Whetted appetite
— CHAPTER SEVENTEEN —
Whetted appetite
It took Harry nearly a week to recover. The side effects of the Crucio had mixed with the magical exhaustion caused by the curse that had almost killed him. Drained of magical energy, he felt the pain and its aftermath with more intensity than usual. Fortunately, Riddle hadn't kept him under the curse for long, or at least not long enough for Harry to lose consciousness again. When it was all over, Riddle simply left the room, leaving Harry alone. In the evening, he sent Bug with a hearty soup and mercifully allowed Harry to lick his wounds in solitude. Harry didn't mind.
Brandon Avery's visit the next day caught Harry off guard, although upon reflection, it seemed like a logical step. After all, if Riddle had a private healer at his disposal, why not use his services?
Harry felt uncomfortable as he lay in bed, watching as the older boy entered his room uninvited and assessed his condition with a furrowed brow. Not bothering to offer a friendly smile, Harry pulled himself up on his elbows to at least assume a sitting position. Avery gave him one more brief glance, then asked in a casual tone:
"How long did he keep you under?"
Harry blinked, caught off guard by the bluntness of the question. A flush of shame crept up his neck as he realized Avery had easily deduced Riddle's chosen method of punishment.
"I... I don't know what you mean," Harry mumbled, averting his eyes.
Avery snorted. "Don't play dumb. The Cruciatus Curse. How long?"
Harry squirmed uncomfortably, the memory of the pain still fresh. He couldn't bring himself to answer. Avery, impatient with Harry's reluctance to respond, pressed, "Come on. I need to know to treat you properly. So?"
"Not... not that long," he finally admitted, swallowing his pride. "I didn't lose consciousness."
"Pity," Avery remarked, his voice devoid of sympathy. "After what you did, you deserved a proper punishment. Do you know what we had to go through to save your ass? It almost magically drained both me and your brother."
Anger rose inside Harry, his hands involuntarily clenching into fists beneath the duvet. Despite his annoyance, when Avery offered him a potion to calm his agitated nervous system, Harry obediently drank its contents. He did the same with three more vials that Avery pulled from the pocket of his healer’s apron after casting several diagnostic spells.
Avery visited him twice more. His harsh, almost hostile attitude remained unchanged, but Harry didn't mind. He was a future Death Eater, after all. It was easier to dislike him when he acted like that, even when he was helping Harry to recover. And Harry desperately needed a reason why he shouldn't feel warmer towards him, especially after Avery had made him realise how much effort it had taken to break that curse.
The rest of the week was relatively quiet. Most of the time, Harry was on his own, and on the third day, to keep himself from dwelling on useless thoughts, he reached for a Herbology textbook he'd found on his bedside table shortly after waking up. Now that he knew Riddle's plan, more things began to make sense.
As Harry flipped through it, his mind analysed the events of the past few weeks. Suddenly, all the intense study sessions Riddle had forced upon him, the gruelling repetition of Transfiguration theory, the endless practice of Charms, and the constant refinement of his spellcasting made sense. How had he not realized that it was all for a greater purpose? Thinking about it now, he felt stupid and naive. His embarrassment deepened when Harry remembered how Riddle had made it clear that his plan would not involve Harry becoming a Hogwarts student again.
For a brief moment, Harry had really hoped to get out from under Riddle's watchful eye. Being stuck in the past would be more bearable if he didn't have to spend his days in the company of the future Dark Lord. Besides, Dumbledore was at Hogwarts. And although Riddle had the Marauder's Map at his disposal and had already warned that if he ever saw Harry alone with Dumbledore, he would consider it disobedience of a direct order and punish him accordingly, Harry was sure that, given enough time, he would find a way to reach the future headmaster of Hogwarts.
Despite Riddle's attempts undermine his confidence in Dumbledore, Harry refused to give in. Everyone makes mistakes, even Dumbledore. But Harry still believed that the headmaster truly had his best interests at heart. Dumbledore was good, Riddle was bad. It was simple and undeniable.
Dumbledore never cast Crucio on him.
Unfortunately, Riddle's plan was for Harry to spend only two weeks at Hogwarts. Harry was to arrive at the castle in early June, take all the compulsory exams (and pass them better than he had the first time) and, in the meantime, break into the current headmaster's office and convince the Sorting Hat to give him the Sword of Gryffindor.
A piece of cake. Right.
Even if Harry had wanted the mission to succeed, he would have found it hopeless and doomed to failure.
If only it weren't for the bloody life debt....
As soon as Harry had recovered enough to get out of bed on his own, he went to the library, hoping to find a book about it. Having a life debt to a future Dark Lord was such an absurd concept that Harry desperately hoped it was a big lie, made up by Riddle to give him extra motivation for his mission.
He spent a few hours searching Riddle's growing private library only to find nothing. But the next day, during an evening game of chess — Harry, not wanting to be in Riddle's company, remained stubbornly silent, not even trying to win — Riddle summoned the correct book.
"I believe this is what you were looking for yesterday," he said simply, handing Harry the book. Harry took it without a word.
What he found in it did not make him feel any better.
The tome, entitled "Bonds of Magic: Unbreakable Vows and Life Debts," described life debts as one of the most potent and ancient forms of magical binding. It was created when one wizard saved the life of another, especially when it would have been in the saviour’s best interest to let the other die. The saved wizard owed their saviour a debt that could only be repaid by saving the life in return or by fulfilling a significant request. But the part about the consequences if the rescued wizard tried to harm or kill his saviour was the worst. According to the description, magic itself would consider it an act of great ingratitude that could even result in death. Harry cursed under his breath as he read. Great. Another unwanted bond with Riddle, as if there weren't enough already.
He was beginning to feel overwhelmed. In just two months in the past, he had become bound to Riddle in a way that made it virtually impossible for him to defeat Riddle's future self. And there was nothing Harry could do about it. Riddle had even been able to force him to reveal his only clue to the Horcruxes — and effectively forbid him from seeking any further information about them. Harry could only hope that he would somehow find a way around this, as he had always done.
The problem was that hope was fading with each passing day.
o.O.o
"Are you still sulking? You know it's getting boring, don't you?" Tom said, moving his bishop a few spaces to the left. He was genuinely irritated by Potter's stubborn silence, especially given the circumstances. In Tom's opinion, the brat had no reasons to behave that way.
It was he, Tom, who had driven himself to magical exhaustion to save Potter's life. It was Tom who later apologised to Borgin and Burke on his behalf for the inconvenience caused by their absence from work. He even managed to find and examine the object Potter had so carelessly touched — the curse on it turned out to be quite interesting. Finally, it was Tom who spent the last three nights in a row painstakingly translating the French journey, only to find that not a single sentence was devoted to the Horcruxes.
All things considered, the Crucio he had thrown at Potter was well deserved. And the boy should be grateful that he had limited himself to just one, for despite his composed exterior, Tom's fingers itched to cast the curse again, Potter's dour mood grating on his nerves.
"Don't tell me it bothers you. I won't believe it," Potter replied, not even looking at him. He moved his pawn to such a random square that Tom winced inwardly. Today's game was utterly pointless; Potter had been more into it in his first days here than he was now.
"You're forgetting yourself," Tom said calmly, moving his knight forward. Two more moves and he would have won, but today it felt meaningless, too easy. "You brought this on yourself. Actions have consequences."
Potter's hand froze over the chessboard for a moment before he continued. "As do yours," he murmured under his breath. As soon as the words left his lips, the boy tensed visibly, as if expecting immediate retaliation. His eyes met Tom's for a moment, emerald clashing with grey, before they darted away.
"Careful, Harry," Tom warned quietly, studying the teenager intently. He maintained his stern facade, secretly pleased at the spark of defiance. It was the first small sign of Potter's trademark cheekiness in days, which probably meant that the teenager was slowly returning to his old annoying self. "You're approaching the limit of my tolerance."
Potter's gaze locked with Tom's again, a muted fire in his eyes, tempered by caution and fear. "What happens if I cross it?" he asked, his voice low but steady.
Riddle's lips curled into a cold smile. "I think you already know."
It took considerable restraint not to add that he was just waiting for Potter to push him again. The second Crucio had only whetted his appetite.
o.O.o
"Again, Potter," Tom commanded, looking at the boy appraisingly. "And this time, try to cast a spell instead of waving your wand aimlessly. Otherwise, I’ll think that you no longer need it.”
"I'm trying," Potter spat through clenched teeth. He focused the hateful gaze usually reserved for Tom on the paperweight and waved his wand once more, uttering the appropriate incantation. Loudly, clearly and correctly.
And nothing happened.
"Should I really take your wand?" asked Tom, crossing his arms over his chest. He stood in a relaxed pose, leaning against the desk, watching Potter's performance with growing irritation. First, the boy had failed to perform the transmutation they had practised only a week ago, now he had failed to reduce the paperweight to a quarter of an inch, something he had already mastered to perfection.
"I'm trying," Potter repeated, and the angry glare he shot in his direction confirmed to Tom that something was wrong. Since the second Crucio, Potter had been remarkably docile, even uncharacteristically polite and tamed, so this raising of his voice might have meant that he wasn't lying.
Which meant that perhaps he really wasn’t able to cast this spell.
Tom frowned. He had given him four days to recover. Could it be...
The moment Riddle’s wand moved, Potter jerked violently, almost overturning the table in an attempt to avoid what he clearly thought was incoming punishment. Tom couldn't help but smirk at the reaction. It was satisfying to see the effect of his earlier… approach.
"Relax," Tom said, his tone tinged with amusement. "If I wanted to punish you, I would, and the fact that you're trying to avoid it won't help. This was a diagnostic spell. There’s indeed something wrong with your magic."
Potter shot him another vicious glare.
"You could have warned me," he complained, trying to hide his confusion by turning up the vase he had been trying to turn into a wooden elephant figurine.
"And voluntarily deprive myself of the sight of your natural reaction to me raising my wand?"
Another glare, and then, as if it hit Potter with a delay: "Wait... what do you mean there's something wrong with my magic?" This time, the defiance in the boy’s voice was replaced by growing fear.
Tom raised an eyebrow mockingly. "You sound as though you're not surprised that you've been unable to cast a single spell in the past quarter of an hour."
Potter blushed, but didn't flinch as Tom cast a second diagnostic spell on him. A soft, translucent glow enveloped the boy, pulsing gently like a fading heartbeat. Tom closed his eyes, focusing on the magical sensations rather than the visual display.
The frown on his forehead deepened.
"So?" Potter asked again, his voice tighter now, the fear and tension more evident than before. "What's wrong with my magic?"
"It appears that the curse you so carelessly activated has damaged you more than I originally thought."
Potter froze, the colour draining from his face. Well, he deserved it. "What do you mean by 'damage me more'?"
"It has damaged the connection between you and your magic. Your magic seems to be... depleted. Like a dying flame."
"Could it be reversed?"
Were it not for the fact that Potter's upcoming exams weren't just a cover, Tom would have been tempted to say 'no'. Fortunately for the boy, Tom needed him to pass them well.
After all, he had the reputation to maintain. Riddles' reputation.
"Perhaps," he replied succinctly. Suddenly, an idea sparked in his mind, causing a mental smirk. "But you may not like the method," he added.
Potter looked at him uncomprehendingly.
"What do you mean by this? What method?"
"I think you’ve already known," Tom replied, genuinely curious about the boy's reaction.
Potter wasn't stupid, even if he sometimes stubbornly refused to draw the correct conclusions. Fortunately, he wasn't doing that now.
"Black magic? "
Tom just nodded. And waited, watching the internal struggle play out on Potter's face.
"How much black?" the boy finally asked.
Tom looked him straight in the eyes. "Does it really matter?"
Potter held his gaze, his hands clenching into fists as grim determination settled over his features. "If it means sacrificing someone's life, then I'd rather live without magic."
Tom let out a cold, mirthless laugh.
"It's black because it requires blood. Mine and yours. No one will die, don't be so dramatic."
"And this is the only way?"
"The fastest I know. But for it to work, your cooperation is needed. The alternative is to wait for your magic to naturally reconnect with your will. That could take days, weeks, or even years."
Of course, the part about cooperation was a lie; but Tom was curious about the boy's decision. Presented in this way, it gave him a false air of choice. As well as force him to take responsibility for the use of such magic.
Potter struggled with his thoughts for a moment and Tom regretted, not for the first time, being unable to freely use Legilimency on the boy. Fortunately, Potter had not yet learned to hide his emotions, and all the inner conflict was visible on his face.
"What do I have to do?" Potter asked finally, his voice resigned.
Tom didn’t bother to hide his satisfaction. Step by step.
"Hold out your hands," Tom instructed, simultaneously summoning a silver dagger with a non-verbal Accio. As the dagger slid into his outstretched hand, he pointed it at Potter's palm. "This may be unpleasant," he warned.
Or at least it was for him, when the Cappadocia mage had done the same to him, trying to make a connection between the future Dark Lord's will and his previously dormant wandless magic. Later, of course, he showed Tom how to do it. Sometimes Tom regretted his hasty decision to kill the mage, wondering how much more he could have learned from him.
More often, though, he felt that he had learned all he needed to from him.
"Don't resist, don't fight me or my magic, no matter how you feel," he commanded. "On the contrary, try to cooperate," he added before making two even cuts across the inside of the teenager's hands. The blade was razor-sharp, requiring only the lightest touch. Potter hissed, more in surprise than pain, but he didn't flinch. He remained still as Tom made identical cuts on his own palms and grasped Potter's hands, intertwining their fingers. Their blood mixed and seeped.
"Are you ready?"
Potter clenched his jaw harder but nodded.
Riddle closed his eyes and concentrated, searching for a link to Potter's magic — weak as it was, but still coursing through the boy's blood. Finding it was easier than expected, as if his mortal enemy's magic itself was seeking him out, lunging towards him. When the connection was made, Tom sent out a tendril of his power for encouragement, simultaneously trying to draw out Potter's magic. He pulled once, then twice, but just when he thought he succeeded, the magic retreated. So, he reached deeper, surprised by the lack of expected discomfort or resistance. On the contrary, for a moment, as his and Potter's magic intertwined, he felt a sense of unity — as if there was something fundamentally similar between them. However, he didn't have time to dwell on the sensation, since he reflexively pulling again.
It worked. The power he'd stirred surged forward, pushing against his own, though not violently. It was as if his magic hadn't been recognized as an intruder.
Potter inhaled sharply, stumbling back a few steps and yanking his hands away. Tom smiled and healed both their wounds with a quick spell.
"Now try again," he instructed, pointing with his head at the paperweight.
Potter, avoiding his eyes, pulled his wand from his pocket and, not caring that he was staining it with blood, cast the spell.
The paperweight shrank, its size reducing to approximately a quarter of an inch, as Tom assessed with his trained eye.
"Looks like it worked, " he said simply. "However, your magic may be unstable for a few days. If necessary, we'll repeat what I've just done."
Tom didn't need Legilimency to know that Potter fervently hoped a second intervention wouldn't be necessary. Riddle, on the other hand, wouldn't have minded, for the strange familiarity of Potter's magic was truly puzzling.
o.O.o
Harry set the quill down on the desk and stretched, straightening his stiff muscles. He looked out of the window, first at the overcast sky, then at the crooked, dilapidated tenements across the street. Despite the coming spring, this part of magical London remained grey and dreary. Passers-by hurried down the cobbled street; Harry had spent enough time in Knockturn Alley to notice that Saturday afternoons attracted people who seemed to be here by accident, and it was more than obvious from the way they moved that they felt uncomfortable.
Harry felt uneasy as well, but for a completely different reason. The memory of what had happened yesterday was still haunting him. It wasn't just because he'd agreed to use dark magic to get Riddle to help him reconnect with his own magic. Rather, it was that it hadn't seemed like dark magic, not the kind Harry thought of when the term came up. It had been just blood, and, moreover, his and Riddle's. Given with consent. At first glance, there had been nothing wrong with that.
What was more disturbing, however, was what had followed.
As their fingers had intertwined and blood had mixed, all thoughts of resistance had vanished from Harry's mind. To submit, to let himself be led — it had felt like the only natural thing to do. This desire had arisen in Harry of its own accord, not from external compulsion. Then it had dawned on Harry to whom he had been really submitting. It hadn't been just Riddle's magic, but the future Dark Lord himself. A sobering realization had followed, and the connection had been momentarily severed, only to be re-established a moment later. Harry had allowed himself to give in, against all common sense. At that moment, surrendering had seemed the right thing to do, the best thing he could have done.
Worst of all, it had worked.
His connection to magic had been restored.
What horrified him afterwards was the ease with which he had surrendered, the impression that submitting to Riddle's will, to his orders had been something appropriate, good.
Afterwards, he had felt a reluctant gratitude towards Riddle, who, despite surely having felt Harry's desire to submit to him, had acted as if it hadn't happened at all. He had returned to the lesson with his usual ruthlessness and severity, demanding, as always, Harry's total commitment. Once or twice, Harry had allowed himself a brief rebellion, more to feel that he could than to defy Riddle, and although his behaviour had been met with an immediate response, he had managed to avoid the stinging hex sent his way. Which had been meaningful, because Harry had managed to learn that when Riddle wanted to punish him, the spell always hit its target.
And then Riddle had surprised Harry even more by asking if he had finished reading the book on the basics of curses, reminding him of their agreement. Riddle had even extended his deadline to Sunday evening.
That was why Harry had spent most of Saturday poring over the book on the basics of curses, taking notes until he had got to the section where he needed to combine the new information with his knowledge of charms and transmutation. The knowledge he didn't have, but he knew where to find it. In the books stored in Riddle's library.
Harry sighed and got up from his desk. If he had had his wand, he could have summoned the books he needed, but unfortunately Riddle still kept his wand and gave it to him in strictly controlled situations. It was frustrating, but there was nothing he could do about it.
The only entrance to the library was through the living room, and Harry sincerely hoped he wouldn't run into Riddle there. Apart from their breakfast together, he hadn't seen him all day. Even lunch had been brought to him in his room by Bug — a reward for studying curses so diligently, perhaps?
To Harry's surprise, as he made his way along the corridor and found himself just outside the living room, voices came from behind the ajar door. He recognized some immediately; Riddle's, Malfoy's. But there were others that Harry could not identify. As the content of the ongoing conversation reached his ears, he took a step back making sure he wasn't seen, and, against his better judgement, began to listen.
o.O.o
"...and since Dinwiddle is ambitious, his current position is just a step in his career, and knowing that he’s too weak to remove Cress from his post, he will probably take the opportunity to jump into Rowle’s deputy role," Primus Lestrange said with a lazy certainty in his tone, where contempt mingled with disdain, as if wanting a career in the Ministry of Magic were in itself something derogatory.
Tom Riddle followed Abraxas Malfoy's questioning gaze, which settled on Alastair Mulciber.
"Are you sure about Rowle's deputy?" Abraxas asked, reaching for a caviar cracker, his pale, aristocratic features staring at Mulciber, who seemed half-listening to the ongoing conversation. His gaze had drifted to the view of the city through the narrow, high windows.
Heavy, rainy clouds hung over Muggle London. The Thames stretched out in the distance, grey and worn like the city around it. The room was pleasantly warm, unlike the outside world, thanks to the crackling fire in the fireplace. The flames gave off a steady warmth that reached every corner, and the glow of the chandelier candles illuminated the living room - not as grand as those in his guests' family estates, but no less refined. The business they were discussing today required a trusted environment, and for Tom that meant his flat in Knockturn Alley.
Mulciber tore his eyes from the view outside the window and shrugged his broad shoulders, his muscular frame relaxed in the armchair.
"As far as I know, the boys are just gathering evidence of bribery from your uncle's deputy," Alastair responded. "But they're exceptionally persistent, so I think they'll get there quickly." He paused for a moment, his sharp brown eyes flicking to Tom. "Though it would probably be a matter of weeks, at worst months, not days."
Tom didn’t mind. The situation with Hepzibah Smith was still unresolved, and he needed more time to manipulate his way through the untrusted witch to obtain the Hufflepuff Cup and the Slytherin locket. Until he could close that chapter, he would need to remain cautious, not ready to make his next move too quickly. But that wasn't something his Slytherins needed to know.
"I think I can wait that long," Tom said generously, raising his wine glass to his lips. The crimson liquid swirled slowly before he took a sip, savouring the taste. "I do, however, expect you to keep an eye on it," he said, and although the tone of his voice was conversational, everyone in the room knew it was not a request, but an order.
"I've been assigned to the training section since my return, but of course I'll do my best to stay informed about what's going on in this case," Mulciber promised.
"It would be good if Primus and Abraxas were kept informed as well, so they can act when the time comes," Riddle added idly, twirling his glass.
A slight smile appeared on Primus’s lips. With his usual ease and grace, he summoned his wine glass. "No need to worry, Tom. Alastair is already keeping us well-informed. In fact, we've taken some steps of our own."
Tom raised an eyebrow, pleased to hear that, but said nothing, allowing Primus to continue.
"As you know, Cress is the husband of my uncle's wife's sister," he began. "Yesterday, Secundus and I attended a dinner to celebrate her birthday, and naturally, Cress was there, as our aunt's brother-in-law." Primus paused for effect, slowly savouring his wine. Tom listened with growing satisfaction. "Secundus and I found ourselves reminiscing about our time at Hogwarts. Naturally, you came up in conversation, as Secundus's year mate. He spoke highly of you and mentioned your brilliance and achievements. Our cousins were eager to hear more. Even Cress himself took an interest. He asked what you'd been up to lately."
Abraxas shifted slightly in his armchair, but Primus continued, clearly relishing the attention. "I told him the truth — that you'd recently returned from months of traveling, learning about the cultures of other magical nations."
Tom allowed himself a small smile and looked at Primus with approval. "And what did Cress say?"
Primus leaned back, his confidence evident in the relaxed way he held his glass. "He was intrigued, of course. I'd say you're on his radar now, Tom. The timing couldn't be better."
Before Tom could reply, Abraxas Malfoy — who had been listening with a hint of jealousy in his steely gaze — cut in, his voice soft but with an underlying competitiveness. "Of course, while Primus was busy discussing your virtues, I took matters into my own hands with Dumbledore."
Tom turned his gaze to Malfoy.
"The seventeenth of April," Abraxas continued, his eyes glittering with pride. "That's the date. I've confirmed that Dumbledore will be occupied with the Wizengamot that day. Special meeting—Aurors reporting on their mission abroad. He won't be at Hogwarts. The perfect opportunity for you to speak to Dippet without interference."
There was a brief pause, tension simmering beneath the polished facades of Abraxas and Primus. Tom’s gaze flickered between the two, fully aware of the unspoken rivalry, and a quiet satisfaction rose within him.
They were influential, wealthy, pureblood, and completely at his command. Eager to serve him, greedy for his praise.
It was satisfying.
"Impressive," Tom finally said. "It seems you’ve both been busy." He allowed a hint of satisfaction to colour his words, ensuring both Primus and Abraxas felt acknowledged. "Your efforts are noted. Now we just have to make sure everything goes according to plan."
Abraxas smirked slightly, clearly pleased with himself, while Primus gave a small nod.
"Alastair, what about you? Will you be attending the special meeting of the Wizengamot?" Tom turned to the third wizard who, although he was now responsible for passing on the most important information, had mostly listened to the conversation in silence, sparsely adding a few things of his own, his serious face betraying little. Tom knew, however, that he was the most loyal of his current guests. As the third son with no prospect of advancing within his family, Alastair was looking for a way out. And he had found it among the Aurors, while remaining in Riddle's service. "Do you have any insider information to offer?"
"I suspect so, but no one has spoken to me officially about it yet," Mulciber said, sounding more like he was reporting than answering a casual question. "But I wouldn't count on any important or key information to come out of this meeting. The command prefers to keep our methods discreet. And none of my boys are eager to share what we did while posing as Grindelwald’s followers. The important thing is that it worked."
Riddle understood this perfectly; he knew Alastair's ruthless nature, his disregard for getting his hands dirty. And pretending to be Grindelwald's loyal servant in order to bring about his downfall had certainly required it more than once.
Tom leaned forward, his voice lowering with interest. "I’d like to hear more about that..." he said with a knowing look.
Alastair took a sip of his wine, about to respond when his gaze flicked to the door, suspicion tightening his expression.
Riddle felt a surge of irritation, knowing perfectly well what had alerted Alastair. Hiding his annoyance, Tom nodded almost imperceptibly, letting Alastair know he was aware, and sat back, signalling calm.
Fool. If Potter had even an ounce of common sense, he would have retreated quietly. But no—he had to push his luck, probably thinking his presence at the door had gone unnoticed. After two months of living with Riddle under one roof.
Idiocy.
"It seems we have an eager listener among us," Riddle said smoothly, waving a hand and opening the door wide.
Alastair's eyes widened at the casual display of wandless magic. It seemed his Slytherins hadn't bothered to inform him of their leader's latest skill.
As the door opened, Potter’s silhouette came into view, standing just beyond the threshold. His face, pale and wide-eyed, betrayed a mixture of trepidation and annoyance as he instinctively took a step back, retreating into the shadows of the corridor. But Tom's voice cut through the air, stopping him in his tracks.
"Don't be shy, Harry," Tom drawled, his tone mocking as he gestured for the boy to step forward. "Come in, won't you?"
Reluctantly, Potter entered the room, glancing briefly at the three men sitting around Riddle, each with a different glint of interest in their eyes. Alastair's face showed polite curiosity, Primus scowled in disapproval, and Abraxas, apparently sensing what was about to unfold before their eyes, took another cracker and a long sip of wine, as if he were in the audience of a theatre waiting for a show.
"It’s not what it looks like," Potter said quickly, his words tumbling out. "I wasn't eavesdropping — well, I mean, I was here, yes, but only because I needed a book from the library, and I didn't want to disturb you—"
"Enough," Tom interrupted, his voice sharp and clipped, slicing through Potter’s rushed excuses. He watched the boy closely, his piercing gaze evaluating every twitch and shift in Potter’s expression. There was some truth in his words, he was certain, but it did nothing to change the fact that Potter had been listening, lingering deliberately by the door. "Do you remember what I said would happen if I caught you eavesdropping again?"
Potter was about to open his mouth in another protest, presumably to argue that he was telling the truth, but the warning glint in Tom's eyes made him fall silent. It was not a good idea to argue with Tom in front of an audience like this, and apparently, even Potter knew that. So he pressed his lips into a tight line and fixed Tom with a defiant glare.
Tom sighed theatrically, letting his gaze flick briefly to Alastair, who watched with a raised eyebrow. "Alastair," Tom began, a note of irony in his voice, "meet my younger brother, Harry. He’s a rather recent addition to the family and… well, unruly."
Primus gave a derisive snort, his gaze hardening as he looked at Harry. "Had he been my brother, he would have learned his lesson after the first time."
"My brother usually only needs a warning," Tom replied, his voice deceptively calm even as he seethed inwardly at the patronising tone of Primus' words. The remark was an implication, faint but nonetheless, that Tom had failed to manage his younger brother effectively — a subtle hint of doubt in his authority. "But he is still a teenager and unfortunately some things need to be reminded. It also happened with Secundus, didn't it?"
"Very rarely," Primus replied, clearly displeased that Tom remembered such situations.
"Same here," Tom said, glancing at the boy who stood tense, his defiance barely concealed by his forced silence.
In truth, Tom had no desire to punish Potter here and now, not in front of his followers. Potter’s resentment would only deepen, and he didn't feel like dealing with the boy's moods, not when they had such an important mission ahead of them. But Primus’s reaction made one thing clear: this was no longer about Potter’s insolence; it was about Tom’s control, his mastery over those who followed him.
If he let Potter's behaviour go unpunished, even for a moment, his Slytherins might begin to question his strength. And in this world, strength was everything. They followed him because he had proven himself at Hogwarts to be the strongest, the most ruthless among them. If he hesitated now, if he showed any cracks, he knew their loyalty would waver. It was a line he couldn't afford to blur.
So with cold determination, Riddle rose gracefully from his chair and took a few steps forward. The way he moved could have been frightening; there was a cold precision to his movements that promised pain.
He nodded calmly at Potter and gestured for him to come forward.
"Come here," he ordered, his voice deep and steady. It was clear that this was no suggestion. This was no longer a matter of discipline — it was about maintaining his dominion.
Potter hesitated, the rebellious fire flashing in his green eyes as he glanced briefly at the others. His face was a storm of anger and humiliation, a fiery defiance struggling against an undeniable dread. He opened his mouth, perhaps this time to argue, but something in Tom’s expression silenced him again. Swallowing visibly, Potter stepped forward, his hands clenched at his sides, every inch of his posture radiating tension and resentment.
"Hold out your hands," Tom instructed, his tone as cold as ice. Potter’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, he looked as though he might outright refuse. His reluctance to carry out the order was clear. But then, under Tom’s withering gaze, he exhaled and angrily extended his hands, palms facing up, his expression one of simmering fury mixed with palpable fear.
"Three strikes," Tom announced, as if declaring a simple fact. He did not justify his decision, unlike the measured explanations he had given so far. He met Potter’s gaze with a hard, unyielding stare. "I hope you remember the rules better than my first warning about eavesdropping."
Potter merely nodded, but it was clear he was barely in control of himself. His lips were pressed into a thin line, his eyes blazing.
"Then be so kind as to remind us of them, so that I can be sure you understand," Tom said, his voice deceptively gentle, yet his gaze unwavering.
Potter’s face flushed, his teeth clenched tightly. "I… I keep my eyes on you," he muttered, the words coming out strained. "And… if I pull my hands back, we start over."
Tom tilted his head slightly, a faint glint of satisfaction in his eye. "And you will count each strike aloud," he added, watching Potter’s expression twist, anger sparking beneath the mask of control. "And afterwards you will thank me and apologise to me and my guests for interrupting our conversation." This was exceptionally cruel but necessary.
Potter’s lips pressed even tighter, a flush of rage darkening his cheeks. Tom could see the anger building in him, a silent, unyielding hatred that seemed to set his green eyes ablaze. Beneath the fury, though, was a flicker of something else — humiliation, a shame that was as potent as his rage.
"Did you understand?"
"Yes."
It was almost impressive, the way Potter’s resentment pulsed beneath the surface, and Tom knew the boy’s loathing was directed entirely at him.
Aware of the attention of the other Slytherins, Tom raised his wand but looked Potter straight in the eyes before casting the punishing spell.
The first strike landed with a brutal snap across Potter’s palms. The boy’s reaction was instantaneous—he sucked in a sharp breath, his face contorting in pain as he instinctively jerked his hands back, unable to suppress the hiss of agony that escaped him.
Tom smiled inwardly, pleased with the boy's reaction. It was exactly what he wanted. He also noted the reactions of his Slytherins. After all, the whole display was more for them than to discipline Potter. Primus's face showed clear approval, his posture relaxed and content, the discipline perfectly in line with his beliefs in obedience. Abraxas watched with barely concealed pleasure, the jealousy in his gaze momentarily subdued by Potter's humiliation. As for Alastair, he remained impassive, the punishment consistent with the strict discipline he was accustomed to in his work.
"Hands out, Harry. We begin again," Tom commanded icily.
For a moment, Riddle thought Potter might finally rebel. The hatred in the green eyes was almost feral, and there was a raw humiliation that showed the boy knew his pain was the least important factor here. His cheeks burned with shame, his chest rising in a rhythm of quickened breaths.
Well, Potter brought this on himself, he had the chance to retreat to his room before Mulciber could sense his presence. He wouldn't have escaped a reprimand, but Tom could once again play the role of the understanding older brother.
He hadn’t taken the chance. Now he would suffer.
Finally, after a long, tense moment, Potter relented and slowly extended his hands once more.
Riddle raised his wand again. This time without remorse.
After all, he liked it.