Corruption

Word count: 17 566

SUMMARY: The year is 1943, and Wizarding Britain teeters on the edge of war, as monsters stir within the walls of Hogwarts. Tom Riddle contemplates mortality, broods on the costs of power, and pursues an entirely different nature of sin.

Note: First written in 2009, I've revised this story significantly, added a whole bunch of stuff, and combined everything into one long shot. The chapter names are based on Tarot cards; the quotations are from the books! Thank you for your reviews so far, I love reading them :) Enjoy!

Temperance Reversed

"He disappeared after leaving the school ... traveled far and wide ... sank so deeply into the Dark Arts, consorted with the very worst of our kind, underwent so many dangerous, magical transformations, that when he resurfaced as Lord Voldemort, he was barely recognizable."

Tom stared out at the landscape rushing by with only mild interest. The chatter of the other boys in the compartment rose and fell around him, muted thrill vibrating in each word.

"... Hexed him right there, blocking up half the train he was. The fat-arse."

Raucous laughter burst forth from each of them as they leaned forward to hear the tale.

"Newby went off blubbering – course, he could barely see, I got him right in the eyes with my Stinging Hex –"

As the others congratulated Wilkes, Tom yawned, quite bored.

"I wouldn't have stopped at a Stinging Hex."

The laughter petered off quickly as they focused on him, unwilling to miss a single word. The entire display had been for his benefit, in any case. An unlovely blush was colouring Wilkes's spotty face.

"Newby is a filthy Mudblood, I'm sure you all know. He and his kind are an utter waste of space... and air."

He idly examined his wand while they clamoured to agree with him.

"They're letting in far too much rabble these days, Tom."

"Father was saying the same, says the Ministry's losing its grip..."

"The next time I see him..."

"I'm glad," he continued smoothly, "you all think so. By the end of this year Hogwarts will be a, ah, much cleaner place."

"What do you mean, Tom?" Wilkes asked in a voice that was both curious and reverent.

Tom smiled to himself, feeling a kick of pleasure in his belly as he thought of what he had planned for his sixth year at Hogwarts.

"You'll see."

The Great Hall echoed with the clatter of cutlery and the hum of conversation. Tom ate leisurely but steadily, ignoring the hunger pangs in his stomach.

He raised his eyebrows at the High Table, and several pairs of eyes followed his gaze.

"I see Professor Kepler has been replaced."

Information poured out of his eager peers as if summoned.

"– that's the new Astronomy teacher, Eleanor Hammond –"

"My father said she's married to the Head of Magical Law Enforcement at the Ministry..."

"Hammond's a pure-blood," confirmed Rosier, who was knowledgeable of everyone's blood status.

"Interesting choice," commented Tom. "I wonder what she thinks of her Muggle-loving husband's new policies."

He considered, observing the new teacher for a moment. "I must do something about that man... well, I think I shall be taking Astronomy this year, after all."

The Astronomy tower was dark at this hour, but the starlight pouring in from the small windows lit the staircase well enough to light his way. As he made his way to the top, he found, as he had expected, Professor Hammond with her elbows on the tower ledge, her gaze directed towards the heavens. She had not noticed him.

"Good evening, Professor Hammond."

She jumped at his voice.

"For heaven's – oh hello, Riddle! What on earth are you doing up here?"

"I wouldn't want to miss tonight's spectacle. May I join you, Professor?"

"Why, of course... I'm glad to see you've paid attention in class," she said approvingly. Before them, the vast grounds of Hogwarts lay dark and silent.

"It's just that I've never seen a meteor shower before."

"I daresay you're in luck, then!"

"Indeed."

There was a short pause.

"So, Riddle. How have you enjoyed your first month of classes?"

"Well, I memorized all the assigned reading before arriving at school. Most of my classes are teaching me concepts I've mastered since third or fourth year. I've been forced to pursue other areas of... research in my spare time."

She froze, and hesitated. "I must say I admire your initiative. Most children your age don't really..."

"It's difficult to succeed by sitting still."

"From what I hear, you've had considerable success at Hogwarts, Tom." And she added tentatively: "The cure for restlessness can sometimes be found in rest."

Tom was enjoying this more than he'd thought he would.

"But there's a finite amount of time in one lifetime to achieve one's goals. Would you counsel a dying man thus?"

"...Well..."

Eleanor glanced at him, uncertain of what to say. He was engrossed by the night sky above and quite oblivious to her discomfort.

"Would you not agree that success is measured by the extent of one's advancement in life?"

This sort of discussion was quite past Eleanor.

"You know," she dithered, "you'd have to first know what it was that you wanted out of life... you're terribly young for that."

"Am I? Do you know what you want, Professor?"

Tom met her eyes, and he looked just like any other teenaged boy posing a question in class. She blew out a sigh and considered him anew.

"You remind me of my brother," she said at length, with a hint of nostalgia. "When he was young, he was so determined, so sure. Of himself. And his place in the world."

"What happened to him?"

"Nothing. Well, I suppose not nothing. He's got three little ones, works in the Department of Magical Games and Sports at the Ministry. But I digress. You have the same precocious sense of purpose as he did. What are your aspirations, Tom?"

"You won't believe me when I say... if I told you, I'd have to kill you."

She laughed at the cliché, but he only gave her only a small, inscrutable smile.

"You don't seem much like a Ministry man, you know..." she told him, "Oh, I don't mean that you're not capable. I can't think of anyone more talented in this school... it's just that it takes a certain type to want it. And enjoy it. Does that seem strange? But I suppose there are different types of success."

"There is only one kind of success, Professor," he told her quietly.

Her smile wilted. She shivered, and cast her eyes skyward, where the first bright streaks were appearing. They watched the meteor shower in silence.

The summer that Eleanor Hammond turned sixteen, her mother had asked to speak to her.

"Good luck, Ellie. Here's hoping the dragon doesn't swallow you whole!" her elder brother said, with a touch sympathy. Still, he would not have said it where his mother could hear.

She had been Eleanor Prewett then, and she withstood her mother's critical eye until she felt she would burst.

"You're growing up quickly," her mother pronounced, as though growing up was some sort of disease. "Soon, you'll be a woman. Although I see that fact has reflected upon neither your behaviour nor your grades."

Eleanor reflected that as long as she didn't end up like her mother, she wouldn't mind being a woman.

"We'll have a proper ball for you soon, of course. As I had, and my mother before me. If only we could do something about that red hair of yours... I've said for years it can only be from your father's side…"

Eleanor scowled and was met with a glare.

"I am doing this for you, Eleanor! You must be introduced to proper Wizarding society if you're to have any hope of finding a suitable husband. Heaven forbid you marry a Mudblood! We'll become laughingstocks. You can be assured that all the other families are already thinking of this. Mirabella Nott practically rubbed my face in her Amilee's engagement last week to the Carrows… though I don't quite see the fuss… the girl's all but a Squib, and buck-toothed to boot…"

Armed with the certainty that there was nothing that would annoy her mother more than marrying badly, Eleanor thus married Lewis Hammond.

Tom was not looking forward to the Yule Ball, but as a Prefect he was required to chaperone the event. The evening had been fairly successful, and he had retreated to a corner of the garden where he could be at peace. A garden snake found him and he let it coil around his hand. His thoughts turned inward as he contemplated the elusive chamber which had so recently occupied his thoughts like nothing else. The calm was interrupted by a muted sound nearby and he leapt to his feet, rage pulsing through him at the intrusion.

"Who's that? I'm a Prefect, show yourself!"

He saw her bright hair first as she peered drunkenly at him through a rosebush.

"Oh, it's you. I was wondering who..." Eleanor's speech was slurred and she swayed uncertainly. "Riddle. Tom. Is that your pet?"

He put the snake in the grass and willed himself to remain calm.

"Are you alright, Eleanor?" he inquired, giving her his hand as she struggled through the bushes. He guided her to the stone bench.

"Tom, Tom, Tom. What are you... I didn't think anybody would be here. Children your age love nothing more than to engage in the... festivities."

"It seems we both crave a respite from the festivities."

She looked at him standing before her, a shadow in the night, and was aware of how tall he was.

"Sit down, Tom. Do tell me, how is your research progressing?"

He seated himself next to her. "Not as well as I had hoped. There are several... kinks that I must straighten out before before I can realize my goals."

"Oh? How dreadful. To have your ambitions stoppered in your youth..." She conjured a glass and refilled it with something that was no doubt alcoholic, and then downed it expertly.

"Would you like a drink? It helps –"

"I'm underage," he reminded her, his mind elsewhere.

"You are?"

He paused. "No," he admitted. "Excuse me, I was thinking of Muggle laws. They don't apply here."

"Thank goodness. Have a drink, Tom." She leaned in, glass raised, and he could smell the alcohol she had consumed and the perfume on her neck. "Have a drink, it's so unfair."

"Yes, it is."

She sluggishly considered what he had said. "You live amongst Muggles?"

Tom did not answer for a few moments. "Yes."

"Oh, I'm so sorry – I had assumed – well, you are a Slytherin," she said, lowering her voice to a theatrical whisper.

"I am. Which house were you in, Eleanor?"

"Hufflepuff. Oh don't look at me like that!"

"Like what?" he asked patiently, but she wasn't really listening to him.

"My mother nearly diedof shame. She said... she said I had proven once and for all that I could never live up to the Prewett name. Her family had been in Slytherin for centuries, or so the old hag said. Ha. There never was a better feeling than seeing her face the day I announced my engagement!"

"And why was that?"

"Lewis – my husband – is Muggle-born. The old guard, they're so set in their ways, even if it means marrying your smelly second cousin..."

"Is it so terrible to desire to keep one's bloodline... select?" he asked her mildly.

"It is a desire that borders upon the fanatic, Tom. You've no idea how important it was to Mother... to these people. God, her face when I told her!" She giggled. "I just couldn't muster that level of passion for something so irrelevant – my mother was batshit insane, in any case. Still, I paid for that one look with sixteen years of marriage. Not that that counts for very much..."

He said nothing. What was there to say?

She tilted close again; close enough for him to feel the heat of her skin. A tendril of her red hair brushed his cheek. "You understand what I mean, don't you? Oh you must," she whispered into his ear. "Tell me Tom, what are you thinking?"

Tom could not tell her he was picturing himself screwing her senseless atop the stone bench. As it was, she was drunk and barely coherent, and he was expected in the Great Hall for clean-up duties.

"I think that you should go home now."

"Why? The night is not yet spent."

His hand travelled up her bare arm and looped around her neck, thumb brushing against her earlobes. He looked her in the eyes, and something in his gaze made her uneasy.

"I think you know why."

The Devil

"There is no good and evil, there is only power...and those too weak to seek it."

Eleanor awoke the next morning feeling dizzy and parched. A glance at the clock told her it was already midday. She lay in bed for a while like a child feigning sick, before deeming it time to venture to the kitchen for some hangover relief. Surely those cheerful little house elves knew some sort of... recipe for a cure, or something.

The hallways outside her quarters were usually deserted. Not many students came by this way, as there were no classrooms nor any interesting artefacts like those found in other parts of the castle.

Tom Riddle was leaning casually against the wall facing her door, watching her. They regarded each other, she with a touch of nausea.

"You haven't been there all night, have you, Tom?" It was a nervous joke, and he did not smile.

"I just came by this morning to see how you were."

"Um..."

"After last night, I mean."

"Oh," she said uncomfortably. The enormous pitcher of water she had drunk was making itself felt, among other things. "About that..."

He moved closer until he could have reached out and patted her shoulder, and she fell silent. "I've also come for another reason," he admitted.

"Oh?"

"I wanted to invite you to Professor Slughorn's Christmas party. We'll be having dinner beforehand."

"...Well..."

"I found our conversation in the garden most... stimulating." His voice was low and smooth. "I mentioned to Professor Slughorn that you knew Lewis Hammond quite well. He was extremely interested."

"Who else is going?" she asked, swallowing.

He waved his hand carelessly, as if it didn't matter. "Students. Friends of the professor. A few of the other teachers. You'll be in good company, Eleanor."

She bit her lip, and then her fingernail, looking at him.

"And if you are going down to the kitchens, I must advise you that they've changed their passwords," he told her, turning to leave. "Try tickling the grape cluster."

"Tom, wait," she blurted out, "you haven't told me –"

He looked back and said, "Next Friday. I'll come and fetch you." He gave her a small smile.

Merope Gaunt. He stared at the name. It was the first time he'd seen it outside of old Wizarding genealogy books, always joined by a bracketed line to Morfin Gaunt.

"Mr. Riddle? Have you found what you were looking for?"

Professor Davies was looking expectantly at him. Tom didn't know him very well, only that he taught Muggle Studies.

"I hate to rush you," said Davies, "but you don't want to be caught out after hours, do you?"

"No, sir," said Tom automatically. "Actually, sir, I'm a Prefect."

"Oh! But of course – and it looks as though you've still got quite a large amount of papers to sort through."

Before him were spread out dozens of issues of the Hangleton Herald. Tom had spent much of the evening wading through countless articles about weather predictions, Muggle farming practices, and unbelievably dull village gossip.

"I think I've got what I'm looking for. Thanks very much for letting me use these, Professor. I had no idea Hogwarts kept an archive of Muggle newspapers."

"You're quite welcome," beamed Davies. "Most witches and wizards don't realize how important it is to keep up to date with the doings of our Muggle neighbours. It was Professor Dumbledore's idea, you know. Brilliant, isn't he? What did you say this was for again?"

"Just some research," said Tom. "For a little project I've been doing. I only needed to verify some facts. Thanks again, Professor."

Tom made his way to the Prefect's bathroom. Ignoring the waving and giggling of the mermaid in her portrait, he filled the bath with hot water and shed his robes, sinking deep into the water. From within the pockets of his uniform he dug out the scrap of paper he had taken with him, and reread it for the seventh time:

Dr. John Addams, of Brewer Rd, was urgently called on the evening of Saturday June 18 th , to the home of Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Riddle, Sr. The good doctor treated the lady of the house for a brief spell of swooning. It is reported that her illness was precipitated upon news of the shocking marriage of her son, Mr. Thomas Riddle, Jr., sole heir to what is whispered to be a substantial fortune. Following a brief whirlwind courtship – which appeared largely to be a secret one – the younger Mr. Riddle and his bride, one Merope Gaunt of Little Hangleton, are reported to have eloped to London. No word on whether there is to be a post-elopement reception for the newly wedded couple. Mrs. Thomas Riddle, Sr. is reported to be recovering well.

He'd searched for hours, but there had been nothing about the ending of the marriage, merely a short notice half a year later his father, apparently back in Little Hangleton, had been seen by the same doctor for some unspecified illness. Perhaps he had covered it up, prevented the newspaper from publishing details of what must have been his greatest shame. The old anger burned in his stomach.

For so long, he'd wondered about his Muggle father. As a child he'd imagined his father must have died – otherwise, he would have delivered his own son from orphanhood. That was what fathers did, according to all of the stories Tom read – the good ones, at least. His mother had clearly not passed muster. Even after learning the truth about her, Tom had speculated endlessly throughout the years on what kind of a man his father had been.

Now he knew.

He must have run for the hills when she'd told him she was a witch. Did he know that he had left his wife to die, that he'd doomed his own flesh and blood to the bleakness of a Muggle orphanage? Most likely he'd never spared another minute thinking about the two of them.

Muggles, he thought viciously. Always naming their whelps after themselves in a foolish show of self importance, when their own ignorance and cowardice made them barely better than animals. Why had his mother, the proud heiress of Slytherin, married a man like that? Had it been a mere matter of desire, or had she really loved him? But that meant she had been weak and foolish herself. And yet it was through her that he had inherited his bloodline and his magical ability. He could not understand it, no matter how hard he tried.

The water was cold when he got up. A plan was mostly formed; he only needed to be certain of one more thing. Tom dried himself and dressed. With a casual wave of his hand, the article burst into flames, turning almost instantly into fine black ash.

The holidays were near, and the children were becoming increasingly rowdy. The younger ones excitedly compared their winter plans and chattered endlessly in classes, even going so far as cheering aloud when it began to snow. In class, Eleanor handed out treats from Hogsmeade's sweetshop, which, as she confessed to Dumbledore later in the staffroom, had garnered unintentionally hilarious if exhausting results. The older children, forced to pay attention in preparation for their OWLs and NEWTs, were more subdued. Still, a sense of excitement suffused the school, and even the news that trickled in every day of the rapidly worsening Muggle war did not dampen the general good mood.

"Children, your star charts were fantastic," Eleanor was saying to her class, remembering to be generous with praise. It was night and the small group had gathered on one of the tower used mainly for Astronomy class.

She sorted through the pile of start charts and displayed one before the class. "I particularly liked this one – such attention to detail. And what beautiful script. Well done, Mr. Riddle. "

The lesson was beginning quite well, and it was a clear, perfect night. She pointed out that a few of Jupiter's moons were visible, and the class leaned into their telescopes.

"Professor Hammond, look at that! Do stars usually do that?"

Kathy Ackerman was looking not into her telescope but into the distance, where Eleanor made out small flashes of light. She squinted. Odd. They appeared not in the skies but closer to earth. Almost as if...

"Those aren't stars," Greta Puckle said scornfully. "They're bombing the English countryside."

"What's bombing? Some type of fireworks?" asked Alastair Grunion.

"Children," Eleanor hushed. "Bombing, Mr. Grunion, is a type of Muggle warfare device. Similar to, er... guns. Or arrows," she added hastily, as he opened his mouth again. "I believe the British Muggles are currently engaged in a very complicated and messy conflict with... some other Muggles. Foreigners or that sort. Now, if we can return to the south-west quadrant..."

"My dad says we're fighting the Jerries. He was in the Home Guard before his leg gave out," added Davey Newby brightly, which no doubt translated into so much gibberish for those who were not Muggle-born.

A whispered comment from the back row caused Newby to flush amid hushed snickers.

"Class!" said Eleanor sharply. "War is nothing to laugh at. The Wizarding world is facing its own crisis... I assume most of you have heard of the Dark Wizard Grindelwald...?"

She tried to remember what her husband had told her. "Grindelwald has gained enough power in the other European countries to count as a very real threat to Britain. What is happening to our Muggle neighbours may soon reflect our own fate."

"Professor," piped up a voice from the back, and she looked up and met a pair of dark eyes. It was Tom. "Is it true that you are well acquainted with the Head of Magical Law Enforcement at the Ministry? What is the Ministry's position on Grindelwald's... ideology? Does he really pose so large a threat to Wizarding society?"

Eleanor toyed with her wedding ring, thrown off by his question.

"What are you trying to say, Mr. Riddle? That his ideologies are not as damaging as they appear to be?"

Tom shrugged, going for a look of naive curiosity. "Grindelwald has always undertaken his actions for 'the greater good', as he likes to say."

She shook her head, and countered: "But for whom, we must ask ourselves." And she was really saying this for the benefit of the entire class. No need for them to get the wrong idea, she thought. It had not occurred to her that Tom was playing with her. "For himself, or for all wizards, as he would like us to believe? The Ministry does not support Grindelwald's violent actions, nor those aspects of his credo which are harmful..."

"Harmful in what way, Professor?"

"They are harmful to Muggles, Mr. Riddle. And possibly Muggle-borns."

A particularly bright flash interrupted them and a low rumble, as if of thunder, sounded.

"Don't worry," she reassured them, "Hogwarts is protected from the bombs."

Eleanor looked back and became disconcerted when she saw that Tom had not looked away from her in all the commotion. The barest hint of a smile played about his lips, and she realized she was sweating in the December night.

"Is that why the Head of Magical Law Enforcement recently introduced harsher sentences for those who would harm Muggles?" he asked.

So carefully were his questions framed and so courteous was his manner that the rest of the class did not seem to notice the stir of sexual agitation between them.

"That measure has been long overdue," she persisted.

"Would you say that knowing Muggles have always escaped punishment – or even been rewarded – for violence against wizards and witches?"

"They can sometimes be... ignorant in those matters. We are not."

"So are wizards enlightened, morally – even... superior? Is that what you mean, Professor? That Muggles are to be protected because they have lesser –"

"Tom!" she interrupted in warning. His eyes flashed. "I said no such thing." A rustle, and then a low murmur had started in the class at his words.

"I gather you support him, then?" he said, returning to her husband. "His policies have not garnered much support among many members of the Wizarding community."

She released a pent-up sigh that she had not known she was holding. "We should all support our government."

"I don't quite follow, Professor." Tom held her gaze and then his eyes dropped down the length of her body. It was as obscene as if he had run his hands on her instead. Inside her head, Eleanor screamed.

"Excuse me –"

She dropped all pretence and nearly ran towards the entryway that led to the staircase of the tower. Only when she was pressed against the cool, soothing stone of the tower wall did she allow herself to close her eyes. She did not think she could have stood a single moment more before the silent class while Tom questioned her beliefs with his cold, critical statements, horrible statements cloaked as innocent classroom inquiries. She twisted the ring on her finger, around and around and around, thinking of how true and right each of his questions had seemed, and how weakly and ineffectively she had replied. She thought of her husband's infuriating Muggle mother.

"Professor, are you alright?" whispered a voice in the near-dark. It was Newby, concern evident on his round face. Did the other children tease him because he was heavy? He hesitated, and then told her, "Riddle and his lot are utter tossers, Professor. You mustn't let them know they got to you."

Eleanor heard Tom's voice echoing within her, thought of the tilt of his chin, his half lidded eyes just before he delivered another cutting barb. She knew what he wanted, knew by the malice in his eyes and the softness of his voice and the subtlety of his words. In the pit of her stomach, something rose in her chest until she could no longer breathe.

"Thank you for you concern, Mr. Newby," she finally said. "I will – I'll be up shortly. Go on..."

She listened to Newby's footsteps as he left and imagined herself pierced by Tom Riddle's gaze while his mouth spewed smooth, sweet venom, insatiable sexual desire swelling in each syllable. Heat flared up within her and she saw before her his long, pale fingers flexing – and Eleanor knew, knew with absolute certainty, that she wanted him.

You mustn't let them know they got to you.

He would take her and consume her utterly if she relented now. It would be unacceptable. Eleanor looked at her watch and saw that there were eighteen minutes of class left.

The Fool

"Fools who wear their hearts proudly on their sleeves, who cannot control their emotions, who wallow in sad memories and allow themselves to be provoked this easily – weak people, in other words – they stand no chance against the Dark Lord's powers!"

That night, Eleanor prepared a bath. She generally avoided the mirror, but this time she stripped and stood before it and tried not to wince. For a fleeting, mad moment she was convinced that her body was that of another woman, someone who had endured toil and hardship eternal. Her skin was as pale as the white tile beneath her, and had the look of a corpse; waxy but lined. Brittle red hair curled about her shoulders. The marks of age scarred her thighs and waist.

When, exactly, had her beauty fled? She bared her teeth at the mirror and saw, in a dreadful flash of clarity, the face of her mother gazing back at her, customary sneer fixed in place. Eleanor blinked; the illusion disappeared.

She recalled her mother, who could barely stand to be in the same room as Father unless there was a drink in her hand, who had carefully, obsessively covered her auburn hair with blonde dye and who had been, above all, so unhappy. There had been a moment, in her youth, when all joy must have vanished and left in its place only bitterness. Bitterness and despair, and the unwanted promise of a long, empty life. The identical years stretching ahead without hope. And yet she remembered there had been a time when her mother had smiled and laughed just like she must have done as a young girl.

She thought of when she had turned five, of being taken by the hand to Diagon Alley, and though the memory itself was fuzzy, the excitement of seeing such a bright, noisy place that was as much unlike her home as possible – that had lingered fresh and indelible still. Her mother had taken her, just the two of them, as she had whispered conspiratorially to Eleanor with an intimacy that had been wonderful and surprising. Eleanor had exclaimed over the new set of robes her mother donned and her freshly coiffed hair for she had looked more beautiful than ever before ("This? It's nothing, just something I saved from last season," Mother had murmured modestly). They'd gone to the apothecary and the book shop and Gringotts, and Eleanor had gazed through all the windows and listened to every bit of passing conversation with both delight and hunger. Her severe mother shown a warmth that she never quite managed at home: and with one man in particular, the young shopkeeper of a used bookstore with a pair of kind brown eyes, who had bought ice cream for Eleanor.

Fool, thought Eleanor contemptuously, closing her eyes from the sight of her own body. Of course Mother had gotten caught, and the affair revealed, and she was punished, for she had never taken her out again, had rarely left the house ever after. What happiness she had found in the young man's arms had vanished and what had been left was an empty husk of a woman, stripped of goodness and bitter and hard.

How she had come to understand her mother so well, she did not know. But fear – irrepressible fear gnawed at her and drove her mind apart like a wedge. The knowledge that their lives were not so very different, after all. Eleanor opened her eyes and saw the pale haggard face staring back at her. She imagined smashing the mirror with gusto and watching the pieces explode outward, then grinding the pieces to dust with her foot and laughing. A giggle escaped her throat like a hiccup and she silenced herself immediately, horrified.

Tom walked along the dark halls, senses alert for the sight or smell or sound of anything unusual. Dippet had recently drawn up a new schedule for the Prefects and Tom was unused to this part of the castle. Truly, Hogwarts still astounded him in its vastness. He could not count the number of hours he had spent out of bed, exploring promising parts of the castle he had spotted in daylight but would, most mysteriously, vanish or switch places in the dark of the night.

He slowed and quieted his footsteps when he heard the faint sound of feminine voices emanating from a room further down the corridor. It was past midnight; no students were allowed out of bed at this hour. He dearly hoped that whoever it was turned out to be in Gryffindor, the better to dock points from.

"Myrtle the moron," a voice from the room floated out, gleeful cruelty ringing in each word, "why are you still following us? I thought I told you to go away."

Myrtle was clearly struggling not to cry. She screamed: "But I don't know the way back, Olive! You're the one who told me to meet you here – you said –"

"Shhhh!" a chorus of voices hissed. "You're going to get us found out!"

"I don't care!" Myrtle shouted, and blubbering, ran out of the room and straight into Tom, who was standing outside. She looked up into his face, an expression of panic and fear upon her own spotty face.

"Are you alright, Myrtle?" he asked her gently, steadying her arm. She blushed when he touched her.

"Oh, Tom –"

"What are you doing here at this time of the night?" he murmured, peering over her head, into the darkened room from which she had run out of. A group of girls were huddled within, goggling back at him. "Lumos! Come out of there, all of you," he ordered.

As they filed out, Myrtle exchanged a particularly poisonous glare with a tall, thin girl who seemed to be the leader of the group, judging from the way the other girls cowered behind her.

"Olive Hornby tricked me," sniffed Myrtle, pointing a dramatic, accusing finger at the girl. "She called me a moron and told me she was going to leave me alone out here to get me in trouble."

"That's a lie!" said Olive with a pout. "I saw Myrtle sneaking about and I decided to see what she was up to... I think she was trying to steal something –"

"No I wasn't –" Myrtle said, sputtering with indignity.

Tom knew at once that Olive was lying, as he gazed into her eyes and quickly searched her mind for falsehoods. What enraged him was that she actually thought he could be fooled by such a weak excuse, and that she had dared lie to him. He fingered his wand, silently running through a list of his favourite curses... but there was really only one course of action he could take at this moment in time.

"Lying to Prefects is not tolerated at Hogwarts, nor is sneaking around in the dark after hours. I'm afraid that I will have to report this to Professor Dippet," Tom said softly to Olive Hornby and her friends, who emitted various squawks of outrage. "Return to your beds at once, or there shall be further consequences. I will deal with this in the morning," and his voice rose and was so commanding that they mutely took off for Ravenclaw tower at once, averting their gazes from his eyes.

"Thanks, Tom," Myrtle said thickly when they were alone.

He frowned at her. "I'll have to speak to Professor Dippet about you as well, Myrtle. Rules are rules."

"I know. I'm just glad Olive's in trouble too, for once." Her face was grubby with tears and she gazed up at him with something close to adoration. Disgusting, he thought. Killing you would be so easy...

He swallowed his feelings with practiced ease and gave her an encouraging smile. "Would you like to get cleaned up? Perhaps there's a restroom you can use..." he suggested.

"There's a bathroom off there... I go there to cry whenever I get upset. It's quite good," she said, and added shyly, "although... it is a girl's bathroom."

"I can wait for you outside, if you'd like," he told her, a wide smile spreading across his face as he realized the mistake he had been making for the past several months. The girl's bathroom... of course he had never looked there! Why would he have? But it was a very real possibility that the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets would be hidden in such a place. Hadn't he read that Salazar Slytherin thought girls much more trustworthy than boys? Pleasurable heat spread through his body; the prize he sought was so close. Salazar himself would be proud.

"Lead the way, Myrtle."

She sighed appreciatively, her thirteen year old heart aflutter with admiration. He was so good and brave... and so very handsome, especially with that soft dimple that appeared in his cheek when he smiled at her. "You're so kind, Tom..."

The neatly patched schoolboy robes, lent to him by the school, had been replaced with a sober gray suit that was only slightly too short at the sleeves. It made Tom look older. Eleanor had opted for the nicer set of her teacher's robes, as she had not bothered to pack any dress robes. In truth, the fancy gowns she donned for Ministry functions would have seemed out of place at Hogwarts.

He had come to her on the night of Slughorn's party and waited patiently outside the door until she appeared, struggling to conceal the trepidation on her face. As they made their way through the empty hallways, she chattered incessantly about classes and grades and holidays. Tom smiled to himself when she hurriedly interrupted him for the third time. She was bending and cracking at the seams, like a wand about to be snapped in two. It was the finality of the act, the irreversibility of what was about to occur, that interested him and gave him a sort of sadistic pleasure. There would be no going back.

At the door to the party she hesitated, breaking off mid-sentence. Voices and laughter floated out from within. It sounded vaguely sinister to her.

"If I didn't know better Eleanor," he told her smilingly, "you seem nearly anxious."

"No," she fretted. "I'm used to parties..."

"I can take you back to your room, if you'd like."

Tom moved closer, eyes boring into her. Her breathing stopped but her heartbeat rose, so that she felt quite light. He smiled at her. And moved away. He was playing with her again.

She appraised him as clinically as she could, and saw only what the others saw as well: a considerate young man, endearingly mild-mannered, intelligence and scholarly curiosity sparking in his eyes. It was little wonder he was the Headmaster's golden boy.

He could have been her son, the little orphan Riddle. It shocked her, suddenly, to realize that he had never known a mother or a father, that he had never known love or warmth or been held as a child. She wondered if he even knew what he lacked. If he cared. How different he would be if he'd had one. She thought of her own, and again felt the heady mixture of triumph and regret. He was waiting for her to answer.

Eleanor said weakly, half-relenting: "I wouldn't want you to miss it."

"It would be no trouble at all."

Something glittered in his eyes. It was clear what would happen if they were to turn back and go to her quarters.

"No, no. Let's go in."

His smile widened.

The Lovers

"I have seen your heart, and it is mine."

"If there's one holiday I appreciate the most, it would have to be Yule."

Eleanor started.

"Oh?" she replied, breath steaming in the cold.

"Yes. The castle lies nearly empty for two weeks. Suddenly it's grander and more mysterious than in the daylight. You can climb a staircase and cross a hall and you'll discover something you've never seen before. In six years I've never been disappointed."

Tom was in a good mood. Possibly it was because Eleanor was already tipsy as she stood there alone on the balcony, swaying slightly. More likely it was because her husband's approval ratings had dropped to an all-time low of twelve percent. It had been on the second page of the Daily Prophet. Several prominent Wizarding families were already calling for his replacement.

"That doesn't surprise me," she said. The glass in her hand was half full. Her knuckles were pale as she held it, and her bare arms were raised with gooseflesh. And yet blood rose in her cheeks as he came to stand beside her, at the stone edge of the balcony.

"What doesn't surprise you?" he asked lazily.

Eleanor chanced a glance at him. "Most people associate the holidays with their families. But I suppose… Hogwarts is that, for you."

"How insightful of you," he said, not bothering to conceal the amusement in his voice.

In the dim light her eyes had grown large and dark, like a creature trapped in a cage. Diamonds gleamed at her ears and her robes draped expensively around her waist. Everything about her spoke of old money, down to the self loathing and the alcoholism. Tom felt this with the exactitude of the impoverished.

"I should go," she muttered.

"Why don't you stay," he said. It was not a suggestion. All night long she had not allowed herself to be in his presence without at least one other person.

He did not need to take out his wand for the doors leading from the party to the balcony to swing shut and lock with a click, shutting out the sounds within. Anyone who might wish to venture out for air would suddenly feel a compelling need to return to the party.

"Nonverbal spellcasting," she murmured. "Impressive."

"And does that surprise you?"

"No," she admitted. His smile was small but self-satisfied.

"Clearly, I am not trying hard enough…"

Eleanor felt her insides twist as he moved towards her. If she shouted, no-one would come running. The realization was like a finger running down her spine.

Desperately she looked up to the heavens and seized upon a topic that lay on safe ground. "Have you noticed – Saturn burns bright tonight… fitting, don't you think?"

He paused, tilting his head. When he looked back at her his gaze had turned mocking. "Come now, Eleanor. Divination… really?"

"Astromancy," she corrected. "If I recall, you were born in December, under Capricorn."

They had learnt this in class. Tom Riddle's own birth chart had been remarkable for both its complexity and its thoroughness.

"Capricorn," he recited in a bored voice. "The governor of the tenth house: of ambition, aspirations, attainments. Those born beneath the dark lights of Capricornus hunger for status, glory, and honours. Hardly a cipher, is it? Are you trying to tell me something, Professor?"

Eleanor felt a prickle of indignation. "You know, you're hardly the first to mistrust the power of prophecy."

"Prophecy… nebulous at best, and at worst… pure sham. Self-fulfilling claptrap. If you had spoken to me of wandlore, of cores and woods… the instrument through which we channel our innate powers, our very essence – now there is a subject worthier of consideration than the obscure movements of far-off planets…"

"I would have thought you would value knowledge, however arcane, above all?"

"Knowledge," he repeated, as if tasting the word on his tongue. "True, knowledge leads to strength, which leads to power, and all the rest that follows. But controlling that knowledge – that is what separates the wheat from the chaff. Status, glory, honour – I've seen it all squandered by fools who could not resist their own weaknesses."

"And what do you consider a weakness, Tom?"

He smirked, as if enjoying a private joke. She realized he would never tell.

"Let's name seven, shall we…? There is envy, wrath and pride. And then greed, gluttony and sloth… and we mustn't forget lust." His eyes glittered. "Each is a form of idolatry of self, the reigning of the subjective over the objective. Do you know the punishment for committing a mortal sin?"

She looked at his high cheekbones, those grey eyes, the full lips twisted in dark amusement, and it was like looking into a black hole.

"Eternal damnation," he pronounced, voice slow and smooth. Her skin felt like it was on fire.

In his eyes she saw something dark move beneath the mirth. His smile was as sharp and cold as a razor.

"I'm only joking," he said softly. "I had my catechisms whipped into me when I was a boy – the nuns were particularly unforgiving, given my… peculiarities. Muggle superstitions can be quite silly, can't they?"

He was so close to her that he could see every freckle on her nose.

"Now, let's get you out of these robes," said Tom, pressing against her.

Tom tasted the tang of the champagne on her tongue. She was soft and warm but less yielding than he would have liked. There was a resistance when his hand moved down, over her breast, one thumb dragging over the silk material overlying her nipple. She pulled away even as heat flared inside her. She could not help but notice the light flush that had risen in his pale cheeks.

"No," she sighed.

You are married! she told herself. But Lewis was not here; he had never been there.

"Yes," he said.

His hand moved between the folds of her robes. She twisted away, but he pushed the advantage of his height and weight, pinning her until her back was against a wall. At that moment she caught a glimpse of his youth, the pride and the greed. His beauty had never been more apparent.

"Enough," he whispered, his breathing loud in her ear. With his knee he nudged apart her thighs, and his fingers found her cunt, wet already, and stroked her until she was trembling, supplication pouring wordlessly from her lips. Eleanor put her arms around his shoulders, already as broad as a grown man's, and found herself pushing her chest against his. His long, pale fingers, spiderlike, his midnight hair, his deep, dark eyes… she wanted it all, him, using her, consuming her. She relished it. They were intertwined, and she was more alive than she'd ever been.

Eleanor had first met her husband when her brother Ignatius stopped her on the staircase of their family's summer house and introduced her to his friend from work. They had not got along at first, because she made a comment about the ongoing Goblin riots up north, and he'd had the bad manners to say she had most likely never spoken to a goblin so he would be interested to know on what she had based her opinion. Later she pronounced to Ignatius that Lewis Hammond was the rudest man she had ever met, but good on him for bringing the man, dear Mother had had a neat little conniption fit when she heard they were hosting a Muggle-born for the summer.

At her family's annual Midsummer's Eve party, she'd seen at once Lewis's discomfort and his mistrust as he stood there in his scratchy, off-the-rack dress robes, an unwanted stranger amongst the upper echelons of Wizarding society. Mudblood, Irma Crabbe had hissed in passing, and the shock and anger on his face had made Eleanor take his hand as the orchestra launched into its third Strauss waltz of the evening.

"Irma's jealous," she'd told him over the swell of the violin and the gentle murmur of conversation. "She's wanted my brother since the day they met. Instead he brings home the son of a Muggle and treats him with more love and friendship than he'll ever give her."

He'd held her as stiffly as he danced. "I assure you this son of a Muggle did not mean to seduce your brother. How shall I endeavour to correct my error?"

"You could seduce me instead," she'd said smilingly, because Irma and her sisters were watching. And because up close his eyes were a surprisingly pleasing shade of brown.

She allowed the courtship because she knew it would infuriate Mother. And she was bored. Hogwarts had just ended, and with a respectable but unexceptional amount of N.E.W.T.s, Eleanor knew only that what she wanted and did not want to do with her life changed by the day, the hour, the minute. Lewis's ambition was both fascinating and repelling – the man worked while on vacation – and the acerbic barbs they slung at each other were at least a diversion from her impending engagement to Marius Bulstrode, whose defining feature seemed to be his penchant for picking his nose at every available opportunity.

When Lewis proposed at the end of that summer, she accepted without hesitation.

Perhaps it was the delight purring through every fibre of his body, but Tom did not notice Dumbledore until he was nearly upon the man.

"Hello, Tom," said Dumbledore, as though they were exchanging pleasantries in class, and had not just trodden on each other's toes in a deserted corridor at the early hours of the morning.

"What –"

Dumbledore was supposed to be a continent away, at an emergency meeting of the International Confederation of Wizards that was being held in New York. Tom had read about it in the Daily Prophet, had chosen this night specifically to venture out – not, of course, because he feared Dumbledore, but because the old man liked to meddle so.

"Professor," he amended, marshalling his breathing. How had he not noticed Dumbledore's approach? His robes were usually garish enough to make one go blind. "I was just returning from the Prefect's bathroom."

Behind his spectacles, the old man's blue eyes were clear and sharp. "At three in the morning? It must have been an urgent call indeed."

Tom stared back, innocence plastered all over his face. "I thought I'd use the opportunity at night to take my time, when it's not as crowded."

His words produced no softening, or indeed, any discernable effect. Dumbledore had never liked him, holding a child's misdeeds against him when he had done nothing else to garner mistrust in all the years following.

"Understandable indeed, but even Prefects are not allowed to roam the halls at will so late at night." His tone was mild, but his eyes said: you knew this.

"I understand, sir, but –"

"I'm afraid I will have to take twenty-five points from Slytherin."

Rage pulsed inside him, poisoning the glee he had felt but moments earlier. He grit his teeth. No matter; they were in the lead by fifty points, and in any case, Tom would win it all back within the week. As if this could possibly hurt him. Dumbledore watched him calmly.

"As is your right, sir," he said, when he was sure of his voice.

Perhaps he did not like Tom's tone, for Dumbledore added, with a hint of rebuke: "Detention is also within my rights. But I choose to believe, Tom, that you comprehend perfectly well the necessity of those rules forbidding students from wandering out of bed after hours. I venture that assigning an essay on such would be an injudicious use of both of our times."

The self-righteousness of it all chafed at Tom. "Of course. There must always be a lesson in one's chastisement. You have always been enlightening on this subject, Professor."

He thought about a wardrobe, burning, an eleven-year old boy's worldly possessions – hard-won, hard-fought, he could still taste blood in the back of his throat – engulfed. All the lemon-drops and meaningless platitudes in the world meant nothing to that. They had both revealed themselves that day.

Dumbledore studied him. "Might it be that you misunderstand me, Tom? I have never hoped for anything less than the best for you."

"As you say, sir."

"Professor Slughorn tells me you have excelled in your studies this semester. He has also mentioned that you have performed above and beyond the call of the duties required of you as Prefect. I don't think anyone anticipated any less."

Tom allowed himself a tight smile. This was not news to him.

Dumbledore smiled, as well. For some reason he looked contemplative. "These halls are transformed at night, are they not? And Hogwarts has as many secrets as you or I."

He could not possibly know what was in Tom's mind – it was impossible, no one alive could – but the keenness of the old man's gaze was such that he looked away.

"But all the same, I expect you to remain observant of the rules set out for your safety and that of your peers."

"Of course," Tom said, not quite sneering.

Dumbledore nodded. "Goodnight, Tom."

They passed one another. By the time Tom slipped into bed, the soft snores of his classmates rising around him, exhaustion was settling over him at last. He lay in bed, staring up at the green-draped canopy above. Eventually the disquiet of the encounter faded, and a soft wave of laughter rolled over him.

Exquisite images flashed in his mind. His serendipitous discovery of the entrance to the chambers, flickers of green and scarlet as the great snake had stirred, and reared up at the sound of his voice. How readily enough he'd rendered it as docile as a kitten, its will bent to his own.

It was he, he who had never had two spare Knuts to rub together, nor a manse in which to lounge around on the holidays, he: poor, brilliant Tom Riddle, who had succeeded where all others had failed. And at last, a thousand years later, it was Slytherin's one true heir who would see his original intent fulfilled.

The Magician

"Greatness inspires envy, envy engenders spite, spite spawns lies."

"It isn't safe for you to come anymore," said Eleanor.

They were side by side, on her bed, not quite touching. Her skin was flushed.

"You mean the attacks on Newby and Claridge?" he said calmly.

"Exactly. They could have died."

"You're frightened." He stroked her hair. Last week he had surprised her by asking for a lock of it. The bright red strands she'd cut off for him lay between the pages of his diary.

"Of course I am. The best mediwizards from St. Mungo's couldn't reverse whatever Petrified them. Thank goodness Dumbledore suggested Mandrakes."

"So it's true. They'll get better."

"Can you imagine if they'd died?" She shuddered.

Tom said nothing for a moment.

"Do they know what's behind the attacks?"

"No one has any idea. But it's a mess. The parents aren't happy – the board, especially. The Ministry might get involved." Her jaw tightened. She fiddled with her wedding ring, twisting the gold band round and round her finger. "So. You shouldn't come anymore."

He considered this.

"You should leave your husband."

"I beg your pardon?" She sat up suddenly, not looking at him, and commenced pulling her robe on in a prickly, determined way.

"The man has no future. He shouldn't have proceeded with Nott's trial at all. Who does he think will support him after that? The Notts are pillars of the community… staunch members of the old guard."

"That animal tortured two elderly Muggles," Eleanor said, emotion reddening her cheeks. She swung her legs out of bed and stood up. "Lewis was right to send him to Azkaban."

"He won't last," said Tom simply. "He'll soon be shunted aside. You know this, better than anyone else."

"The Ministry needs him. Everyone's talking about appeasing Grindelwald and Lewis is the only one with his head screwed on straight. I support him," said Eleanor, but she sounded angry. "I love him."

Tom laughed, and rose after her. "Look me in the eye and say that."

He approached while she poured herself a drink. Her shoulders tensed when he touched them.

"I do," she said, biting her lip.

He smirked. "You've never loved anyone in your life."

"Then that makes two of us," she returned, chin raised, giving him a look he had not often encountered. Defiance lurked there, and a glimmer of insolence. Lust sparked within him, and his grip moved to her neck and tightened. He tilted her head to face him and kissed her hard.

"Tonight is the last time," she gasped.

And yet she let him fuck her on the kitchen counter before he left, legs wrapped around his waist, his name falling from her mouth like a prayer.

"Riddle, please present the patrol timetables for this week."

Minerva McGonagall – Head Girl, proud matriarch of House Gryffindor, and Dumbledore's unequivocal pet – held out her hand expectantly from where she sat at the head of the table.

"My pleasure, Minerva," said Tom. Across from him, fifth year Hufflepuff Ariadne Smith blushed from the refraction of his smile, but McGonagall merely tugged the parchment from his grip. "I've taken care to ensure that no one student is ever alone or outside summoning range of any Professor's office."

"Excellent," she said crisply. Her steel-rimmed spectacles flashed as she examined the schedule, white neck bent. Tom thought her face a dash too handsome to be pretty, but what he found truly attractive was the cool iron in her voice and the way it made others – even the teachers – snap to attention. It was her, and not amiable Head Boy Flitwick, who ruled the Prefects.

"I need not remind you of the new rules that Dippet has implemented, in light of the continuing attacks on students. I know these are trying times, that we all have our respective O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s to worry about in addition to Prefect duties. If there are any amongst you who are struggling in any way, you may feel free to speak to Filius or myself at any time. In the meantime, you all have your schedules that Mr. Riddle has kindly produced."

"Minerva." It was Henry Urquhart, a sixth year Gryffindor. "Is it true that someone wrote 'Death to Mudbloods' – excuse me for the horrendous language, everyone – where Evie Claridge was found?"

Twenty-four Prefects sat crowded around the small table in a room, which by its odour, also regularly housed Quidditch team meetings. Tom had the impression that everyone had suddenly leaned in. McGonagall's lips thinned; her countenance grew fierce.

"Yes, it's true!" she said, furious. "Somebody thinks that they are clever and that this is a game they are playing with the lives of others! You all know I take a dim view toward blood prejudice – I urge you all to deal with anything of that sort, or any resultant bullying, through the full capacity of your positions. We must not let the culprit's fear-mongering gain footing."

She spoke, thought Tom, like a general at war. He would dearly have liked to see her in a duel. Or better yet, to be facing her, on the other side of her wand. His spellcasting could do with practice, after all.

McGonagall looked around. "Any more questions?"

He caught her eye. "Are we any closer to discovering who is behind the attacks?"

A rumour had spread like wildfire a few weeks ago that it was Slytherin's monster that haunted Hogwarts. Someone else had finally read Hogwarts, a History, and since then the most popular topic of conversation in the school was speculation on the identity of Slytherin's heir and the location of the Chamber of Secrets. Even teachers whispered about it when they thought students could not hear them. Tom generally chose not to participate.

"No, we are not." The frustration was plain on her face. "The teachers have searched the school from top to bottom. Even Professor Dumbledore could not find a trace of the Chamber or any possible entrance. I advise you all to keep your eyes and ears open."

They were dismissed. Everyone rose and headed to the door, chattering, except Tom, who lingered. McGonagall looked up.

"Oh, I nearly forgot." She handed him a rather worn copy of Theories of Intermediate Human Transfiguration. At his raised eyebrow – Minerva McGonagall's books, not in pristine condition? – she added, "I think I've got it memorized, by now. Keep it for as long as you need."

"Thank you," murmured Tom, looking over its gold lettering and plain black cover. Something about the sight of a well-used book struck a deeply satisfying chord within him.

"Interested in becoming an Animagus, Riddle?" she said, packing up her things.

"Among other things. Think I'll win Transfiguration Today's Most Promising Newcomer award if I do?"

She glanced at him, a faint smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "Good Lord, don't spread that around. Mother's already written all the cousins. Silly, really. I hadn't even known Dumbledore nominated me."

Tom had sometimes wondered whether her hero-worship of Dumbledore had ever crossed that line. He could not ever imagine the sanctimonious old man quite managing it, though. "I wouldn't dream of it."

Together they headed for the door, and then made their way down the corridor.

Casually, Tom said: "I didn't see you at Sluggy's dinner last week."

A faint line appeared between her eyebrows. "I was… busy."

"Ah," he said delicately. "Of course. It was Saint Valentine's Day."

She sent him a wry look.

"Don't take this the wrong way, Riddle, but I prefer more… sincere company.

He nodded. "Slughorn makes no secret about what he wants in return for what he provides. Commercial, yes, but undeniably advantageous for both parties."

McGonagall considered this. "Wouldn't that make one beholden to him? I'd have thought you, particularly, would dislike that."

"You're not wrong." He shrugged. "But I've never known any other company, as you say. We're not much for inter-house cooperation here, are we?"

"In general, yes. But you're different," she said bluntly. "For one, you seem to be oblivious of the unofficial Hogwarts rule about maintaining the rivalry between Gryffindor and Slytherin."

"A person's worth is in their character, not their House," said Tom quietly. "Do you not follow the same edict?"

McGonagall gave him a thoughtful look. They walked on in silence, pausing at the entrance to the Great Hall, and the clamour and scents of dinner wafted out.

"Oh, that smells delicious," she sighed. "Too bad – I've detention to oversee this evening."

"Who is it this time?"

"Rubeus Hagrid. It's the third time that boy's been caught sneaking out to the Forbidden Forest this month."

"You don't say. What on earth for?" Tom had seen the half-giant lumbering through the hallways – who hadn't? – but had never spoken to him.

"Something about wanting to catch a glimpse of a centaur," sighed McGonagall. "But I think he saw it as some sort of adventure. He's a good soul. Just… I do wish he would think before he acted." Her gaze shifted to someone behind him, expression changing. "Good evening, Professor!"

"Miss McGonagall, Mr. Riddle. Pray do not let me interrupt what looked to be a most engrossing conversation."

Dumbledore's voice had sharpened very slightly upon pronouncing his name. Tom met his eyes impassively.

"Oh, not at all," enthused McGonagall. "We were just finishing." She tore her eyes away from Dumbledore. "Riddle. In the spirit of inter-house cooperation… if you're ever looking for a change of company, there are other options. Present company included." She shot him a rare smile as they parted.

Dumbledore looked between him and McGonagall, his placid smile not quite masking his suspicion. Well, well, thought Tom. This could be interesting…

"Snakes are singularly intelligent beings," said Tom. "Especially the larger ones. This one's bite is not lethal – to adults, that is. One would only experience intense pain for a few hours."

The viper coiled around his outstretched arm, its brown and black scales undulating smoothly in the moonlight. Tom had heard it whispering to itself about the bountiful influx of new prey from the castle and called to her.

Wilkes' spotty face was even paler than usual. His gaze was glued glassily upon the snake, as if hypnotized. Beside him, Lestrange eyed it warily, his casual stance belied by his tightened jaw. Like the other two, Avery's smile was frozen on his face.

"Relax," he told them. "She won't harm you unless you give her cause. In any case, we've interrupted her hunt."

He deposited her gently upon the ground, and with a soft farewell she slid away.

"That's amazing, Tom," said Avery in a hushed voice. "How long have you had the ability?"

"Since I could speak," he replied carelessly. He was pleased to read wonder and fear in their gazes. "A hereditary trait, no doubt. Now, where is that tosser Rosier?"

"He had detention with Vector. There he is!" Wilkes pointed toward the castle.

A figure jogged toward them across the deserted grounds. He was still out of breath as Lestrange and Avery made space for him. "Sorry, Tom. The old bitch wouldn't let me leave until I'd worked through the entire last chapter of the workbook."

"I gather your natural charms failed to impress her?" said Tom.

Rosier spat on the ground, narrowly missing Wilkes' shoes.

"What do you expect from a dusty old cunt that hasn't gotten laid in decades." The others laughed and Tom smiled.

"To business," he said, clapping his hands softly. "No doubt you are all wondering why I've asked you to meet me tonight. Does anyone know what night it is?"

Each of the other four appeared nonplussed. Tom resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"I suppose you wouldn't…. In a half hour the clock will strike midnight, and the eve of May Day will end. Tonight is the Night of Walpurgis, the moment between the turning of the seasons."

"Magic grows strong at such times. It flows from the very foundations of the earth, stirs in the air itself. I can feel the power running through my veins, strengthening, purifying. Do you not feel it, as well?"

Though he spoke quietly, his voice seemed to resonate in the still air. Even the Forest was hushed around them. Tom raised his wand.

"It is traditional for our brethren in the eastern parts of Europe to celebrate with a bonfire."

A jet of flame shot out from the tip of his wand, scorching hot, straight towards Avery and Wilkes. The two scrambled out of the way. Avery's robes were a hair's breadth away from being engulfed in licking tongues of the flame. As it rose through the air in a single, undulating column, the head of a serpent with enormous fangs took shape at the column's top, opening its mouth to the heavens in a crackling roar. The heat of the flame was unbearably hot on Tom's fingers, but he kept his grip steady.

Aware of their awestruck gazes, he flicked his wand, and the being of fire was separated from his wand, towering over them all.

"Tom," croaked Lestrange, his usual cool demeanor nowhere to be found. His face shone with sweat. "They'll see it –"

Tom lowered his wand, and the serpent shrank in size, thrashing as it did so. With a final flourish, it burst into seven ropes of flame that formed a low, burning circle around the five of them.

"Merlin," whispered Rosier, looking around uneasily. "You're sure that's wise?"

"Fiendfyre has its uses, if one only knows how to control it," said Tom, as casually as if they were discussing the merits of a particular brand of broomstick. "It is a fortification few can overcome… nobody will interrupt us tonight, gentlemen."

He looked around at them; his closest companions. There was Wilkes, who had never been his favourite; Wilkes, unquestionably pure of blood, whose lineage was rumoured to be plagued with Squibs – certainly Tom had never seen him display any strong magical talent – but who worshipped the ground he walked on. Now Lestrange – who'd perfected his little laissez-faire facade that so very well masked the sharpness of his thirst and ambition – Tom understood a little better. And then Avery, a shameless bootlicker who always knew the right thing to say at the right time – practically, Tom admitted, it was a very useful skill. And finally there was Rosier, who had never needed encouragement to terrorize Mudbloods, and who was cruel and vicious but unwaveringly loyal.

"In another year, we'll all leave this place, perhaps forever," he said. "Many of our classmates will go their own way. An internship at the Ministry, perhaps, or training at St. Mungo's, for the cleverer ones. There are those who will even choose a quiet life at home. In time they'll marry and breed, and by then their lives will be set in the path they've chosen."

He paused, distaste plain on his face.

"I've been thinking on this for a while. We're different, aren't we? Those who would accept such ordinary, mundane lives – they lack something that cannot be bought or earned – that which is intrinsic. Slytherin knew that. We find ourselves together not by the caprices of an enchanted hat but by our own inherent talents."

"Tonight is an auspicious date. Tonight, I ask that we make a pact… of sorts. When the time comes, and we are no longer constricted by childish school rules, we can do – and have – whatever we want. I have great dreams, my friends, I think you know – and plans to realize them. But I cannot do it alone. In return, I ask only for your loyalty."

Tom's words had had their intended effect. They looked excited and proud.

Rosier spoke first. "We're with you, Tom. To the end."

He smiled. Rosier had been his from the beginning, since their first meeting all those years ago as they'd waited in line to be Sorted. Six years had passed since that moment, but his allegiance had never wavered. The shadows of the Forbidden Forest cast his long face in a half light, hollowing his eyes and his cheekbones into a grinning mask.

The others were quick to voice their agreement.

There would come a day not very far in the future, he knew, when these four – and others who would join them – would do anything he asked of them.

"Excellent," said Tom. "I won't forget this, friends."

Death

"I was ripped from my body, I was less than spirit, less than the meanest ghost . . . but still, I was alive."

Myrtle died as ignominiously as she'd lived, falling in a boneless heap the moment she looked into the eyes of the Basilisk. Tom had felt a rush of adrenaline sweep him from head to toe, the jubilance of triumph. There counted one less weak, unworthy Mudblood in this world. He had barely known her, though he was aware that she'd liked looking at him, the way silly young girls who read too many romance novels often tended to do.

It was not until he cast the soul-splitting spell that he truly understood what he had done.

Even before he'd finished saying the words, agony rent his body, as if he'd turned the Cruciatus curse on himself. But it was more than that. He could actually feel Myrtle's essence enter him, its anguish, its sorrow, its fear and rage, the primal wordless shriek of her too-young soul as it departed its body. Her entire life – all her thoughts and hopes and emotions – seeped into his own consciousness, and he knew her in that moment as she'd known herself. And he saw clearly how her death would tear apart her mother and father, the damage it would wreak upon not only her family but others, people had had never and would never know; their despair became his own. He was aware that he had fallen to his knees.

Tom's world narrowed to a pinprick. Before him lay the diary he'd brought with him – the purpose of which was half forgotten. He wanted nothing more than to end what he had begun. With a colossal effort he forced himself to push aside the agony, and concentrate. Raising his wand, his own voice mewling and ragged, he completed the spell. Whatever had been part of Myrtle was dragged from him, taking with it something else, something vital and indelible. He had thought he knew the meaning of suffering – he had been so very wrong. Tom had never endured torture like this. It was all-consuming. He heard himself screaming uncontrollably, his voice a high, inhuman wail. Dust and ashes filled his nose and mouth, and Tom knew he was dying, as Myrtle had died.

An eternity passed, or perhaps a few mere moments. And it was over. The diary lay motionless before him, unchanged to his eyes. The girl's body, still warm, lingered at the edge of his vision.

Tom rested his forehead against the cold marble floor, spent beyond endurance.

"Open the door. I know you're awake."

He raised his wand in shaking fingers. A good Reductor Curse would make short work of the door. At that moment he heard the bolt slide, and it cracked open.

"Have you gone mad?" Eleanor whispered. "It's past midnight, if you're caught –"

"Let me in."

Tom had no trouble penetrating a mind like hers at a moment like this: her thoughts might as well have been written on a piece of parchment. He knew his eyes stared out madly, that his robes were in disarray. He hated himself for the unsteadiness of his voice.

Concern softened her features. Eleanor stepped backwards, allowing him inside. "What's happened to you?"

A smell of sleep hung in the air, a mixture of slightly unwashed hair and unfolded laundry. Rapidly he sorted through images of her night; a few dull hours grading papers, a bath, a hot mug of cocoa, the soft warmth of her bed. It was impossible that people lived their lives like this, when he felt as though he had just died a thousand restless deaths.

She peered into his eyes. "Are you alright, Tom?"

The sound of his name had of late become a constant irritation, but now it was intolerable. He closed the distance between them and crushed his mouth to hers, inhaling the scent of her skin and the taste of her mouth. Hot blood raced beneath her warm skin, pulsing under his cold fingers. Eleanor made small sounds of protest, her hands scrabbling against his chest.

"How dare you," she spluttered, wrenching herself free. "Get out!"

"Are we really going to play this game?" he asked impatiently. "We both know you're already sopping wet for me."

"You're vile," she hissed. Yet her pupils widened; her breathing quickened. "Don't think for one second –"

He kissed her again, hard and punishing, pressing her against the door to hike up her nightgown. His fingers moved up her thighs and then dug further up, until they were damp and sticky. He laughed, low in her ear. "Yes, I can really feel how much you hate this. How long has it been, Eleanor? Three months, wasn't it, since you've been properly –?"

"Stop it," she said, voice cracking. "I mean it…"

The smell of her arousal – thick, earthy, alive – did not quite overcome the taste of decay lingering in his mouth. Tom dropped to his knees in front of her, hooking his fingers through her underclothes and tugging them down her thighs. She let out a muffled sound at the first brush of his tongue against her flesh. He licked and sucked and the taste of her filled his senses. When her legs began to shake, he bore her down to the floor, fumbling with his belt buckle.

Eleanor no longer resisted. A deep flush had spread from her chest to the roots of her hair. She kissed him back and allowed him to settle between her knees. He felt her clenching around him as he slid into her. A soft whine escaped her when he began to move, torturously slow. Tom wanted her – the soft, gentle, yielding part of her that lay at her core – more than he could express. To expose and twist and make utterly his. He would have possessed her if he could have. Anything to ease the roar of torment within him.

"You were made for this," he told her. "You belong to me."

She pressed against him, trying to urge him on, but he took hold of her chin, forcing her to look at him. He saw nothing but lust – heavy-lashed, open-mouthed lust – and a rush of loathing and desire twisted together inside him, setting his every sense on fire. Little wonder his own mother had been driven to this, enslaved by her own flesh.

Without warning he pushed all of himself into her, so that they were chest to chest, nose to nose, as close to one another as two people could be. His nerves, still raw with agony, flooded with the sharp sweetness of pleasure.

"Gently," she gasped, face twisted in discomfort. "You're hurting me."

But Tom was rougher than he'd ever been. He had missed this more than he thought he would. At her climax she made a series of incoherent noises that grew progressively higher in pitch. She was still spasming around him when he felt his own overtake him. Lights flashed behind his closed eyes and the pleasure that swelled within him was both painful and sweet. He inhaled sharply against her neck and bit down, barely registering her cry of pain. For a blissful moment his mind was utterly blank.

"You shouldn't have come," she said sharply. "What were you thinking?"

"I thought of you," he sneered, buttoning up his shirt.

"If you ever – do this again – I'll raise the alarm, I swear it."

He tightened his tie and straightened his school robes. She'd always hated the sight of them, threadbare on the elbows, neatly stitched where they had torn at the bottom. Just as she'd always looked away from the scuffs on his shoes, obviously second-hand, and the shabby schoolbag he carried around, stretched to the seams with old books. He caught her gaze and smiled without humour.

"Oh, rest assured, Eleanor. I won't have need of you again."

"Bastard," she hissed. "Get out."

"And what shall you do if they find me, Petrified, tomorrow morning?"

She crossed her arms. Something wet was inching slowly down the inside of her thigh while he smirked at her. The feeling was intolerable. "You'll be safe enough," she snapped. "You're not Muggle-born."

"Well done."

Eleanor narrowed her eyes. "Is that why you were out of bed? What were you doing?"

"Careful," he said. "Do not ask questions to which you do not wish to know the answer."

His tone unnerved her. "What are you talking about?"

"I think you know exactly what I am talking about. Haven't I told you that Hogwarts is mine? Who else do you think has mined her deepest secrets, as I have? Anyway, you are right – I will be quite safe tonight."

"I don't know what that means and I don't want to know," she said suddenly, eyes wide and alarmed. "Get out, before I –"

"Do what?" he said softly. "Dippet's first action will be to question why you allowed me access to your chambers. Once he has established the answer to that, any credibility you have will be worth less than nothing."

"You –?"

"Yes." His eyes shone madly and redly. How had she not seen it before? It had been his hollow cheeks, his pale skin. His uncommon beauty. She had been perilously, recklessly foolish.

"Your own school? The people you take classes with, dine with? But you're a half-blood," she said, stupidly. It was the only thing she could think of. A poor argument, in hindsight. Hatred ran deep, like lifeblood, and was flushed out about as easily.

"Not," he murmured, "by my own choosing. Am I to be forced to forever share myself with Mudbloods and the miscellaneous filth of this world? No, I don't think so. I have had sixteen years of that. No more."

It was the most he had ever said that suggested anything approaching vulnerability, and she felt a terrible prickle of danger. The stillness in the air was as of the instant before a spider strikes. She grasped her wand.

"You must realize I cannot allow you to do that," he said casually.

Before she had opened her mouth he froze her with a quick nonverbal spell.

He stepped up to her and plucked her wand out of her hands, placing it safely in her pocket. "There, there. You've been beaten, fair and square. Let no one say that you do not possess tenacity."

Tom touched the tip of his wand gently to the livid mark on her neck. Within a few seconds it had faded away completely. He walked a full circle around her, ensuring that her skin glowed smooth and flawless.

"You won't remember tonight as anything but another in a long line of deeply boring nights, spent alone. I'll take away the pain – and the pleasure, of course…"

Panic and rage shone in her eyes. Some impulse inside him stirred; before tonight he might have heeded it. Eleanor with her dark eyes and soft laugh had been in danger of becoming… burdensome. It had been a mistake to come here tonight, he saw that now. A temporary moment of weakness that would not be repeated. A teaching moment, of sorts. The deed was done, and the part of him that might have softened toward her was no longer present. He was stronger now, more refined in essence. Purer.

He brushed a lock of hair away from her face. "You're a beautiful woman, Eleanor, and I'm sure your husband appreciates that. Let's give him one more month of marital bliss, shall we? Obliviate!"

Dawn misted weak and yellow over the still-dark grounds as the Minister for Magic, accompanied by two senior Ministry officials – one of them her husband – strode up the path to Hogwarts. Eleanor watched in silence with the rest of the staff.

They had all been woken that morning by an urgent summons to the staff room. Armando Dippet had stood in the middle of the crowded group, many still in their nightgowns, face grey and drawn. He looked as though he had aged overnight.

"I must deliver… the worst of news," he had told them, his reedy voice trembling. "A student has died."

The room gasped in collective horror.

Dippet had swiftly departed for Cornwall, where the child's parents lived. In all probability, the school would close. Classes, indeed, had been cancelled for the day, all students sequestered within their common rooms as the teachers were routed to search the castle.

"Do you really think Hogwarts will be closed?" Eleanor asked Septima Vector, as they patrolled the upper floor corridors in the West wing.

"It all depends on the Board. Would you want to send your child here, now, with everything that's happened?"

"No. I don't think so."

Vector nodded. "Do you know where they found her? In the girl's bathroom. Poor soul. Muggle-born, I expect."

"What a waste. It's been a thousand years since Slytherin raised this castle up from the ground with the other three… and yet the same old petty prejudices linger as strongly as ever."

"Do you believe the rumour, about the Chamber?"

"Don't you? It's as believable as any."

"Which is to say, my dear, not at all," said Vector. "Oh, I don't know what to think. My fortés lie in the logic of isopsephy and the serenity of gematria. I understand cause and effect and patterns. There's no beauty or order in death sown so indiscriminately. Nor in such baseless hatred."

"It's not baseless, not really," said Eleanor helplessly. "There's real fear in it. We pure-bloods – we tell ourselves we're superior, only because we're afraid we're really not."

"You know, dear," said Vector gently. "This 'we' you speak of… surely you can't be including yourself?"

"I grew up with them," she said bitterly. "I know all the ways they think. We've had all the power for so long that we can't imagine ever losing a shred of it – there's a reason there's never been a Muggle-born Minister for Magic. It's because people like Mirabella Nott and Cassius Malfoy would storm the Ministry. You wouldn't believe the letters my husband still gets from all the nutters out there, saying they'd rather see him dead than have a Muggle-born in his position."

"How horrifying!"

"I know. He laughs them off, but he never sleeps without his wand and an Anti-Intruder Jinx."

They walked in silence for a while, pausing to question the portrait of a dying martyr who hung overlooking the hall leading down from the Astronomy Tower, but it had seen nothing unusual.

Eleanor felt sick and weary, though she knew not why. She had been worrying at a spot on her neck all morning, and now it was rather sore. A disturbing dream lingered in her mind – a pair of red eyes flashing, a bolt of white hot pain. Lewis was likely still with the others in the Headmaster's office, but he would want to see her before he left. His presence would be a comfort, at least.

By the end of the day, the news of Hagrid's expulsion was on every tongue. The school itself remained open, breathing a nearly audible sigh of relief.

And Tom Riddle, the young prodigy, the toast of Slytherin, had become its saviour.

Of the hundred points Tom won for his valour, Dumbledore detracted forty-two in the following days, finding latent fault in every action. The silent struggle between them spilled out of their weekly Transfiguration class and into the grounds and corridors of Hogwarts, the old man's cold blue eyes dogging him whenever he chanced to look up.

His slow pursuance of Minerva McGonagall had stalled completely. Two outings in Hogsmeade, one of them surrounded by her gregarious and cheerfully distrustful friends, and a single Quidditch match – heretofore he had not attended since his first year; the racket had nearly driven him out of his skull – had told him all he wanted to know about her. True to her house's character, she was shockingly open about herself, telling Tom things he would never have revealed to another soul. Yes, yes: Minerva possessed a well-honed wit, was far cleverer than the rest of her peers, but like her namesake, was as proud as a goddess – and as prude.

Inevitably, Tom had grown bored. They parted ways civilly enough, though perhaps it had been unavoidable. Of late he had caught Minerva looking at him askance, her clear grey eyes troubled. For there was Dumbledore, ever whispering in her ear, still bitterly decrying Hagrid's fate.

But even Dumbledore needed to sleep. At night, the castle had always been his.

Like a resentful mistress, the Chamber had sensed its impending end and resisted. The old magic cast aeons ago by Salazar had only grown stronger as it festered alone beneath ground. The Basilisk was not lulled as easily to sleep as it had been awoken. It had tasted blood, and hungered for more. Tom had been forced to destroy portions of the entrance completely. The bathroom in which Myrtle had died had become a shrine of sorts to the dead girl. Students placed flowers, notes, and sweets by the door – no one quite dared to go in. Tom, satisfied that his secret was safe, turned his mind to other matters.

While his classmates wrestled with exams and cavorted out on the grounds in the warm summer air, Tom pored over books with titles like Conquest of Life, Eternal, and Treatise on Death and Resurrection.

The diary had been like the chink of light that appears when a door to a room that was dark before is cracked open, and slivers of the room's contents just barely glimpsed. There was more, so much more to life – his life – than mere money and fame, or a respectable marriage and a caterwauling brat to name his heir. He found himself thinking of Slughorn – nowadays Tom could not but help see him as a large, sedentary spider, squatting in a web of admirable complexity, pulling in a golden strand now and then to cash in on some small creature comfort or self gratifying glory.

How utterly inane, when the workings of the very nature of magic lay in reach, waiting to be mined by someone who possessed the worth and talent and ambition. The Horcruxes would be an important part of his life's work – he understood that now – but they would be only the beginning, harbingers of his ultimate destiny: immortality.

Judgment

"We both know there are other ways of destroying a man, Tom," Dumbledore said calmly.

"There is nothing worse than death, Dumbledore!" snarled Voldemort.

The summer that Tom was eight, Mrs. Cole announced that they would all be going to the seaside for the holidays. There was much cheering, and even Tom smiled. He had never been outside of London, though he had read as much as he could about everywhere else – not just Britain, but across the channel, from the dark forests of Bavarian to the icy slopes of Scandinavia, and beyond that, all the rivers and deserts and cities in the far East and the distant West. Though something inside him told him he would see all of it, in time, impatience was a constant companion. He'd rather go anywhere, he often thought, but the suffocating orphanage that was home.

The day before the trip, Mrs. Cole had pulled him aside after dinner. He was tall enough by then that he didn't have to look up at her.

"Now, Tom," she began, "I want to be fair to you, I do. But I must admit I have concerns regarding your conduct, especially after last week –"

"I told you, I didn't touch him!" said Tom. The look in her eyes told him she did not want him to go on the trip. "I was all the way across the courtyard – ask anyone who has eyes."

"I've no doubt of that. But I've spoken to the other children, and they say you were… watching him when he fell. Before, during, and after. And you two had been fighting the day before, hadn't you?" She sighed. "Bobby's arm is still not healing well."

"I'm very sorry he got hurt, but it had nothing to do with me," said Tom heatedly. "You can't stop me from going just because I waslooking at him."

"I promise that nobody is trying to stop you from going. I only want you to know that I will be keeping a close eye on everyone, including you. Safety is paramount, do you understand?"

No funny business, was what she meant. That was what she called the things he could do – he had overheard her talking to Ms. Edith, the nurse, about him once. That one's a funny one, she'd remarked, as humourless as ever. She was ever looking at him with suspicion in her eyes. Tom did not like her at all, and the backs of his hands tingled painfully when he thought of her. He often wondered how such a small woman wielded the strap so powerfully.

The day of the trip began wonderfully. The train – black and puffing – took them out of Victoria station and along the countryside for a few hours. Tom ignored the others and watched the green hills rolling by, enjoying the feeling of the sun on his face and his arms. When they finally arrived, it was nearly lunchtime. The matrons set out a picnic lunch for all the children, and Mrs. Cole's gimlet eyes soon left him, fixed instead on the littlest ones.

Tom left the group, looking over the blue horizon, the vastest stretch of water he had ever seen. Seagulls shrieked high above, a slight odour of fish lingering in his nose, and the corned beef sandwich he had taken with him was sharp and salty. He had walked so far away that the sand had turned to pebbles littering a grassy hill. There was a cave on top of the hill, and its pitch black mouth made it look exciting and a little dangerous, like something out of the stories he'd read. He found himself smiling.

"Got you!" cried a high voice behind him. It was little Dennis Bishop and Amy Benson playing a game of tag, and they halted at the sight of him.

"Hullo," said Amy. "Would you like to play with us? I'm It now, but I'll count to ten first."

Tom almost sneered – Amy was only five, practically a baby, and did not yet have the common sense not to speak to the older children, but the sight of Dennis' fearful face made him pause. He knew – something told him – that it was Dennis who had ratted him out to Mrs. Cole last week.

"Do you like games?" asked Tom, bending a little to speak to Amy.

"Oh, very much!"

"I know a game that's much more exciting than tag," he told her. "Would you like to play with me? And you too, Dennis?"

Dennis did not want to go; he pulled at her hand, but Amy was wobbling with enthusiasm, and with a few encouraging smiles, they followed Tom readily enough up the hill, toward the cave.

It was not easy getting all the way inside. They stopped at a fissure in the floor a few dozen feet inside, too wide to cross.

"What's the game, Tom?" asked Amy.

"Well…" He thought. "You have to jump across this. Because you're adventurers, and you're going through uncharted territory."

"That's too far," said Dennis. "I'm cold. Can we go back, Tom?"

"No, it's not too far. I'll show you."

His eyes told him that the jump was risky, but he knew that he would make it. He stepped backward and ran, and jumped. For a moment it seemed as though he had fallen short of the other side – the crack yawned blackly below him – and then he stumbled onto solid ground.

"It's your turn. You've got to be brave," he told them. Amy and Dennis looked at him with wide eyes. "Jump," he commanded, his voice echoing in the cave.

Amy screwed her eyes shut and jumped, and Tom, not knowing what he was doing but only that it felt right – thought hard about how light she was, light as a feather. She seemed to float for the last few feet. When she landed, trembling, by his side, he laughed aloud.

"Good girl," he told her. "Now you, Dennis."

Dennis nearly missed the edge, his feet slipping as he fell backward. Tom grabbed him at the last minute, and the boy's whining did nothing to quench the victory he felt. There was nothing wrong with a little scare.

The path led them to a small opening – they had to crawl through – that opened into the most beautiful place Tom had ever seen. A huge cavern, as large and as high as a cathedral, roofed a vast lake filled with sparkling green water, lit from above by tiny chinks in the rock. It was completely silent save for the sound of gently lapping water.

"Do you know about the town of Hamelin?" he asked them as they walked cautiously around the lake. He ignored the sniffling sounds Dennis was making. "It was filled with children – and rats. Not unlike Wool's. There were more rats than children, and the villagers got sick of it. They hired a stranger who said he'd be able to exterminate all the rats, provided he was paid handsomely, of course. And he kept his word. He was called the Pied Piper, because as he played on his pipe, all the rats in the village jumped out of their hiding holes and followed him down to the river, where they all leapt in, happy to do so, and drowned."

"That's mean," said Amy, who was shivering from cold. "They didn't know what they were doing."

Tom frowned at her. "They were rats. Vermin of no consequence. Anyway. The villagers were happy that their troubles were over, but they were also greedy and foolish, and refused to pay the Piper. He was very angry, of course, but he hid it well and left graciously. The next night he returned, pipe in hand again, but this time he played a different tune. And this time it was the children in the village who got up out of their beds and followed him gladly out of their homes. Some say they danced as they went. When their parents woke up the next morning, they all wept for ages and ages, because no one knew where they had gone."

"Where did they go?" asked Amy in a small voice. She was no longer smiling and skipping.

Tom shrugged. "Some say he took them to the mountains, others a cave. Much like this one." He grinned at them. "The only thing we know for certain is that they were never seen again. Do you know what I think? I think he was so angry that the villagers didn't keep their word that he took their children and drowned them exactly as he did with the rats."

As he spoke, he looked at the lake, and it began to move. Waves splashed where tiny little ripples had been moments before, and they lapped higher and higher against the stony shore.

"Please, can we go back?" said Dennis.

"A few more minutes," said Tom. Something was happening inside him, a warm, good feeling, like drinking a hot, thick bowl of soup on a cold day and feeling it run down his throat. The lake made more and more noise and it seemed to rise at their feet. Water splashed over Dennis and Amy's feet, even as they stepped back to get away – but the cavern's stone walls hemmed them in.

"Don't want to play anymore," whimpered Amy, staring at the lake. "Let's go back, Tom."

The water rose and rose in the cave, and great big splashes of it covered the two children. It was cold and they screamed at each wave.

"Be quiet," he warned them. Babyish crying was the worst noise in the world.

It was soon at their knees. They were shrieking properly now, and the noise bounced around the air as though fifty children were screaming.

"Quiet, I'm warning you –"

Dennis howled uncontrollably. "Stop it, please stop it, stop it stop it –"

"Be quiet!" shouted Tom, and there was silence at last. They opened and closed their mouths, terror all over their wet little faces, but nothing except gasps came out.

Tom had remained relatively dry, but Amy and Dennis looked half-drowned. He thought of what Mrs. Cole would do when she saw them, and realized that he no longer cared. The broad strip of leather that hung at her waist seemed all of a sudden quite harmless, as did Bobby Venance, or any of the other boys who disliked him.

His fingers were tingling, and his face felt warm. All of them would come to learn that it was not wise to bother him. Slowly the water began to recede.

"Now… shall I tell your husband, or shall you?"

"Why are you doing this?"

"Because," he said, after a moment. "I can. Isn't it obvious?"

"Tom," she said, voice unsteady. "I don't believe –"

He laughed and leant forward. "Oh, Eleanor. You didn't actually think…?" Tom's smile was tinged with pity. "You must have known this was never anything but purely physical. You were a diversion, nothing more, but I'm afraid it can't go on."

The sex had been enjoyable, certainly. And he'd learned more than he thought he would. Tom had of course known the general mechanics of the act, but observing his own body's reactions to certain stimuli, and the physiological responses he was able to elicit in her through mere physical contact, informed by careful observation and basic knowledge of anatomy – that had been fascinating indeed. The part of him that breathed deeply, slept fitfully and ate greedily – that part had thoroughly appreciated the symmetry of her face and the feel of warm skin against skin.

Most instructive, however, had been the confirmation that sex was ultimately about power, that love really meant very little. She'd thrown away a perfectly serviceable marriage – was there anyone out there who actually kept their vows after they'd said them? Tom doubted it – for some flattering attention and a little excitement. It was entirely clear that sex put you in a position of both physical and moral weakness, whereupon others could easily press their advantage.

"I've started on a new project," he told her, truthfully. "But it would be a pity to waste an opportunity, and here you've provided one so beautifully."

She swallowed. "But Lewis – he doesn't deserve this. It isn't his fault. All the smug bastards who've laughed at him for his parentage… he'll be publicly humiliated. This will end him."

"Well, I certainly hope so, otherwise I'll have wasted my time."

"What are you – are you enjoying yourself?" she whispered. "You're sick. Do you like ruining people's lives?"

"I'm sick?" said Tom mildly. "You carried on an adulterous affair with an impressionable teenaged boy whilst acting in the capacity of his teacher. How do you think the parents of your other students will react to that? Wizarding society can be stiflingly small, can't it?"

"Stop it," she snapped.

"Your friends, your neighbours, your family – do you really think I'll be the one labelled as a deviant?"

"Stop it –" She was as white as parchment.

"For all his so-called progressive ways, I don't see your husband taking your side on this, do you?"

"Please stop it," she said, closing her eyes, but the tears squeezed out of them anyway. Tom sighed impatiently.

"Look at me," he commanded. Her lashes fluttered up.

He had never seen her cry before. Her tears lightened her irises into the deep pure green of Slytherin himself, the colour of an emerald when held in the sun. Inexplicably, the sight of them was more arousing than anything he'd ever seen.

"Be brave, Eleanor. Not all is lost. No one but the three of us need know, if you only do as I say."

She took a deep, shuddering breath, shoulders sagging, eyes dulling. Tom frowned. Pathetic, really. He had almost expected more. An offer of hush money, perhaps, or even a desperate threat. He'd rather come to enjoy seeing the fire flickering in those eyes. Still, there was something… pleasing, about the notion of having a person so completely under his control. He'd had her before, but never quite like this.

"Good girl," he said, softly.

Eleanor flinched as if struck when he wiped away the moisture on her face, as gentle as a lover.

"Your husband, of course, may need some convincing…"

The train ride back to London was mostly a quiet one. An air of solemnity lingered still amongst the students. One less of their rank would return with them.

His compartment, however, rang with jeers and laughter. Lestrange was describing in lascivious detail his late night meetings with a fifth-year Ravenclaw atop the Astronomy Tower. Tom sat by the window, a copy of the latest Daily Prophet resting in his lap. The front page featured a headline in bold: HAMMOND RESIGNS.

Embattled Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement Lewis Hammond exited Britain's political arena Monday after a string of policy controversies, months of public pillory, and attacks from prominent members of the British Wizarding community. Once billed as the top forerunner for the next Minister of Magic, the 52-year old former Auror has abandoned Ministry politics entirely.

In an exclusive statement given to theDaily Prophet, Hammond says that he has relinquished his position as Head of the largest branch within the Ministry, effective immediately.

"With deep regret and sadness I have concluded that I can no longer function effectively as Head of the Department. I had hoped to have more time to do more of what I promised members of the Magical community," he said, highlighting a list of his achievements, including the controversial Muggle Protection Act that many critics say is too severe in its punishments for crimes against Muggles. He further cited his desire to concentrate on his family.

Hammond, the eldest of five children of a postman and a homemaker, grew up in East London before attending Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. He trained as an Auror after graduation.

Below the article there was a picture of the man himself, looking weary and beleaguered as he pushed his way past a group of reporters, and another one of him and his wife in happier times. The caption read: "Lewis Hammond, 51, and his wife Eleanor Hammond née Prewett, 35, at the 1941 Midsummer's Eve Masquerade." Though her husband stood stiffly beside her, Eleanor waved brightly at the camera, a far cry from the despondent woman Tom had seen weeping at Myrtle's memorial. He looked at the picture for a few moments, and then folded the newspaper away.

Rosier was now telling them about the French chateaux in which he and his family holidayed every summer.

"Want to come stay with us?" he asked Tom, not for the first time. "Mother and Father would love to have you for the whole summer – I've told them all about you. You can meet my cousins. We've got the grounds and the lake to ourselves…"

"Actually," Tom said, "I'll be doing a bit of traveling myself this summer."

"Where to?" asked Avery.

"Just in the country," he said. "Some old family business I must see to… I have no doubt it'll be a most touching reunion."

Fitting, he thought to himself, that his father would at last be present when he came of age. It was high time that he shed the old, worthless name his mother had so thoughtlessly given him.

Lord Voldemort watched the mist rise over the rolling green hills. The sun warmed his face, and a small, secret smile played about his mouth.