"The Prophet is here, Father."
He placed it on the desk, along with some other household invoices that had arrived. He moved to grab the carafe and crystal glass to vanquish his thirst from walking to the owlery and back, but a flicker of movement and the awkward clearing of his father's throat stopped him.
The words were already halfway out of his mouth when the boy's hematite-colored eyes widened slightly and he finally registered what was happening in the room. "Wait until you see the front cov-"
Augustus Fawley sat in his office chair, dressed in a fine day suit of Acromantula silk, glass of sparkling water at his side. Everything appeared normal, other than the fact that he was not alone.
He sat in his father's chair impeccably straight and proper, and yet with an air of relaxation that would surely impress even the most decorated politicians. His elbows rested on the arm rests as he leaned into the back of the chair just slightly to seem comfortable yet poised—like a king seated upon a throne in the war room. Callous but maintaining a presence of pure control.
An observer would never fathom that a business meeting that balanced on the success of a sale was occurring. Rather, they'd believe it to be a simple gathering of two friends sitting down for a conversation.
How wrong could they be.
Benedict awkwardly cleared his throat, feeling sheepish for forgetting the day's schedule.
But had he really?
Nonetheless, he recovered quickly.
"Sorry father, I thought your meeting was not for another hour."
Tom Riddle's eyes were blank and intense, and Benedict had to scratch his mind to remember if he had ever really looked at the former Head Boy in detail before. He really hadn't a reason to. After all, all he did at Hogwarts was keep his head down and attend class. And while the female population at Hogwarts interested in the opposite sex seemed to have an obsessive fascination with the captain of the Slytherin Horde, Benedict had no time or interest to weigh in on the matter.
Unlike the rest of his family members, it was difficult to earn top marks without intensive studying. Back then, what seemed to take his classmates minutes took Benedict hours—not because he was stupid or unmotivated, but because his focus waned, and then suddenly something overcame him, and he had the insufferable urge to go and build something in the Aviation Club with Simon.
Or perhaps he had a new hobby he wanted to nurture, like fire crab husbandry. Or bone carpentry.
Or improving his snogging skills with Yasmin.
And when he did manage to sit down to study, the letters or runes, depending on the class, seemed to almost always float all over the page. It was an utter waste of time. By fifth year, he began asking professors if he could record lectures on vinyl discs so he could listen back to them, just like muggles did.
Oh, Augustus Fawley had a field day when he found out that.
And for some reason, he had always imagined that Tom Riddle's eyes were blue. He wasn't sure why he thought that—it was probably because of some unconscious bias, but Benedict wasn't entirely certain and didn't feel like investigating further on the matter. He had just always imagined that trait, not stopping to second guess it.
Now that Riddle sat so close to him, in his house, actually, closer than ever before, he noticed that instead, they were...
Brown? Green?
He wasn't quite sure. And there wasn't enough time nor interest in the unfolding moment to decipher their hue.
Why is he here? That was the question festering at the forefront of his mind.
Benedict broke their eye contact, smiling softly at his father in effort to throw off the weird tension. Luckily, his father did not seem to notice it, cool as a cucumber, just as always.
Unless he was berating him about his academic marks... or his professional review at the Ministry.
August Fawley straightened in his chair.
"Benedict, we're in the middle of a meeting. If you'd like to stay and weigh in on some of our family heirlooms, you're welcome to."
Benedict blinked confusedly. This was certainly unanticipated.
"Family heirlooms?
What would Tom Riddle, of all people, possibly want with his family's artifacts?
"Yes," Augustus dipped his head. "Some of grandfather's items—journal entries, letters to grandma, personal things."
Benedict bit his lip. "Oh," he uttered with head nod.
Of course, the historical items of interest. Any visitor to the house wanted to see the former Minister of Magic's personal belongings. How had he not thought of that? He had to contain a sigh of exasperation.
"And?" he questioned, trying to eye the other person in the room discretely but failing miserably at the attempt to gather more information.
His expression was a cue enough. He didn't have to wait long for answer.
"I am a representative for Borgin and Burke's, the confidential valuation service for unusual and ancient wizarding artifacts. Your father and I arranged for a consultation after happening across one another in Diagon Alley the other day."
The explanation was so effortless, as if everyone arranged such a meeting to give away familial heirlooms after meeting a stranger in Diagon Alley. In the mess that was his memory, Benedict also hadn't recalled Riddle's voice to be so commanding and... suave?
That surely can't be the right word.
Nonetheless, it perfectly matched the exterior of his outward presence.
"How interesting," Benedict commented. "It's been a while since I last saw you, Thomas... Or Tom? I've forgotten what you preferred to be called," he ran an embarrassed hand through his tight curls, and he chuckled lightly as a coping mechanism.
Other than the unexplained visit, what Benedict did not understand was why one of the most brilliant students to ever graduate from Hogwarts was a simple shop boy at an establishment with certainly questionable business dealings. After all, the shop was not in Diagon Alley, but rather, Knockturn Alley.
Big difference.
Everyone and their mother knows that shop is owned by swindlers.
Although Benedict was certainly on the periphery of the social hierarchy at Hogwarts, he wasn't completely oblivious to the whisperings.
"Tom Riddle, the Head Boy, the brightest student in the year," they all seemed to say.
How did he ever end up there?
"Ah, are you two familiar with each other?" asked Augustus.
Benedict's answer was curt as his eyes flickered to the floor.
Surely, this will open up a can of worms.
"Tom was Head Boy when we were seventh years."
His father's interest was immediately piqued.
"Ah, that's why you're such a talented conversationist!" Augustus chortled. "I'm not surprised. You're a very talented salesman. Mr. Burke is lucky to have you on his team. Back in the day, I was Head Boy of my class as well. It was an honor. I think I have my badge in here somewhere..." Augustus Fawley trailed off as he opened his desk drawers and began to rift through a bundle of quills and business cards.
As his father searched for his proof of heyday academic excellence, Benedict's eyes went back to study Tom. However, Tom's gaze was already examining him.
He looked the part of a respectable salesman, that was for certain. Riddle wore all grey, except for the white of his dress shirt. It suited him—made him look elegant and professional at the same time while not seeming overdressed for a simple office meeting. His dark brown hair curled near his ears and his face was clean shaven. He even wore a black sport tie.
Everything about him looked picture perfect aside from his eyes. There was something about them that Benedict found unnerving.
Perhaps it was the fact he couldn't quite pin the color of them.
As they exchanged stares, Benedict grew increasingly uncomfortable, but couldn't seem to pull his gaze away. His head began to hurt slightly.
"There it is," Augustus finally beamed, pulling out a thick golden badge.
"It's still in great condition," Tom complimented, slowly turning his attention back to the senior Fawley.
"I do like to polish it every now and then. Got to keep it clean for the grandchildren to admire one day, as this one didn't quite have the knack for leadership and ambition that I envisioned for him," Augustus supplied flippantly, in the fatherly way that a gut-crushing critique can only be so casually lobbed.
Tom inclined his head with a picturesque smile. "I understand why you don't want to part with it. Perhaps we should continue to focus on the works of the late Minister Fawley? I know that Mr. Burke is particularly interested in his writings that pre-date his service as the head of government."
Augustus clucked his tongue as he quickly put away the badge and refocused on the various journals in front of him. "Yes, yes, it's always interesting to look into the mind of a man on his assent to power. I surely have something here that may interest you. Of course," Mr. Fawley paused, looking at his son for approval, "if Benedict here is okay with parting with some of his grandfather's things?"
Benedict stiffened. While he loomed over the sitting forms of both his father and Riddle, he didn't in the slightest feel more confident standing above them. Instead, it made his gut twist with apprehension.
Augustus continued, "After all, everything in this household holds history or sentimental value, so you'll understand why we are unable to offer just anything."
"Of course, sir. Mr. Burke and I would be honored to display any of your family's artifacts in our store," said Riddle, his voice smooth and persuasive. "If the young Mr. Fawley so approves of it," he added as his razor-edged eyes cut toward his former peer.
The room fell silent as both men stared expectantly at the youngest Fawley. Benedict nervously averted his gaze, his attention landing on the copy of The Prophet he had brought in earlier. His eyes glazed over the front page with the headline:
FAMILY OF RISING STAR MUGGLE-BORN POLITICIAN BRUTALLY SLAUGHTERED IN THEIR HOME.
Exclusive photos of fire-mangled bodies inside. Reader discretion is advised.
He blinked to clear his head of the haunting images. His head was now beginning to throb. He ran a hand through his hair yet again, his freckled forehead creasing slightly in absent thought.
"O-Oh, of course. Take anything."
A saccharine smile danced across Tom's face as he declined his head in gratitude.
"Thank you, Benedict."
The other young man just nodded, seemingly distracted. His mind kept wandering back to the headline. The longer he focused on it, the more his head seemed to bloom with pain.
"Are you okay, son?" Augustus asked with concern.
Benedict's eyes slide upward, witness to Riddle's infinitesimal reaction, but as soon as his brain began to process the complex expression, he was as calm and composed as ever, his strange-colored eyes flickering innocently and unperturbed.
Benedict faltered slightly. "Yes, Father. I am afraid I must take my leave."
He abruptly straightened, tearing his eyes away from the paper. Unbeknownst to both Fawley men, Tom Riddle had picked up on what occupied his classmate's thoughts.
Cunningly, he moved his body so that Augustus would have to turn toward him and away from the front cover of The Prophet in order to stay engaged in the conversation.
"I assure you both, Borgin and Burkes will not underappreciate nor undervalue your contribution to the preservation of magical history."
"Thank you, m'boy," Mr. Fawley enthused, smiling from ear to ear. "I am happy to hear that. Benedict," he said as he stared at his son, "thank you for joining us, and um," he paused, finally acknowledging the news that sat on his desk, "bringing in the latest scoop."
Benedict nodded, sweat now pooling at his hairline. His wince did not go unnoticed by his father, whose expression grew slightly concerned.
Hastily, Benedict's long strides delivered him to the door. He turned shakily to face his father and their guest yet again.
"I must bid you both adieux. Thomas, it was great to see you again. I wish you well in all of your endeavors."
And with that, Benedict Fawley left, his head pounding with nearly unmanageable pain and a lingering feeling of apprehension spreading down his spine. He closed his eyes for reprieve as he reached the foyer's banister to the grand staircase, but the only thing that greeted him were the imagined bodies of a poor muggle-born man's family, charred and burnt, twisted into unrecognizable shape.
***
Tom had to suppress rolling his eyes and hexing an innocent street urchin as he exited the house. Instead, he merely shrugged his shoulders and rolled his neck as he took in a deep breath of crisp autumn air and thumbed his alabaster wand at his side.
After all, you never knew who could potentially be watching. Best to remain masked.
He had stayed longer at the Fawley residence than anticipated. Augustus Fawley drove a hard bargain—he had both vastly underestimated his attachment to his late father's manuscripts and overestimated their worth.
Foolish bastard.
Tom hated ignorant, silver-spoon fools. Especially those that squandered their family's political influence and privilege. How easy would it be for them to control the world, if only they had the insight and ambition. It wasn't even akin to a game of wits at that point—all they had to do was climb the final rung of the ladder.
Despite some initial setbacks, such as the entrance of his old classmate, he had managed to convince the older man to part ways with a handful of objects. Some early journals, a custom-made lunascope, a detailed thesis on the inner workings of the Ministry pre-Grindelwald, to name a few. The last had taken some extenuated effort on Tom's part, but neither Fawley male seemed gifted in the art of Occlumency.
While the extraction was lengthy, it wasn't particularly taxing.
Tom descended the brick steps with only one thought on his mind as he held his briefcase close to his thigh.
Return to Malfoy Manor.
Tonight, the Death Eaters would be entertaining a long sought-after guest—Thorkild Rowle. Another connection to the Ministry, Thorkild's grandfather, Damocles Rowle, had served as the Minister for Magic from 1718 to 1726.
The collection of these lingering political connections was easier than Tom had initially calculated. Both the Fawley and the Rowle families seemed more than eager to meet and discuss their ancestor's assent to the single-most powerful political position in the magical world.
In fact, they gave their theories on accruing and maintaining power rather willingly. Of course, some details had to be obtained a bit more covertly.
That's where Legilimency came in.
By the time Tom made it to a location that was safe enough for discrete disapparation, the sky had already become the color of coal. Reappearing on the front lawn of Malfoy Manor, Tom trekked through the dew-laden grass, startling several peahens as he leisurely strolled passed. He walked measuredly, to allow time for him to calculate his surroundings and devise a conversational keystone in his mind.
As he neared the front of the manor, he noticed a large black carriage was parked in the drive and the lights in the formal dining room were on. It seemed that Thorkild and his wife, Donnatella, had already arrived.
Tom lackadaisically looked at the watch on his wrist.
They were early.
Tom despised when people arrived unexpectedly, whether it be early or late.
For Merlin's beard, just show up at the anticipated time, he mentally chided.
People who failed to follow directions instantly had points deducted from his mental checklist. If he were to build his followers, he'd need people that were subservient and smart enough to follow commands.
Another thing he mentally noted immediately upon entering the Malfoy residence was that Thorkild and Donnatella had stupidly brought their three-year old son.
"Thorfin!" Donnatella cried, "Thorfin, get down from there this second!" she screamed, pulling at her offspring's pant leg as he had somehow managed to climb up on the large marble peacock statue nestled in the corner of the dining room.
Tom's eyes immediately went to Lestrange, the assigned doorman for the night. The clueless git merely shrugged.
Without missing a beat, Tom gracefully entered the room and announced his presence with open arms. "Mr. Rowle, Mrs. Rowle, it is wonderful to see you both and thank you for joining us this evening. If you can manage to have Thorfin come down off the priceless family heirloom, the Lord of the house, Mr. Abraxas Malfoy, would be so thankful, and we could finally sit down for supper."
Everything said had the perfectly calculated amount of charm and command. There was warmth, yet there was warning—only if one was sharp enough to allow it to marinade in their ears.
On the opposite side of the room, the pale and platinum-haired property owner turned a shade of vicious pink. Next to him, Theodore Nott snickered.
"Have to have someone else fight your battles for you, weasel?" he said under his breath as he elbowed his longtime friend. "Too bad mummy and dada aren't here to help."
"I-I'm so sorry," Mrs. Rowle gushed, her face flushing pink as she both ogled at the entrance of the most beautiful man she had ever seen and the truly abhorrent behavior her son.
Tom merely looked at her with reserved boredom hidden behind a stately smile. With the nod of his head, he shook hands with Mr. Rowle.
"It's a pleasure for you both to visit us here at Malfoy Manor, and learn about our current work and listen to some of our proposed efforts."
"The pleasure is mine, Tom. I've heard wonderful things about you. Many of these boys' fathers have vouched for you and this operation," Thorkild buttered, grinning with squinted eyes. "They're lucky to have such a visionary among them."
Tom modestly inclined his head. "Thank you, Mr. Rowle."
"Thorkild is just fine. Now, let's break bread. I'm assuming the house-elves will be serving us?" His beady eyes wheeled over to the empty long table.
Just then, Thorfin let out a cry and stomped his foot, angry tears flooding sloppily down his face.
"Oh dear," Donnatella muttered disdainfully.
"Please take care of him, Donna," Thorkild gritted through clenched teeth. Tom noticed the way his eyes bulged slightly in annoyance as he turned to his wife with poorly disguised disgust.
The woman rushed over to the other side of the room and quickly popped Thorfin onto her hip as she conjured a small dangling toy rat to entertain the toddler.
Tom stared emptily.
"Now," he uttered, clasping his hands together, "let's sit."
The Death Eaters swarmed forward from all sides of the room, almost mechanical in their movement as they each took their designated chairs. Dolohov and Mulciber sat at the far end, with Conan Carrow and the Blacks situated in the middle, and Rosier, Lestrange, Nott, Mrs. Rowle, Thorfin, and finally Abraxas Malfoy and Thorkild Rowle seated next to Tom at the head of the table.
House-elves flooded into the room, at least eight of them, all holding glasses of Chardonnay and one glass of deep, red wine. With the snaps of their fingers, they set the drinks in front of each member of the dinner party.
Tom was the only whose drink was the color of blood.
There was a slight scoff and shuffle of feet as Nott lunged forward in his chair and cuffed one of the elves by the ear. "Not for the baby, you bloody dolt!"
The house-elf squeaked in pain before scrambling for the glass of white wine in front of Thorfin and scurrying away. Thorfin immediately started bawling.
Malfoy took the distraction to timidly bump the leg of Tom Riddle. The dark-haired man's eyes sliced to the right with a furiously cold exuberance.
"Yes?" he drawled lowly.
"My Lord," Malfoy whispered, leaning desperately forward in his seat—bug eyes wide as his pallid mouth twitched. "I have something important to report."
"Now is not the time, Abraxas," Tom chided quietly, taking a sip of his own wine, as he eyed the child with poorly concealed disregard.
Mrs. Rowle was huffing and puffing, and Mr. Rowle was nervously adjusting his toupee and pulling at his collared dress robes.
"You should offer them a nurse-elf," Tom muttered as he examined the dregs of his wine lazily.
"I should what?" Malfoy asked dumbly. Thorfin's screams were nearly ear-piercing.
"Offer your nurse-elf," Tom ordered.
"My Lord-" Malfoy began.
He immediately shut up as Tom's gaze drifted over to him again. Abraxas visibly gulped.
"My Lord, I truly have something important to report. I s-saw her, in Kockturn Alley. I swear, with my own two eyes, she was exiting a curse-breaker's shopfront, disguised to be a boutique broom reseller and-"
Tom spoke slowly, his attention now draining from the annoying brat at the other side of the table and swiftly being reassigned to the other spoiled idiot next to him, "You saw who?"
Malfoy's voice dropped several decibels. "Her," he emphasized.
Tom's lip quirked ever so slightly.
"Shush, Thorfin!" Donnatella pleaded desperately.
At her request, the child let a particularly anguished sob. Thorkild rubbed his wrinkled forehead with his weathered palm.
"I'm so sorry, Tom."
Riddle ignored him, still staring into the glass of wine with intense interest.
"Who?" he repeated, his tone darkening.
Malfoy leaned closer, trembling. Tom could smell the alcohol on his lips and sense the way his magic quivered in his bones.
"Her. Gawmdrey," his whispered.
Tom stopped the examination of his wine's quality. His long, slender fingers moved methodically up the stem of the glass, as if he was caressing the goblet while he moved the drink to his lips. He hummed slightly, deep and throaty, barely audible as he peered into the scarlet liquid.
"Are you sure?" he asserted monotonously.
"Y-Yes, I'd recognize her anywhere!" Malfoy replied earnestly, his voice still a hushed promise of a stolen secret.
There was a beat, a breath, before Tom was able to gather his thoughts.
"Interesting," he mused before he took a lengthy, measured sip.
He swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing in his throat, his eyes snapping up with slothful irritation as Thorfin Rowle let out a blood-curdling scream. Then, slowly, ever so slowly, his eyes moved with intense, predatory interest to where the Heir of the Malfoy inheritance sat.
His voice was liquid mercury as he spoke, his gaze a fiery poison.
"Do tell, did she appear well?"
AN: Another chapter to enjoy! Please do vote and comment on this story, spread it around, tell your friends about it. It motivates me (:
What do you think Tom's thinking?
- Candid