Chapter 6. Horns on the wall
December 2, 2023 at 9:26 AM
Hogwarts seemed completely unchanged. The same long convoluted corridors that Tom knew by heart, where he could navigate blindfolded. The same fairy tale atmosphere, filled with magic. He could feel this magic, both the ancient kind, slumbering in the stones since the founding, and the burbling energy given off by hundreds of children. It exploded in colourful fireworks, tickled his skin with its bright sparks. The castle lived.
Its inhabitants had also hardly changed. A group of Gryffindor lower years crashed into Tom and Slughorn as they made their way to the castle exit. The old professor admonished them paternally, addressing each by name. Once upon a time, Tom as prefect had known all his charges this way too. Succumbing to vague nostalgia, he was practically charmed by this scene.
A couple corridors later, a snippet of dialogue reached their ears. Judging by the raised voices, threatening to erupt into open confrontation.
”…just as stupid a Mudblood as your mother, maybe stupider.” A boy’s voice drawled affectedly. “At least she managed to settle down.”
“You’ll get it for that!” An indignant shout in response.
Duelling is prohibited at school. Strictly speaking, there was a blanket ban on magic in the corridors that few obeyed. Tom’s wand was in his hand in an instant, and he tensely glanced at Slughorn. Doubt and for some reason apprehension sloshed in the old man’s eyes, but he nodded at Tom, understanding his intentions.
“No, Harry, he’s not worth it!” A girl’s desperate scream, cut off by the sound of spellfire.
Tom stepped around the corner, raising his wand. Breaking up brawlers as prefect was something he’d had to do more than once. When Professor Slughorn followed him out a moment later, it was already over: a magical vise pressed a pale blond boy in Slytherin robes to the left wall, and a messy black-haired boy in glasses and Gryffindor colours to the opposite one. Their feet didn’t touch the floor, and their wands now lay in the middle of the corridor. The boys looked to be Tom’s age. He barely bit his tongue to keep from calling out the habitual “Ten points from Slytherin and detention for you both!”
In the middle of the corridor stood a girl with a mane of bushy chestnut hair, clearly distraught. Evidently the very Mudblood the fight had been over. At Tom’s intervention she gave a start, stared at him with frightened fawn eyes, and also tried to pull out her wand from a pocket. He silently shook his head, and she decided not to risk it. His lips curled in contempt when he noticed prefect badges pinned to the robes of both the blond and the girl. And these people were supposed to represent their House’s honour? Tom never allowed such public scenes from either himself or his “knights.” What was the point of causing a confrontation where everyone could see when you could smile to their face then ambush your opponent in a quiet evening corridor — and do as you pleased with them. No one would suspect a polite top student with an impeccable reputation.
“Mister Potter… Mister Malfoy,” Slughorn groaned and, pulling a chequered handkerchief from his pocket, began nervously mopping his brow. “Boys, what about diplomacy?”
“You didn’t hear what he was saying, Professor!” the Gryffindor shouted indignantly, squirming against the wall trying to break free of the magical grip. Tom looked at him more closely. Potter? Could this be that very Harry Potter who was supposedly the Chosen One, the vanquisher of Voldemort? In the previous universe, of course. The boy immediately seemed even more repulsive in his eyes.
“One must be flexible,” the old man wailed, waving his hands. “And you, Mister Malfoy? Where are your manners?”
Tom shifted his gaze to the blond. Abraxas’s son? Or grandson? The family resemblance was clearly evident — the same refined, slightly pointed facial features. Malfoy ground his teeth. “Some don’t deserve my manners. And who is this anyway?” He turned an indignant look at the intervening Tom, examining his Muggle clothing disdainfully. Tom seemingly accidentally squeezed his captives harder against the wall with the vise and made them painfully groan, then finally released the spell. The boys touched down on the floor with relief, Potter immediately bent down for his weapon. Summoning both wands to himself with a light gesture, Tom felt sincere satisfaction at the confusion on the boy’s face when they slipped through his fingers.
“Magic is prohibited in the corridors, Hogwarts rules, article 4, paragraph a,” he said indifferently, handing the wands to Slughorn. The girl stared at him in surprise. The boys looked as if they didn’t even know such rules existed, only blinking uncomprehendingly.
“Yes, Tom, quite right,” the Potions master nodded. “Strictly speaking, you both should be assigned detention, but why spoil these wonderful last days before the holiday…”
Malfoy smirked smugly. However, the professor’s next phrase, “Minus ten points each,” did wipe the smile from his face. Tom watched the scene with interest — some things never change. Although Slughorn was Head of Slytherin House, he demonstratively showed no one favouritism, of course, except for his pets — the Slug Club. And judging by the mild punishment, both these boys were members.
“Calmed down?” Slughorn asked. The students nodded, Potter a bit irritably. The professor handed them their wands back and was a kindly uncle once more.
“Then allow me to introduce my third cousin twice removed,” he flashed a predatory grin, putting his arm around Tom’s shoulders. “Mister Riddle has transferred to Hogwarts from Durmstrang due to family circumstances and will be joining sixth year starting next term,” he recited the prepared legend. “So he’ll be your classmate!” Slughorn exclaimed as if this were the most wonderful news in the world.
“From Durmstrang?” Malfoy said with interest and extended his hand. “Father wanted to send me to Durmstrang at first. I’m Draco Malfoy.”
“Tom Riddle,” he introduced himself, shaking hands. Potter also stuck out his palm, albeit with some hesitation, and Tom shook it without a muscle twitching.
“Do you already know what House you’ll be in?” the girl whom they had nearly forgotten about suddenly asked.
“Slytherin,” Tom replied. Potter let go of his hand, grimacing slightly as if he’d touched something nasty. “And you, miss…?”
“Hermione Granger, Gryffindor,” she also unexpectedly stuck out her hand after a brief hesitation. Tom hesitated for a second, not knowing what to do with the girlish hand, but decided to shake it. I guess that was customary now.
“A tremendous acquisition for Slytherin House!” Slughorn continued holding forth in the meantime. “Ten O.W.L.s, all with Outstanding marks!” Tom has every chance to do what Mister Malfoy couldn’t — knock you from the top spot in the school rankings, Miss Granger,” he winked at the girl. “How many O.W.L.s did you sit?”
“Ten,” she ground out, throwing the new acquaintance a jealous look. “The results aren’t out yet…”
“Well, at least share it,” Slughorn chuckled good-naturedly, but his smile fooled no one. The old leech would have preferred the best student to be in his own House. And Tom himself would have preferred to find himself back in London under bombardment rather than study in the same year as that very Harry Potter who was supposed to kill him. He definitely would not stay in this time, however sorry he was to leave Hogwarts.
After making sure the Slytherin and Gryffindors went in separate directions, Riddle and Slughorn left the castle and headed for Hogsmeade.
“Ah, Tom,” the old man wouldn’t stop chattering, “Of course I would have preferred you become prefect — you were ideal for that role! But unfortunately… Just between us, Tom! Mister Malfoy lacks his grandfather Abraxas’s composure and manners. Definitely lacks them. But now, to take his badge away requires serious grounds, we can’t have such a scandal, you understand…” He glanced around furtively. “Oh, do you mind if we stop by the greenhouses? I’d like to see how Professor Sprout’s Venomous Tentacula is doing…”
“By all means,” Tom nodded, estimating how much the valuable leaves of that plant cost now. “I’ll make sure no one disturbs your research…”
He stood by the greenhouse entrance, and after a couple minutes an extremely happy professor emerged, hiding something in his inner pocket, and heartily clapped Tom on the shoulder. Tom grimaced internally, externally — smiled. If he was playing this role, he may as well go all the way. Half an hour later they were entering the magical pub.
Tom surveyed the familiar interior: stag antlers lining the walls, dark wood tables, and rough chairs. It seemed hardly anything had changed in fifty years, except maybe there were more antlers on the walls now, occupying nearly all the space, their curved branching bony growths touching.
He eyed the antlers' white pointed tips, an excellent murder weapon. He wondered if they would pierce a human body all the way through when stabbed. Considering the animal’s mass, the piercing edge’s surface area… They should.
Before his mind’s eye appeared an overly vivid picture of a body, female for some reason and naked, sagging limply on those antlers, head lolling lifelessly. Dark hair covered the face and cascaded downward, leaving only the lower half-moons of small breasts exposed. The bony growths pierced the pliant flesh, crudely entering and exiting it as bloodied spikes. Thin rivulets of cherry colour crossed the pale skin, forming an elegant marble pattern. The legs dangled limply, just barely not touching the rough wooden floor with tiny toes, while a contrasting burgundy drop slid down the thigh.
“Two butterbeers and your fabulous pork ribs, Rosmerta!”
Slughorn’s voice roughly jerked Tom out of his trance. He was frozen before the wall of antlers. Licking his dry lips, he followed after the professor who was now winking at the plump woman behind the bar in a dress that emphasised her figure’s curves and had a deep cleavage from which her bosom bulged like sweet dough.
“Anything for you, Horace,” the woman replied with a loud laugh and reached for the beer tap. “Handsome young man with you?”
She threw Tom an interested look; he automatically smiled back, lightly lifting the corners of his lips. Under the counter, his hand clenched into a fist and his nails dug into his palm as he tried to regain self-control and slow his pounding heartbeat. He inhaled slowly but could still sense the phantom metallic scent in the air. The phantom scent from his gruesome vision.
“Yes, Rosmerta, meet this charming lad — my distant relative, Tom Riddle, will be starting sixth year in my House next term,” Slughorn said proudly.
“Oh, I hope he becomes a frequent guest here,” the witch smirked with a glance at Tom. Accepting two foaming mugs of the hot beverage from her, he moved to follow the professor to an empty table.
“Of course I’ll sign your Hogsmeade permission form, Tom,” Slughorn kept chattering as he sat down. “One can’t be deprived of such life’s joys!”
Tom set down the butterbeers and took off his bag slung over his shoulder. He hung it on the back of the chair and imperceptibly pulled out his wand. He had already shaken off the strange spell. Now was not the time or place, he would think more about what was happening to him and why later. With a light practised motion under the table he vanished the alcohol from his own mug. Even the approximately three percent concentration irritated his sensitive sense of smell.
Slughorn downed half his mug in one gulp, contemplating the lowered level. Clearly someone who regretted there was too little alcohol here. “Should’ve transferred mine into his mug,” Tom smirked to himself. A drunk professor was a kind professor, he had grasped this long ago. He also took a sip of the creamy soda his beer had become and set the mug back down. Just in time, because the voice that boomed behind him made him jump in surprise.
“Professor Slughorn, you are here too! I thought you were, erm… In London already, relaxing, yeah!”
At the familiar low husky voice, Tom’s eyes widened in recognition. Slughorn craned his neck, staring somewhere at the ceiling behind Tom. He slowly turned around, then also glanced up to take in fully the brown hairy mountain before him. There could be no doubts here.
“Hagrid! What a coincidence you’re here too!” the professor exclaimed happily. “Yes, I was in London, just popped over to to see Dumbledore about some business. If memory serves, you and Tom here were schoolmates, yes?”
Under the table, his hand reflexively tightened on his wand. Tom stared at the old acquaintance, the half-giant expelled from Hogwarts thanks to his efforts. For him, only a month had passed… But for the hapless Gryffindor, a whole fifty years. Which, however, had clearly not erased Tom’s face from memory, and now the adult Rubeus Hagrid goggled at him in shock, looking as if he’d seen a ghost.
“You… Riddle! No way! It’s… It can’t…”
Slughorn invitingly pulled out a chair for Hagrid, and he plopped down on it with his whole bulk, making it creak plaintively. It seemed this hulk had grown even larger, or at least fatter. His little black beetle eyes darted around as he examined the man from his past. Tom put on a friendly mask.
“Rubeus? What an astonishing meeting.”
Hagrid turned a pleading look at the Potions master, clearly not understanding what was happening. Slughorn leaned toward him and loudly whispered, demonstratively screening himself with a hand from the rest of the pub:
“Mister Riddle has come to us in a mysterious way straight from 1943. Yes-yes! This is a secret, no need to make a big fuss over such a phenomenon, you understand…”
“Yeah… I guess…” Hagrid said uncertainly.
Professor Slughorn beamed, “So we’ve just been to see Professor Dumbledore, and he has reinstated Tom into his sixth year at Hogwarts!” He quickly covered his mouth and looked around in panic. However, the pub was nearly empty, no one had heard his emotional outburst.
“And how did you end up here?” Tom politely asked Hagrid, who was also examining the table. The last thing Tom knew was that Hagrid had been expelled from Hogwarts and had his wand snapped. He hoped to never see the dim-witted oaf again, yet here he was, years later…
“Hagrid’s now a professor at Hogwarts!” Slughorn proclaimed joyfully. “He might even be your teacher if you choose Care of Magical Creatures.” His cheer quickly faded when he finally noticed the tense silence hanging over the table.
A professor, is he? Tom barely kept a straight face as dark waves of anger swirled within. Somehow the fool had been rehabilitated. But how, when there was no evidence left? At least none that implicated Tom himself. No one should have suspected his involvement in Myrtle’s death. He needed to probe this issue carefully. Slowly leaning back in his chair, Tom thoughtfully bit his lower lip. Then he spoke:
“You probably remember this story, Professor Slughorn. When poor Myrtle Warren died in 1943, I had to say it was Hagrid who’d smuggled a monster into the school. After the girl died, I couldn’t stand by while others were hurt or the school closed… Hagrid was expelled from his third year, if I recall correctly.”
“I see… Yes, I remember that dreadful tragedy, poor girl… A terrible accident, of course…” Slughorn murmured. He looked away, drumming his fingers on the table, also recognizing the awkwardness.
“Were you reinstated later, Rubeus?” Tom asked.
“No,” Hagrid chewed his lips, regarding Tom with mixed emotions. “Dumbledore, a great man, offered me a job as gamekeeper. And three years ago, when Professor Kettleburn retired… gave me the teaching position.”
“Is that so?” Tom tilted his head thoughtfully. “That was decent of him.”
“Yes, Dumbledore always cares deeply for his students,” the potions master forced a smile. “Butterbeer, Hagrid?” He busily tried to change the subject.
“No, I… I better go, get things to do!” Hagrid jumped up hastily, loudly scraping back his chair. He beat as quick a retreat as his size allowed. Much to Tom’s relief.
“Yes, that was awkward,” Slughorn muttered, draining his beer in greedy gulps. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he continued, “I was so proud of you back then, Tom. Don’t worry about it.”
Of course, Slughorn didn’t need to know just how little Tom cared about Hagrid. Fortunately, over the years suspicion had not fallen on Tom himself. Beyond that, he had no further interest in what had happened. Only disgust. That idiot, a professor? In his old age, Dumbledore had clearly lost his mind.
Madam Rosmerta set a plate of aromatic baked ribs glazed in dark brown honey and smoke between them, winking coyly at Tom. When she left, he spoke again:
“Do you mind, Professor, if I pop into Diagon Alley for a few hours? I’ll Floo back later. I want to sit in the publisher’s archive for a bit, read up on what’s gone on in the world over the past fifty years.”
“By all means,” Slughorn waved his hand casually. “You’re a grown boy now, you know the address, have your documents. Go on.”
Tom grinned, satisfied, and bit into the wonderfully aromatic meat.
***
A couple hours later, Tom emerged from the publisher’s archive, flexing his neck sore from long reading. For starters, he’d only skimmed the highlights, jotting down major events in his diary. He’d read everything he could find about Dumbledore’s duel with Grindelwald but still didn’t understand exactly what had happened. One thing was clear — this seemingly eccentric old man was not to be underestimated. The numerous reports of attacks and assaults similar to the troubling article in yesterday’s Daily Prophet also caught his attention. They weren’t front page news, but in recent years a constant nagging presence. Aurors would arrive at crime scenes but never managed to catch anyone, only finding the wrecked homes and barely surviving or already dead occupants. The McKinnons, for example, had not been as lucky as the recent Pruitts. Debates raged in society over who was behind the attacks, while the Ministry expressed concern and tightened control. The culprits evaporated like smoke only to suddenly strike again months later. At first glance, the victims seemed to share no connections, but Tom was able to pick out some commonalities. On his next visit he look into things more closely and test his theory. Tom checked his watch — six o’clock, time to head back if he didn’t want to leave the old man without dinner. Or rather, he would have liked to, but he needed to play the part of a polite, well-mannered boy until his goal was achieved. And he could play that role excellently. Twilight had already darkened the alley, too quickly even for a summer evening. The weather was changing as the sun disappeared behind thick gray clouds. The densely packed Diagon Alley buildings provided shelter from the wind, but given the speed of the clouds, a storm was clearly brewing. He should get back before the rain, but there was something else he still wanted to check out. With a light wave of his wand, a thick black cloak materialised directly from the air onto Tom’s shoulders, the hood covering his head. He would just take a short walk and see how Knockturn Alley had changed over the decades. Were Borgin and Burkes still in business, the usual riffraff drinking at The White Wyvern? It was good to have backup options—he couldn’t openly ask Slughorn for everything, especially if something clearly illegal was needed. Casting a mild Stinging Jinx on the cloak, he headed toward Knockturn Alley. Half an hour later, he concluded not much had changed here either. The shops glared uninvitingly with grimy windows. Dodgy characters wandered the spit-covered cobblestones: a ragged witch with a tray of human nails and hair for Polyjuice Potion, probably not even in her own body based on her unsteady gait in heels; beggars tried to sneak close and pick pockets — one boy yelped and jumped back, burned by Tom’s enchanted cloak; a dishevelled man offered family silverware from under his coat, surely fake — Tom sneered in disdain at the Black family crest on the spoons. He didn’t go into Borgin and Burkes, just peeked in the window to confirm the shop was still in its old location. No need to draw undue attention yet. Having satisfied his curiosity, he headed to The White Wyvern. Strangely, the approach to the bar was completely empty. About five metres from the front steps lay a toppled beer mug, frothy liquid still foaming around it. Sensing a vague hint of danger, Tom pulled out his wand, took a step back, and cautiously looked around. On the second step, the too-familiar feeling of a wand tip pressed into his back. “Don’t move, boy,” a hoarse voice hissed in his ear. “You’re coming with us now.”
