his finally managing to shake off the sausage-like fingers grasping his arm. Clearly the man was already deep into the mulled mead. He would pose no threat. In fact, with some encouragement, Slughorn might soon be drunk enough that Tom could slip out early unnoticed.
“Would you like something to drink, Professor? Perhaps I could top off your glass.”
“No, no, I have quite enough, I assure you. Can’t let myself get out of control so early in the festivities! Not when I have someone I’m absolutely desperate for you meet.”
Thankfully, he did not attempt to physically steer Tom through the crowd. He simply motioned for him to follow. It was at that moment that Slughorn seemed to get his first real look at Tom’s face—and froze.
“Tom? Are you all right? You look…unwell.”
Did he suspect that the information drawn out of him had already been used? No, Tom decided, he could not. Though Slughorn knew more of dark magic than most at Hogwarts, he was far too much of a coward to use it. The signs and symptoms of its use would elude him.
“Simply tired, sir. I’m still recovering from a family reunion.”
Slughorn’s gaze continued to linger until Tom at last worked his thin mouth into a vacant sort of smile. It was an expression that Slughorn did not return as he started on his way again.
“Well, I hope you feel better soon. I would hate to hear that you’re falling behind after all the hard work you’ve put into your studies.”
“I have no intention of letting that happen.”
“Good, good.”
He seemed unable to stop himself from glancing back at Tom every couple of steps as they continued toward the back of the room. Tom did not care. If Slughorn were to voice his concerns, even to the one teacher that might believe them, he would have to out himself as well, and Tom knew that Slughorn cared far too much about his status to risk it over something he could not prove.
Perhaps he had misjudged Slughorn as well, for he returned to his typical buoyancy the same moment that Tom spotted a young woman sitting at a table just beyond most of the crowd.
“Just the witch I was looking for!” Slughorn cried, and the woman looked over.
She was beautiful. Her [color] eyes slid straight to Tom’s face and lit up at once. He felt a shock run up his spine as he took in the appearance of a woman he had thought he had rid himself of for good.
“[L Name]?” he said.
A smile pulled up the corners of your mouth. “Hello, Tom. It’s been a long time.”
“You two know each other already?” Slughorn asked, looking between the two of you.
“In a manner of speaking. I got him in trouble quite a few times back during that nasty business with the dead girl they found in the toilets. Kept running into him in odd corridors during my nightly rounds.”
“I was trying to do your job finding the culprit,” Tom said coldly.
“Yes, you did an excellent job, and I regret having ever reported your behavior to Professor Dippet.”
“Please,” Slughorn conjured a handkerchief from the end of his wand, then pressed the cloth against his sweating brow, “this is a party. I beg you, let us not dwell on those terrible times. They are past us! And we do know now that Tom had nothing to do with that poor girl.”
You bowed your head in apology. “Of course, Professor.”
There was a pause during which Tom was sure he was supposed to offer some sympathy himself. He did not, being far too busy glaring at you—not that you seemed to notice or care. Slughorn continued to sweat for several moments more before he shook himself and went back to business in high spirits once again:
“Since you two already know each other, I can dispense with the introductions. [Name] here just got named the youngest unspeakable in a century!”
“Really,” said Tom.
“I never would have got the position if you hadn’t introduced me to the head of the department at a party like this, Professor,” you said.
He waved away your unoffered thanks. “So long as you keep me abreast of what’s going on in the chain of command, I’ll consider us even.”
“And so long as I agree to help your current students, present company included.”
“That, too.” Slughorn shot you a roguish wink. “I’ve other guests to attend to. You two enjoy each other’s company.”
With a suggestive waggle of his fingers, he disappeared back into the throng, leaving Tom alone with you. He could leave, he realized—but you would probably mention his quick exit to Slughorn later, and then Tom would have to endure the questions about that for the rest of the week.
You merely watched him as he thought things through, then remarked, “You look different.”
“I should hope so. You left school two years ago. Most people change appearances during that amount of time.”
“It’s not just that. You actually went through with it, didn’t you?”
“What are you—”
“You know precisely what I’m talking about, Tom. Forgive me,” there was a laugh in your voice that he did not like, “Lord Voldemort. I meant no impertinence. It just seemed to me that you wouldn’t like your real name spread around so casually. Horace does not know it, does he?”
It was not often that he found himself at a loss for words. Here sat a woman from his past, one that had never been involved with him except to get in his way more times than most could survive. You had been no one of consequence to him. Now you returned, not only grown up and beautiful, but implying you knew him in ways that even his closest followers did not? He stared right into your [color] eyes in search of falsehood, and found none.
Tom took the seat across from you. “What is it that you think I did?” he asked in his most dangerous voice. It was the voice he used to remind those in his circle of their place, the voice he used to convince the uncertain to follow his orders.
“I don’t think anything. I know,” you said, lifting a single eyebrow.
“And how would you know what I did?”
“I’ve told you before. I’m a seer. I come from a long line of them.”
“They say centaurs can tell the future in the stars,” Tom sneered. “Do you claim them as your ancestors?”
“If you truly believe a bunch of half-breeds like that could do anything half as well as a pure-blood witch, perhaps my coming to see you was a mistake.”
His eyes narrowed. If there was one thing he hated above all the not inconsiderable amount of things that he hated, it was being treated like there was something he did not understand. The smirk on your lips made the blood boil beneath his skin like nothing else, not even looking into the face of that creature most would claim had been his father.
“What could you have need to see me for?”
“You’ve got things mixed up.” You shook your head. “It is you that needs me.”
“What would I want with a false fortuneteller? I’ve no use for tea leaves or crystal balls.”
“You have more need for them than you expect.”
“Even if I did, I would want a real seer. You couldn’t even find the culprit behind that girl’s murder. You were too busy trying to pin it all on me.”
“The tea leaves weren’t clear at the time. I knew they were pointing me toward you, but not why. You managed the situation beautifully even with my interference, so what’s the harm?”
“If you really knew who did it…”
“I do,” you said, “but who was going to complain about you getting rid of a beast like Hagrid? Don’t worry. I’m not planning to go to Dumbledore about it. I’ve known for a few years now, just like I know about that family reunion you had a few nights ago. I don’t want to expose you.”
His mouth opened to argue. Then Tom registered what you had said. “What did you come here for?” he asked instead.
“To offer you my services. Even if you don’t believe in divination, I am an unspeakable. There are things going on in the Department of Mysteries that even you couldn’t dream of, my lord. I could tell you some of it, if you’ll have me.”
For the very first time that night, you showed him some subservience. Your eyes drifted away from his face, your head bowed, your hands found your lap.
He was—despite his instincts—somewhat intrigued. Tom had heard the rumors about you: that every witch in your family tree back for generations had been of the most powerful of their age; that the spells you had during which you twitched and shrieked were, in fact, visions that you refused to speak of to anyone else. It was not as though he hadn’t watched you during your time at school with him, and he had not only watched because you had very nearly got him caught releasing his basilisk. You were prefect, head girl, top of you classes, and the subject of much discussion between boys of all ages.
But you were still impertinent and Tom did not trust you.
“Why would you offer me this?” he said softly.
“Because no one has ever dared to go as far as you will.” Did he detect a breathless excitement in your voice? “You may not believe it, but I have seen your plans. I have seen them come to pass, and—”
“[L Name], are you quite done with Tom yet? I’m afraid you can’t monopolize all her time, my boy.”
Of course, it would be Slughorn that interrupted. He bounced up to your table with a genial smile that rankled more than usual. You looked up at him with no visible frustration whatsoever. In fact, you appeared amused by his behavior.
“Someone else you wanted me to meet, Professor?” you asked.
Slughorn winked. “Only a Coral Armina, one of our most promising transfiguration students. Her great-great-great-great-grandfather drafted the very first Animagus Register. They say he could turn into a chimera at will!”
“I’ll be right there.”
You stood fluidly from your chair without so much as a glance at the seething Tom beside you. He watched you take a step toward the waiting teacher before you turned back to him. In the blink of an eye, you leaned in to whisper, “Think about what I said, won’t you? I’m sure a man of your talents can figure out how to contact me after tonight.”
Was it only his imagination, or did he fell your lips brush against his as you spoke? He couldn’t say, only that his own mouth tingled as you walked away again. Above this sensation, however, was that of a roaring, burning anger at watching you follow Slughorn obediently toward a second-year girl trembling beside a plate of crystallized pineapples.
What had you been about to say about his plans? Did it truly matter? He decided that it did. Whatever you had to say, he would find it out—and woe be unto you if he disliked your answer.
Upon finding himself alone and unwatched, he got up to leave the party. It had not been a complete waste of time after all. What Tom would get out of it—get out of you—remained to be seen. You might regret having attracted his attention and piqued his interest that evening. On the other hand, he surprised himself by finding that he wasn’t prepared to kill you for it quite yet.