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All it takes to prevent Tom Riddle going down the wrong path, is a hobby. A super cool hobby he's good at. A super cool hobby he's good at that makes money, and also where he can meet goth girl gfs. That's all any man wants, and deep down he is any man.
It was Rosier, in fact, who was responsible for single handedly thwarting two Wizarding Wars and thousands of deaths, disappearances, and instances of torture. What a man, what a guy. He does so by bullying a little Seventh Year and bringing his leader the fruits of his labour.
"Have a look at this, Riddle. I took it off a half-blood Duffer. Can you believe what muggles get up to? Sooo ridiculous." Rosier slaps a magazine down on the Slytherin coffee table, before an extremely good looking young man with black hair and pale skin, just like Snow White.
The one named Riddle, peers over the top of a list of the Sacred Twenty-Eight and other pureblood families, down at a brightly coloured magazine featuring the words 'Motorcycling' in swooping scarlet letters, along with a crazed muggle in leather armour going hundreds of miles per hour down a dirt track on a motorised bicycle.
He's hooked instantly, throwing his eugenics paper aside and picking up the magazine, the dark green leather of the Slytherin sofa creaking pleasantly as he leans forward.
"Rosier, where did you say you got this?" he asks, in his soft and deadly voice.
So Rosier gives the name of the student, a Hufflepuff, who dared carry around such filth.
"Good. Good." hisses the former future Dark Lord, his fingers ghosting over the face of the colourful magazine. The paper is thick, the words are exciting, the machine is…interesting.
Within a week he has not only tracked down the Hufflepuff responsible for the magazine's presence in his life, and made him the number one member of his inner circle, but he has also been introduced to riding a 'motorcycle' and is now being taken to view one. It's on sale, and the Hufflepuff says he means to purchase it if all meets his standards.
"Explain these standards, Diggory." Tom drawls, scintillating the sight of all as he accompanied the older boy down a narrow Highland road towards a stone Highland pub. Around them soar Highland mountains, brown and barren. Outside the pub is parked a row of the metal horses known as motorbikes, as before a drinking trough. Now one of Tom's highly, incredibly secret fantasies as a boy was to be a cowboy, so the prospect of becoming a sort of latter day, English Gentleman version of one is highly attractive.
So Diggory, plump, short little bowling pin Diggory happily launches into the esoteric language peculiar to hobbies, talking about gears and tread and this that and the other muggle thing. Tom has to admit that things appear to happen in the muggle world, and they aren't just spinning their wheels, so to speak. Of course he memorises everything he's told, slurping it down while the pair kick mud off their boots before entering the pub.
Inside the dark and dingy but undeniably cosy pub, a group of people in leather sit around a wide rectangular table, drinking and talking more of the strange language of bikers. Having a gift for picking out the exceptional, wherever it may be, Tom's brown eyes immediately latch onto an extremely beautiful woman with crimson red hair. Crimson hair, malicious blue eyes, and black leather, unlike the rest, who are wearing brown. She's not the only female present, but she's the only one he cares to pay attention to. At their arrival, she looks up, looks him up and down, then smirks.
"Where'd you find the pretty boy, Diggory?" she drawls.
"At school, Raven. So go easy on him. He's only sixteen." Says only seventeen year old Diggory.
'Raven' (Tom approves of such an obviously fake and Gothic name) smirks harder and looks him up and down again while her companions produce greetings in various shades of friendly.
"I'll think about it. It looks like he can handle mean machines." the woman cocks a red eyebrow and lifts a glass of vodka towards her red lips.
The boy going around calling himself 'Lord Voldemort' falls head over heels in love instantaneously, but he naively imagines the change remains invisible to everyone aside from Mystique, but from that point on he only has the time of day for her, for the machines they mutually adore, and also Diggory and Rosier, solely because they apparently possess hidden, treasure-full depths he never suspected. In gratitude for suddenly becoming the elite of the elite, Diggory gifts him the bike he bought, and Rosier has a set of black leathers made for him.
🐍🏍️🐍
"This is how it's done. Catch me if you can, boys." Raven, otherwise known as Mystique, leans over and pats Tom on the helmeted head, raising a hollow thunk, then kicks her bike into life, it's engine growling like a jaguar, the rest of it as black and sleek as a panther. Moments later it charges down the road, belching exhaust and churning up mud and stones.
It's a stormy day in the Highlands, but that in no way deters the motorcycle club from racing their machines down muddy roads embraced between low stone walls, sending showers of water arcing through the air to drench ramblers, placid sheep and cows watching them go by. Everyone wants to impress Raven, the best rider amongst them, and that includes the girls. Want to be her or want to be with her - the usual. Of course that only causes Tom to be more determined than ever to acquire the prize. He's been practicing late at night and deep in the Highlands, learning to handle his steel stallion like it's nothing but an extension of himself, and he knows he's going to win this race, one way or another.
A passing bird witnesses a disjointed steel snake roaring down the highways and byways at great speed, it's jaws now wide open, now closed as the leaders of the group vie for dominance and dodge other vehicles. Tom harries Raven, and she harries him back, the both of them paying little attention to the pack behind them, the more cautious, less ambitious riders.
"Hey, watch out!" calls one of these as the leaders swerve out of the way of a truck, which bellows it's outrage with a horn. Tom and Raven ignore the shout, their laughs between each other. They look amazing, a different species to the other riders.
At least they look amazing up until one of the younger members of the club, trying to show off to both, attempts to pass them by just as lightning strikes the field to his left, and he's clipped by a van and knocked into another rider, beginning a pile up as machine after machine slams into each other, driving headfirst into walls and throwing their screaming riders. Turning just as the young fool careens past him to hit the man behind, Tom casts a spell to shield himself, Raven, Amos, and whoever else he judges to be useful to his ends.
When the smoke clears, there is blood and oil upon the road, and Tom and Raven count the cost while Amos runs around helping the injured.
"Whose blood is that?" asks the Slytherin.
"Not mine, so who cares." responds the mutant.
The former looks up from the puddle of gore, into the woman's face. "I love you."
"I know, Tom, my snaky darling. Let's take off. Make it big in New York."
And so the couple ride off into the sunset storm clouds.