Chapter Text
"Hey Har, you get tired of doing jack all?" Ron's eyes glimmer with sarcasm as Harry walks into his office. He's entrenched in mountains of case files and has a smudge of ink on his cheek.
"I'll have you know I'm very busy at the moment." Harry drags the wooden chair out from across Ron's desk and sits. His hands are full, a bulging paper sack of food in one and a manilla envelope in the other.
"Oh, let me guess, you've got a Witch's Weekly photoshoot coming up?"
Harry rolls his eyes. "You're so funny."
"I try." Ron glances hopefully at the bag Harry carries. "Lunch?"
"Chinese takeaway," he nods and sets the bag on Ron's desk. Ron rapidly clears the clutter to make room for them to eat.
"You're a lifesaver. Rose would not get dressed this morning so I skipped breakfast," he sighs, digging through the bag and helping himself to one of the containers.
I am so glad I don't have kids, Harry's small side eye is unnoticed by Ron. He likes his godchildren fine but is grateful that Ron has a large family and doesn't rely on him for babysitting. "Of course mate. I'd bring you lunch more often if I thought you wouldn't chastise me." Usually, Ron is too busy with work for a long, sit-down lunch together. If that weren't the case Harry would be dropping by far more often.
Ron nods thoughtfully and stuffs his mouth with another bite of food.
"I do have a quick question for you, though." Harry lifts the envelope under his arm.
"'Dis 'bout tha mab'ik light thingy?" Ron asks through a mouthful of fried rice. Harry gets an unfortunate eyeful.
"The Unidentified Magical Body last week? Yeah."
"Right. Magic light thingy." Ron affirms.
"Anyway," Harry flips open his folder. Several glossy photos of last week's green lightning storm shine at him. All of the UK and Ireland experienced some level of it. Even Muggles reported on it as a freak weather phenomenon. Kinglsey had to urge the British Prime Minister to overlook it. "I was wondering if you guys noticed anything else with the Death Eaters?"
Ron narrows his eyes with a fork of noodles halfway to his mouth. "Why are you looking into it?"
"I'm uh, on the board of," Harry pauses and flips the folder closed to read the front, "Oh, sorry, Committee of Experimental Charms."
"Right," Ron raises his brows and continues with his bite. "Still, don't they have grunts to do that for you?" He swallows before speaking this time.
Harry shrugs. Ninety percent of the time when a folder shows up on his desk, he ignores it. Ellen, his secretary, will let him know what day he has to have it read. This one he's taken a slight interest in. It's at least not as boring as most of the briefs he gets. One more document comparing Wizarding Britain's GDP to America's will make his head explode. He's not even sure when he agreed to be on the Wizarding Financial Regulatory Authority board (if he agreed at all).
"Well," Ron looks side to side, considering. "You know Wizengamot members have to wait until the official findings are published," he scolds, then softens. "Friends, however, can get gossip, if they agree for it to remain gossip."
Harry gives a mock salute. "Yes sir, Auror Weasley."
From the grimace on Ron's face, Harry can tell he's still not comfortable with the moniker, even after wearing it for several years. "Anyway, we know its origins are dark, but still no idea of the effects."
"Voldemort?" Harry says the name candidly, Ron cringes.
"We've got no reason to think so. Sure some Death Eaters complained of arm pain, but every dark artifact in the country lit up."
Harry nods. That isn't anything more than he already knows.
"Do you know anything?" Ron raises his brow, reading an expression on Harry's face.
"No," he shakes his head. It's not a complete lie. He doesn't know anything other than his scar hurt. One blinding flash of pain when the first bolt of lightning struck, then nothing else. It was made with dark magic. If everything else pulsed, it would too.
"Huh," Ron doesn't fully believe him but trusts Harry not to conceal anything pertinent. "Honestly, unless we can find any real effects, I doubt we're getting answers."
Harry's thought much the same. There's no way to reverse-engineer a curse if you don't know what the curse does. "At least it's something interesting."
Ron sets down his takeout container and stares. "You are the only person who could want something interesting to happen after the lives we've had."
"Yeah," Harry shrugs. It isn't that he wants something bad to happen, he's just discontent.
"Hermione was looking for you earlier."
"What about?" He tips himself back in the chair absently.
This time Ron shrugs. "Dunno. She was mad you didn't go to the DMT Gala last weekend, though."
"Ugh," Harry scrunches his nose. "If I went to every ministry event I'm invited to, I wouldn't have time for anything else." He also doesn't care about the Department of Magical Transportation. It's not unimportant, but it's boring. Most of the people in charge are stodgy wizards who would sooner give you a ticket for apparating after a single beer than throw a riveting party.
"I hate to say it, but you actually missed out." Ron's fork scrapes against the bottom of the Kung Pao chicken container and he tips the breaded remains back into his mouth.
"I seriously doubt that."
"No," Ron wipes his face with the sleeve of his Auror robe, "Really. It was at this guy's house. Huge manor, right, with like all this food," Ron trails off, thinking about it. "Crazy expensive, like a Malfoy party."
"Yeah, yeah, I love rich pricks." Despite his terse response, Harry is intrigued that someone with substantial capital would bother hosting a DMT fundraising gala. The swanky affairs are usually reserved for the Wizengamot and the Minister.
"Be that way, then," Ron retorts. His tone is sarcastic but good-natured. "I've gotta get back to it, thanks for lunch."
Harry stands. That was a longer conversation than Ron usually has time to spare. "See ya, mate."
"Pub on Friday?" Ron calls as Harry inches toward the door.
"Wouldn't miss it."
"Hey, uh, could you let Hermione know I have to work late tonight?"
Harry pauses in the doorway and turns, eying Ron incredulously. "You're making me tell her?"
"Please?" Ron pleads.
"Yeah, yeah," Harry slips out into the hall.
"Ron's gonna be late tonight," Harry says, as soon as he's in Hermione's cramped office. She's the Junior Head of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. The position sounds important, and it is, but it doesn't come with the perks of a spacious office of accommodating staff.
Hermione sets down the document she's reading on her large, pregnant stomach. "That bastard."
"I'm just the messenger." Harry holds his hands up and slips into her chair.
"One day I'm going to work late. Then he'll see."
"No you won't," Harry shakes his head.
She sighs. "No, I won't," and sets her document on the table. It takes effort to lean over her stomach and resituate herself at the desk. "Say, has the CEC found anything about the UMB? I know I'm not exactly top clearance, but I can't stop thinking about that day..." She trails off with a troubled look in her eyes.
"CMC...?"
"The Committee on Experimental Charms?"
"Oh," my committee, right, "Not much. Just that the storm happened and nothing's been off since."
She purses her lips. "I'm telling you I haven't felt tingles like that in my spine since you-know-who was around. I'm loathe to believe it was just a one-off anomaly."
Harry agrees but doesn't want Hermione to worry so close to delivery. "Stranger things have happened."
"Like what?" She cocks an eyebrow.
"Uh," Harry tilts his head, "Never mind."
"Keep me updated, though, would you? I don't like to play the best friend card, but I will if I have to."
Harry can't believe she feels the need to ask. It's been an unspoken rule that things pass between them. Sometimes Ron will hold onto secrets for longer than he should, but Harry's typically quick to tell Hermione anything. She was the first to hear about his Wizengamot appointment a few years ago. "Of course. We've got a session tomorrow about Harlan Powell's death. We'll probably talk about the storm then."
"Dreadful bit of work, that," Hermione shakes her head. "Ron's trying to hold it in, but he's pretty torn up."
"He said as much at the Leaky Cauldron last week," Harry admits.
"Sometimes I wish I could just go in his brain and pull the emotions out." She sighs and rubs her stomach in a grounding motion.
"He'll come around when he's ready," Harry assures her.
"Are there any more... Details?" Hermione lowers her voice slightly. Talking about well-respected dead Aurors is never a polite conversation in the ministry.
Harry asked for a copy of the medi-witch report. He didn't know Auror Powell very well, but he was Ron's partner for four years and close to the highest rank one can be aside from Head Auror. Ron wanted the report, so Harry got it for him. "Still looks like suicide."
She tsks and shakes her head. "Ron doesn't believe it."
"S'not my job to speculate." It's only his job to sit around with fifty other wizards and decide how the Auror department will find a replacement. Harry wishes that there were less checks and balances in the ministry. Nearly twice a week he's called into the Wizengamot chambers to weigh in on issues that should be solved interdepartmental.
"Yeah," she sighs.
Since the war, Auror has been a surprisingly unpopular job. Most people are so traumatized that they'd rather not go into a danger-facing job. Being so early in the Hogwarts school year, the Aurors might have to operate one man short until graduation and a new, fresh crop of recruits. Harry doubts they'll find someone with the requisite experience to take Powell's position.
"Ron said you had something to ask me?"
She nods, "Sorry, it isn't anything important, it's just about that Department of Transportation gala last weekend." She waves her hand as if telling him he can leave if he's bored. He doesn't. "Do you know Mister Riddle?"
Harry throws up a skeptical look and shakes his head.
"What's that look for?"
"Bit of an unfortunate name."
"I suppose?" She responds, confused.
Has she forgotten? "Anyway, what about him?"
"Nothing, really. I just wondered if you knew him. He hosted the gala and it was a huge hit but no one's met him before."
Huge dark magic lightning storm one week. A mysterious man named Mister Riddle the next week? Harry tries not to jump to conclusions. Hermione might not know how Tom Riddle looks, but she's smart enough to recognize Voldemort's name. This is just unfortunate naming. "Is he weird or something?" Why is she asking about him.
She blushes and shakes her head. Harry screws his brows up even further. "No... He's not weird. He charmed everyone, even Kingsley. Seems like he might have some ulterior motives."
That sets off Harry's danger alarms. "What do you mean?" He sits up further in the chair and tries to straighten his robes.
"I don't know," she trails off and crosses her arms, relaxing into the chair. "I think he was trying to get in with people. He might be vying for a position in the ministry."
"Who is this guy?" Harry's eyebrow twitches. Why is she acting so lackadaisical about this?
"What's wrong? You do know him, don't you!" She accuses.
"I— no." He shakes his head. "But a sudden burst of dark magic and then a guy named Riddle? There has to be something there." He can't be back. We got all the Horcruxes. I know we did.
"What?"
"Tom Riddle?"
"Yeah," she nods, "That's his name. How did you know?"
Harry's jaw drops. "What's the date? Is it April Fools? Are you having me on right now? I don't find this funny." It's a poor time for Hermione to decide she likes practical jokes.
"Are you alright?" Her face is pinched but tinged with concern. "I don't get it."
"Tom Riddle as in Lord Voldemort?"
"I mean I didn't think his motives were that bad, but clearly you know something about him I don't."
"What is going on?" Harry throws his hands up, annoyed.
"I don't know. What are you talking about? Voldemort?"
"Is—" Harry cuts himself off. Am I misremembering? Was Voldemort's name not Tom Riddle? "Isn't Voldemort's real name Tom Riddle?"
"Did I miss something?" She asks, sardonically.
Harry stands, frustrated. If Hermione's joking he's going to be very cross. "What's Voldemort's name, then?"
"How would I know? Nobody knows."
"Yes, we do! His diary was a Horcrux."
"The diary that was spelled so no one could read it...?"
"What?"
"Harry maybe you should sit down, you look flushed. I can get you some water." She offers, climbing up from her seat with help from the table and reaching for him.
"No," he steps backward. "I'm sorry. I must be confused, or something. I haven't been sleeping well." It's the truth, but Harry can't believe he's wrong about the name Tom Riddle. Unfortunate coincidence... That will need to be investigated.
"Alright. Why don't you take the rest of the day off?" She suggests, lowering herself back into the chair.
"Yeah. I'll do that. See you, Mione," he gives her a hurried wave and leaves the office.
Harry returns to his office in a mild daze. Despite not doing much during the day, he can never turn his mind off at night. He thought he was getting sufficient sleep, but wonders if it's eluding him more than he realizes.
The chairman of the Bureau of Magical Environmental Conservation (of which Harry is also on the board) tries to stop him for a quick chat. Harry politely extricates himself with a promise to move his scheduled meeting up earlier tomorrow.
Crossing the Ministry atrium is always pandemonium. He tries to keep his head down but is stopped by two fellow members of the Wizengamot and a young child who wants to shake his hand. He effectively puts the Harry Potter mask on for each person.
When Harry was appointed to the Wizengamot he was given a large office on the same floor as the Aurors. Kingsley assured him that the office wasn't special treatment and that technically any member of the Wizengamot could have requested it. Harry knows that's not true because Lucius Malfoy's ministry office is substantially smaller and he's made more than one backhanded remark.
Furthermore, no one else gets ministry payroll staff. The bodyguards are annoying but understandable. Harry never employs them. Aren't I supposed to be one of the greatest wizards of all time? Why do I need two buff Aurors trailing me around? The secretary is just ridiculous. Harry barely has enough work to justify being in the office four hours a day. He feels a little bad for Ellen, who has to sit at the desk for eight hours either dead bored or scrambling to make sure Harry makes all his engagements.
"Harry," she greets him as soon as he enters the antechamber. It took almost a year for her to finally drop the Lord Potter. "A package came while you were away."
"Alright," he attempts to breeze right past her and sequester himself into the main office. "Put it with the rest of my mail."
"Okay, and your weekly two o'clock with Minister Shacklebolt has been rescheduled to four o'clock."
Harry barely restrains a groan. I have to stay even later? He pauses in the doorway. "Hey, Ellen?" He asks over his shoulder. "Who's the package from?"
"Oh, uh," she pushes her big square glasses on her cheeks. Harry thinks she's cute. He even wonders if she wasn't assigned to him because of her attractiveness and Harry's perpetual bachelor status. If that is the case, it was in vain, he'd feel too weird pursuing a subordinate. "Mister Riddle, he delivered it in person earlier."
Harry turns around and walks to her desk. Sitting on it is a small parcel wrapped in sturdy bronze paper. There's a note attached to it with a wax seal. "Could you do me a favor?"
"Sure thing," she nods, eager for something to do.
"Get me Mr. Riddle's information. His address, if you will."
"No need," Ellen shuffles through messy stacks of paper on her desk, then produces a slim business card. "He left this."
"Thanks," Harry grabs the package and the card then pulls the door to his office heavily shut.
He sets the package down gently on his desk, treating it like a possible explosive before examining the card.
Tom M. Riddle. Auror & Consultant. Riddle Estate, West London. The words shine in a glitzy metallic color. It's charmed to shine as if refracting light. On the backside is an ornate crest with an R in the center. It's the same as the seal on the package.
Auror? He can't be.
Riddle Estate? Doesn't exist.
Harry eyes the gift again. He pulls out his wand and throws up several strong wards, so many that he feels lightheaded from using so much power. Before opening it Harry backs up to the door. His wand is gripped tightly in one hand and the door handle in the other.
Please don't be a trap. He prays, before spelling the paper open.
Sitting anticlimactically on his desk is a book. He doesn't lower the wards yet and approaches cautiously.
The book goes beyond being antique. It looks more like a historical artifact. Dark artifact?— he doesn't feel any magic coming from it. The binding is red cloth and the lettering on the front is done in thick black brushwork. It's Japanese calligraphy, but Harry sees a shimmering semi-translucent translation appear over the words. "The Battle of Sekigahara: Azuchi–Momoyama Period Defence Spells."
Harry's fingers cautiously dart out and flip the first page. It's bound backwards and the vertical writing hurts his eyes but the translation quickly shows itself. After searching through several pages Harry's certain that it's just a book.
Already several of the diagrams and spell names draw him in. An interesting book.
He pulls the note off the gift paper.
Lord Potter,
News of your remarkable achievements has graced even the halls of American discourse . Permit me the liberty, if you will, of acknowledging that my endeavors in selecting a fitting gift for one such as yourself surpassed my efforts for your fellow members of the Wizengamot.
I lamented your absence at the Transportation Department Gala, although, if truth be told, I hoped that our first meeting might unfold in a more intimate setting. I'm a stickler for rules, so I've made an appointment for the forthcoming week. Earliest available— you're a busy man. Should your evenings remain unencumbered, I extend an invitation for you to grace my home with your presence. Please eschew formality; my floo sits alight, eagerly anticipating your arrival.
Yours most sincerely,
Tom Riddle.
"Who is this guy?" Harry says, out loud, turning the note over in his hands.
He leaves the book on his desk but stashes the letter. It's the first thing Kingsley notices when he comes in for their weekly chat (it's not lost on Harry that the Minister for Magic comes to his office).
According to Kingsley, the book is worth more than a new Firebolt. Once he finds out that the gift is from the enigmatic Tom Riddle the Minister can't stop talking about how lovely the man is.
Harry holds his tongue.
By the time Kingsley leaves, Harry's so thoroughly convinced he's wrong about Tom Riddle, that he takes no backup to Riddle Estate.
It isn't until he's stepped through, standing on an ornate Persian rug, that he considers how grave of a mistake that may have been. He hasn't properly fought in over a year. He hasn't used a substantial amount of magic since Hogwarts. If this ends in a fight between him and Voldemort, he considers the chance that he may die.
The massive drawing room is empty but lavishly decorated. It looks different from other, traditional Wizarding homes. Not more modern but with less emphasis on British history. A huge, studded red Chesterfield sofa sits atop the rug. In front of it is a low sandalwood table with engravings that remind him of Scandinavia. Art covers all the free walls— silk scrolls, crossed scimitars, and a large Incan tapestry, just to name a few.
Massive, floor-to-ceiling windows separate the parlor from a labyrinthian garden. Over the top of well-maintained hedges, Harry can see London sprawling for miles. Whose house is this? What wizard did Voldemort kill?
None, Harry realizes. Nothing is wizarding except the Floo. Pictures and portraits on the walls are still. This is a Muggle home.
"Just a moment!" A silky, tenor voice calls from deeper in the house.
Harry stares at the heavy mahogany double doors, fingers itching to grab his wand. Footsteps pad closer. Harry's stomach begins to hurt.
The door pushes inward as the master of the house speaks. "My apologies, I wasn't expecting company— Lord Potter," Tom Riddle's face breaks into a grin. "Oh, excellent. I didn't expect you to come so soon. I assume my gift found you well?"
That's Tom Riddle. Standing in front of Harry is undeniably the same striking teenager that he remembers, just older. His face is handsomely chiseled, and his dark, lightly curled hair is coiffed to the side. He wears a stately, well-tailored charcoal suit coat and pants over a black turtle neck. He's dressed as a Muggle.
Harry takes a step back. The brilliant grin on Tom's face wanes, imperceptibly. "My Lord?"
"Voldemort." Harry stutters over the name. He doesn't grab his wand, just continues back-peddling until his calves meet a leather armchair.
Now, the smile doesn't wane, it falls fully. Tom's eyes darken and his lips twitch. The expression change lasts mere seconds before he curls the corner of his mouth back into a grin. "I beg your pardon?" He steps further into the room, softening his eyes.
"You're Voldemort," Harry repeats, confident this time.
Tom's brows furrow. "Do I really look like that snake-faced git?" He raises his hands to gently touch his cheeks. "Perhaps I should be humbled," he laughs, "I've always thought myself rather handsome."
"What's your game?" Harry pulls his wand now, holding it out in front of him. I might not beat him spell-to-spell with an Expalliarmus, but there's no way he can block a quick Avada Kedavra. Harry pales. I can't kill him. He must have another Horcrux. His wand trembles.
"My game? Well, I've been told I'm a skilled poker player. I even dabble in three-card, if you can believe it." Tom's body language doesn't change at all, despite the dangerous instrument being pointed at him. He sinks his hands into his pockets.
"Take your hands out."
Tom removes his hands and holds them up casually. "Have I done something to offend? I'm sorry about the book, Merlin, of course, you'd already have a copy. Daft me. I could show you my full library. I'd be happy to—"
"Shut up." Harry's trembling now. Kill him. Get it over with. Figure out a Horcrux later... But... What if I'm wrong?
"Of course." Tom stands silently, hands up, without complaint.
"Who are you?"
"Tom Marvolo Riddle."
"Where— where did you get that name?"
"Well," Tom looks up, as if in thought. The crease of his brow is so human that Harry's arm starts to lower. Am I pointing my wand at an innocent man? A dream— I must have seen Tom Riddle earlier in the week and confused him with Voldemort in a dream... That doesn't make any sense. "My father was Marvolo. Never went by Marv, if you can believe it. A Marvolo type of man. My grandfather was Thomas Riddle."
"This house," Harry points around it with his wand. "It's not Wizarding. Who's house is this?"
Tom's hand twitches. "My aunt. Odette Riddle. She was a squib, the poor thing. She's recently passed."
"And— and—" Harry takes a deep breath then stumbles and falls back into the leather chair.
"Lord Potter," Tom steps forward, concerned.
"Stay where you are!"
"This isn't exactly how I envisioned our first meeting. Is there someone I can call for you? You seem unwell."
Harry takes a deep breath. He searches the room for something and his eyes land on a portrait. It looks out of place and for the life of him he can't remember if it was there when he first entered. The way it's placed between two other paintings is haphazard, but the woman in the portrait looks like a much older, female Tom.
Tom's eyes follow Harry's, "My aunt," he motions to the painting. "Intelligent woman. Made her fortune in the stock market."
"I have to go." Harry stands.
"Are you certain I can't do anything for you? My house elf is a wonderful chef, I'd be happy to host you."
"No! I— leave me alone." Harry steps through the floo.
The next week is one of the busiest of Harry's career.
One day after meeting with Tom Riddle at his estate, another gift and note are sent.
A vase of flowers adorns his desk when he enters work. Ellen tells him, excitedly, that Tom had them delivered. Usually, Harry finds Ellen's penchant for random knowledge endearing. Listening to her explain how the bouquet of white roses, pink carnations, blue hyacinths, yellow tulips, and baby's breath signifies a deep, sincere hope for friendship, makes Harry nauseous.
The letter is equally as stomach-churning.
Lord Potter,
It grieves me that you were so unwell during our encounter. I trust that my actions have not caused offense, and I am optimistic about our forthcoming meeting.
Please, don't entertain notions of offering apologies. It's clear to me that you have withstood trials beyond my comprehension. Having spent the majority of my years in America, I confess an inability to fully grasp the depth of suffering endured under the oppressive regime of The Dark Lord. Your tenacity and resilience serve as a beacon of inspiration to us all.
May our burgeoning rapport blossom into a lasting camaraderie, if not friendship.
Yours faithfully,
Tom Riddle.
If Harry received such a forward letter from anyone else, he would ask Ellen to reply with a poignant "Not interested." Instead, Harry's only unsettled.
He doesn't remove their scheduled meeting. During the week between, he asks everyone he can think about Tom Riddle.
Ginny is the first person he goes to. She might know Tom better than anyone. To Harry's shock, she gets upset when he brings up the diary. She calls him a dick for bringing up old drama and states "I didn't remember then and I don't remember now." She had the same relationship with his diary first-year but has no recollection of who. The name Tom Riddle means nothing to her.
Ron is another dead end. Honestly, though, Harry rules out everyone who might have been at the Gala. He only has to try speaking to Ron, in the hope that he isn't facing this alone. The only thing Ron remembers about Tom Riddle is his party-throwing abilities.
Headmistress McGonagall is his best lead. When he speaks with her at Hogwarts, she shows a genuine moment of confusion. Then, admits that she doesn't remember a Tom Riddle, but that her memory isn't what it once was. Harry convinces her to let him pour his memories into a pensive, but when he tries to extract ones of Tom Riddle before this year, they don't leave his mind.
In his desperation, Harry even seeks out Lucius Malfoy. Lucius is affronted that Harry asks so candidly about his faded Dark Mark, but offers sincere answers once realizing the breadth of Harry's concern. Yes, his scar did hurt, But there's been nothing since. He, too, has no idea who Tom Riddle is.
Within the ministry, Tom's name is becoming a hot commodity.
Harry sees him with alarming frequency. He chats with department heads, invites himself into conversations with members of the Wizengamot, and even has a lengthy, private meeting with Hermione regarding current protections on Hippogriffs. He sticks himself to a wall with his invisibility cloak for the meeting but gets so bored halfway through he considers sneaking out.
Tom does nothing interesting for the entire week— and yet, people are obsessed with him.
Neville, now working in the Education department, wonders where Tom is going to end up in the ministry; because it's suddenly a sure thing that Tom will find employment with the ministry. His accolades from MACUSA are apparently numerous and diverse. If Hermione's to be believed, he could have his pick of open positions.
"Harry?" Ellen's voice sounds through the magical intercom in his office.
"Yeah?" He sits up straight, from where he's been slumped, staring angrily at the wilting flowers Tom sent him.
"Mr. Riddle is here to see you."
Fuck. Right. "Thanks, send him in."
Harry's debated all week about this. He trusts in himself. He knows that somehow Voldemort is involved in whatever going on. What he doesn't trust is his material reality. This man might not be Voldemort at all. Harry entertains the possibility that he's only a meat puppet, an advanced homunculus, or a real person trapped under Voldemort's magic. I can't kill him.
The ministry loves him so much that he'd probably get away with it without serving time, but with Riddle dead, there'd be no way to prove the ruse.
No. He'll play nice— as nice as he can be to a genocidal despot.
The door clicks and Tom steps in. He's dressed in robes, now. Long, deep purple garments that somehow manage to maintain his svelte frame. "Lord Potter," Tom greets, bowing his head. He stops in front of the closed door, waiting for permission to enter.
Harry stands. "Mr. Riddle, please, I have to apologize—"
"Nonsense," Tom waves his hands and invites himself further into the room. He extends a hand.
When their hands clasp over the desk, Harry's scar jolts. It's not painful, but it is noticeable. The tingling fades, and then their hands release.
"I heard about that affair with the storm. Green lightning? Sounds like a bad omen." Tom sits without being prompted and crosses one leg over the other. He leans back while Harry sits rigidly in his chair. "I can understand heightened tensions after such an event."
"Yes," Harry nods. "We're still looking into it."
"The Experimental Charms department, right? I've heard you're involved with their work."
He nods again. "I'm on the committee."
"Then they're lucky to have someone such as yourself."
The way Tom talks about him is annoying, but not as much as when other people do it. Tom's demeanor is genuine. This is how he raised a cult of fanatics. "You don't have to flatter me, and you can call me Harry." It comes out ruder than he intends.
Despite the bluntness of Harry's phrasing, Tom only smiles wider. It grows from attractive to alarming, Cheshire, inhuman, then shrinks. "Harry," he repeats. "Don't break my heart and tell me you let every aristocrat call you that?"
Harry can't help but flush. He thought that the tone of the letters was amorous, if not downright flirtatious. Now, Harry wonders what Tom's playing at. Get me in bed then kill me? He wonders if it would help to just say I'm not gay.
"Everyone calls me Harry."
"Ah, so he's as humble as he is powerful," Tom taps the book of Japanese defense spells that Harry's forgotten to do anything with. "Do tell me what you think of these. I find having a root other than Latin for your spellcasting makes for much more intricate incantation. You can create beautiful chains of spells with punishing, brutal effects." Tom's voice deepens as he speaks. Harry's eyes focus on the way his fingers dance over the cover of the book, then snap, and the once-wilted flowers refresh themselves. "I'm glad to see you like my gifts."
I probably should have put those away. Or thrown the bloody flowers in the garbage as soon as I got them.
"You said you wanted to meet with me. Is it just to—" he almost says suck my dick, then rephrases, "Butter me up, or do you have a reason?"
"Ha," Tom laughs. "I admit, buttering you up numbers among my reasons." At least he acknowledges that I'm not dumb enough to roll over to praise. "Like I said, I believe you to be a powerful ally. I would be remiss not to get in your good graces."
"Why do you need to be in my graces?"
"If you'd allow me to be direct, Harry, I'm interested in a recent opening at the Ministry. The Prophet reported on the death of Auror Powell. It's an unfortunate event but with fortunate timing for me."
Did Voldemort kill...?
Tom carries on, "I put in ten years as an Auror for MACUSA. Truly, I thought I'd live in America till my end, but with the last of my family gone I find a certain... Siren song has called me home. I'd like to think the last decade of my life wasn't for naught, and that I might find myself in a position befitting my capabilities."
There it is, Harry thinks, there's no way this backstory is real. As soon as he leaves I'll send an owl to New York. Hell, I'll Floo there.
"I'm not sure why you think I can help with that." The angle makes sense to Harry. Tom's found a way to slip into the ministry with a level of respect demanded. He won't waste his time weaseling up from the bottom.
"Harry," Tom narrows his eyes and smirks, "I'm not sure why you think you can't. You're a member of the Wizengamot," Tom holds a long, slender finger out. His hands are pale and big, they remind him of Voldemort's. "People trust you," another finger, "And I've heard you have a close relationship with the bereaved Auror Weasley," and his third finger.
I was wrong. Voldemort clearly thinks I'm an idiot child.
He looks up at Tom with the stoniest expression he can muster. Tom's smirk only deepens.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Riddle, but I don't know you. I won't vouch for you. You'll have to find somebody else."
The smirk melts into a good-natured shrug. "Can I tell you something, Harry?"
"What?"
"I'm glad you said that. You wouldn't be a very good hero if you bent over to every man's flattery." Tom stands. The movement is so subtle that it makes Harry flinch. Tom licks his lips. Tom leans over the desk, holding his hand out again. "I won't waste any more of your time."
Harry shakes his hand again. His scar tingles. "Good day, Mr. Riddle." It's not lost on Harry that Tom hasn't told Harry to drop the formalities.
"Do remember," Tom says, casually, as he strolls toward the door. "My floo is open to you."
Harry scowls and locks the door after him.