Irresistible offer
— CHAPTER FOUR —
Irresistible offer
Tom Riddle strode confidently towards the dining room, the sound of his footsteps echoing softly in the dimly lit corridor. He didn't bother to look back; he knew Harry Potter was behind him. His lips curved into a half-smirk, Potter's forced compliance another small but pleasing victory.
The dining room was lit by the soft glow of candles flickering in the ornate chandelier, casting dancing shadows on the walls. The fire crackled in the fireplace, its warmth permeating the room, in stark contrast to the coldness of the corridor and the room they had left. The massive dark wood table stood dominantly in the center, surrounded by high-backed chairs covered in dark green velvet, their luxurious comfort contrasting sharply with the room's severity.
Tom gestured to one of the chairs.
"Sit down," he commanded, his voice calm but with an undercurrent of authority that brooked no argument.
Potter, still a mixture of defiance and resignation, paused. "Why?"
"We'll have dinner," Tom replied smoothly, as if eating with a captive was the most natural thing in the world. He took the seat opposite the one he'd indicated to Potter. "You skipped the meal Bug brought earlier. I can't let my... guest starve."
Potter snorted, a sound that was half derisive, half incredulous, but slowly and with evident reluctance he sat up.
"Guest? Is that what I am now? No longer an obedient dog?"
Tom allowed a thin smile to form on his lips, devoid of warmth. "I thought you'd appreciate the courtesy," he said, not taking his eyes off the boy.
Potter's reply was cut short as the door opened and Bug appeared, his arms laden with trays. The smell of roast chicken thighs and baked potatoes filled the air, accompanied by the fresh aroma of several types of salad. A carafe of wine and pumpkin juice was also neatly placed on the table.
As Bug busied himself with setting the table, Tom's grey eyes watched him with a scrutiny that did not bode well.
"Bug," he began, his voice deceptively soft, "why wasn't the fire lit in Potter's room?"
Bug froze. Then, visibly trembling, he stumbled over his words. "Master, I... I was distracted by Harry Potter's demands to escape and his insults to you, Master. I forgot, I..."
"That's no excuse," Tom's voice turned icy, his displeasure evident. He leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing. "For your negligence, you are forbidden to punish yourself for the next three days."
Bug's eyes widened in horror, a whimper escaping his lips. For a creature that found solace in pain, this was a cruel punishment. "Yes, Master," he murmured, his voice barely audible, a look of utter devastation on his face.
With a deep bow, the house elf retreated from the room, leaving a tense silence. Tom turned back his attention to Potter, his expression unreadable. "Now, let us eat," he said, reaching for the carafe of wine.
Potter replied with a hint of bitterness. "You enjoy this, don't you? Having power over everyone."
"Power is the only currency that matters, Potter. You'd do well to remember that."
Tom poured himself a glass of wine, the ruby liquid catching the candlelight. He made a gesture as if to hand the carafe to Potter, but the boy refused with a movement of his head, so Tom put it back on the table.
"Further attempts at escape will be futile, Potter," Tom said, his voice carrying an air of amusement that belied the seriousness of his warning. "Especially trying to recruit Bug for your schemes. I find your efforts rather… entertaining."
Potter, bristling at the condescension, shot back defiantly, "Is that so? Well, maybe you'll find it less amusing when I actually succeed."
Tom's expression remained impassive, but there was a flicker of annoyance in his eyes. "Careful, Potter. My patience isn't infinite. One day it might just run out. Now eat."
Potter looked at the food with undisguised distrust. Tom merely raised his eyebrows in a mocking gesture.
"I assure you, if I wanted to poison you, I wouldn't have cast all those spells I just cast on you."
Potter snorted under his breath, but the rumble in his stomach betrayed him. He reached for the meat platter and put the smallest of the thighs on his plate. As if on second thought, he topped it with potatoes and a rather substantial portion of salads. Tom allowed himself a small smirk. Apparently, even Potter was not immune to Bug's culinary talents. The chicken was perfectly cooked, as always, its golden skin crackling under their forks, and the baked potatoes were fluffy and warm.
They started eating.
This time it was Potter who broke the silence. “I’m surprised you have a house elf,” he said, a teasing edge to his voice. Good thing he had the decency to swallow before speaking. “Isn’t that usually a trait of old, wealthy families? You, after all, come from an orphanage.”
Tom's hand with fork paused for a fraction of a second, his grey eyes narrowing ever so slightly. The mention of the orphanage and the implications of his humble beginnings irked him, but he maintained his composure. "Bug was an inheritance from Abraxas Malfoy's uncle," he replied evenly. "After his death, Bug passed to Abraxas, who then decided to gift him to me."
Potter’s reaction to the name ‘Malfoy’ was subtle, but not subtle enough to escape Tom’s notice. He saw the flinch, the brief tightening of the boy’s features.
"Any bad associations with the name, Potter?" Tom inquired, his voice laced with a curiosity that was more probing than genuine.
The fork held by Potter was stabbed into the potato with evident anger.
"Why don't you figure that out yourself, Riddle? Abraxas is your school friend, or more like a servant, isn’t he?” Potter words were laced with sarcasm. “Considering I’ve defeated Lord Voldemort, including once sending him into oblivion for thirteen years, yours minions aren’t exactly fond of me.”
Tom felt a surge of irritation at the mention of Voldemort’s defeat, but he quelled it swiftly, schooling his features into an expression of detached interest.
"So... do you know Abraxas?"
"No, but perhaps his great-grandson," retorted Potter. It was clear that he held a rather strong grudge against the Malfoy family. Interesting. And worth remembering.
Tom took a sip of wine. With a gesture of his head, he pointed to Potter's unmoved carafe of pumpkin juice. “Help yourself, it's not poisoned either. And alcohol-free, if that bothers you."
"You know, I wouldn't trust the Malfoys either if I were you," Potter said casually, pouring pumpkin juice into his glass. "It was thanks to Lucius Malfoy that I managed to destroy your diary. And his house elf tried to warn me of his master's scheming."
Potter's intention was as clear as day — to bite and sting, just to get under Tom's nerve. But Tom was smarter than that. Though that careless mention of destroying a piece of his soul annoyed him. The champion of the light side? How nice.
"Who knows, maybe one day I'll take the warning," Tom replied smoothly, inwardly glad that he had already hidden the journal in a place Potter would never have access to.
The conversation halted, and the two ate in silence, the clinking of cutlery the only sound breaking the stillness. Tom observed Potter from above his plate, his gaze sharp and calculating. Potter, unaware or indifferent to the scrutiny, continued to eat in a manner that Riddle found distastefully adolescent. The way he tore the chicken with his fingers, the occasional smudge of food at the corner of his mouth — it was all so... unrefined.
Tom mused internally that if Potter were to be of any use in his further plans, he would need to teach the boy some manners. The thought both amusing and annoying.
o.O.o
Harry sipped his juice slowly, not because he was thirsty, but because it gave him something to do. He'd finished eating, put the cutlery back on his plate and... he didn't know what to do next. On the other side of the table sat Riddle - the very picture of composure and cold calm - showing no signs of wanting to leave the dining room.
Harry was torn between a desperate desire to escape Riddle's overwhelming presence and the uncertainty of being allowed to leave. He shivered in his chair — had he just started to think about whether or not he was allowed to do something in Riddle's presence? After one day?
Finally, Riddle's soft voice broke the tense silence. "Potter, if you're finished and want to leave, all you have to do is ask."
Annoyed that Riddle sounded like he was enjoying this, Harry asked in a casual, almost defiant tone, "Can I go then?"
"If you ask nicely," Riddle replied, leaning back. Even that he did with predatory grace.
Harry's rebellious spark flashed. "And how should I ask? Should I add some sort of honorifics? My Lord? Or is 'Sir' enough?"
"If you wish, you may indeed address me as such. Kneeling in greeting and calling me 'My Lord' would be appropriate, since I am now your master." Riddle's voice dripped with sarcasm, which only irritated Harry more. "But you can call me Tom or Riddle if that suits you better. I would prefer you to remember your manners, though."
Harry's reaction was immediate and filled with indignation. "I'll stick with 'Riddle', thank you." He then asked with mocking politeness, "May I leave the table, Riddle?"
"No, you may not," came Riddle's curt reply.
Frustrated by the denial and the mind games, Harry stood up abruptly, as if to leave without permission. But he was stopped by Riddle's sharp tone.
"Sit down, Potter. I am not finished with you yet. We need to talk."
Slumping in his chair, Harry Potter could not have embodied the image of a rebellious teenager more perfectly if he tried. His arms crossed in defiance, his forehead furrowed in frustration. The condescending way Riddle treated him was more than just annoying, it was infuriating.
"So? What do you want to talk about?" Harry asked, his voice laced with barely concealed impatience.
Riddle didn't answer immediately. Instead, he snapped his fingers and summoned Bug to clear the table. The house elf, still visibly affected by the earlier punishment, quickly cleared the table and left the room.
Silence dragged on.
Tom Riddle eventually leaned forward and rested his clasped hands on the table, the picture of relaxed control. "Potter, I want you to help me change the future that awaits Lord Voldemort."
Harry, caught off guard, burst out laughing. "You've got to be kidding."
Riddle's expression didn't change. "On the contrary, I'm deadly serious," he said, his tone cool and measured.
The words seemed to hang in the air, charged with an unspoken gravity.
Harry's laughter died in his throat, replaced by a scowl. "You're out of your mind. And tell me, you think I'd agree to do this? After everything you've done to me? After the oath, the location spell, the muzzle?" His voice rose, a mixture of anger and disbelief.
"Yes, I do. I admit, if I had known from the beginning how important knowledge you have, I would have played it differently. But what happened happened, and I had to secure my secrets as best I could under the circumstances.” Riddle replied calmly, unfazed by Harry's outburst. “Now I could also make you cooperate, but I'd rather you did it of your own free will."
Harry scoffed, his expression mixed with disdain. "And tell me that I should thank you and appreciate your kindness," he retorted, his every word sarcastic.
"It would be appropriate," Riddle countered calmly. "Your voluntary cooperation will benefit both of us. I won't have to worry that you're up to something, planning to stab me in the back, and you'll gain more freedom over time."
Harry's eyes flickered with uncertainty, but he quickly hid it. "Leaving aside for the moment the absurdity of what you asked for, why do you want to change your future?"
Riddle's expression shifted, a brief flicker of disgust crossing his features. "Because the future that awaits Lord Voldemort is not one I find particularly appealing." There was a hint of contempt in his voice, a rare crack in his composed facade.
"Well, yeah, you will be defeated by an infant and then reborn as a noseless monster. I would find that repulsive too," Harry shot back, his words sharp and filled with grim satisfaction.
Riddle's eyes narrowed. "Watch your mouth, Potter." His voice was cold, a warning.
"But I'm just stating the facts," Harry replied, his eyes locked with Riddle's.
A moment of silence fell between them, heavy and charged. Harry's mind raced as he grappled with the reality of Riddle's intentions. "You really mean it..." Harry whispered finally and shook his head in disbelief. "Why would I even agree to this? Why would I want to help you?"
Riddle sat back, his eyes calculating. "Think, Potter. If I take a different path, those who died because of Voldemort might live. Your parents, for example."
Harry, annoyed at himself that Riddle's words had stirred something within him, countered with more anger than was necessary:
"And what would that other way be? Will you give up your ambitions? To become, I don't know, a salesman or something?
Riddle's laugh, though short, seemed to be genuine. "Who's talking about giving up ambitions? No, my main goals remain the same. I want to continue to explore the secrets of magic, I want to rule the world and shape it to my liking, but at the same time I want to avoid Voldemort's mistakes." His voice was calm, his gaze fixed on Harry, trying to gauge his reaction.
Harry couldn't believe his ears. No, the whole time travel thing had been a dream. A long, twisted nightmare.
"So, you're practically asking me to help you win this time and make your mark on the world. Forget it! My parents would probably rather be dead than live in a world ruled by you, by Voldemort."
Riddle sat more comfortably in his chair, his fingertip running over the rim of his glass. He did not give the impression that the course of the conversation was not going his way.
"It won't be Voldemort who rules, it will be me, Tom Riddle. A significant difference. Don't you think your parents should be allowed to make that decision for themselves?"
"They made their choice fifteen years ago when they gave their lives for me," Harry growled. "Besides, what difference does it make whether you rule under your real name or as Voldemort?"
Riddle's lips curled into a thin smile, his piercing grey eyes never leaving Harry's. “Significant,” he said smoothly. “My reign would be very different from Voldemort’s.” His voice was calm, controlled, each word carefully chosen for impact.
Harry leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. "What kind of rule, then?"
"More rational ones," Riddle replied, his hands flat on the table. "I don't know exactly what they'll look like yet, but that's a good thing." He leaned forward and lowered his voice, as if to tell Harry a secret. "Because then you'll be able to influence them. As my advisor, you will be able to influence my decisions and actively help shape the future."
Harry's heart pounded in his chest, his mind racing. A chance to influence, perhaps even prevent some of the horrors he knew were coming... Against his will, he began to think about it, the first 'what if' scenarios sprouting in his mind. But the man before him was a master of manipulation And Harry could not let himself forget it. "And what guarantee do I have that you won't turn back into a Muggle-hunting mass murderer?"
"None, except my word. And your influence over me," Riddle replied, his voice soft, almost persuasive. "If I feel I can trust you, that you have our best interests at heart, I'll be more willing to listen to your advice."
Harry sneered, "Smooth talk. Only I'm too clever to believe you." He paused, his mind swirling with thoughts and doubts. "Besides, you haven't considered one thing. What if I don't want the future to change?"
Riddle smirked dismissively, as if Harry were a child merely delaying inevitable.
"You don't? Don't you want to save all those people who died? Your parents? Sirius?"
"Shut up!" Harry's voice cracked, a wave of anger and pain washing over him. He slapped his hands on the table. "How dare you bring Sirius into this." The mention of Sirius was a low blow and it stung, reigniting the pain of loss that had been simmering just below the surface after Riddle's attack yesterday.
"I dare because I think you forget what's at stake," Riddle said coldly.
Harry's fists clenched. He hid them under the table. "I know exactly what is at stake. The lives of everyone I know and care about. What if, because of these games with the future, someone close to me isn't born?"
Riddle's eyes glittering with an almost predatory intensity. "Don't you think it's a bit late for such considerations? The future has already begun to change, I've already taken the first steps to change it. Now it's time for you to take yours. Would you rather be a passive observer, or have an active influence on what the world will be like from your future?"
Harry's jaw clenched. "What if neither role suits me? What if I refuse?"
Tom Riddle's response was chilling in its simplicity and coldness. "Then, Potter, I will consider it an act of disobedience. Under the terms of your oath, I could strip you of your magic or even end your life." He paused, a sinister calmness in his voice. "But death would be too kind, too swift. First I'd extract from you everything you know about the future, and then I'd confine you, let those dear to you be born, grow up, and then... eliminate them, one by one. And I'll make you to watch at this."
Harry felt a wave of horror wash over him, freezing him to his core. The casual way Riddle spoke of such atrocities, as if discussing mundane plans for the next day, was terrifying.
"So what kind of offer is this, then?" Harry challenged, his voice tinged with a mix of fear and defiance. "On one hand, you propose a partnership, and on the other, you threaten to kill everyone I care about if I don't agree. That's not a choice at all."
Riddle sighed, as if disgusted by Harry's lack of insight.
"It's a matter of perspective, Potter. I'm offering you a chance to shape the future, to save lives. The alternative is merely the consequence of your decision. Either I know I can trust you and let you act and help me, or I'll use you and then lock you up somewhere where you won't disturb me. I think it's just fair to let you know all the possibilities."
Harry scoffed. "Fair? You talk about not wanting to become the monster Voldemort was, yet here you are, using his very tactics. Do you really expect me to take your offer of cooperation seriously after a threat like that?"
Riddle regarded Harry with a contemplative gaze. "You misunderstand, Potter. My methods may be harsh, but my goals will be different. I am looking for a way to make my mark on the world that is not defined by fear and destruction. Your knowledge of the future is a tool in achieving that. It's not about right or wrong; it's about power and the ability to shape your destiny in your own way. Unlike you, I do not believe that my fate is a foregone one."
Harry felt a knot of frustration in his stomach. Riddle's words were a twisted web of logic and manipulation, designed to corner him into submission. Yet the stakes were too high to agree, and at the same time the consequences of refusal too dire to do so rashly.
Riddle, seemingly reading the conflict on Harry's face, added, "You don't have to decide now, Potter. Take your time. Let me know your decision tomorrow at breakfast, nine o'clock. Be on time."
With that, Riddel stood up, his movements fluid and controlled. "Return to your room and have a restful night, Potter," he said, his voice laced with a mocking politeness. "And please, no escape attempts."
Harry watched as Riddle walked away, sitting motionless, the weight of Riddle's ultimatum pressing heavily on him.
o.O.o
Riddle's flat was not very large and Harry easily found his way to the room where he had spent the last two days. He was far from calling it his room, but as Riddle had not located him anywhere else, Harry assumed that this was the place Riddle had in mind when he told him to go back to his room.
The events of the day had left Harry physically and mentally drained, a torrent of emotions and thoughts swirling in his head. As he opened the door, a wave of warmth greeted him, the room aglow with the comforting light of a crackling fire in the fireplace. Bug, it seemed, had lit the fire in his absence.
Grateful for the appearance of comfort, Harry let out a tired sigh. His eyes fell on the bathroom door. A bath, yes, that was what he needed, especially as he hadn't washed in two days. Maybe it would at least clear his head a little. Filling the tub to the brim with hot water and foam, he soon found himself immersed in the soothing warmth. The steam rose around him, creating a cocoon that felt removed from the rest of the world.
As he lay there, the warmth penetrating his tired muscles, Harry's eyes were fixed on the ceiling, his thoughts swirling as fervently as the steam rising around him. He replayed the conversation with Tom Riddle in his mind, weighing every word, every implication. The suggestion of changing the future — it was a concept so vast, so full of unknowns, it made his head spin. The potential to save lives, to prevent the rise of Voldemort — it was tempting, incredibly tempting. But at what cost?
The vision of willingly working with Tom Riddle, the future Dark Lord, was abhorrent to him. He could almost hear Ron's disbelieving voice, Hermione's logical arguments, Dumbledore's disapproving gaze and the condemning looks of the members of the Order of the Phoenix. How could he, Harry Potter, even consider helping a man who had become the epitome of evil? Besides, Harry was under no illusion that this would be a partnership of equals; Riddle had made it clear over the past two days who would have the upper hand in this arrangement. And the prospect of becoming Tom Riddle's man was even more repulsive than the mere thought of working together.
Despite Harry's deep distrust of Riddle, the thought of how many people he could save lingered like a stubborn fog. But at the same time, Harry couldn't forget that the man was a master manipulator, and his intentions were as dark as the depths of the darkest oceans. What if it was all a ruse, an elaborate trap designed to entrap Harry even further?
Yet Harry couldn't shake the memory of Riddle's reaction during their first Legilimency attack. The fear and disgust Harry had involuntarily felt, the fear and disgust Riddle had felt at knowing his future fate — it was so real. Was it possible that there was a part of Riddle that really wanted to avoid becoming the monster Harry had known in his time?
Taking a deep breath, Harry submerged himself completely, the sounds of the outside world muffled, his thoughts temporarily suspended in the cocoon of warmth and silence. He remained there, in the enveloping stillness, until his lungs begged for air.
As he broke through the surface, quickly catching his breath, a sense of clarity began to form in his mind. If Riddle could play games, so could he. He could agree to help, feign loyalty, while looking for ways to undermine Riddle's plans and find his way back to his own time. His agreement now did not bind his future actions; it was a means to an end, a ruse in the larger scheme of things.
With this newfound determination, Harry rose from the bath, the water running off him in rivulets. He wrapped a towel around himself, the fabric rough against his skin, grounding him in the reality of his situation. He had a role to play, a façade to maintain, but beneath it all he was still Harry Potter — the boy who had faced countless dangers, the young wizard who had defied the odds time and time again. With a silent, unspoken vow, Harry Potter decided that he would enter the game, the game where the stakes were higher than ever, and not only would he enter, but he would win. But he would play by his own rules.