Chapter 5
OVER THE NEXT FEW weeks, Tom pulled every string he knew.
First, he wrote to Abraxas and told him about a potential plot by Dumbledore (he refrained from telling him the finer details lest he prefer Tom in Azkaban instead of Hogwarts), and had him commission an article in the Daily Prophet about the new DA Professor and how the Board of Governors had high expectations for him, but were sure that he could meet them.
For two, he had Garlock make recommendations to her superiors in Gringotts about how he could be a good source of influence in Hogwarts for the Goblin Nation in the hopes that they might be willing to back him, and prepare a bank account in Switzerland under a false name for him, Eileen, and Severus, in case he truly needed to flee.
Thirdly, he edited his will and prepared two letters to be sent to the Daily Prophet, one containing all the horrid memories of Dumbledore and his staff he could remember, and the other detailing Tom’s bloodline, and how he should’ve been the Lord of Slytherin: It wouldn’t be much coming from a convicted murderer, let alone an orphaned half-blood, but he was sure the Ministry would happily use the scandals to try and replace Tom’s enemies and finally put an end to the infighting plaguing Hogwarts. If Tom was going down, it would be with a bang, not a whimper.
Fourthly and finally, he’d had an impromptu meeting with a high ranking contact in the Ministry Auror Corps about a potential Ministry intervention at Hogwarts: It had hardly happened before in British Wizarding history, though thankfully, a known supporter of the first Muggleborn Minister of Magic wasn’t afraid of setting precedents, especially if it meant snubbing two of the greatest problem-causers for the Ministry. Now all Tom had to hope was that they pulled through.
And that Abraxas didn’t think he’d betrayed him, and that Dumbledore didn’t think he was too much of a threat, and that neither tried to have him killed, discreetly or indiscreetly, and that he could have a large enough impact to make Hogwarts feel slightly less like hell for Severus in the future; but that was all besides the point.
***
Severus’s look of awe upon seeing Platform Nine and Three Quarters certainly helped quell the feeling of doubt rapidly growing in the back of Tom’s mind. Hoisted upon Eileen’s shoulders and dressed in newly purchased robes, he didn’t look that out of place compared to his and Tom’s excursion to Diagon Alley a month ago.
“And I’ll get to come here when I’m eleven?” the boy asked excitedly.
“And I’ll be here with you,” Tom reassured.
“Do you promise?”
“I promise.”
Severus smiled contentedly and took in his surroundings. When Tom stepped up onto the Hogwarts Express, Eileen spoke up.
“I have to thank you for everything you’ve done,” she said.
“I haven’t even started teaching Severus yet,” Tom pointed out.
“You will; I know it. If you’re willing to go back to Hogwarts, then you’re willing to do anything. What you said to Severus a month ago,” she continued. “About finding a home. You . . meant it, didn’t you?”
“Did I mean all those letters I sent you?”
Eileen smiled.
“Well,” she said when the conductor cried all-aboard, “have a safe trip.”
“I’ll be sure to try,” Tom said. He gave a final wave as the red train departed, Eileen and Severus becoming merely another family bidding their loved-ones goodbye.
Soon, Tom found a compartment all to himself, reviewing everything he’d planned for the first month, panic growing as he did. Everywhere he looked in his notes, he found more things both Brax and the Old Man could find objectionable, and lingering images of Tom facing off against either a squad of Aurors or a mob of Blood-Supremacists while fleeing his office kept popping up in his mind. Everytime he did, Tom made sure to think of his trip to Diagon, his conversation with Garlock, and his promise to Severus. Whatever happened, Tom would keep his promise: Severus would not be alone.
When the train slowed suddenly at Hogsmeade, it became a mental chorus:
You’ll keep your promise: He will not be alone.
You’ll keep your promise: He will not be alone.
It kept up, even as Tom was peer-pressured by the new groundskeeper and old friend Rubeus Hagrid to take the boat trip across the lake with the First Years-
You’ll keep your promise: He will not be alone.
-as Headmistress McGonagall gave him a curious, almost worried glance, one that almost said “Good luck”-
You’ll keep your promise: He will not be alone.
-as Dumbledore gave his opening speech, playing the act Tom had seen him perform so well only a month before as Hogwarts’ adoring uncle-
You’ll keep your promise. He will not be alone.
-and as Tom finally found a shred of sleep before his first day, settling into his new bed:
You’ll keep your promise: He will not be alone.
You’ll keep your promise: He will not be alone.
He will not be alone.
He will not be alone.
***
Tom found himself rehearsing a different chorus, even as his Seventh Year-Gryffindor-NEWT level-DA class filtered into his allotted classroom:
Good morning, my name is Tom Riddle, and I’ll be your new DA Professor.
Good morning, my name is Tom Riddle, and I’ll be your new DA Professor.
Good morning, my name is Tom Riddle, and I’ll be your new DA Professor.
It seemed simple enough, even for an incredibly stressed teacher on his first day.
Then Dumbledore sauntered into the room.
The Old Man didn’t even give a reason, merely sat down in a newly conjured chair at the end of the room as if his appearance had been pre-arranged, only receiving a few glances from the student body. Tom supposed that being able to have him thrown in Azkaban at a moment's notice must’ve been a good enough excuse in his new boss’s mind to violate Tom’s personal space.
Regardless, that one little sentence became much harder to pronounce.
The silence grew on until it became nearly unbearable, Tom’s eyes sweeping the classroom as if he was still checking attendance, always landing on Dumbledore, who looked just about as expectant as the rest of Tom’s students, if not moreso. For a frightening moment, it felt as if every pair of eyes in the world was focused on Tom that morning.
Finally, he began.
“Good morning: My name is Tom Marvolo Riddle.” With a flick of his wand, the blackboard wrote out Tom’s signature by itself. “And I will be teaching you what you may believe to be ‘Defense Against the Dark Arts’, though for our first few lessons, would be better described as ‘Re-Contextual Dark Arts’.”
A few students stirred from their initial boredom, but not all.
“I’ve been researching what your previous professors have taught you, and I came across a bit of a pattern,” Tom continued. “Not one of them ever gave you a fixed, applicable definition for the ‘Dark Arts’. How curious, considering that will be one of the first questions on your DA NEWT at the end of this year.”
The rest of the class seemed to start paying attention at the mention of their inevitable exams.
“Now, I could give you an answer that would be easy enough to memorize and be done with it, but, for reasons that will become clearer,” Tom alluded, “I’m going to give a slightly more in-depth lesson on the subject.”
Steadying himself despite Dumbledore’s ever present gaze, Tom took out a gripsack from beneath his desk and produced two blocks of wood, setting them an even distance from each other on his desk. Then, standing back, he produced his wand from his all-black robes and pointed at one. It went up in flames, leaving behind a pile of ashes.
“That you will have recognized as a common Incendio,” Tom said. “But I doubt any of you have heard of this one.”
He pointed his wand at the second block: Instead of bursting into flames immediately, a string of fire coiled out from Tom’s wand around it, taking a good deal of his focus to manipulate, before he made a complex wand-movement, and the flames engulfed the block entirely, leaving it little more than it’s counterpart’s remains.
“That,” Tom continued, “was Braifire, a Goblin-made spell used in smithing due to it’s high level of control compared to other spells of it’s nature. Due to its Goblin origins, it was labeled a Dark Art by the Wizengamot some few hundred years ago, and the subject has been rife with controversy ever since, but I’m not Professor Binns, and I won’t be taking you on that tangent, at least not yet.”
“Despite it being considered a Dark Art, and therefore taboo, it has been continually used in complex smithing and iron-working projects to this day by Mages of any species, but since safety information on it has been so hard to come by, it has led to no shortage of accidents.”
“For example-” Tom produced a small caldron and a pair of dragonhide gloves from his gripsack “-protection commonly used in such trades would work alright with a common Incendio.” He placed the gloves in the caldron before heating it to the point that it glowed, before levitating the gloves from it completely unburnt. “But with Braifire-” he did the same, then levitated the mangled remains of the gloves for all to see “-and you’re hands and arms won’t look too much better, I’m afraid.”
The class was engaged now, Tom could tell, following his every movement.
“The same is true with things more generally recognizable as Dark Arts: From statistics generously provided by the Auror Corps, which many of you are headed for in the first place, roughly 8,000 Mages were injured, maimed, or killed last year due to accidents caused by ignorance of proper use of magic we now consider Dark Arts, used in professions which were not inherently illegal. To add insult to injury - literally in this case - nearly half of those were caused by Aurors unaware of the proper counter-curses and jinxes to complex Dark Arts spells, which they weren’t taught, because they were considered Dark Arts themselves.”
With a wave of his wand, the numbers were written on the board beneath his name. “Now, I have a slight feeling that the same people who kept those Aurors, and you by extension, from learning the proper way of saving lives, did so under the same line of thought that kept them from learning a good definition of the Dark Arts in the first place. So!” Tom clapped his hands and sat against his desk on finishing his lecture, “what better a way at striking back at them than creating one?”
Tom’s class seemed a little surprised at being directly addressed after everything they’d just learned. “No ideas?” he asked playfully at their silence. “Isn’t that something! You’d think seven year’s worth of learning the subject would’ve given you a few by now. After all, the experience went a long way for those Aurors we just mentioned, now didn’t it?”
Finally, a bright looking boy raised their hand. “Mr Vought?”
“‘Any magic considered sorcery or black magic,’” they quoted perfectly.
“That was the definition I learned as a student, but not the one I know now as a teacher,” Tom explained. “After all, what exactly counts as ‘sorcery’, or ‘black magic’? Ms Halloway?”
“Any magic that restricts free will.”
“That would cover most areas of the Dark Arts, but not all: Some areas, such as Unbreakable Vows, require the willingness of the Mages to function, even if they restrict them after the fact. Ms Fae?”
A particularly sheepish looking girl stood up near the back. “Professor Riddle . . . I was thinking about this earlier,” she said nervously, “and I realized . . . Well, it’s basically any magic that harms someone, isn’t it?”
Tom stood up and snapped his fingers. “You’re missing just one word.”
Ms Fae thought for a moment before answering. “Any magic that could harm someone?”
Tom smiled, and the answer wrote itself on the board. “Any magic that could harm someone,” he repeated. “Could you name us a few examples, Ms Fae?”
“Oh. Well, the Unforgivables, Unbreakable Vows, Fiendfyre.”
“Very good, you may be seated now. Now that we’ve got ourselves a good solid answer, what else could apply? How about Amortentia? That one’s sold in most joke shops in the country, but in large enough and potent enough doses, it could effectively destroy one’s psyche, not to mention fits your previous definition, Ms Halloway.” You should know from experience, Tom thought fitfully. "And what about Obliviation? That also fits your definition, Ms Halloway, and used frequently, as it often is by Aurors on Muggles in highly-Magical areas, can destroy your memory. And yet, it is standard training for every enforcer of the law in the Wizarding World. A pity they couldn’t have taught them how to properly execute the numerous counter-curses they do consider Dark Arts.”
“Class, if there is just one thing I would like you to take away from your first day here,” Tom wrapped up, “it is that there is a large difference between what is considered the Dark Arts legally, and what is considered the Dark Arts philosophically. This is the understanding for our first couple months together, where we will explore subjects that have formerly been called Dark Arts, and other subjects that perhaps should be. And when we do eventually get to NEWT preparations, I at least hope you know what you’re talking about when you get to that first question on your exam.”
“Any questions? Then you’re free to go.”
The class gathered their things and filtered out, but Dumbledore stayed, and he would until lunch, an omnipresent specter. Despite his presence, each class was easier to teach than the last as Tom’s confidence grew. Every so often, Tom glanced in his new boss’s direction, feeling the graze against his mental shields when their eyes met, and seeing the unchanging expression on his Dumbledore's face, one best described as utter hatred.
***
He confronted Tom at the end of the week. Like the rest of the castle, Tom found the Headmaster’s Office near suffocating with over-decoration, the portraits on the walls watching his every move. (He had made sure to remove his own from the DA classroom: He didn’t trust Dumbledore not to use them to spy on him.) Had he not known better, he would’ve thought he was back in Malfoy Manor. He wondered how that stalwart Transfiguration Professor McGonagall found time to breath while having to worry constantly about her career in a place like this, let alone a boot-licker like Slughorn.
“Headmaster, you wished to see me?” Tom asked as entered.
“What part of, ‘my will, and only my will,’ did you not understand?!”
Even Tom was taken aback by how direct Dumbledore was. “Your will regarding what, exactly?” he asked, supposing that playing dumb was his best option.
Dumbledore hissed a breath before continuing: “I told you, explicitly, that you only follow my will, regarding the teaching of the subject that you do best.”
“And how did I go against that exactly?”
“You are deliberately trying to reframe the opinion of the Dark Arts in this school, in expectation of a day where they will be taught without restriction, and I tell you now, I will not tolerate it. Not ever!”
“Nor will the Ministry, if that day ever comes,” a deep, patronizing voice replied from beyond the office door.
Tom allowed himself a smile of relief. Right on time, he thought.
Rufus Scrimeour had always been a high-flier, even when he was just a Fifth Year and Tom a First: He was the type of person you always gawked at from a distance, but never introduced yourself to. During the War with Grindelwald, his name had appeared on many an issue of the Daily Prophet, his continually scarred face looking at it’s readers with the same threatening look he reserved for Dark Wizards, incidentally the one he used now.
“Mr Scrimgeour,” Dumbledore recognised. “What business brings you to Hogwarts today?”
“The same discussion you’re having with Mr Riddle here,” the Senior Auror said, approaching the Headmaster's desk. “The Minister wished to make his opinion known about you and Lord Slytherin’s continued debates over the matter.”
Whatever mask of pleasantry Dumbledore put on for the new visitor disappeared at once. “And what would he have to say on the matter?” he asked coldly. “This is strictly Hogwarts business.”
“It is not ‘strictly Hogwarts business’,” Rufus said, slamming his hands against Dumbledore’s desk with a force that rattled everything on it and scared most of the portraits away, “when it keeps making the front pages of the Prophet!”
Dumbledore withdrew to the back of his chair as Rufus continued.
“The Minister has instructed me to tell you and Lord Slytherin, that if you intend to keep your respective salaries from this place, then you will cease your useless bickering over the true meaning of the Dark Arts, and leave such questions to the Professor teaching their safe use! Which, I might add,” the Auror continued, voice dangerously low, “I have personally assured Minister Leach, is a Wizard devoted to his job, and any measure to remove him, should be considered a partisan act, unbecoming of a Hogwarts Headmaster.”
“Indeed,” Dumbledore said, trying to appear nonchalant after everything that he’d been told. “You wouldn’t happen to be the source of Professor Riddle’s Ministry Statistics, would you?”
“That is strictly Professor Riddle’s business!” Rufus mocked, turning back and leaning even further across the desk. “Now, do you understand me, or not?”
They remained in that position for what seemed like hours, Dumbledore pressed up to the back of his chair as Rufus near comically loomed over him, until finally, finally, finally, in what was one of the most satisfying moments in Tom’s life, comparable to catching his first snitch, the stubborn mountain of a man that was Albus Dumbledore nodded his head in submission.
“Well, I’m pleased to know we’ve reached a common understanding,” Rufus said, straightening up and turning to Tom. “I trust you’ve done well in your first week, Professor Riddle?”
“As well as one could do, Auror Scrimgeour!” Tom replied playfully, heading towards the door. “I hope Minister Leach is doing well?”
“He is, and he sends his regards as well. And before I forget,” Rufus continued, producing an envelope from his red Auror robes and holding it out, “the Goblin Liaison at the DMLE asked me to give this to you.” Tom took the letter from Rufus's hands: It was rather official looking, seal of the Goblin Nation and all. It looked like Garlock’s recommendation had succeeded.
“Thank you Rufus. I trust we’ll meet again soon?” Tom hinted, hoping Dumbledore was still in earshot.
“If my duty requires it,” Rufus smiled coyly, glancing towards the Headmaster’s Office, “then yes, we shall.”
“Good, I look forward to seeing you.”
“So do I.”
With a swish of red robes, he was gone. Tom had always had a fondness for the Auror back when he still swam in high-society circles: If there was anyone who could be trusted to tear something up by the roots when needed, it was Rufus, consequences be damned.
Tom peered a final glance towards Dumbledore: He had occupied himself with busywork, no apparent expression on his face, but if you looked closely enough, you could see the forlorn look of a lucky player who had finally met his match.
Tom found the chorus that kept him occupied on his way to the office was much more reassuring now:
He will not be alone.
He will not be alone.
He will not be alone.
***
When Tom reached his office, he found a firecall waiting for him.
“Brax!” he said, his earlier pleasant experiences fueling his false-sincerity. “What brings this surprise?”
“Hello, Tom,” Abraxas said, looking just as noble as ever in between the flames. “My son Lucius wrote to me this morning.”
“Ah! I see. Does he need help adjusting?”
“No, he’s doing just fine. He told me about his first DA lesson,” Abraxas continued, his smile fading slightly. “He found it . . different, from what he was expecting.”
“Well,” Tom said, grinning with genuine pride, “I meant it to be.”
Abraxas gave Tom a searching look, no doubt trying to find out what he believed in, if not who he was loyal to. “An Auror dropped by the Manor today,” the Lord said blankly.
“Well, I’m sure it was nothing,” Tom said playfully, getting cocky now.
Abraxas's questioning look grew more obvious. “He was there on behalf of the Minister - the muggle lover Leach, you know him. Said that there was to be no more meddling in Hogwarts, lest there be a public inquiry on corruption in the Board of Governors.”
“Oh, that isn’t a problem, is it? Surely the Board has nothing to hide.”
The look on Abraxas’s face turned near murderous, the lines becoming more pronounced as he grimaced before controlling himself. Tom was enjoying this immensely.
“I should be going.”
“Yes. It’s been a good conversation. Lord Malfoy,” Tom added flagrantly.
The firecall ended suddenly, and Tom was sure from his haste that Abraxas didn’t want his former friend to hear what came next. He laughed a bit before remembering that he’d seen Lucius before during his trip to Diagon with Severus. Back then, he looked like any other pureblood heir: Well dressed and groomed, with enough arrogance to show it off. But as Tom had observed him during their initial Slytherin First Year class, Brax’s son looked awfully grown up, completely focused and not warranting any of Tom’s attention. He’d worn the same demeanor his father had at school, the one that had caused Brax to realize that Tom was a parselmouth and befriend him all of a sudden. For being members of a House whose sigil was a peacock, they seemed quite subtle compared to some of their more distant relatives. Especially the Blacks.
Though, then again, they’d probably adopted the Slytherin snake by now.
But Tom found himself too satisfied to be angered even by that thought: He’d just landed himself one of the most difficult jobs to get in the country, perhaps the world, and had set himself up to stay there for a good few years. And thanks to Minister of Magic Nobby Leach, there wasn’t a damn thing anyone could do about it.
Tom sat down at his desk and opened the envelope Rufus had given him: It was a congratulatory letter from the Goblin Unitary Council, the Ministry-recognized Goblin government, promising their support in exchange for his. Garlock had done her job, no doubt. He was about to put it in a drawer when he noticed another, smaller envelope tucked inside. Muggle, he realized.
He tore it open:
Mr Riddle:
We regret to inform you of the deaths of your paternal grandparents, Tomas and Mary Riddle, as of the 5th and 28th of July, 1965 respectively. We have only recently been informed of your existence, and had we known beforehand, we would’ve sent you the news immediately.
As of yet, your father, Tom Riddle Sr, is unable to claim ownership of the Riddle Estate after having been declared insane and placed under the care of the Hangleton Area Mental Asylum, and therefore the care of the land and buildings has fallen to you.
Please contact us for further details in the near future.
Manager of the Hangleton Area Savings and Loan Bank,
Richard Paulkner
Tom had to re-read it twice to actually believe what he was seeing: It seemed something had been listening when his thoughts turned to his rightful inheritance.
He was going to have to fucking kiss Garlock for this.
***
He arrived in Little Hangleton, only to find out that the bank in question was somewhat unsurprisingly based out of Big Hangleton. He made for the larger town, finding the bank and asking for a meeting with the manager: They nearly ran out of their office when their secretary pronounced Tom’s name, before rapidly shaking the forgotten heir’s hand.
Unbeknownst to the manager, Tom was quite familiar with Riddle Manor despite requesting a tour: After finding the truth about his family from Morfin, he’d run up the hill the vast house sat upon, intent on revenge against the father who had abandoned him, only to find him irrational and incapable of coherent thought from several years’ effects of amortentia, a state that he was probably still in today.
Upon seeing Tom, he seemed to enter a recollective trance, shouting a one-sided conversation accusing Merope of drugging him and that he wasn’t coming back, the only complete sentences he was capable of forming. Tom hadn’t known what to do at that sight, of someone just as helpless if not more so than himself, and had been thrown out by his grandparents for disturbing their ill son that they had gone through great pains to care for.
And now he had returned, master of the house.
The place was desolate, everything of value stripped by the bank. Perhaps another Mage would’ve called it a waste of potential; to Tom it was brimming with it. And yet he only thought one thing, as he devoted every minute of spare time to renovating the vast building:
He will not be alone.
He will not be alone.
He will not be alone.