Ups and downs, part III
— CHAPTER EIGHT —
Ups and downs, part III
"Harry, I hope you do remember my warning about what will happen if I catch you knowing a spell that you haven't ticked on the list," Riddle said, his voice silky and smooth, as he elegantly raised a cup of tea to his lips.
He had given Potter plenty of time to cool down — an entire dinner and now a one and a half game of chess, to be precise. It appeared that having to hand over his wand after class for the second day in a row affected Potter more than the boy cared to show. Understandable, really; being forced to surrender one's wand was a powerful symbol of submission in the wizarding world, something Tom would never allow himself to experience. Potter, for all his ignorance of the customs of the wizarding world, was probably instinctively aware of this as well. It was therefore very satisfying to watch the teenager's inner struggle: to give in or to rebel and shatter the illusion of obedience with which the boy had been trying to deceive Tom for a week. Tom hadn't expected Potter to last that long, and he wondered when the boy would finally snap and try to attack him. The prospect of defeating Potter again in a duel was a tantalising thought, almost as satisfying as the moment he took the boy's wand.
Potter's hand hovered over the chessboard in mid-motion, a gesture more meaningful than any spoken concession.
"Perfectly well, Riddle," he replied evenly, finally moving his knight.
"Then why did you tick so few duelling spells?" Tom asked, shifting his pawn absentmindedly.
Honestly, it didn't even make him angry. He would have been more surprised if Potter hadn't tried to trick him and actually marked all the spells he knew. At least it suggested a modicum of cunning on the boy's part. Moreover, it also gave Tom another excuse to punish him, a prospect he found even more satisfying than confiscating his wand.
"Because I don't know most of them," Potter answered, his voice didn't even waver. With his eyes fixed on the chessboard, he furrowed his brow as though deep in thought, then a faint smile tugged at his lips. He shifted his second knight, simultaneously covering his mouth with his left hand while yawning.
A predictable move. Riddle's bishop leapt across the board to claim a position on Potter's side. The teenager's response was to swiftly manoeuvre his own bishop to a square adjacent to Tom's, the two pieces standing side by side, measuring each other with angry glances.
"These are basic spells, they're taught in first semester of the duelling classes," Tom pointed out.
Potter blinked his eyes, as if fighting off a growing sleepiness. And yet it wasn't that late.
"We don't have a subject like that in my time," the boy said, a touch of envy creeping into his voice.
Well, that explained much.
“Don't they teach you anything useful in the future?" Tom asked rhetorically and sighed ostentatiously. He moved his knight from F6 to D5, preparing the ground for an attack. Casual conversation wasn't his favourite method of interaction, but he found that it confused Potter and knocked him out of his rhythm, causing him to open up and speak more than he initially had intended to.
"I wish they teach us that, too," Potter admitted, performing a castling with his rock and king. "When I was second year, Lockhart tried to revive the Dueling Club, but it ended just after the first meeting," he added, grimacing.
Lockhart. It was not the first time that name had come up in their conversation. From what Tom recalled, he was another incompetent fool employed by Dumbledore. Truly, what happened in the future was beyond imagination. And to think that with such an education, Potter had been able to beat him anyway.
This time it was Tom who flinched slightly.
"What happened then?" he asked out of sheer necessity to keep the conversation going. He almost sighed as he assessed the situation on the board and noticed that Potter had positioned his knight so recklessly that capturing it was a mere formality.
"Lockart happened," Potter replied, shrugging and, in doing so, inadvertently falling into Tom's trap when he made a hasty move against Tom's pawn. "You'd better tell me about your duelling lessons."
Had Potter not said those words, Tom might not have noticed the subtle change in the boy's demeanour. But Potter's questions were so infrequent that any deviation from the norm aroused Tom's immediate alertness. He studied the boy closely. What was Potter trying to hide?
"And what exactly do you want to know?" Tom asked, deciding to act as if he had been outwitted.
Potter shifted uneasily in his armchair, a further confirmation of Riddle's suspicions. He barely suppressed another yawn.
"Err… What were you doing during this class?"
Really, it was an insult to his dignity to have someone like that defeat him. And not once, but several times, as Potter was eager to remind him.
"We were duelling," Tom replied, a perfectly polite expression. In his case, it was the most refined form of mockery. Although Potter probably wouldn't notice it anyway.
"I'm not an idiot, I guessed that myself," Potter replied with sudden anger.
So he noticed. Riddle smirked and resumed the interrupted game.
"But that's the truth. The lessons are about duels, so the students duel each other," he said in a more conciliatory tone. "They are compulsory for all sixth years, so most students have quite an arsenal of spells. Attwell teaches new ones during them, of course, but he's more focused on improving technique and teaching us the etiquette of magical duelling. If you wish, you can continue them in the seventh year. Dueling becomes more challenging, and Attwell puts more emphasis on teaching the art of shielding others. Usually, two students duel and two others shield them, acting as their seconds."
"And I guess you took part in them in seventh year, too?" it was more a statement than a question, and although Potter tried not to show it, it was clear that the subject had piqued his interest. What he was doing with his pawns on the board was a clear indication that Tom's explanations of duelling lessons had taken up all his attention.
Tom shrugged nonchalantly. "Of course. I even took Art of Duelling on N.E.W.T. Naturally, I got an O. I beat the examiner after three minutes. I could have done it in the first one, but I didn't want to draw too much attention to myself."
Potter rolled his eyes.
Tom's inner smile widened.
"We also have a School Duel's League. Or two, actually," Riddle continued his explanations. He glanced at the board, Potter had just moved his bishop and Tom's bored mind had already worked out instantly a plan to take it in three moves. Winning against someone who exposed himself so much wasn't even entertaining. "Official and unofficial one."
Oh, that twinkle in the eye.
"How so? Two leagues?"
Tom leaned back more comfortably in his chair, not hiding his satisfaction at getting Potter's attention. Actually, there was also a third league, much more private and secretive, but the only people who knew about it were Tom and his Slytherins. However he had no intention of mentioning it to Potter, not yet.
"In the official league, pupils from fifth to seventh years compete against each other. Of course, a fifth year rarely stands a chance against older students, but there are exceptions."
"I bet you were one of those exceptions," Potter said grimly.
Tom shrugged.
"I had other things on my mind when I was in fifth year," he replied dismissively, without going into detail. He didn't need to. They both knew what he was up to then. "But the following year, the others were no match for me. And the next year as well."
Potter tensed visibly, his jaw clenched and his attention shifted back to the chessboard. He moved his queen angrily.
Tom chose to ignore this small display of resentment, especially as Potter, in his fierceness, made a move that could potentially jeopardise Tom's victory. Was he aware of this? Tom smiled slightly as he considered a new strategy. At least it kept things interesting.
"The final duels always take place right after the exams and attract almost as many spectators as the final of a Quidditch match. But Crossed Wands are much more interesting, in my opinion," Tom said, bringing up the subject of wizarding duels again.
"Crossed Wands?" Potter asked, obviously despite his inner reluctance.
Tom, having finally chosen his strategy, moved his bishop, leaving Potter's queen surrounded on three sides.
"That's what this unofficial league is called," he explained. "It's always run by four students, one from each house, and as far as I know the tradition goes back at least seventy years. The duels take place in one of the old, officially disused duelling chambers in the South Wing dungeons, and anyone from first year to seventh year can take part. Although, of course, for first years it means slaughter. But I do remember one stupid Gryffindor doing it once."
In the middle of his explanation, Potter moved his pawn. To Tom's disappointment, the boy's next move clearly indicated that his earlier play had been a fluke. But there was still the risk that Potter knew what he was doing.
In a matter of moments, two rooks and two bishops had disappeared from the board; everyone had lost something, but it was Tom who still had the advantage.
"Well, I might have expected that from you. Anything involving the slaughter of innocents is more interesting to you," Potter said tartly.
Tom picked up his cup of tea. The situation on the table was under control. Whatever Potter did now, he would still lose.
"Not because of that. The unofficial league is more interesting because the students are less restricted than in the teacher-supervised duels. Only dark magic spells are forbidden. Fortunately, there are a number of curses on the border between black and neutral magic that no student would use in Attwell's presence, but without his watchful eye…"
"And the teachers let you do that?" asked Potter in disbelief. "No one's ever caught you?"
Riddle sipped the tea and then put the cup down.
"The teachers are probably well aware of Crossed Wands, but it's a tradition they obviously have no intention of breaking. Many of them probably took part in it when they were pupils, so they know how it works. Precautions are taken, of course. There are seconds in every duel, and the final fights are always covered by the Head Prefects. Injuries do happen, but nothing fatal or irreversible. So why should the teachers intervene? It's great training for the students. Besides, society should make sure that wizards are as educated as possible, and the ability to duel can come in handy in many situations."
"I don't think they think like that anymore," Potter said.
Tom held back a smirk. It really was too easy.
"It surprises me," admitted Tom evenly. "I wonder when they decided to remove duelling from the Hogwarts curriculum. And why they did it. Especially during wartime…"
Or maybe that's what they had in mind? Maybe someone in power didn't want wizards to be so well educated? But it was not only the Dark Side that was affected by this, but the Light Side as well. From what he saw in Potter's mind, the war unleashed by Voldemort must have really frightened everyone. The fear must have come from somewhere if wizards were so afraid of him that they wouldn't even say his name, calling him You Know Who.
Potter's only response was to shrug his shoulders and unwisely move the tower to the Tom's part of the board.
Tom, however, was not about to let him off. The sooner Potter learned that there was no way he could outwit him, the better. For both of them.
"Which makes me wonder, by the way, what must have happened at yours duelling club that Dumbledore decided to suspend it after only one meeting..."
Potter's head lifted instantly. And oh, there was finally recognition in those green eyes.
"I already told you. Lockhart. Everything's a disaster with him."
No, not this time.
"Potter, look me in the eyes," he ordered, his tone colder than a second ago. It obviously worked in the opposite direction, but Riddle had expected nothing less. Before Potter could dodge, Tom reached over the small table the chessboard stood, accidentally shifting a few pawns, but it didn't matter now anyway. His slender fingers gripped the boy's chin, nails dug into the soft skin.
"Let go of me," growled Potter, trying to break free. Tom only strengthened his grip.
"I'll ask again, and this time I expect a truthful answer. What happened during that meeting?"
Tom narrowed his eyes and put on a face that always sent shivers down the backs of his Slytherins. It worked on Potter too, because he stopped jerking. However, no answer came, so Tom focused on the teenager's eyes and pressed on his mind without hiding it at all.
This finally made Potter speak up.
"We have a deal," he reminded angrily through clenched teeth. "Get out of my head."
"Yes, we do," Tom agreed calmly, still in the same icy tone. "That's why I haven't gotten inside your head yet. But one more lie and I will. So?"
It must have been something big for the boy to fight so hard.
Another push on the barriers and Potter finally gave up. There was pure hatred in his green eyes.
"This was just after your memory from the diary had started terrorising Hogwarts with a basilisk. Rumours spread around the school that the Heir of Slytherin had returned, and everyone freaked out. And maybe everything would have been fine if Lockart hadn't had the idea of demonstrating how to block spells. And if Snape hadn't suggested that Malfoy and I be the ones to volunteer…" the boy trailed off.
To his surprise Tom could almost see what Potter was talking about. And he didn't use Legilimency at him, at least not consciously. But a podium flashed before his eyes and a blonde boy and an adult wizard leaned over him, whispering something in his ear. The strangest thing was that apparently Potter didn't seem to be aware of it.
"What happened next?" Tom asked mercilessly, although he already knew. The blonde boy conjured a snake. And Potter...
"Malfoy conjured a snake, I froze, and then of course Lockhart decided to intervene," there was bitterness in Potter's voice. "But instead of making the snake disappear, he angered it, causing it to turn on the students. It looked like the snake wanted to attack a boy from my year. And then I acted instinctively and..."
Potter didn't have to finish. Tom saw that. He...
"I told the snake to leave him alone," Potter finished, closing his eyes. This momentarily broke the strange connection between their minds.
"You told the snake…" Tom repeated dully, for the second time in a fortnight, completely at a loss. The thought flashed through his mind of how many more such revelations he had missed in his erratic Legilimency session during the second evening. Riddle let go of the boy's chin. "Are you Parseltongue?" he asked in snake language.
And though Potter replied in English, it was enough.
"It seems so."
Red possessiveness flashed in Tom's grey eyes.
o.O.o
"Harry, your wand," Tom demanded the next afternoon, holding out his hand expectantly to the teenager who was killing him with his gaze.
Today's lesson was a complete disaster, and it was better to end it sooner rather than later. Neither of them were in the mood and it was plain to see. Potter, with his constant yawning, because he was still brooding over the fact that Tom had found out about his Parselmouth. Tom, because not only had he spent last night recasting the spells to prevent Potter's escape (basing them on Parseltongue magic had been a good idea until it turned out that Potter didn't even need a wand to break them; luckily the boy hadn't thought of that in the last week), but during the day his patience had been tested by the customers who came into the shop.
Potter clenched his hand more tightly on his wand.
Oh, finally a rebellion?
Riddle's magic twitched in anticipation.
"Give it to me, Potter. Don't make me ask again," Tom's voice was silk over steel, a calm before the storm. He was beginning to enjoy these moments, the power play, the subtle dance of dominance and submission. And the fact that Potter wasn't one to be led, to follow the steps.
It would be boring if the boy didn't fight.
"Take it and fuck off," Potter spat venomously, thrusting his wand into Tom's hand.
Riddle's reaction was swift, a nonverbal curse swished through the air. Suddenly, foam bubbled from Potter's mouth, the boy choking and spitting in an attempt to clear his airways. The teen's instinctive dash towards the door was halted by another silent spell, his feet rooted to the ground by an unseen force.
"Language, Potter," Tom chided, his voice an icy whisper that that stung. "I thought my warnings against such language were clear."
Potter's attempts to respond were muffled by the foam, his frustration evident in every futile tug at the spell that bound him to the floor. Finally realising the pointlessness of his actions, he stopped and met Tom's gaze with a fiery defiance, the foam dripping down his face in almost comical contrast to the intensity of the hatred in the green eyes.
"I trust you will control your language more form now on. Am I clear enough this time?"
It took another moment of measuring vicious glances before Potter finally nodded reluctantly, signalling his compliance.
Tom accepted this with a cold smirk playing on his lips. With a flick of his wand, he released Potter from his magical constraints, watching with a mix of satisfaction and amusement as the boy fled to his room.
Definitely, if Potter didn't fight, it wouldn't be fun.
o.O.o
The night before, Tom had indulged Potter in an evening without chess, letting the boy lick his wounds in the privacy of his room. But he had no intention of giving up breakfast together. Potter had to get used to his presence, learn to show respect and obedience even when his wounded pride urged him to rebel and sulk. With his character, it was almost certain that the boy would be punished often.
Morning found them at the breakfast table, an air of icy civility between them. Potter, holding back a yawn, nibbled unenthusiastically at his scrambled eggs with a fork. His lack of desire to interact with Tom and the resulting lack of appetite was almost palpable. He barely bit into his toast, took maybe two sips of tea and didn't even touch the sausage. Tom, sipping his tea, measured the boy with a cautious, appraising gaze. His messy hair and the shadows under his eyes completed the picture of a tormented teenager. Potter, fortunately for himself, had the decency to change into normal clothes, although the long sleeves indicated that the fitting spell was wearing off. Well, Tom would have to order Bug to make the appropriate adjustments when the house elf would refresh Potter's clothes later. Just until Saturday; then he won't have to worry about it anymore.
"As fascinating as your attempts to fill a stomach without having to put food in a mouth are," Tom began, breaking the silence with a tone of dry amusement, "I would prefer you to drop the teenage sulking and start behaving normally. Especially as I'll be expecting some notes on chapters four and five of TheCompendium of Transmutation when I get back from work."
This finally drew the angry green gaze.
"Just because we've moved on to practical exercises doesn't mean I'm going to let you off the theory," Tom added calmly, when it became clear that the boy wasn't going to answer and would just continue to murder him with a stare.
"So why don't you tell me what I'm supposed to be taking these notes on? I don't recall getting a scroll or a pen from you," came the defiant reply, punctuated by the angry plunge of a fork into scrambled eggs.
Tom did not allow himself to be provoked, showing a patience that was rather unusual for him.
"You'll find them in the library, on my desk. And I advise you to put your mind to it, because I will check them out and quiz you on the material they cover."
This earned him another hateful stare, but Potter made no protest, which meant he took the order. Tom decided that this time he could dispense with the need for verbal confirmation.
Step by step. Besides, this slow moulding of Potter to his standards was quite enjoyable.
The rest of breakfast passed in silence and a gloomy atmosphere, accentuated by the grey winter sky outside the window. Potter ate his scrambled eggs, but the almost untouched toast and sausage caused him to receive a reproachful look from Bug, who appeared to clear the table.
Potter took the vanishing of the plates as a sign to the end of their breakfast.
"May I go?" he asked.
Tom delayed answering for a moment. Potter, fortunately for himself having learned from previous experience, did not move from his chair.
The boy's chronic sleepiness and persistent yawning had not escaped Riddle's attention. Two day ago, while reinforcing the escape prevention spells in the boy's room, he finally had discovered the reason for his constant drowsiness. Potter, shrouded by Tom's distraction spell in case he woke up while Riddle had been working on wards, at one point had begun to throw himself on the bed, mumbling unintelligible words. Tom had stopped his spellwork and had listened for a while, trying to pick out the individual words. "No, not mum... Leave him..."
Nightmares?
At first Riddle had had no intention of doing anything about the fact that Potter had been plagued by them, but then he had realised that this was another ideal situation to mess with the boy's head.
"One more thing."
Tom reached into the pocket of his robe and pulled out a tiny bottle of shimmering purple liquid, placing it on the table with a soft thud.
"I'm aware of your nocturnal disturbances, Harry," Tom said in a tone that was at once neutral, but deliberately tinged with a hint of concern. He pushed the vial gently across the table towards Potter. "Dreamless Sleep Potion. Just pour five drops into a glass of water and the nightmares will stop bothering you."
Potter's reaction was violent, a flicker of anger lighting his eyes as his cheeks flamed a vivid red.
"You don't think I'll be fooled by your supposed concern, do you? You and care? Don't make me laugh. Back off with your fake kindness!"
Tom narrowed his eyes.
"Language, Potter", he chided him with a clear threat in his voice. Although the boy did not swear, the language he used was not respectful. "Shall I repeat yesterday's lesson?"
Potter pressed his lips together and shook his head reluctantly. Tom raised an eyebrow in expectation.
"So?"
"So what?"
"An apology, Potter."
"If you insist… I am all ears."
Potter had no chance to dodge the stinging hex that struck him in the right shoulder. The boy let out a short cry of indignation.
"Your apology, not mine. For being disrespectful," Tom clarified, twirling his wand in his fingers in clear threat.
Truly, doing favours for that brat was a path of agony.
The silence stretched, so Tom raised the tip of his wand slightly.
"I'm sorry," Potter said finally through clenched teeth, although his posture clearly indicated that he had no regrets. Still, it was a good start.
Tom nodded as a sign that he was satisfied.
"But if you really think..." Potter started but was silenced by the handy spell he himself had demonstrated to Tom a few days ago, which glued a tongue to a palate.
"I don't care what you're imagining in that tiny head of yours, Potter. You can assume that your lack of concentration during our lessons due to your insomnia is unacceptable to me if it makes you feel more comfortable. So you will take this potion to ensure a decent night's rest."
"Do you know that I wouldn't have this problem if it wasn't for you?" snarled the boy, when Tom drew back that tongue-glued spell.
"Then you should appreciate it all the more that I want to help you solve it," Tom replied coldly, satisfied that everything indicated that the boy would obey him after all. Once again. "Besides, it's not a suggestion, it's an order." He looked meaningfully at the vial.
Potter snorted and angrily took the bottle from the table, wisely holding back any impertinent reply that might have come out of his mouth.
"Remember, exactly five drops. We don't want you to get addicted," Tom reminded him with a smirk on his lips.
It didn't turn out exactly as he had planned, but he was still pleased with the outcome.
o.O.o
Tom Riddle never did anything without a reason. And if Potter hadn't brought up the subject of continuing his studies, it was likely that Tom himself would have offered him lessons sooner or later. Teaching the boy concentration and precision in spellcasting, or repeating material from the Hogwarts curriculum, wouldn't made Potter a threat to him anyway, not with the knowledge Tom possessed, which in many ways surpassed the skills of most of the gifted wizards, let alone the average one. Besides, it fitted in with Tom's plans, both the long-term ones, which he had no intention of telling the boy about for the time being, and the more immediate ones, which he could reveal to him, but did not feel the need to.
When Tom discovered that Potter was from the future, his imagination was fired not only by the prospect of learning about his destiny, but also by the magic unknown or undiscovered in his time. In both areas, however, disappointment awaited him. He preferred to think of Voldemort's fate in no other context than how he might avoid it, while Potter's knowledge of new spells proved equally unhelpful.
Handing Potter a scroll with a list of spells, Riddle did so not only to see how much the boy could do, but also in the hope that the boy would add something interesting to it. Yes, there were a few spells Tom didn't know, but they were mostly quite mundane with prosaic, everyday uses. Nothing interesting.
Moreover, he found Potter's skills to be mediocre at best. The power of his spells was unimpressive, but when forced, the boy proved a quick learner (he had recently achieved an accuracy of three-quarters of an inch in paperweight shrinking exercise) and actually even managed to surprise Tom once.
When Tom asked Potter to cast a Patronus Charm — another spell on the list added by the boy — he wasn't expecting anything out of the ordinary. In fact, he was a little surprised that Potter had put it on the list, since Riddle had only learnt it in his seventh year (and it was during an optional classes, which turned out to be fortunate, as it was one of the few spells Riddle had a problem with), but he thought it was perhaps a rare display of overzealousness from the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. Potter told him that they changed every year, some better, some worse. So, the boy's conjuring of a corporal, fully formed Patronus took him by surprise. The silver deer moved straight towards him, rubbing its spectral horns against him. Riddle leapt aside at the same time raising a shield that shattered the Patronus.
With that, the lesson ended.
The following evening, Tom set about testing Potter's knowledge of the transfiguration spells. It took them three evenings to go through the whole list and, as Tom expected, they came across a few spells that Potter knew but hadn't ticked off. Moreover, as Riddle noted with disdain, the boy seemed unaware of his slips. He could at least have made an effort to remember the spells he hadn't marked.
As they were nearing the end of the section anyway, Tom decided to raise the matter on Thursday evening. When Potter had almost correctly cast a spell to turn a cotton handkerchief into a silk one, showing knowledge of a spell he shouldn't have known, and of top of that, smiling at the result, Riddle decided to bring him down to earth.
With an effortless snap of his fingers, Tom summoned the scroll from his desk. The parchment unfolded and levitated in front of Potter, a silent command hanging in the air. Urged on by Tom's nod, the boy took the list into his hands. Having guessed what it might be, Potter's eyes darted down, searching for the spell he had just cast.
Tom watched the boy intently as he scanned the list. The sudden, tighter clenching of his fists on the parchment indicated that Potter had just realised what he had done.
"I don't suppose you expected me to remember every spell I've learnt," the teenager said angrily, lifting his head to look directly at Tom.
Riddle folded his arms across his chest. He felt no anger, rather a pleasant anticipation, but he had to play his part.
"That's exactly what I expect you to do," he replied coldly.
"I'm not like you or Hermione," Potter pointed out irritably. "I really didn't remember knowing this spell." The teen made a move as if to throw the list at Tom, but stopped at the last moment and crushed it a bit in his hands.
Tom's eyes locked with Potter's, sliding gently through his mind. He had been testing this for two days now; a subtle scan, something like a Legilimency but less invasive. If it was delicate enough (and it was, he'd learned doing it at Hogwarts), then the boy had no chance of sensing anything, and in turn, Tom would know if Potter was lying to him. However, he had not yet been able to repeat the effect from Monday when he had accessed the boy's memories in this way. He was missing something.
Potter blinked, unconsciously interrupting Tom's probing. But it was enough for Tom. The boy really didn't remember knowing this spell. But there was something more to his feelings. A fear. Fear of what? Of being caught?
So there were spells Potter was trying to fool him with concluded Riddle with sinister satisfaction.
"Let's say I believe you. In this case," began Tom slowly yet strictly. "But what with Avifors Spell? Featherweight Charm? Armadillo to Pillow transfiguration?" Clenched jaw, averted gaze — Tom didn't even need another probing. Potter was so obvious. "Should I name more?" he asked, his voice icy cold.
"This is madness!" Potter shouted in clear agitation.
"No, Potter, this is your new life. Get used to it quickly."
"I didn't choose it!"
"Well, you don't always get what you want. You should have not pocked your nose in that wardrobe," Riddle said mercilessly.
Potter murdered him for a moment with his furious avada-green gaze. The scroll was crumpled in the teen's hand, which was shaking slightly. Tom really began to like those moments when Potter acted as if he was going to attack him and fought with himself not to, however.
Riddle really wasn't sure which outcome he would have been happier with. But until now, the boy had always managed to control himself.
This time was no exception.
"What now?" Potter asked through clenched teeth.
Tom smirked.
"Now, Potter, you will be a good boy and give me back your wand, because there is no point in continuing the lesson. Then you will put the scroll back on the desk and I will give you until Monday to mark the spells written on it. I expect you to miss nothing this time. And then we will move on to the more interesting part."
Potter furiously handed him his wand and threw the parchment on the desk. It crossed Riddle's mind that since the boy had allowed himself to behave in such a way, he must have had far too little fear of him. But he'd get him to unlearn that too.
This time he decided to let it go, since he would hurt him anyway. A lot.
"I've counted nine spells that you supposedly don't know, and you've managed to cast them anyway. Eight, if I don't consider the last one," Tom began calmly, his cold grey eyes fixed on the boy. Once more he tried that gentle probing. "Let it be four strikes, then. In both hands."
The hatred was so pure, so burning. And yet the boy stood obediently before him.
"Or..." Tom added before Potter had time to assume the proper pose as his brilliant mind stumbled upon an even more brilliant idea, "this time I will forgive you, but in return you will let me into your mind and have a closer look at some memories of my choosing," Riddle finished with a sly grin.
The discovery that Potter was Parseltongue had left him haunted by the thought of how much more important information he might have missed. And since their agreement severely restricted him in the matter of forced mind reading, he wanted to manipulate Potter to choose Legilimency over other punishments.
Potter's response was immediate. Palms extended with backs down, chin raised in defiance, he straightened up in front of Tom.
"Don't talk so much, Riddle. Just wave your wand and let's get it over with."
This time Riddle's eyes narrowed due to genuine annoyance, and not just because Potter's refusal was not to his liking.
"Five. One more for insolence."
"Do your worst," was Potter's cold reply.
o.O.o
Tom Riddle scooped water into his hands and splashed it over his face. Its coolness not only washed away the remains of the soap, but refreshed him as well, helping to shake off any lingering drowsiness. As he reached for the towel that obediently floated into his waiting hand, an unexpected thought flashed through his mind. The morning a fortnight ago had been almost identical. The heavy grey clouds also blocked the sun's rays, so it was the flickering of the candles that illuminated the bathroom, and their vibration made the room seem to take on a life of its own.
Grey eyes framed by dark eyelashes that were reflected in the mirror looked at their owner's face with cold calculation. Tom reached for a shaving brush, its tip covered in a thick paste.
On the surface, little had changed. Tom still worked for Borgin and Burke, kept navigating the petty grievances of customers with a smile plastered on his face, a mask of politeness that concealed his disdain. But it wasn't the external actions that were the issue here: his approach to achieving his goals was fundamentally different from two weeks ago. Of course, he would continue his search for artefacts associated with the founders of Hogwarts. He had already acquired Rowena Ravenclaw's tiara. There were three left. Once an end in itself, he now saw this as a whim, an indulgence of his own desires, a way to fill the time until his new plans became clear.
His fingers, slender and precise, traced the contours of his jawline, his face tilted from side to side to ensure that no area was overlooked. In Tom's world, perfection was only the beginning, and its outward manifestation was his impeccable appearance.
So, the cup, the necklace and the sword. The latter the easiest one easy, getting it was a matter of time and the right plan. And a pinch of co-opting on Potter's part, but that wasn't something Tom was going to worry about too much either. As for the other two... Tom's instincts told him he was on the right track.
Tom learned to trust his intuition long ago. Or was it magic itself, subservient to his will, that guided him through life to help him achieve what his goals? In any case, he felt, more than ever, that taking a job at Borgin and Burke's was a good decision.
As he walked to his room, his thoughts were fully focused on the teenager who had unexpectedly fallen into his arms. Harry Potter, the saviour of the wizarding world in his day, was here a toy in Tom's possession. The inconvenience of having a second living being appear in his solitude, disrupting established order and developed habits, compensated for those moments when Tom played with the Boy Who Lived. Getting a bottle of Dreamless Sleep Potion was a trifle, especially as Tom's employer's old friend Decoctus Prince had a weakness for Riddle, which meant that Tom quickly twisted the Potions Master around his finger. The chaos that this seemingly simple, cheap gesture caused in Potter's mind cannot be overestimated. Concern? And at the hands of his tormentor? Delightful. But that was nothing compared to the anticipation Tom had felt at the thought of their yesterday's confrontation as he had been waiting for his work to finish.
Tom smiled under his breath while his slender pale fingers deftly fastened the cuffs of his snow-white shirt. As he bent Potter to his will, as he forced the boy who would fight him again and again into submission and obedience, an overwhelming sense of dominance and control washed over him. The absolute hatred in the green eyes that had obeyed his command and had looked straight into his grey as he had administered the punishment, every grimace, moan, stifled cry of pain was like honey to his wounded ego. He had not suspected that using another pain-inducing spell could be more satisfying than casting Crucio, and yet. But he'd already managed to see that with Potter, this was the rule, not the exception: something he'd previously thought impossible or unworthy of attention brought far more pleasure than he'd initially suspected. Playing with Potter was becoming more and more addictive by each day.
The dark green waistcoat rose from the back of the chair as Tom buttoned his shirt and snapped his fingers to summon it.
Potter was no mere toy, however. The boy seemed to be full of secrets and mysteries Tom was itching to discover. His lightning bolt-shaped scar, which had intrigued Tom from the moment he noticed it. The power, mentioned in the prophecy, that the Dark Lord did not know. Parseltongue, the latest but probably not the last. At the thought of his future nemesis knowing the language of snakes, Tom felt a mixture of irritation and fascination. Could this be why his future self had chosen Potter over the other boy? Because he had discovered something in his lineage that linked him to Salazar Slytherin himself and therefore, in a way, to Lord Voldemort? It would make sense. But then again, how could he have? In Potter's memories, he had seen the end of the confrontation with the Horcrux from his diary, and who would have thought that a wizard who could pull Godric Gryffindor's sword out of the Sorting Hat would have anything to do with another founder of Hogwarts? So, the assumption that Potter had been let into the Chamber of Secrets by his Horcrux, as he was in the habit of doing with his Slytherins, was logical. And it lacked nothing.
Except that it turned out to be false.
Tom suppressed the feeling of annoyance coming over him and glanced critically at his reflection in the mirror. The waistcoat fitted perfectly but the silver embroidered foulard needed a slight adjustment. As his slender fingers rearranged the fabric, it occurred to Tom that he had given the boy both too much and too little attention over the past two weeks.
His Slytherins were impatient, longing for his presence. Abraxas had already sent him three owls, inviting him to his residence in Woody Bay. He'd last seen Sebastian almost a two weeks ago, when he'd searched his family's library for a spell with which to bind Potter's thoughts (when he had found one he'd obliviated Selwyn, not wanting to leave any traces), and perhaps only Dolohov couldn't complain about his lack of attention lately. But Tom needed Alexandr for his connections to the magical underworld and when he had got what he needed, he had changed Dolohov's memory afterwards, for this clever wizard with Russian roots could put the facts together quickly. There were also others; Brandon Avery, Curtis Nott, Everett Rosier, the Lestrange brothers and the rest who either weren't in England or hadn't yet graduated from Hogwarts. To Tom Riddle, they were just tools; but tools had to be looked after if they were to do their job. Therefore, Riddle was going to indulge them with his presence and attention over the coming weekend. Whether or not this will turn out well for them was a different matter.
The wardrobe door opened and a dark green wizard's robe, summoned by another wandless spell, drifted gently towards Tom. It was made with the same meticulous craftsmanship as the waistcoat Riddle was already wearing. Tom spread his arms and the heavy, thick material settled on his shoulders. The robe also fit perfectly, and though its cut was simple, a skilled eye (and his employers and clients had such) had no trouble picking out the subtle signs of status and wealth it displayed. Oh yes, Abraxas Malfoy showed extraordinary generosity when it came to satisfying Riddle's daily needs.
From a tall mirror in a dark brown wooden frame, the figure of a young, handsome wizard, whose dress and manner suggested far greater ambitions than spending his future in a mere shop assistant's job, looked out at Tom. The wizard whose ambitions were beyond the dreams of most ordinary people, magical or otherwise. The wizard who knew he was destined for great things and had no qualms about demanding what he was destined for.
There was a red glint in the grey eyes. A smirk of superiority set on his thin lips.
o.O.o
Harry Potter arrived at breakfast, as usual, a few moments after Tom. The boy took his seat without a word, his reluctance to be in Tom's company evident.
"When you appear in someone's presence, it's appropriate to say good morning," Tom said dryly, looking at the teenager over a steaming bowl of porridge.
"Good morning," came in a quiet yet resentful tone.
"Good morning," Tom replied evenly, as if the greeting was not forced.
Potter avoided looking at Tom and it was clear that he would have stayed in his room if he could. But Tom's instructions, delivered by Bug, had been clear and the boy seemed to have learned over the past two weeks when it was worth fighting for and when it was better to let go.
"Help yourself," Tom added, knowing full well that it would be difficult for Potter to do so in his current state. His hands, injured by yesterday's spell, were still hurting and Bug, on Tom's command, had removed the ointment from the boy's room that had recently healed them. This time, Tom wasn't going to let him shorten his punishment and smother the pain.
Potter tensed. But for the head hung low, Tom could not enjoy the hatred in the green eyes this time.
Well, tough. If all goes according to Tom's predictions, he'll still have the chance, and sooner than Potter suspected.
They ate their breakfast in silence, with hatred radiating from Potter and cool amusement from Riddle. Tom occasionally watched with hidden satisfaction as the boy tried to hold a spoon or grab a glass with his injured hand so it wouldn't fall out.
"I'll be back from work early today," Tom announced as he finished his tea and set the cup down on the saucer. "Be ready, we're going shopping."
This finally made the green eyes look directly at him.
"Why?"
Tom held back a smile. Although it took a bit longer than Tom initially anticipated, he had found access to the smuggler through Aleksandr's contacts. Smart combination of confudus and obliviate allowed Tom to implant the correct memories into the man's mind. A few details remained to be worked out, but he would have to discuss these with Potter; he wanted the life story he had prepared for the boy to be as close as possible to what Potter had actually experienced. After all, the best lies were based on the truth.
"It's time to give Harry Potter back to the world. And you don't think I'm going to let someone pretending to be my little brother parade around in ill-fitting robes, do you?"