Chapter Text
Tom Riddle possessed the special talent of unearthing secrets. It came down to charming the right source, which was straightforward at Hogwarts. Professors, ghosts, and even portraits — (almost) none of them was immune to his flattery.
Today was a stroke of good luck. He had intended to visit Professor Slughorn to coax details on the Triwizard Tournament, only to hear the voices of Professors McGonagall and Dumbledore through the office door.
"...the prophecy, Albus?"
Tom snapped to attention at the word prophecy. Divination might be a scorned field and Trelawney a laughingstock among students, but he knew the power that could be unleashed with True Sight. Dynasties had risen and fallen based on their reactions to Seers.
He pulled out an Extendable Ear, freshly confiscated from the Weasley twins, and cast a Disillusionment Charm on himself.
“It’s an old one, of course,” came Dumbledore’s voice, “but it’s been top of mind, what with the prominence of the Triwizard Tournament and the presence of Durmstrang. You will recall Igor’s reputation for recruitment.”
Tom frowned. How did Dumbledore —
“But surely you cannot think…” Slughorn was full of indignation.
“The Dark Lord born of the House of Serpents at the year’s close…” McGonagall must be reciting something. Tom tensed. “Well, if you insist on crediting Sybill, which I still hesitate to do, I suppose it does fit. I’ve certainly heard the rumors.”
Could they —?
“Come now, those details are vague enough that they can fit many wizards.”
“The House of Serpents narrows the field quite significantly.”
“There may be descendants other than the Gaunts.”
Tom’s heart leaped, certain now that they were talking about him.
“And I do hate to say this, but we cannot deny that he has a certain predilection for the Dark Arts and has displayed certain...behaviors.”
“He’s just a student, Albus,” Slughorn said, “and a prefect, at that. Commanding respect from other Slytherins doesn’t mean he will be a Dark Lord.”
“Let’s see what else Sybill has to say, shall we?” McGonagall cut in, clearly trying to diffuse an argument. “Will suffer defeat at the hands of the one born to enemies at the close of July… This is supposedly referring to one of my students?”
Tom’s mouth twisted. Defeated? By a fellow student?
“This is my current belief, yes,” Dumbledore said. “Born at the close of July could refer to either Mr. Potter or Mr. Longbottom, though there is no history of enmity between the Gaunts and the Longbottoms.”
“By the power that he knows not…”
Having finished reading, McGonagall was momentarily silent. Tom could almost picture her pursed lips.
“To be quite frank, Albus, I side with Horace on this. This prophecy is extremely vague, and while I don’t like to speak ill of colleagues, Sybill has done little over the years to convince me that she truly has the Sight.”
Dumbledore’s voice was grave. “I understand your reservations. While I may view Sybill’s gifts differently, I hardly want to believe that two of our students are destined to face each other in such a fashion.”
“Why come to us at all?” Slughorn said. “So many years after the prophecy is made?”
“An old man’s caution, perhaps. I don’t ask either of you to act against your student, but I do ask that you keep a close eye on them, especially during a school year that will naturally be more dangerous due to the tournament.”
“We certainly plan to, prophecy or not.” Now McGonagall also sounded indignant. “I assure you that Mr. Potter will be in good hands.”
“I have already been keeping a close eye on Mr. Riddle, given his potential for greatness,” Slughorn said, somewhat pointedly.
“Excellent, excellent!” Tom could practically see Dumbledore’s annoyingly cheerful face. “Well, this conversation has been most productive, but I must be getting on, as I’m due to meet Madam Bones. Horace, Minerva, I do apologize for my intrusion. Have a great afternoon.”
While McGonagall and Slughorn murmured their goodbyes, Tom retracted the Extendable Ear and retreated down the hallway, almost knocking into a humming suit of armor in his haste.
With some luck, the professors would never suspect that anyone was here.
The professors exchanged meaningful looks as the Fat Friar floated away, mumbling something about a disembodied ear.
“Someone was eavesdropping outside,” McGonagall repeated, regarding the hallway with narrowed eyes. “They must've heard our conversation.”
“Even if they did, our conversation was perfectly harmless,” Slughorn said, shaking his head, “and I’ll bet that it was Peeves and not a student. He has been rather upset with me since last week’s Potions mishap with the third-years. In my defense, I had no idea he was in the supply cupboard.”
McGonagall crossed her arms, frowning.
“Come now, Minerva, you have always been too paranoid. Some crystallized pineapples, yes?”
As McGonagall grudgingly took a proffered treat, she gave her other colleague a beseeching glance.
Albus Dumbledore only hummed, blue eyes bright.
Tom had planned to go to the library to continue some research. Instead, his feet led him back to the Slytherin dungeons.
The common room was fairly deserted thanks to the unusually warm October weather. The few remaining students knew better than to disturb him when he wore his pensive expression, giving him the space needed to digest his new knowledge.
He sank into one of the couches facing the fireplace, his mind racing. What an interesting prophecy.
The first part was an elation. In fact, it was downright offensive that Slughorn refused to believe that it referred to him. Of course he was the Dark Lord from the House of Serpents. Even before discovering his own heritage, he had been researching the exploits of powerful dark wizards, from Morgan le Fay from Arthurian times to Gellert Grindelwald in the 1940s. He was going to avoid their mistakes and surpass them. Receiving the confirmation that he would succeed was gratifying.
The second part, however, was both insulting and concerning. Defeated by a Potter? There was only one Potter currently in attendance at Hogwarts, a Harry Potter in fourth year, and he was laughably average.
Since the start of his Hogwarts career, Tom had been keeping a catalogue of wizards whose competencies would one day earn them a place in his army. There were Rachele and Rigel Lestrange, who were more well-versed in the Dark Arts than he was, thanks to their parents’ training. There was Cedric Diggory, his biggest rival for Head Boy next year thanks to his charisma and connections. And then there were a handful of students who excelled in specific subjects, though none of them could rival Tom in his breadth of knowledge.
Harry Potter was not even on his radar. Until now.
Somehow, he would defeat Tom with some power unknown to him. What could Potter know that Tom didn’t?
Tom stared into the dancing green flames and drummed his fingers on the armrest of the couch. He could feed Potter to the basilisk before the kid could even become a threat. He had been meaning to test out the creature on the Muggle-born and blood traitor population for some time, but the timing had never been opportune.
Then again...that was the tricky thing about prophecies, wasn’t it? The wording was always purposefully vague. Many people, wizards and Muggles alike, would take them too literally and try to subvert the outcomes, only to realize that in doing so, they actually fulfilled the conditions. Greek wizards had written many treatises on this phenomenon.
In this instance, if he destroyed Potter now, the prophecy could simply morph so that it no longer referred to Harry Potter. The power that he knows not would remain a threat and refer to someone else. As a result, Tom might create a more dangerous adversary down the line.
No, Tom was too smart for that.
No, he would outsmart the prophecy by figuring out Potter’s special power, master it for himself, and then eliminate him. That way, he would also be able to prevent the rise of any future adversary with the same power.
“Tom?” Rachele, returning to the dungeons, had spotted and joined him, her heavy-lidded eyes adoring as they sought his. “I thought you would be at the library. How was your conversation with Slughorn?”
He smiled at her and her face lit up. Most Slytherins, including Rachele herself, had the impression that they were dating, an impression that Tom was content to indulge. It never hurt to have a well-connected pure-blood witch in his corner, as long as it didn’t require too much of his time.
“He was busy, so I’ll have to visit another day.” He paused. “Tell me, do you know much about Harry Potter?”
“Potter?” She wrinkled her nose. “He’s in Draco’s year, isn’t he? I don’t know much about him except that he's good at annoying my cousin and Mother hates his godfather. Why do you ask?”
“Just happened to overhear a conversation between a few professors talking about potential prefects for next year.” He leaned towards her a little, not close enough to touch, but enough to give the impression of intimacy. “We will be responsible for training them, and I know your intelligence network is second to none, Rachele.”
Second to none was stretching the truth a tad. Her blood supremacy limited the reach of her network. Nevertheless...
She ran a hand through her long dark hair, blushing. “I wouldn’t have expected Potter to be considered for prefect. As far as I know, there isn’t anything remarkable about him, except he’s hopeless at Potions. Remember the antidote fiasco last year? Rumor was, Slughorn only passed him and Longbottom because he didn’t want to embarrass their families.” She fluttered her lashes. “If you want, I could ask the Gryffindor prefects.”
Tom patted her couch cushion. “That won’t be necessary.”
Rachele’s response was consistent with his own impression of Potter, whose one bright academic spot was his affinity for Defense Against Dark Arts. Otherwise, he was average or barely above average in most classes and atrocious at Potions.
No, Harry Potter was not special, if not even Rachele knew —
“Oh, he’s on the Quidditch team, if that means anything,” she said. “Draco sulks after every match with the Gryffindors, so he must be halfway decent. But, if you ask me, Aunt Cissy shouldn’t have exaggerated Draco’s flying abilities for so long.”
That was it. Quidditch. The power that he knows not must be Quidditch.
Tom curled his lip in distaste, both at the thought of being someday defeated by Quidditch (how would that even work?) and of having to master Quidditch to prevent his defeat. He always figured that once he was a Dark Lord, he would learn to fly without assistance. More intimidating that way to minions and enemies alike. But perhaps it wouldn't be such a bad idea to have Quidditch up his sleeves as a backup.
Possibilities ran through Tom’s head. He could ask Madam Hooch for private lessons; he could ask anyone on the Slytherin Quidditch team; he could —
His lips curved as a strange and brilliant idea shone upon him.
Wouldn’t it be poetic justice for Potter himself to teach Tom Quidditch? Yes, the more he thought about the idea, the more he appreciated his own genius. Tom was going to learn Quidditch from his future nemesis.
“Is everything all right, Tom?” Rachele was watching him closely.
“Perfectly,” Tom said, rewarding her with a light pat on her shoulder that sent her preening. “You’ve been most helpful.”
Before she could recover and cost him more energy, he stood to retire to the dorm. He had a plan to perfect.
Tom carefully observed Harry Potter over the next few days, but isolating him turned out to be more difficult. They didn’t share any classes and Potter was usually inseparable from his best friends or a cluster of Weasleys in his free time.
In a brief lapse of judgment, Tom considered asking some of his minions to kidnap Potter, before he realized they were either too extreme (like Rachele) or too incompetent (like Gregory Goyle).
He needn’t have worried, because the answer came the night of the Halloween feast. The Goblet of Fire had already selected Fleur Delacour and Viktor Krum as the champions for Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, respectively. Now everyone waited with bated breath for the name of the Hogwarts champion.
The blue-white flames of the Goblet of Fire turned red one last time. A slip of paper flew into Professor Dumbledore’s hands. Without hearing his announcement, Tom had already read the answer in those piercing blue eyes.
“Tom Marvolo Riddle!”
The Slytherin table erupted into cheers as Tom stood up. Once he had reached the front of the Great Hall, he swept his gaze around the room, soaking up the admiration and envy. His eyes fell on the Gryffindor table, where Potter was politely clapping with the rest of his housemates.
I’m coming for you.
Now secrecy was entirely unnecessary. After all, he was a popular prefect and now the Hogwarts Triwizard Champion. There was nothing incriminating about approaching a fellow student for help on the tournament, was there?
Saturday brought more sunshine, though Tom wasn’t initially in the mood to appreciate it. The rare letter from his father tended to have that effect. He tore it up after skimming, uninterested in an insincerely offered olive branch from his father and Cecilia.
The afternoon turned out to be more pleasant. After a productive research session in the Restricted Section, Tom went for a walk around the lake with Andrei Sokolov, a Durmstrang student who sometimes took meals with the Slytherins, with whom Tom had lost no opportunity nurturing an acquaintance.
Like almost all Durmstrang students, Andrei was pure-blood and claimed Russian nobility ancestry to boot. However, Tom was less interested in his bloodline than the possibility of getting access to the Durmstrang library, a portion of which had been brought along for the tournament. Surely, given their reputation for dark magic, their library would have more resources on soul magic.
They were nearing the part of the lake where the ship was docked when they heard the loud whoops. That successfully distracted Andrei from a rather dull monologue on the relative incompetence of the British Ministry of Magic.
“Who is making that racket?” he asked.
Tom had a good inkling. Sure enough, Potter was flying with the Weasleys. Shouting and laughing, they tossed a Quaffle back and forth, drawing attention from the Durmstrang students sunbathing on deck. A group of girls from Beauxbatons passed by, some of them scandalized and others intrigued.
Recognizing an opportunity, Tom said, “I should better go take care of this before they disturb our esteemed visitors. I’d love to continue our conversation another time.”
“Of course,” Andrei said, not realizing he was being dismissed. “I’m most curious to learn about your Department of Mysteries.”
After Andrei had returned to his ship, Tom headed towards the Quidditch pitch, where a heated game was still underway. Instead of approaching the Gryffindors immediately, he bided his time until they had finished and started their way back to the castle. All of them had windblown hair and flushed, happy faces. Potter was walking with the two youngest Weasley on either side, laughing at something that the girl was saying while the boy had his arm slung around his shoulder. The twins appeared to be in the middle of an argument about Quidditch tactics. Because of course they would be.
Tom straightened his robes and smiled as he stepped forward to ruin their afternoon.
The atmosphere changed immediately. Laughter faded from Potter’s face, replaced by puzzlement. The twins growled and moved in front of him and their younger siblings.
One of them — Tom never bothered to distinguish between them — glared. “What do you want, Riddle?”
Tom threw him an indifferent look. There was no love lost between him and the twins. They had lost many points at his hands, and in turn, he had little patience or appreciation for pure-bloods who wasted their potential on trivial pursuits. He also wasn’t about to forgive their fifth-year jelly prank anytime soon.
He kept a pleasant smile on his face. “I’d like to speak with Potter.”
Ron Weasley stepped closer to Potter, shielding his friend with his lanky frame, while his sister crossed her arms. Nevertheless, they were markedly less antagonistic than their brothers. Careful to cultivate his candidacy for Head Boy, Tom had always avoided overt House bias, as Rachele and the other Slytherin prefects were wont to show.
“Why do you need to talk to Harry?” Ginny said with suspicion.
“I’d like to speak to Potter,” Tom repeated, focusing his attention on Potter. “In private, please.”
Ron and Ginny exchanged glances. Fred-or-George shook his head. “No, you can talk to Harry here.”
Tom, feeling the first twinges of impatience, narrowed his eyes. By this point, Rachele would be threatening them with House points and detention, but he had appearances to maintain.
Potter came to his rescue. “Hey, everyone, it’s fine,” he said, tugging on Ron’s sleeve. “We’re in broad daylight. What can he do?”
“He’s friends with Malfoy,” Fred-or-George said.
“He’s dating Malfoy’s crazy cousin, that should tell you a lot,” George-or-Fred added.
“We’ll wait for you,” Ron said.
“It would be a shame,” Tom said conversationally, “if everyone were to lose House points over such an innocuous request.”
Predictably, the others protested.
“We weren’t doing anything wrong!” Ginny said hotly.
“No? High Inquisitor Umbridge might say that you were flying outside the confines of the Quidditch pitch, disturbing our guests. I certainly spotted some raised eyebrows during my patrol.”
“You and Umbridge!”
“How dare you?”
So predictable, the whole lot of them. Tuning out their voices, Tom watched Potter’s reaction.
Potter was calm, almost insultingly so. "I will be fine,” he said, patting Ron’s arm until his friend’s shoulders relaxed. “Go on, I’ll catch up with you at dinner. Can one of you take my Firebolt with you?”
Ron looked torn. “Are you sure?”
“You can’t trust Riddle!”
When Potter nodded firmly, the Weasleys reluctantly took his broomstick and started back towards the castle. Every so often, they would turn to make sure that Tom hadn’t done anything, only to turn back around when Potter waved back.
Once they were finally out of sight, Tom shook his head in amusement. “Are they that afraid of me?”
Potter shrugged. “I think everyone is a little afraid of you after you showed off your Parseltongue in Hagrid’s class last year. Boomslang, was it?”
Well, the fear was probably legitimate. Patricia Stimpson would certainly never be the same around snakes again.
“But you’re not afraid.”
“I reserve my judgement,” Potter said, brushing aside his sweaty fringe with the back of his hand. The lightning bolt shaped scar was stark red against his pale skin. “Anyway, why did you need to talk to me?”
Tom cut straight to the chase. “I want you to teach me Quidditch.”
"You want me to teach you Quidditch," he said, dumbfounded, before suspicion bloomed on his face. “Did Malfoy put you up to this?”
“Not at all,” Tom said calmly. “I merely want to represent Hogwarts in the best light and believe that Quidditch may be of help in the Triwizard Tournament.”
“There’s Quidditch in the tournament?”
Tom opted for an enigmatic smile instead of an actual response. Potter scowled.
“Ask Madam Hooch —”
“Her methods are too inflexible. I prefer learning from a fellow student so we can customize the lessons.”
“Then Warrington —”
“I want you.”
“But...why?”
“Because you’re the best flier at Hogwarts.” Tom had prepared for this. “The youngest Seeker in a century, if I remember correctly.”
The targeted flattery worked on Potter, who flushed in pleasure despite his confusion and suspicion. “Oh, um, thanks.”
“So,” Tom said, knowing victory was close at hand. “Do you want to help me win the Triwizard Cup for Hogwarts?”
Potter hesitated, chewing his bottom lip. But Tom knew exactly how to clinch his triumph.
“In exchange,” he said, “I will make you a deal. For as long as you help me, I'll always take points off Draco when the two of you get into your...skirmishes.”
He was playing dirty, but the end justified the means. Not to mention, he was hitting two Snidgets with one Bludger. It never hurt to take the boastful Draco Malfoy down a few notches.
Potter’s eyes lit up, yet still took longer to respond than anticipated. “Include my friends Ron and Hermione, and all fourth-year Slytherins, and we have a deal.”
“Weasley and Granger? All fourth-year Slytherins?” Tom hadn’t actually expected Potter to negotiate.
“Well of course,” Potter said. “Otherwise, Malfoy would get around our deal by asking Crabbe and Goyle to make trouble, or Malfoy would attack my friends instead. I have to close the more obvious loopholes to protect my best interests.”
“Your best interests,” Tom repeated, studying him.
“And yours. You are too honorable to propose an intentionally unfair deal, right?”
Mischief shone in those green eyes, as if Potter was testing whether Tom would rise to the bait.
“Are you sure you aren’t a Slytherin?”
He had the cheek to grin. “The Sorting Hat offered.”
Tom blew out a breath. “I’ll throw in Weasley, Granger, Crabbe, and Goyle, but only until the First Task is over,” he countered, refusing to allow a Gryffindor to have the last word.
“Deal,” Potter said readily, extending his hand.
Tom stared at it for a moment before he accepted and shook it, intrigued despite himself. This was going to be an interesting year.