Tightrope walks
— CHAPTER FIFTEEN —
Tightrope walks
Harry stifled another yawn and blinked repeatedly, trying to focus on the text in front of him. He sat leaning against the headboard of his bed, Charms for Intermediates in his lap. He tried his best, but the words of the second chapter blended into an incomprehensible pulp that stubbornly refused to make any sense in his mind. The soft, flickering candlelight from the chandelier above his head only added to his sleepiness.
He had secretly hoped that their late return from Malfoy's party — practically at dawn — would earn him a day off. But for Tom Riddle, exhaustion from lack of sleep was apparently no excuse for cancelling the study session. Harry's day, which began with the loud crack of Bug's Apparition announcing breakfast, was spent mastering curse detection and removal, as well as practicing Charms. As if that wasn't enough, Riddle had ordered Harry to read the first three chapters of the book on spells by Monday. Harry knew Riddle well enough by now to understand that 'read' in his dictionary was synonymous with 'learn by heart'.
Harry really couldn't wait for Monday's morning quiz. He felt like he was preparing for O.W.L.s again.
He sighed, rubbed his tired eyes, and faced that boring paragraph for the third time. Once again, he lost focus, his thoughts involuntarily drifting back to the spacious, lavishly decorated ballroom at Malfoy Manor. Harry could still feel the weight of the outraged, disgusted stares of the pre-Death Eaters when, unable to tolerate any more of their nonsense, he had his little outburst.
Then Riddle's intervention had come — Harry still didn't know why the older boy had done it, and the fear of becoming entangled in a more complicated scheme had made his hair stand on end — and the outrage had been replaced by palpable shock.
There had been barely concealed resentment in Abraxas Malfoy's narrowed eyes, as if it had just dawned on him that Harry was in fact Riddle's brother, and he was not pleased about it. A deep frown had appeared on Primus Lestrange's forehead, his expression thoughtful as he had swept his gaze from Riddle to Harry and back again. Sebastian Selwyn, after a moment of complete bewilderment, had smiled broadly and shaken his head as if the whole situation amused him. Aleksandr Dolohov had stared at Harry intensely, as if seeing him anew. The faces of Brandon Avery and Curtis Nott had shown an almost comical dismay. Secundus Lestrange had maintained better control of his expression but had been betrayed by a firm grip on the armrest of the armchair. Everett Rosier, who had been by then as friendly towards Harry as Sebastian Selwyn, had moved away slightly, his chair scraping, a flicker of fear passing over his face. He had avoided even looking in Harry's direction for the rest of the party and had not exchanged another word with him.
Riddle, meanwhile, had remained sprawled comfortably in his chair, radiating an almost indecent satisfaction.
Harry shook his head vigorously, trying to rid himself of the memory. He turned his eyes back to the book, but the words seemed to blend.
"The quintessence of Charm-casting is predicated upon the delicate equilibrium between the triad of intent, incantation, and wand movement. This tripartite foundation constitutes the crux of all Charm casting, with each element serving to buttress and amplify the others in a complex display of magical forces. The caster's intent functions as the primordial magical impetus, while the incantation acts as..."
Harry sighed heavily, trying to process the information. And then he read the paragraph again. And again. The fourth time he finally understood. So many complicated words to convey that casting spells was a combination of intention, incantation and wand movement. It was fortunate that the textbooks of his time were written in more straightforward language.
That one innocent thought about his times was enough to make his mind go astray again. And in a direction even less desirable than a moment ago.
What if, by being introduced to the pre-Death Eaters, he had altered the course of history forever? Until now, his presence in the past had been limited to staying in Riddle's flat and working in the shop, and the only people who knew of his existence were Borgin and Burke and the customers to whom he was an anonymous salesman. So far Riddle required him to do nothing but study; working in the shop was just an excuse to keep an eye on him. What if Riddle was now forcing him into more frequent contact with his followers? What if he fulfilled his chilling promise and really did start to change his destiny? After all, Harry had seen him talking to the others. These didn't seem like innocent conversations, but rather plotting and scheming.
What if these changes caused someone to die too soon, or prevented someone from being born? What if it affected Ron and Hermione? Or even himself?
Suddenly, Harry's breath came in short, sharp gasps. The room spun around him, his heart pounding against his ribs as if trying to break free, his grip on the book tightening.
Oh, no, no, no. Not again. Not now.
Desperately trying to cling to something to distract his mind, he unexpectedly thought of the Dursleys. A memory flashed through his mind — a flickering television screen, seen through the crack of a door. The Dursleys' living room, with its floral wallpaper and almost clinical tidiness. Dudley and Piers, shoving handfuls of popcorn into their mouths and sipping beer, stolen from one of their fathers, with obvious nervousness. On the screen, a young man frantically checked his hand as it began to fade. Harry couldn't recall the film's title, having missed the beginning, but he remembered the plot — a teenager, like himself, transported back in time. And when his actions began to cause too much change, he started to disappear.
Harry took a deep, shuddering breath, then another. He closed his eyes, focusing on the sensation of air filling his lungs, then leaving them. In, out. In, out. The panic began to recede, like waves pulling back from the shore. Slowly, steadily, his heartbeat normalized.
Harry opened his eyes and looked at his hands.
He turned them over slowly, examining them carefully. He clenched them into fists a few times, digging his nails into the sensitive flesh, then stretched them out.
They were solid. Real. Undeniably there.
And then, completely unexpectedly, he burst into loud, uncontrollable laughter. It must have been really bad for him if the Muggle film Dudley had secretly watched was now Harry's reference point.
The grim truth, however, was that he had no idea about time travel and its implications. Even after he, Ron and Hermione had gone back in time to save Sirius, he had never thought about the deeper implications of what they had done. Dumbledore had let them do it, and that was enough for Harry to believe it was safe.
Only then it had been three hours, not forty-nine years.
His breathing began to quicken again.
Stop, Harry commanded himself. This kind of brooding would lead nowhere.
He needed to concentrate on the here and now. On the fact, for example, that there was an already empty bottle of sleeping potion on his bedside table, and that he was about to face his first night in many weeks without its soothing power. Although, he reflected wryly, it hadn't exactly had a calming effect on him.
Something else, then.
Something like a black diary, written in French and containing a reference to the Horcruxes, which he stuffed under a bookcase so that no one but him would find it.
Something like figuring out how to convince Riddle to stop making him repeat Hogwarts material and start teaching him more useful things. Since Riddle was so eager to teach him new things, why not use him to learn something that might help Harry in the future? Like duelling.
Yes, that was better.
Getting the diary was still out of his hands for the time being; he would have to wait until Monday for that.
However, the conversation with Riddle...
But for that, he would need Riddle to be in a good mood. So, with a resigned sigh, he returned to his reading.
o.O.o
The emerald flames in the ornate fireplace of Samphire Manor flickered and roared, suddenly spitting out a tall, dark-haired figure. Tom Riddle stepped onto the polished oak floor of the entrance hall, brushing a speck of ash from his immaculate robes.
The opulent surroundings in which he found himself immediately suggested a woman's hand. The walls were covered in pastel wallpaper with delicate floral patterns, vases overflowed with fresh bouquets and airy curtains fell softly to the wooden floor. Samphire Manor was the dowry of Aspara, née Shafiq, and it was evident that she had made sure that at least the surroundings were to her taste.
A house-elf, dressed in a pristine white cloth emblazoned with the intertwined crests of Selwyn and Shafiq, bowed so low that its long, pointed nose almost touched the floor. "Welcome to Samphire Manor, Mr. Riddle, sir. Master Sebastian sends his deepest apologies, but he is currently engaged in conversation with the mistress. Daffodille will show you to the library."
Riddle's eyebrows lifted slightly as his perceptive eyes spotted the subtle signs of the mentioned 'conversation' that disturbed the otherwise perfect surroundings. A delicate porcelain figurine lay shattered not far from the staircase. It seemed that the argument had started here. "I see."
The house-elf followed his gaze, flushing slightly as it saw the remnants of its lady's explosive temper. With a snap of its fingers, the figurine's remains vanished.
"Please follow me, sir."
As they walked, raised voices echoed across the distant room — the woman's vehement accusations punctuated by the man's angry replies. At one point, a loud bang resonated through the hall; the house-elf flinched. A moment of silence followed, only for the argument to resume with renewed vigour.
Tom suppressed a smirk. Aspara truly possessed a fiery character, but what else could you expect from a witch whose mother was from the Highlands?
"Master will join you shortly, sir," the house elf squeaked as the high double doors swung open silently before them and they finally reached the library. The elf then disappeared with a soft crack.
While not as grand as the one in the Selwyn family's main residence, Samphire Manor's library was impressive in its own right. In this vast room, with shelves lining all three walls, dark leather armchairs and a massive wooden table in the centre, over which hung an elaborate chandelier, the magic of the family collection lingered in the air. Riddle felt a pleasant tingling at the back of his neck — regrettably, his private library was still too small to evoke a similar effect.
Suspecting that Sebastian would be occupied for some time with his domestic issues, Riddle decided to indulge his curiosity. He approached one of the bookcases, his long fingers trailing lightly over the spines of the books. Their titles seemed innocently at first glance — mostly household spells, some works on runes and numerology, even a few romance novels that presumably belonged to the lady of the house. But Riddle knew better. The tingling in his fingertips intensified, confirming his suspicions.
With a subtle flick of his wand and a non-verbal incantation, Tom dispelled the illusion charm protecting one of the bookcases. The air shimmered, and the true nature of Sebastian's collection revealed itself. Gone were the mundane titles, replaced by works that would make even the most liberal-minded wizard raise an eyebrow.
Secrets of the Darkest of the Art, Magick Moste Evile, Forbidden Runes of the Ancients — these were just a few of the titles that now adorned the shelves. Tome's lips curled into a satisfied smirk. Finally, something interesting.
One title in particular caught Riddle's eye: Blood rituals: how to enhance the power. With practiced ease, he slid the book from its place, then opened it. His grey eyes gleamed with interest. He had encountered magical rituals on his journey, but he knew he had barely scratched the surface.
The yellowish pages were filled with dense text, complex diagrams, and annotations in a spidery handwriting he didn't recognize as Sebastian's. Riddle skimmed through a few pages, his attention caught by an intricate sketch of a runic circle needed for one of the described rituals. He was so engrossed that he almost didn't hear the door open. Almost.
With unhurried grace, Tom slid the book back into its place and turned slowly towards the door.
"I see you found my little collection," Sebastian said with a hint of teasing rebuke in his tone, although devoid of any real anger. "I should have known that leaving you alone in my library wasn't a good idea."
Tom shrugged, feeling no remorse. "You could at least have secured it differently than your father did with his." He reached for another, less suspicious, though far from innocent, position. "I'll borrow this one."
Selwyn tilted his head at the title embossed on the cover. "Don't tell me you suddenly felt the need to brush up on the basics," he teased, but a second later understanding came. "Oh, you're not borrowing it for yourself."
"What kind of elder brother would I be if I didn't take proper care of his education?" Riddle replied smoothly, tucking the book into an enchanted leather pouch he produced from his robes. "And speaking of family matters, what was the fuss about this time?" he asked, deciding there was no point in pretending he hadn't heard Sebastian's 'conversation' with his wife.
He wasn't particularly interested, but he knew that people liked to complain — and if they could do it in front of someone, they felt more connected to that person.
Sebastian sighed, running his hand through his already tousled hair. The wrinkles in his robes began to smooth themselves out, thanks to cleverly woven charms, but it was clear from the weariness on his face that the argument had been violent. As always.
"Turns out we've been invited to my in-laws' today," he said with a wryly smile.
"You could have said. I would have come on Monday."
"If I'd known earlier than an hour ago, I certainly would have," came the tartly replied. "And to think I'm going to spend the rest of my life with this woman..."
Riddle's gaze flicked meaningfully towards the hidden bookshelf.
Sebastian burst into laughter. "I'm not quite that desperate. Yet." Then, as if shaking off his sombre mood, he clapped his hands together with renewed vigour. "But enough about her. She's Floo'd off to her parents' alone, which means I have the whole day free of her particular charms. And if memory serves me right, which it probably does, because you made me sober up, you mentioned at Brax's party that you had a certain interesting map. Shall we get to it?"
Riddle nodded and walked over to the large table in the centre of the library. From the leather pouch in which he had placed the book moments ago, he pulled out the map. He spread it out on the table, his deft, pale fingers smoothing the corners.
Sebastian slipped his hands into his pockets and casually approached the table. He looked at the map from above, then closed his eyes and took a deeper breath, quite as if he was smelling the magic it was imbued with.
"The magic literally oozes out of it. I suppose it needs to be activated?"
Tom nodded. He drew his wand with fluid grace, tapping the parchment lightly. "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."
Sebastian chuckled at that. "Someone had a nice sense of humour."
His amusement quickly turned to genuine amazement as the map's magic took effect. Riddle hoped his own expression had been more restrained when Potter had activated it for the first time in front of him.
"By Merlin's beard," Sebastian breathed, leaning closer. The bright daylight streaming in through the library's high windows illuminated his face. His dark eyebrows drew together in concentration and his usually mischievous brown eyes widened in surprise. "What is this and who made it?" Sebastian's fingers hovered over the parchment, not touching it, as if afraid it would all disappear at his touch.
Tom watched his reaction with carefully concealed satisfaction. He had known the map would impress his old schoolmate, but the sheer awe on Sebastian's face exceeded even his expectations. It was moments like these that reminded Tom why he kept Selwyn around — the man's enthusiasm for playing and experimenting with magic was second only to his own.
"This, dear Sebastian, is the Marauder's Map. An enchanted piece of parchment that is not only an extremely accurate map of Hogwarts that even shows secret passages, but also the current position of every being in the castle. Quite impressive, don't you think?"
Almost an extremely accurate map, Tom corrected himself mentally. It didn't show at least two secret rooms: The Chamber of Secrets and the Room of Requirement. Rather unfortunate, especially in the case of the latter, but he already had an idea of how to remedy that.
Sebastian let out a low whistle, the sound echoing softly in the large, book-lined room.
"Understatement of the century, Tom. This is... well, it's bloody brilliant. Whoever created it was a magic genius." He straightened up, running a hand through his unruly dark curls. His eyes, when they met Tom's, were bright with excitement. "I've never seen anything like this before. The magic involved must be... extraordinary. Not to mention the spellwork." Sebastian paused, then asked with evident hesitation: "Where did you get this?"
Tom, naturally, had no intention of revealing the map's true origin so he slipped into the lie he had prepared.
"It was brought into the shop by a wizard clearing out his grandfather's estate," Tom explained, his voice smooth and convincing. "Borgin, the old fool, couldn't see its value. So I bought it from him for myself." He allowed a small, self-deprecating smile to cross his lips. "It took me a while to discover how to activate it, but eventually it revealed its secrets to me."
Sebastian nodded, seemingly satisfied with the explanation. He turned his attention back to the map, his fingers now tracing specific paths across the parchment. Tom recognized the route to the Slytherin common room — Sebastian must be searching for Tertius or Alphard.
"Merlin," Sebastian murmured, a note of wistfulness in his voice. "Imagine if we'd had this map during our Hogwarts days. The possibilities would have been endless. We could have ruled the school from the shadows."
Riddle couldn't help the smirk that tugged at his lips. "We ruled it anyway," he said, merely a statement of the fact. Then, steering the conversation back to his purpose, he added, "We can't change the past, but we can at least take a closer look at the magic used to create it."
As he spoke, his thoughts drifted to Potter, the unwilling time traveller currently under his control. If the boy had any sense at all, he would be diligently studying the charms book Tom had assigned him.
Sebastian straightened up, his keen eyes studying Tom's face. "And that's why you want to duplicate it?"
Tom allowed a sly smile to spread across his handsome features. "Not only, but that's one of the reasons."
Understanding dawned in Sebastian's eyes, and his lips curled into a broad, knowing smile. He shook his head, chuckling softly. "Poor Harry. You don't trust him, do you?"
"I know him well enough to know that he has an extraordinary talent for getting into trouble. It's better to keep an eye on him. And the original is too valuable, so Tertius and Alphard will get a copy."
Sebastian tilted his head, curiosity mixed with carefully masked jealousy in his voice. "Are you going to let them keep it?"
"If they satisfy me," Tom replied evenly. He hadn't considered it yet, but he thought that this kind of reward would be suitable motivation for young Tertius and Alphard. They still had more than a year of learning ahead of them and would certainly find a proper use for the map.
Sebastian nodded; his expression suddenly businesslike. He straightened his posture and pulled his wand from his sleeve with a practiced motion. "Then I understand the copy has to be accurate?"
"One to one," Tom confirmed, reaching into his leather pouch again. "I want to replicate not only its appearance, but all of its magical properties."
"Have you tried to decipher any spells that have been cast on it?" Sebastian asked, his wand now hovering over the map, ready to begin work.
"Yes, but I haven't spent much time on it. I've identified some key enchantments," he admitted. He placed a bundle of his notes on the table for Selwyn to go over later. "You've got it all written down here. There's a complex variation of the Homonculus Charm for tracking individuals, a series of Unplottable Charms that reverse to reveal hidden areas, and some intriguing spells that I've never seen before. I think they were created by the map's authors."
Sebastian's eyes lit up at the challenge presented before him. "You were right," he said, a grin spreading across his face. "It will be a fascinating project."
o.O.o
Riddle's slender fingers played idly with a captured pawn, the smooth black piece a stark contrast against his pale skin. His lips curved into what could almost have been taken for a sincere smile, the flickering firelight casting dancing shadows across his face. His characteristically icy grey eyes held an unusual glimmer of... was it joy? Excitement? The unexpected change in Riddle's demeanour threw Harry off balance, almost causing him to forget the strategy he'd been working on for the past few moves.
"Check," he said, moving his knight with genuine satisfaction. Finally.
"Clever move, Harry," Riddle praised, while easily manoeuvring his king out of danger. "You're improving."
Harry snorted and leaned back in his armchair. "Yes, well, when you force someone to play chess every night, they're bound to pick up a thing or two."
And yet, despite his sarcastic tone, Harry felt an unwelcome flicker of pride at Riddle's words. He squashed it immediately, disturbed by his own reaction.
"Interesting," Riddle mused, his eyes glinting. "I'll have to remember that forced repetition works so well on you. Could be useful."
And just like that, any warmth Harry had felt vanished faster than a snitch at the start of a Quiddtich match.
"Only for chess," he clarified quickly, his voice sharp.
Riddle's gaze slid meaningfully from the board to the small graveyard of white pieces accumulating on his side. "Perhaps not so effective," he corrected himself, moving his rook dangerously close to Harry's queen.
Harry immediately decided it would be wise to escape with it.
"Give me time," Harry retorted, surprising himself with the almost playful edge in his words. After two months of captivity, these evening matches had become... well, not enjoyable, exactly, but certainly less fraught than their daytime interactions.
"As much as you wish," Riddle replied lightly. As he contemplated his next move, Harry studied him. The older boy was practically radiating satisfaction, like a cat that had gotten into the cream. Was it related to his disappearing for most of the day? What had he done to improve his mood so much?
It was unsettling but Harry wasn't going to stoop to asking questions. That would mean admitting he cared enough to notice such things. So for the next few moments, they played in silence, disrupted only by the occasional pop and crackle from the fireplace and the soft click of chess pieces on the board.
It was Riddle who eventually broke the silence.
"Have you read the first three chapters of Charms for Intermediates?"
Harry, busy plotting the rescue of his imperilled knight, sighed in annoyance at the interruption.
"Yes, I've read it. But it could have been written in less complex language. Some parts I had to read four times before I understood what they were about," he complained. By the time he had made notes later, he had gone so far as to ask Bug to bring him coffee — something he still usually tried to avoid. "Books in my time manage to explain things without giving you a headache. And in simpler words."
Riddle's eyebrow arched elegantly. "Perhaps you should finally get used to it. Or next time, I suggest you write down all the words you don't understand on a separate list. I'd be more than happy to explain their meaning to you."
Harry shot Riddle a murderous glare, recognising in the suggestion an order thinly disguised as helpful advice. Great, more work. In a small, spontaneous act of defiance, he used his knight to knock over one of Riddle's pawns with unnecessary force.
"Oops," Harry said, not sounding sorry at all, as the beaten pawn rolled with a click across the chessboard, almost knocking down another, also belonging to the older boy.
Riddle's eyes narrowed slightly, but his good mood seemed unshakeable. He made his move, capturing Harry's knight, and said, "By the way, there's a book waiting for you on your desk in the library. I expect you to read it by the end of the week. Without complaint."
"Let me guess. Something about Potions or Herbology?"
Since they had covered Transmutation and Charms, it seemed a logical assumption. But why Riddle had made him repeat material from Hogwarts, Harry still had no idea.
"Something a bit more... challenging this time. A book on the basics of curse casting."
Harry's hand froze over his rook, the capture of which he'd been delaying as long as possible. He knew his loss was only a matter of a few moves now.
"Curse casting?" he repeated dully, glancing briefly at Riddle.
"Yes," Riddle confirmed calmly, a note of warning in his tone. The earlier amusement had vanished from his gaze. "And as I said, no complaining."
Harry's heart seemed to stop. He was about to protest vehemently when a treacherous thought crossed his mind. What if he could use this to his advantage?
His pulse quickened as he lowered his eyes, pretending to contemplate the board while his mind raced. He knew learning dark magic was inevitable; Riddle had been very clear about this during their negotiations, and everything he had done since then proved that he was not joking. He hadn't pushed Harry too hard yet, and Harry had spent enough time with him to know that he would if he wanted to. So, it was just a matter of time and Riddle finding the right... motivation. And his methods of encouragement could be painfully effective, as he'd shown when teaching Harry to remove curses.
But it was a line that Harry wasn't going to cross. Or so he thought, until he had gone back in time.
Besides, for now it was just a matter of reading the book. He would worry about practice when Riddle started demanding it of him. Maybe by then he would have found a way to get back to his time?
"Actually," Harry began, moving his rook to a more defensive position, "May I have a proposition for you?" He paused, steeling himself. He lifted his gaze, looking directly into the grey irises. He could do it. "I'll read the book by Friday but in exchange, you will have a practice duel with me on Saturday."
A predatory interest immediately appeared in Riddle's eyes.
"Well, well, well… This is unexpected," he said slowly, looking at Harry closely. He made his next move, taking another of Harry's pawns off the board. But he didn't put it down; he twirled the captured pawn between his long fingers.
Harry shifted uncomfortably. He knew this was a bad idea. But if he had said A…
"And I won't complain," he added.
Riddle tilted his head. The pawn froze.
"And now it's getting even more interesting." He made a gesture with his hand, as if to encourage Harry to continue. "Pray tell me, Harry, why should I agree to this when I can just make you do anything I want?"
Harry took a deep breath, trying to keep his voice steady.
"Look, I'm well aware of your... capabilities," Harry began, then paused, gathering his thoughts before continuing, "But you said before our first negotiations that you would prefer me to cooperate with you willingly. You also promised to take care of my education, didn't you?" His eyes met Riddle's, a hint of challenge in them. "Focusing on one area of magic while completely ignoring others could be considered... negligent."
Riddle's lips twitched slightly, as if in a smile that was suppressed at the last moment.
"Negligent? My, my, using my own words against me. You're really learning, Harry."
Harry faked a nonchalant shrug, nipping in the bud the treacherous warmth evoked by another praise from Riddle's lips. He knew he had more cards to play, but the thought of using this one caused an unpleasant clench in his stomach.
Was he really willing to sink to this level?
Harry's fingers ghosted over his last pawn, hesitating. No, he told himself firmly. They were just words. Tools to get what he needed. It didn't mean anything beyond that. The end justified the means, didn't it?
Taking a deep breath, he steeled himself, his fingers absently moving his last pawn to shield his king.
"Besides," Harry continued, forcing casualness into his voice, "I think I performed quite well at Abraxas Malfoy's party. Don't you think that deserves a... reward?"
His ears buzzed and his heart started beating like crazy again. It was a good thing they had chess between them, he could concentrate on the board.
Riddle snorted, the sound somewhere between amusement and irritation. The captured pawn was put down with a sharp click.
"A reward? For following instructions?" his voice dripped with sarcasm. "Or for saving your reputation after your passionate rant about that Mudblood witch?"
Harry grimaced, unpleasantly surprised by both Riddle's irritation and his choice of words.
"Speaking of reputations," he retorted, his temper flaring, "if you're so concerned about mine, why did you tell your Slytherin buddies about the incident at the Leaky Cauldron?"
"I didn't," replied Riddle coldly, and from the way he moved his bishop Harry deduced that he was really getting angry. It was a touchy subject. "They found out on their own. The wizarding community in Diagon and Knockturn Alley is small, Potter. Gossip spreads faster than Fiendfyre. You'd do well to remember that in the future."
Harry winced at the use of his last name. This wasn't going well. He forced himself to take a calming breath, reminding himself that he needed this more than Riddle did, even if he still felt outraged by the fact that Riddle had called Hermione Mudblood.
"Right," he said, trying to sound contrite. "I'll keep that in mind."
Riddle's eyes widened almost imperceptibly, a flicker of surprise crossing his face at Harry's unexpectedly measured response. He leaned back in his armchair, his gaze sharpening as he reassessed the boy before him. The surprise in his eyes gradually gave way to a calculating gleam, as if he were seeing Harry in a new light.
"Well, well," Riddle murmured, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "You must really want this if you're trying to manipulate me."
Harry felt his face flush with a mix of embarrassment and anger. "I'm not—"
"Oh, but you are," Riddle cut him off, his dark eyes gleaming with amusement. "It's clumsy, sure, but I have to admit, I'm intrigued." He steepled his fingers, his expression turning serious. "Alright, Potter. Let's talk straight. Why should I agree? You can pretend to play nice, but we both know you're still my enemy. Only an idiot gives his enemy a weapon."
A chill ran down Harry's spine, settling like ice in his stomach. Riddle rarely laid things out so plainly. The air in the room seemed to thicken, charged with the weight of what was about to unfold. This was it — the real negotiation was about to begin.
Harry swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. He knew he'd have to choose his next words very carefully. Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on the table between them, the chess game momentarily forgotten,
"You're right," Harry started, hating how his voice betrayed his nervousness. He took a steadying breath and pressed on. "We are still enemies, I'm still a threat to you. But that's exactly why this could work in your favour." He held Riddle's gaze, willing himself not to look away. "If you train with me, you'll know my fighting style inside out. Every move, every spell — it'll all come from you. I won't be able to surprise you."
Riddle's lips curled into an amused smirk. "Clever, Potter. But don't flatter yourself too much. You're not a threat — merely an inconvenience." He lounged back in his armchair, the very picture of casual superiority.
Harry felt a flicker of anger at Riddle's dismissive tone, but he seized on the opening. "If I'm just an inconvenience, then you shouldn't mind if I'm well trained."
"Inconveniences have a way of becoming burdens," Riddle retorted, his tone deceptively lazy. His fingers drummed a slow, deliberate rhythm on the armrest. "So instead of concentrating on more important matters, my future self will have to deal with you. Besides, by training you, I'd be giving away my own techniques. Try again."
Frustration bubbled up in Harry's chest. He ran a hand through his messy hair, mussing it further. "But I can't attack you now anyway, thanks to that bloody oath. And in the future? Voldemort's got a fifty-year head start. You'll have ages to learn new tricks I won't know about. I won't have that chance."
"A fair point," Riddle conceded, his smirk widening. "But I still think the risks outweigh any potential benefits. Besides, I already know what you're capable of."
"It looks to me more like you are afraid of losing."
The amusement immediately disappeared from Riddle's eyes.
"I thought we had discussed the question of the superiority of my skills over yours long ago, Potter."
Harry felt an unpleasant grip on his stomach, but he pressed on, knowing he was treading on thin ice. "As you can see, not really. So maybe a little reminder?"
"I don't need a duel with you for that."
Okay, that was stupid. Judging by the look on Riddle's face he was thinking the same thing.
"I could even demonstrate it right now," he offered with a sly smile.
Harry let out an exasperated sigh, slumping back in his chair. This wasn't working. He needed to change tactics, and fast. Taking a deep breath, he decided to try another angle.
"Without proper training, I'll be a liability. If I can't defend myself, I could inadvertently mess up your plans or draw unwanted attention. Teaching me to duel would ensure that I can protect myself and, by extension, your secrets."
"A moment ago you admitted that we are still enemies, and now you are talking about help? What an unexpected change of heart," Riddle's voice dripped with mock surprise. "And here I was under the impression that Gryffindors were more constant in their feelings."
Harry felt heat creep up his cheeks. His arguments were not that bad. Well, okay, he may have had a problem with precision, but that was due to lack of sleep at night. If he had slept well, he would have been more eloquent.
But before Harry could formulate a defence, Riddle waved his hand dismissively.
"Besides, you're in no danger here. You should be more concerned about accidentally triggering a curse at work than facing a physical attack. Better to focus on that."
Grasping at straws now, Harry countered, "But what if one of your Slytherin lackeys decides to have a go at me? Maybe they get jealous or something?"
"That's not an option. I know how to keep my people in line."
Harry slumped, sensing another dead end.
And as he desperately searched his mind for more convincing arguments, Riddle unexpectedly came to his aid.
"You know, Potter," the older boy began, his voice soft, "you're still no match for me in a battle of wits. But I have to admit you're right about two things." He paused, letting the tension build. "I prefer your voluntary cooperation. As amusing as punishing you can be, your defiance becomes tiresome in the long run. And as your... teacher," his lips curled around the word, "I shouldn't neglect any area of your education."
A flicker of hope sparked in Harry's chest, but he quickly tempered it with caution. Experience had taught him the hard way that with Riddle, there was always a catch.
"Alright, Potter, here's the deal," the future Dark Lord said, his tone casual but laced with challenge. "You want dueling lessons? Fine. But for every hour we spend on that, you spend an hour on practising dark magic. Tit for tat."
Harry's gut twisted. "Wait, what—"
"Ah-ah," Riddle cut him off with a warning wave of his finger. "I'm not finished. Each new offensive or defensive spell I teach you will be paid for with a dark spell. And you pay in advance."
"That's not what I—"
"Take it or leave it, Potter." Riddle's voice hardened. "Oh, and don't expect me to go easy on you. Wasn't it you who wanted a reminder of how outclassed you are?"
Harry knew his initial proposal had been a mistake. But this... This went far beyond what he had originally suggested.
Yet it also opened new possibilities. As much as it pained him to admit, Riddle was indeed powerful and incredibly talented. Harry had experienced this firsthand during their first duel, and each subsequent day spent in Riddle's company only solidified this impression. He knew that if he ever wanted to beat Riddle, he would have to become better himself.
And to achieve that, he needed to learn from the best.
"If I agree," Harry began cautiously, "can I trust that you'll take our duelling lessons seriously? That you'll actually teach me?"
Riddle's lips curled into a smirk. "I'll put in exactly as much effort as you do in learning dark magic, Potter. No more, no less."
It did not sound good, but it was fair.
"And will it be just learning dark magic, not... using it on others, right?"
Amusement flickered in Riddle's eyes. "We have already established that I will not force you to use dark magic on anyone else. I keep my word once given. Unless, of course, you decide to do so yourself."
"No way," Harry shot back immediately.
"Oh?" Riddle raised an eyebrow. "You might want to use that knowledge in our duels, you know. Surely you don’t harbour the delusion of besting me with basic disarming charms?"
Harry's response was swift and reckless. "When it comes to you, Riddle, I won't have any scruples."
As soon as the words left his mouth, Harry realized his mistake. He'd essentially admitted he might use dark magic in the future. A flash of triumph in Riddle's eyes told him the slip hadn't gone unnoticed.
Determined to mask his misstep, Harry decided to press on. Steeling himself, he met Riddle's gaze.
"Never mind. I agree to your terms," he said, surprised by how steady his voice sounded. "Do we have a deal?"
"Yes, we do," replied Riddle, inclining his head. Once again radiating the same satisfaction as when they had just sat down for an evening game of chess, he looked pointedly at the board between them. "Shall I make a move, or do you see that you've lost?"
The question sounded almost metaphorical, and Harry hoped it didn't refer to what he had just agreed to. Either way, he had no intention of giving up without a fight.
"Of course we continue."
He lost after the third move.
Riddle waved his hand over the board, putting all the pawns back in their places.
"Fancy another round?"
Harry shrugged and stifled a yawn. As the excitement of the negotiations wore off, he felt a sense of weariness. But he wasn't in any hurry to go to bed or read that book about curses.
"We can. But I'm white this time."
"As you wish," agreed Riddle, watching Harry intently as he made his first move.
As Riddle's hand hovered over his black pawn, he spoke again, his tone deceptively casual. "Ah, before we begin — I believe you ran out of your sleeping potion yesterday, didn't you?"
Harry stiffened, caught off guard by Riddle's perceptiveness. "Yes," he replied cautiously, eyes fixed on the board.
"I didn't buy another vial, but if you need it, all you have to do is ask," Riddle said, moving his pawn to face Harry's. His voice was almost soft, but there was a command in it. "Don't try to acquire it yourself. I prefer to maintain control in this matter — it's far too easy to overdose or become... dependent. I wouldn't want to have to pull you out of any addiction."
The game started again.
o.O.o
As the new week dawned, Harry's attention returned to the black journal tucked under a bookcase in the back of Borgin and Burke's. While French was still as incomprehensible to him as Latin, that was a concern for another time. First, he had to retrieve the journal, a task that proved more challenging than he'd initially anticipated.
Monday and Tuesday crawled by at a painfully slow pace, with the constant presence of Mr. Borgin and Mr. Burke. The two salesmen barely moved an inch from their shop. While one served customers, the other sorted purchased items in the back room, and vice versa. To Harry's growing frustration, their watchful eyes followed him more closely than usual, as if they sensed he was up to something.
To make matters worse, Riddle's good mood from the weekend had vanished, replaced by an increasing irritation. Harry had already learned that when the future Dark Lord was in such a state, it was best to stay out of his way.
That was why Harry forced himself to maintain an appearance of engagement, following his superiors' orders with feigned enthusiasm, even managing not to grimace when helping sell suspicious artifacts. In his spare time, he buried his nose in a book on curses that Riddle had cleverly disguised as another transmutation book.
The irony wasn't lost on Harry — using a book on dark magic as cover for his own nefarious plans.
He even kept a straight face when Lungus Fletcher (Harry couldn't help but think the similarity to Mundungus Fletcher's name was no coincidence) rushed into the shop on Tuesday. The wizard spent more than two hours eagerly bargaining with Riddle for every Knut, trying to push as many of his brought items as possible. Harry involuntarily admired Riddle's patience and perseverance as he finally emerged victorious, the purchased items, most likely not from a legitimate source, ending up in boxes in the back room.
The opportunity to retrieve the diary finally presented itself on Wednesday. Mr. Borgin went to see one of their regular customers, Mrs. Smith, to present her with some items specially reserved for her from the late French wizard's collection. Mr. Burke, on the other hand, went to see Mr. Prince, an elderly wizard whose potions were occasionally sold in their shop. Riddle, even more irritated than the day before, stood at the counter reading a book he had bought from Fletcher the previous day. A better opportunity might not arise again.
"If you don't need me for anything, I'm going to the back room to continue reading that book on curses," Harry said to the older boy, the said book tucked under his arm.
Riddle lifted his head from the book he was reading and looked at him skeptically.
"Since when did you become so interested in learning black magic?"
Harry blushed slightly. "We have a deal, remember? I want to finish it by Friday so I can kick your ass in the duel on Saturday," he shot back with a fake, cocky grin.
Riddle's look became even more skeptical. "Gryffindor delusions. But don't worry, I'll make sure you get rid of them after Saturday," Riddle said ominously, then waved his hand dismissively.
That was all Harry needed.
When he was out of Riddle's sight, Harry let out a sigh of relief. He placed the book of curses on the table between the armchairs usually occupied by Mr. Borgin and Mr. Burke, then walked over to the bookcase where he had hidden the journal. It was fortunate that it couldn't be seen from Riddle's position, but unfortunately, someone had stacked a pile of boxes in front of the bookcase, impeding access.
Harry stood in front of it and scratched his head.
In theory, he could have used Accio to summon the journal, but Riddle would still take Harry's wand every day when they returned from work and check what spells had been cast with it during the day. Harry was not in the habit of throwing Accio when he wanted to reach for something, and Riddle unfortunately knew this, so using it now might rise suspicions. That left a manual solution. He had to move the boxes quietly, then bend down to pick up the journal.
The boxes proved to be unexpectedly heavy, and although Harry pushed against them with all his might, they did not move even a quarter of an inch. It was as if someone had magically sticked them to the ground. Harry sighed and decided that a different approach was needed — perhaps if he moved each of the boxes individually, he could get to the bookcase.
Sticking out of the box at the top were items that Harry recognised as the ones Fletcher had brought yesterday. Harry bent down and slid his fingers under the box. His face flushed from the effort, he clenched his teeth and tried to lift it. The result was the same. Feeling a mixture of anger and frustration, Harry tried again. Suddenly, he swayed, lost his balance, and reflexively put his hands out in front of him to prevent a fall.
One of his palms touched a comb on the top. A sharp, searing pain instantly pierced it and spread like wildfire to the rest of his body.
Harry screamed.
o.O.o
Tom Riddle sat behind the counter, soothing the irritation caused by Borgin's decision to pay Hepzibah Smith a personal visit by immersing himself in a diary he had acquired from Fletcher the previous day. The faded ink on the yellowed pages told of magical wonders from the Antipodes, penned by an English wizard and explorer at the turn of the seventeenth century. As he absorbed the tales of Aboriginal magic, a sudden, chilling scream pierced the air, shattering his concentration.
His head snapped up, and his grey eyes narrowed as they darted toward the back room. Simultaneously, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a customer approaching the shop's entrance. With lightning reflexes, Tom's wand was in his hand, and an intricate illusion spell flowed from its tip, conjuring the image of a crowded room for the potential customer, effectively discouraging entry. The spell also sealed the door, ensuring their privacy.
As he crossed the threshold, a single glance was sufficient to assess the situation. Harry Potter lay on the floor, his body jolted by uncontrollable convulsions. The boy's eyes had rolled back, showing only whites, and a thin lines of blood trickled from the corner of his mouth and nostrils. A tangible aura of dark magic permeated the air, almost palpable to Tom's heightened senses.
Tom's anger flared. Stupid boy, he thought.
His wand was raised, a curse-breaking spell on the tip of his tongue, when an unexpected thought entered his mind and stopped him. Why should he save Harry Potter?
The Oath of Submission prevented Tom from directly killing the boy but allowing a curse to do the job... that was an entirely different matter.
A cold smile spread across Tom's lips as he considered the implications. With Potter gone, the threat to his future would disappear. No prophecy, no Chosen One, no equal to challenge his rise to power.
No more dealing with Potter's daily defiance and stubbornness.
Only a fool would squander such an opportunity.