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“Professor Sallow?”
Sebastian looks up from his desk, where a pile of essays await him. As much as he’d complained about N.E.W.T.s in his youth, he’d never appreciated how much it exhausted the professors as well.
In the doorway of Sebastian’s office stands Tom Riddle. His Prefect badge shines on his robes, every bit the earnest student.
Sebastian knows some of the other professors have taken a liking to him — Slughorn, for one. It’s ironic; while Sebastian holds no grudge towards the Potions master, Horace still acts as though he’s going to be hexed over his dalliance with Aggie during their Hogwarts days.
Sure, hexing had been a possibility then, but it’s been nearly thirty years. Agnes is happily married, and she is his daughter through and through — more than capable of doing any hexing herself.
“Come in, Mr. Riddle,” Sebastian says, removing his reading glasses. “What can I help you with?”
Riddle sits in the opposite chair, folding his hands into his lap. He looks nervous — not a word Sebastian would usually associate with him. Riddle’s a fine student, but Sebastian can’t shake how Gaunt he is most of the time — Marvolo to his core.
Now, he looks more like Ominis.
“I was doing some reading in the Library, sir,” he says, meeting Sebastian’s eyes. “And I couldn’t find a definition for this one term.”
The Library, as Sebastian knows well, means the Restricted Section for Riddle. Of course, he’s doing it properly; Slughorn had signed the permission slip.
“Go on,” Sebastian says.
Now, Riddle looks down, fidgeting with his sleeve. “Do you know anything about Horcruxes, Professor?”
The word sends a chill through Sebastian. It is one he recognizes, from his own youth; nights in the Restricted Section, poring over anything to cure Anne.
Of course, there is only one definition in the whole of Hogwarts’ Library, and Sebastian found it as a student. After learning of its uselessness in curing Anne, he’d set it aside, knowing there was no way she’d agree to making one of her own. Never mind that the definition offered little insight into the process; all it had said was that one must split the soul.
Something about the thrill in Riddle’s eyes is unnerving, though.
“Where did you read that word?” Sebastian asks, trying to mask his concern.
Riddle may look more Gaunt than ever now, but there is also familiarity; he’s probably read the same tomes that Sebastian did, desperate for his own reasons.
He does not have a sister to cure, but he is an orphan who wants answers, and Sebastian understands that better than anyone.
No one had stopped him all those years ago; perhaps now he can steer a kindred spirit in the right direction.
Riddle meets Sebastian’s eyes. “Just a library book, Professor,” he says. “I was working on a History of Magic assignment about Herpo the Foul, and I couldn’t find a definition anywhere.”
Herpo the Foul.
Sebastian nearly scoffs. Binns would never assign anything on such a dark topic, never mind that he barely covers ancient wizards. Even now, fifty-three years later, he won’t teach anything but the Ministry version of the 1890 Goblin Rebellion — which is to say, nothing of his wife’s involvement.
Sebastian is silent for so long that Riddle shifts in his seat. “I don’t mean to offend if it’s a questionable topic, sir. It just said that he was the first to make one, you see — and aiming for my N.E.W.T., and all — ”
“ — You haven’t offended me, Mr. Riddle,” Sebastian says. “Truthfully, I don’t believe you’ll need a definition to get an Outstanding from Binns. You’re a good student, and you needn’t concern yourself with Dark Magic for the sake of your grades.”
Riddle nods, and Sebastian catches the tension in his jaw. “Of course, sir,” he says, standing from his seat. “Sorry to interrupt you.”
As he turns to leave, Sebastian speaks again. “Mr. Riddle?”
He turns in the doorway, every bit the earnest student again. “Yes, Professor?”
“Whatever your reasons for looking into Dark Magic, I encourage you not to lie to me again.”
Resentment flashes across Riddle’s face before hardening into shock. “Pardon?”
“Binns’ class doesn’t cover ancient wizards, so you’re not looking into Herpo the Foul for academic purposes, are you?” Sebastian asks, not unkindly. “Have a seat.”
Riddle sits.
Sebastian watches him carefully. “What is your actual reason?”
“I didn’t intend to be dishonest, Professor,” says Riddle. His cheeks are flushed, and for once, he looks as he is: sixteen and nervous. “I didn’t want to offend sensibilities — I know it’s a taboo subject… I’ve just been doing some spare reading, and I was curious, I suppose.”
“I understand that Dark Magic can seem… intriguing if you’re in search of answers,” Sebastian says. “I myself was morbidly fascinated at your age.”
Intrigue from Riddle. “You were?”
Sebastian nods. “There is nothing wrong with curiosity, but you should still tread carefully, Mr. Riddle. Some subjects must be treated with caution.”
“Like Horcruxes?”
“Precisely,” says Sebastian. “Now, I’m not ignorant; I know that encouraging caution won’t stop you from being curious. If you have any questions, ask them.”
Riddle nods, contemplating this. “Well… what are they, sir?”
“A Horcrux is an object which contains a piece of the soul,” Sebastian explains. “While the Horcrux remains intact, its creator cannot die.”
“So they allow you to become immortal?” Riddle asks, brow furrowing. There is eagerness behind his voice, and it is unnerving.
“At a very steep cost,” Sebastian replies. “Even with an intact Horcrux, living on half a soul is not painless.”
Riddle opens his mouth, perhaps to ask another question, but then seems to think better of it, standing. “Thank you, Professor Sallow.”
The segue is abrupt, but Sebastian nods. “Of course, Mr. Riddle,” he says. “Please come to me honestly if you have future questions.”
Riddle flushes. “Yes, sir. Sorry.”
Without another word, he is gone from the doorway, leaving Sebastian unsure if he has prevented or encouraged some twisted version of his sixteen-year-old self.