Pairing: Percy Weasley/Tom Riddle Jr.
Prompt: "Excuse me, sir. But you are in the way of my accomplishing world domination. Would you scoot over, please?"

"Ginny!"

"Yes, mum?"

"Get over here, let me get a good look over your books, I'm not having you be like your brothers asking me to owl them their supplies throughout the year!"

"Here, all of them, right out of the cauldron. I took a quick look when we got back. There's this one, looks like some diary—it's blank. Says T. M. Riddle at the back."

"Hand it over. Silly things, diaries."

In hindsight, Percy Weasley would recall that moment as something worth of Divination Prophecies, not that he ever believed in such nonsense.

He had strolled into the Burrow's living room, just when Ginny handed the worn, little black book to their mother. He deemed it unimpressive, when the matron handed it to him instead—having previously requested an agenda to keep his notes. Used to hand-me-downs, he had accepted it, ignorant of the power it beheld.

The vanishing of the spilled ink—product of some transfigured ball that barged into his room through the now broken window—intrigued him. He had tried it with a drop of ink again, out of pure curiosity.

During his sixth Hogwarts year, his fingers caressed the old leather, over the name, feeling for the first time the trickle of powerful magic hidden deep in the blank pages of the journal. His prided rationality nagged at him when he finally managed to write a full sentence in it.

'Hello, Percy. My name is Tom.'

Some odd satisfaction had corroded his body at the reply. In the following days he would keep on scribbling down endless lists of subjects he should focus in on more, perhaps a complaint, or two, on everyday life at the magical school. Conversing with his only true friend, who seemed to understand his no-nonsense way of life.

His friend had asked for his blood-status once, as in passing comment. Percy had answered as it should, not revealing his surname, though, after all he prided on his pure-blooded lineage—even if his family most certainly did not. The mysterious boy would wave away the ginger's well-hidden insecurities, telling him that they both were above everyone else.

Even if he was not close to his brothers, the way Bill and Charlie seemed to read each other's mind, the same way Fred and George spoke in unison. Or how Ron and Ginny bickered on a daily basis, but indeed were the best duo of the Weasley lot. How his parents never truly understood him and his calm but calculating nature. Finding him somewhat odd in his preference of studying and learning, instead of flying on broomstick and playing a game of savages.

'Be patient, my prince. They will come to adore you.'

The world just wasn't ready for them, for him, yet.

He found sinful pleasure in the words written back by this Tom Riddle. Every night, he would find himself aroused by the perfect penmanship and richest of vocabularies that was his comfort in the solitary life he led. The same way he would pour his knowledge into the diary—because agenda it never truly became—mixed with soft words of lavishing devotion that bordered on obsession.

'My prince, I am ever so displeased that I can't be there to chase away all of these human abjections that trouble you.'

'Oh, my love, I can feel you closer to me each night, yet so far away that it tears at my soul.'

'My prince, your soul and mine, will become one.'

While his seventh year got closer to an end, and Percy's bond with his friend tightened to the point where he needed release during the nights, behind closed curtains and well-placed Silencing Charms, he felt the surge of cherished power mixing with his magical blood all the way to the core.

And as he stood in front of the Headmaster, his wand pointed at old wizard's chest, his head tilted o the side with a cocky—bordering on fond—smirk on his young face, as he regarded the most selfish, conniving of wizards with ice cold blue eyes he thought in the last words his friend wrote to him: 'My prince, we are one.'

He regarded the old Headmaster, ever the polite son, he said:

"Excuse me, sir. But you are in the way of my accomplishing world domination. Would you scoot over, please?"

Always the stubborn, self-important man, Albus Dumbledore did not budge, but instead responded with another of his pathetic placating words, "You are not the first one to succumb to him, Percy. There was once this young, frightful little boy that was seduced by the charms of Tom Riddle. Gryffindor, brave, just like you and me. He made a bad choi—"

"Oh, dearest Headmaster," said Percy, letting out a chuckle at the nonsense. "I was only sorted into that House for my chivalry. Avada Kedavra."