Fake amends
— CHAPTER EIGHTEEN —
Fake amends
The stillness of the misty morning was shattered by the sharp crackle of an Apparition. A bitter wind swept across the open Scottish moor, its icy fingers carrying wisps of damp mist that curled around the crumbling remains of an ancient castle — a ghost of its former glory, perched high upon the hill where it had once stood as a proud clan stronghold.
Tom released his grip on Potter's arm. The boy stumbled forward before catching his balance. He rubbed his arm absentmindedly, his eyes sweeping over their surroundings.
"Where are we?" he asked, his voice devoid of its usual curiosity.
"On the moor," Tom replied evenly.
Rather than pressing for details as he would have done just days ago, Potter simply replied with a short "Mm-hmm" and shoved his hands into his coat pockets, standing silently, waiting for further instructions with an air of weary resignation. Tom suppressed a twinge of irritation.
Since the eavesdropping incident, Potter had become almost unbearable. The wild, unruly boy who had once met Tom's orders with defiance and sharp retorts was now subdued and compliant, his rebellious spark extinguished. Instead of resistance, he offered nothing but flat, mechanical obedience, following orders without a trace of emotion.
It grated on Tom's nerves. He had wanted submission, but this empty compliance felt like mockery. Worse, he found himself irritated by his own annoyance. Normally he enjoyed unquestioning obedience, but Potter's lifeless acceptance was a hollow victory. The boy before him seemed more ghost than adversary, nothing like the intriguing opponent he'd grown accustomed to.
Fortunately, Tom knew Potter's defiance wasn't gone but merely dormant - and today, he would draw it back to the surface.
"We're going there," he said, gesturing toward the ruins of the former fortress. Only a single tower and some remnants of thick stone walls remained of what must have once been a formidable stronghold.
Potter sighed and nodded, "Lead the way."
Tom moved along the narrow, winding path that twisted through the low scrub of heather, his steps confident across the slippery stones. Behind him, he heard a sudden curse followed by a loud slosh — Potter must have stepped into a patch of mud. Tom allowed himself a brief smirk but didn’t slow his pace.
When they reached the top, Tom stopped before a moss-covered stone, its surface deeply etched with ancient runes. Without a word, he nodded at Potter, who approached with a sour face, his trousers wet and mud-streaked.
Tom forced himself to ignore the boy's scruffy appearance. Potter would look far worse soon enough. "I need to add your magical signature to the wards," he said, extending a hand. "Give me your hand."
Potter hesitated, and Tom caught a glimmer of that familiar defiance flickering in his eyes. But it was fleeting. He extended his hand, his expression wary but silent. Tom made a precise cut and held Potter's hand over the stone, watching as a few drops of blood fell onto the ancient rune. He muttered the incantation, and the rune glowed briefly, the ambient magic thickening for just a moment before settling once more. "Done."
Potter clenched his hand into a fist, glaring at Riddle with undisguised resentment. Tom raised an eyebrow, his lips curling slightly. "Don’t you want me to heal it?"
Potter's response was wordless — merely the outstretched hand, palm open.
As they crossed the threshold of the protective spells, the moor appeared unchanged, still the same expanse of mist-shrouded heather and distant hills blending into the grey horizon. But within the boundaries of the old ruins, there was a palpable change. The air grew thick, charged with a faint, prickling energy, as if the stones themselves harbored ancient magic woven into the crumbling walls.
They stood in what must have been the main courtyard of the castle. All around them, the remains of high walls rose skyward, their jagged edges softened by moss and time, casting long shadows across the uneven ground. To the left, a collapsed archway opened into a dark passageway, its stones weathered and chipped, hinting at rooms long forgotten. Nearby, the remains of a tower loomed half-standing, with vines winding up its stones and crowning the top, like nature's defiant attempt to reclaim what was left.
Tom knew the place well, and unlike Potter, he was not impressed. The boy wandered a few tentative steps forward, looking around cautiously, his curiosity barely concealed.
Finally, a spark of life.
"Where are we?" Potter asked, the earlier emptiness in his voice replaced by genuine curiosity.
Tom approached him, hands casually tucked into his thick robes. "These are the ruins of a medieval castle, owned by the Primus family for generations," he said, his voice deliberately casual, as if such things were nothing unusual. "My Slytherins use it now and then, especially when they're in the mood for a duel." He didn't mention the powerful enchantments cloaking the area, allowing dark spells to be cast without attracting attention. Nor did he add that his Knights dueled here regularly, with another session planned for tonight.
The word duel had exactly the effect he'd anticipated. Potter turned sharply, his expression wary.
"Duel?"
Tom nodded, letting a slow, sly smile spread across his face. "I’m a man of my word, after all. You read the book on curses, so here we are."
Potter gave him a skeptical look. "A few days after the deadline. Since when have you been so understanding?"
Tom shrugged, unbothered. "Let's say I've taken your circumstances into account."
Potter's eyes widened comically at that.
"As if I'm going to believe you."
"To give you an incentive," Riddle added, ignoring Potter's comment, "if you win, I'll grant you one wish."
Potter's gaze sharpened. "What can I ask?"
Tom looked Potter straight in the eyes. The boy tensed, though this tension carried none of the defeated wariness of recent days. Perfect. "You can wish for anything. But within reason, of course."
"Anything?"
"Almost anything," Tom admitted casually, tilting his head slightly. "Freedom and a return to your time are off the table. Those terms are defined by our oath."
A slight twitch played at Potter's mouth. "Just those two exceptions?"
Tom nodded, his expression unreadable. "Just those two."
Silence fell as Potter considered this, and Tom felt a faint sense of satisfaction as a spark of genuine interest, however fleeting, flickered across the boy's features.
"If I win," Potter began slowly, "you're not allowed to physically punish me again — not in private and certainly not in front of anyone else."
Tom raised an eyebrow, feigning surprise despite having expected exactly this demand. "And how, exactly, do you imagine I'll discipline you in the case of your disobedience?" he asked, his voice carrying a soft, mocking edge.
Potter's jaw tightened, and he met Tom's gaze with a defiant spark that felt like a victory in itself. "That's not my problem. I'm sure you'll think of something."
Tom chuckled, genuinely amused by this return of Potter's insolence. "Careful, Harry. You may not like what I come up with instead." After a calculated pause, he nodded with feigned reluctance. "Very well. If you win, I'll abide by your condition. Although I feel disappointed. You could have asked for anything, even for me to change my plans and stop dreaming of world domination, and you asked for this. Are you that scared of pain?"
The barb struck true — exactly the effect Tom wanted. Colour flooded Potter's face, a deep red that crept up his neck and into his hairline.
"Because I'm sure you'd keep that kind of promise," Potter retorted, voice dripping with venom.
Tom smirked. "Who knows? Now you'll never know, because you've irretrievably lost your chance."
Potter closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath, as if steadying himself. When he opened them again, the earlier embarrassment had vanished completely.
"So how will we know who wins?" he asked, all business now.
"Simple. Whoever disarms the other first or leaves their opponent unable to continue."
"And spells?"
"You may use any spell you wish," Tom replied, his eyes glinting dangerously. "Even Unforgivables — save Avada Kedavra, of course." He leaned in, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. "But this will be your only chance, Harry," he said, his tone almost inviting. "If you're brave enough, go ahead. Try Crucio on me. I'll let it pass without punishment if you manage to hit me."
Potter laughed shortly, mirthlessly. "Tempting. Who knows, maybe I’ll give it a shot."
Tom's smile widened, though they both knew Potter's bluff for what it was. He reached into his robes and pulled out the boy's wand. He held it out between them, watching with satisfaction as Potter's face transformed — raw hunger flashing across his features as he practically snatched the wand from Riddle's grasp. All traces of the past week's resignation and numb compliance had vanished, replaced by a bright, determined light in Potter's eyes.
Tom took several steps back, his own wand slipping into his hand. The air between them crackled with tension, charged with all the anger and resentment Potter had kept buried. This duel would be exactly what Potter needed, an outlet for his anger, and Tom was more than willing to let him try.
"Whenever you're ready, Harry," he said, his voice cold and taunting, his eyes gleaming as he raised his wand. "But remember your manners."
Potter gave a short, mocking bow, his eyes never leaving Tom's. Riddle responded in kind.
And then the duel began.
Potter struck first. The incantation barely left his lips, his wand slashing through the air, a flash of red hurtling toward Tom. A predictable opening — a simple Stunner that shattered harmlessly against Tom's shield, conjured with nothing more than a lazy flick of his wrist.
Tom allowed Potter to advance, studying the boy's movements with predatory interest as he unleashed a barrage of spells. A jet of blue light shot from Potter's wand, aimed low, attempting to knock Tom off his feet. Rather than shield, Tom simply stepped aside, letting the spell crash into the ancient stones behind him, sending fragments skittering across the ground.
Potter pressed on relentlessly, shouting his incantations with fierce focus, each spell more intense than the last. A flash of bright yellow shot toward Tom — a binding spell, followed quickly by a powerful Repelling Curse. Tom dodged both with ease, but he noted the surprising dexterity in Potter's movements. As Tom lifted his shield to block an incoming curse — a particularly powerful Expulso that sent shockwaves crackling through the air — it occurred to him that Potter might actually give some of his Slytherins a challenge. The boy's face was a mask of fierce concentration, his body moving with remarkable agility.
What prevented Potter from winning, however — aside from the fact that his opponent was Tom — was his lack of non-verbal magic. Every spell was cast aloud, stripping his attacks of any element of surprise. The teen's repertoire, while impressive for his age, remained limited; each spell, though cast with conviction, was painfully predictable. Everything Potter threw at him could be found in a basic Hogwarts textbook.
With a low, mocking laugh, Tom sidestepped another hex, lifting his wand with deliberate laziness. "Is that really the best you can do, Harry?" he taunted, his voice dripping with calculated disdain. "I'm giving you free rein — even the Unforgivables, if you dare — and you're sticking to schoolyard charms?" He cocked an eyebrow, amusement glinting in his eyes. The fight had grown boring and predictable, far from what Tom had envisioned. "What's the point? Maybe you don't really want to win because you like being punished? Just say the word and I'll do it more often."
Fury blazed across Potter's face, his jaw clenching tight. Then, without warning, he struck — a nonverbal curse erupted from his wand, dark energy coiling ominously towards Tom. The sudden shift in tactics forced Tom to react faster than he'd anticipated, his shield materializing just in time to shatter the curse. The magic was advanced, potent enough to have left a mark had it hit.
A predatory smile spread across Tom's face. Now this — this was unexpected.
"So this is how we play? Very well. Now let's see how you deal with counter attacks," Tom purred, amusement dancing in his voice. He'd been holding back until now — merely allowing Potter to vent his anger. But that courtesy was about to end.
With minimal effort, Tom unleashed raw power. The spell roared toward Potter like a thunderbolt, colliding with the boy's hastily summoned shield. The impact knocked Potter back a step, his eyes widening as he braced himself. Tom pressed forward, his next spell already flying. Potter abandoned any attempt at shielding, throwing himself sideways as the curse whistled past his ear.
For a moment, Tom showered the boy with a merciless barrage of curses — nothing particularly dark or deadly, conscious that the teenager couldn't yet handle the spells he typically used against his Slytherins — but he was determined to test Potter's limits, to push them. The boy proved remarkably resourceful, alternating between shields and dodges, even manipulating the debris around them to absorb incoming attacks.
The boy's reflexes were good, Tom noted with a twinge of approval, but he wouldn't let up. He sent a series of precise, stinging hexes in quick succession, each calculated to force a reaction while maintaining the illusion of a fair fight. Potter's wand whirled in desperate defence — shield, dodge, duck — each movement more frantic than the last. But one curse finally slipped past, hitting Potter's side with a force that left him staggering, his face contorted in pain as he clutched his shoulder. Yet something in that twisted expression both surprised and pleased Tom: raw, defiant resolve.
Potter retaliated with a twisting curse that snaked through the air toward Tom, an attempt at creativity that held some merit. Tom dodged it with a sidestep, responding with a powerful curse of his own that split the air, sending Potter rolling to the side to avoid being hit. He rose again, blood smearing his cheek from a fresh scrape, his gaze dark and intent as he wiped it away.
Tom couldn't help but relish the flash of irritation on Potter's face. This was vastly preferable to that recent blank compliance.
Good. Let the boy feel it. Let him remember what it means to resist.
He granted Potter a brief moment of respite, a calculated gesture to foster a false sense of control. This moment of reprieve, however, almost cost him the duel. Potter's unexpected stratagem — a creative combination of Flippendo, Wingardium Leviosa, and Expulso — took Tom by surprise. He found himself nearly flung against the moss-covered wall of the ruins. But he recovered with a laugh, feeling a surge of unexpected enjoyment. The boy had potential, rough and unrefined as it was.
Tom decided to use Potter's own tactic against him. The same combination, executed with Tom's masterful control, tore through Potter's defences, sending the boy sprawling across the clearing. Potter, visibly dazed, struggled to his feet, still off-balance as he shouted another incantation, wand pointed directly at Tom.
In that moment, Tom understood why Potter had been such a thorn in his future self's side. Despite his injuries and exhaustion, the boy stood defiant, his gaze burning with inextinguishable determination. This was the Potter who had frustrated his future self, the Potter who seemed to thrive under pressure, even as he was pushed to his limits. The boy fought like a cornered animal — dodging, blocking, and retaliating with a determination that seemed to grow fiercer with each passing moment. Every spell he cast was charged with raw emotion, with a silent defiance that had clearly only been buried, not erased.
Still, he was not at a level that could challenge Riddle.
As the duel progressed, even Tom felt the wear creeping into his muscles. Not that he was truly tired, but there was a pleasant ache from the exertion, a rare feeling he enjoyed. Potter's defiance, his relentless drive, stirred something in him, an unexpected thrill.
But when he realised that he was parrying Potter's spells almost mechanically, he decided to bring this to an end. With a calculated move, Tom sent a series of minor hexes at Potter, spells designed more to distract than harm. The boy, exhausted, stumbled under the barrage, his defences cracking. For a split second, Potter's guard slipped, and Tom saw his opening.
"Expelliarmus!"
Potter's wand flew from his hand, arcing through the air before landing neatly in Tom's outstretched palm. The duel was over, and Potter knew it. The teenager stared, frustration and shock warring on his face as he struggled to catch his breath, his empty hands clenched angrily on clumps of grass.
Tom approached him with deliberate slowness, his face carefully neutral, though satisfaction glinted in his eyes. "Well, Harry," he drawled, his voice dripping with mockery. "It seems you'll have to work a bit harder if you want that immunity from punishment." He raised an eyebrow, watching the flush in Potter's face deepen. "But it wasn't as tragic as I expected," he added, and realised, with a trace of surprise, that he truly meant it. Potter had shown marked improvement since their first duel two months ago.
Potter glared, but there was something different in his eyes now. The lifelessness was gone, replaced by a fierce light that Tom hadn't seen in days. Bruised, scraped, and exhausted as he was, Potter looked more like himself than he had in a week.
Tom felt a glimmer of satisfaction; his plan had worked. He'd given Potter the release he needed, and now the boy's rebellious spirit was back, rekindled and burning bright.
His toy had been repaired.
Potter hesitated, eyeing the offered hand with a mixture of suspicion and reluctance. But after a moment, he reached out, his grip firm and unyielding as he let Tom pull him to his feet.
"Next time, I won't let you off so easily," Potter muttered, his voice hoarse but defiant.
Tom's smile was cold, tinged with amusement. "I will hold you to that promise."
Without another word, Riddle Disapparated them, leaving the battered clearing silent once more, the echoes of their duel fading into the mist.
o.O.o
Harry sat at a small, rickety desk tucked into the dim, dusty corner of Borgin and Burke's back room, staring blankly at the thick, worn textbook on potion theory in front of him. He let out a frustrated sigh, leaning back in the uncomfortable wooden chair, eyes drifting over to the shelf on his right. There, nestled between a couple of decrepit grimoires, lay a black journal — a book that, by all logic, should not have been there.
He'd first noticed it last week, right after returning to work. He'd clenched his jaw, forcing his gaze away, convinced Riddle had left it there deliberately to bait him, another opportunity for punishment. And if it hadn't been for the eavesdropping incident last week, it might have worked.
Harry's hands clenched into fists as he recalled it — the punishment had been harsher than usual, his hands burning with the relentless force of each blow, the pain sharp and unrelenting. But this hadn't been new — Harry had been used to the pain; he could take it. What lingered like a raw wound was the forced submission under their scrutinizing, sneering eyes. Riddle had forced him into a display of humiliating obedience in front of his followers, with Malfoy among them. Unwanted tears that he had fought to hold back began to stream down his face, his vision blurring with each blow. And after the last blow, his hands throbbing and his cheeks wet, Riddle had ordered him to look each of the Slytherins in the eye and apologise, forcing out a cracked, broken 'I'm sorry' for disrupting their meeting. That moment, when he realized he hadn't been able to rebel, to say no — hadn't even wanted to say no — had nearly broken him.
Afterwards, Harry felt hollow, as if something vital had been ripped from him, leaving only emptiness. Shame, anger and bone-deep exhaustion pressed down on him, smothering every last urge to resist. All he wanted was to return to his time, to escape Riddle's control, to leave this twisted game behind. But any hope of that seemed distant, unreal — like a memory from another life. Helplessness wrapped around him like a heavy fog, suffocating any remaining spark of fight.
Embarrassed by his own surrender, Harry had tried to bury the feeling. After all, he’d always fought, hadn’t he? But now, fighting seemed pointless, useless. It didn’t change anything.
And so, he made his decision: he would become an empty shell, devoid of feeling or resistance. Let Riddle command him — he would follow, numb and silent, biding his time. And if a chance to escape ever came, he would take it.
Perhaps he could have maintained that hollow resolve if it hadn't been for the duel. The clash was pure instinct — dodge, counter, strike — each movement stripping away the numbness he'd hidden behind. His magic responded with a wild abandon he'd forgotten he possessed, humming through his veins like liquid lightning. Every spell that left his wand felt like defiance incarnate, and Riddle's taunts only fueled the fire. By the time his last curse flew, the walls he'd built around himself lay in ruins, leaving him breathless but finally, irrevocably awake.
It was exactly what he had needed at that moment.
Harry had known, of course, that Riddle’s promise of 'a wish' was an empty offer, just bait to pull him into the fight. But the chance to unleash his anger and frustration against Riddle was too tempting to pass up. So he’d taken it, holding nothing back. Every spell, every ounce of rage he’d bottled up, he flung at Riddle. He’d even reached for curses he’d found in the Potions book — dark, twisting hexes he barely understood.
Naturally, he’d lost; that had been obvious from the start. But it hadn’t mattered. He’d fought with everything he had, pushing himself until he was spent. And in that moment, as he dodged and countered, facing Riddle head-on, he felt like himself again.
And that's why what hadn't had a chance to work last week could work now.
Harry's fingers drummed involuntarily against the textbook's yellowed pages. The temptation to break Riddle's order grew stronger with each passing moment. Leaning back in his chair, he glanced toward the bookshelf positioned beside the curtain that separated the back room from the front of the shop.
Borgin and Riddle had gone to see one of their regular customers, a witch called Hepzibah Smith. Burke chased Harry into the back room as he was also waiting for an important customer and didn't want any children scampering around under his feet. There might not be another chance like this.
After all, wasn't this what all the trouble with time travel was about? Maybe the Room of Requirement had sensed his inner conflict, the guilt he felt over failing Dumbledore's mission in favor of shadowing Malfoy, and had decided to help him in its own way?
He bit his lip, feeling the familiar rush of fear and excitement intertwine. Was it worth risking Riddle's wrath? The future Dark Lord had been disturbingly clear about forbidding further investigation into Horcruxes. And yet...
If he could unravel the Horcruxes mystery, maybe he'd find a way back to his own time.
The thought of potential punishment made his stomach twist. Though the recent duel had rekindled his rebellious spirit, memories of Riddle's vengeance lingered. Harry clenched his hands.
If he was careful...
He pushed himself up from the chair, crossing the room until he stood before the shelf, eyes fixed on the black, worn cover. A battle raged within him; one cautious voice warned him of the consequences, while another, defiant one insisted the risk was worth it. Just a quick look — Riddle wouldn't ever have to know. Lost between his warring impulses, he barely registered the sound of footsteps until a low, gravelly voice broke through his thoughts.
"What are you doing, boy?"
Harry flinched.
Mr. Burke stood in the doorway, his face expressionless, but there was no rebuke in his gaze. He raised a bushy grey eyebrow, and Harry hurried away from the shelf, trying to hide his hesitation beneath an air of casual interest.
"I was just... looking," Harry murmured, running a hand through his hair in an attempt to sound convincing. "There's one book I need..." He hesitated, trying not to look at the journal tucked between other volumes. "For my study," he added, quickly spotting a book on potion making. "But, er... I'm afraid it's cursed."
Mr. Burke's smile turned sly as he approached, his robes swishing softly over the dusty floor. "Cursed, you say? Have you finally heeded our warnings? It only took nearly dying."
Harry blushed.
Meanwhile, Mr. Burke's gaze swept over the bookshelf. "Which book do you need?"
Harry pointed to the completely unnecessary for him book on potions.
Mr. Burke raised his wand and flicked it toward the shelf, muttering an incantation under his breath. A pale, flickering light enveloped the books, illuminating faint lines of magic that twisted around them like fine threads. He watched for a moment, brow furrowed.
"Unnecessary fuss," he muttered, seemingly to himself, rather than to Harry, waving his wand and dispelling the luminous tendrils. "Borgin's handiwork. A harmless spell, just to alert him if someone touches these." His fingers tapped the spine of the black journal, making Harry's heart leap. "We nearly lost this one last week. Glad it turned up."
Burke’s gaze turned sharp, assessing. Harry swallowed hard.
"I'm sure it won’t disappear again," Harry managed, realizing Mr. Burke was waiting for a response.
Mr. Burke nodded, but just as he was about to add something, a bell chimed from the front of the shop, announcing the arrival of a customer. Mr. Burke scowled at first, then, remembering Harry was watching, quickly composed himself with a jovial smile.
"Stay here," he instructed, casting Harry a final glance before turning away and striding out with his arms spread wide in greeting. "Mr. Shelby! What a surprise! I wasn’t expecting a personal visit!"
As Mr. Burke pulled the curtain shut behind him, a faint shimmer suggested he'd cast a silencing charm. The shop's bustle disappeared, leaving Harry in silence.
It was now or never.
Without another thought, he turned and snatched the black journal from the shelf, his heart pounding as he clutched it to his chest. His instincts told him that it hadn’t been Borgin who set the notification charm. But with the spell deactivated, he could finally take a look without risk of being caught.
He slipped back into his seat at the rickety table, frantically flipping through the worn pages, scanning the French text desperately. The mention of Horcruxes had been near the end, if he remembered right. He just needed a word, a phrase — something to confirm what he'd seen.
There! He found it.
Harry grabbed a loose sheet of parchment and dipped his quill into ink, his hand moving quickly as he copied the words down. Every few seconds, he glanced over his shoulder toward the curtain, his heart pounding faster with each look.
He copied three pages — just in case.
o.O.o
Dinner was quiet, but this time it felt natural rather than tense. Tom ate in silence, a sense of satisfaction simmering just beneath his composed exterior. Everything was working out as he had planned.
Hepzibah Smith had proven just as susceptible to his charms as every other witch he'd set out to beguile. Everett Rosier had not only delivered the vintage wine he'd requested but had also remembered to include a box of candied pineapple from a renowned French confectioner. Primus Lestrange had confirmed that he had passed Riddle's instructions to his youngest brother.
And Potter... Potter was back. The hollow shell was gone, replaced by the same rebellious, irritating teenager from two and a half months ago. A faint smirk curved Riddle’s lips as his gaze settled on the boy across the table. There was a particular satisfaction in witnessing Potter's renewed defiance, his relentless determination to defy Tom's authority at every turn — without it, breaking him would have been insufferably boring.
But beneath that rebellious exterior, subtle changes had begun to take hold — changes that made their forced cohabitation more tolerable. Take, for example, his table manners: they had improved considerably, eliminating the uncouth habits that once grated on Tom’s nerves.
Sensing the scrutiny, Potter looked up. "What are you staring at?" he asked sharply.
"Merely admiring how far you’ve come. I see even a lost cause like you can be civilized with enough effort." Mockery laced Tom's voice as he dabbed the corner of his mouth with a napkin. "Miracles, it seems, do happen."
Potter's jaw clenched, but he remained silent, channelling his anger into stabbing a piece of roasted potato. Tom’s amusement deepened. The boy’s rekindled spirit brought with it that delightful inability to mask his emotions — such an intriguing correlation.
Setting his cutlery aside, Riddle leaned back in his chair, exuding an air of calculated ease. "By the way," he said casually, as though the matter was of little consequence, "you have the evening free. Since we’ll be visiting Hogwarts tomorrow, there’s no need to retire early for work."
The mention of Hogwarts had the desired effect. A brief flash of surprise crossed Potter’s face, followed by suspicion and — though he struggled to hide it — a spark of excitement. He tried to maintain his defensive posture, but Tom saw right through him.
"I trust I don't need to remind you," Riddle continued, his voice taking on a low, dangerous edge, "that your obedience and cooperation are not optional. One misstep and you will look back on your last punishment with fondness."
The air between them grew tense. Potter's expression darkened, the fire in his eyes burning all the brighter for it. Tom allowed himself a smirk, faint and fleeting, as he stood.
"Get some rest," he said, his tone dismissive. "We’ll see in the morning."
And tomorrow, at Hogwarts, Potter would help him take the first step towards reshaping Voldemort’s destiny.
Whether he wanted to or not.