The late summer evening cast long shadows across the Headmaster's office at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Professor Albus Dumbledore sat behind his carved desk, a slight smile playing at the corners of his mouth as he reviewed applications for the Defense Against the Dark Arts position. He paused occasionally to make notes in the margins with a quill that seemed to write in different colored inks depending on his mood—currently a rather pessimistic shade of brown.
"Oh, Fawkes," he murmured to his phoenix, who dozed peacefully on his perch, "listen to this one: 'I have extensive experience in the Dark Arts, having been cursed seventeen times and lived to tell the tale.' Seventeen times! One wonders if perhaps a different career path might have been more suitable after, say, the third cursing."
Professor Merrythought had finally announced her retirement after decades of faithful service, and with barely three weeks until term began, Dumbledore found himself in the rather unenviable position of explaining to concerned parents why their children's Defense professor had yet to be selected. The daily owls were becoming quite persistent.
Fawkes ruffled his magnificent scarlet and gold feathers in what might have been sympathy, or possibly amusement. The August air was warm and still, with the faint scent of heather drifting through the open windows from the Scottish Highlands beyond. Even at this late hour, the summer sky held traces of twilight, painting the office in soft purples and golds that made the various magical instruments gleam like jewels.
Dumbledore had been Headmaster for fifteen years now, having taken the position in 1956 after Professor Dippet's retirement. In that time, he had grown accustomed to the weight of leadership, though he still found great joy in the everyday magic of guiding young minds—and the considerably more complex magic of dealing with their parents. Tonight, however, his usual serenity was tinged with wariness. He had received an unexpected request for a meeting, one that both intrigued and deeply concerned him.
"I do hope," he said aloud, adjusting his half-moon spectacles, "that this evening's interview proves more promising than the gentleman who assured me he could teach students to duel blindfolded. While admirable in theory, I fear the Hospital Wing is quite full enough without adding unnecessary complications."
A soft knock interrupted his musings—precisely on time, he noted with interest. Punctuality had always been one of Tom's more admirable qualities.
"Enter," he called, setting aside the parchments with a deliberate casualness that belied his alertness.
The door opened with barely a whisper, and Tom Marvolo Riddle stepped into the office with the fluid grace of a predator.
Dumbledore's keen blue eyes took in the changes wrought by the years since Tom had left Hogwarts, and he found himself genuinely saddened by what he observed. The handsome young man who had once been Head Boy—charming, brilliant, and terrifyingly ambitious—was gone, replaced by someone whose very presence seemed to drain warmth from the room. Tom's features appeared somehow burned and blurred, as though touched by magics that had exacted a terrible price. His face was waxy and oddly distorted, and the whites of his eyes had taken on a permanently bloody look, though the pupils had not yet become the slits that Dumbledore suspected they would one day become. He wore a long black traveling cloak that seemed to absorb the evening light, and his pale skin had an almost luminous quality that was deeply unsettling.
Despite the dramatic transformation, Dumbledore's expression remained pleasantly welcoming. This meeting had been arranged, after all, and he had always believed in the importance of good manners, even under the most trying circumstances.
"Good evening, Tom," said Dumbledore with genuine warmth, rising slightly from his chair in a gesture of courtesy. "How delightful to see you again. Won't you sit down? I was just thinking that this office could use a bit more company—the portraits have been dreadfully quiet this evening, and Fawkes, I'm afraid, is rather poor conversationalist when he's molting."
"Thank you," said Tom, and he took the chair that Dumbledore indicated with a graceful gesture. His voice had changed significantly—higher and colder than it had been in his youth, with a peculiar sibilant quality that made certain words seem to hiss in the air. "I heard that you had become Headmaster. I was traveling abroad when the appointment was announced, exploring certain... educational opportunities. A worthy choice, though I confess I'm not entirely surprised. You always did have a talent for managing chaos."
"I am glad you approve," said Dumbledore, his eyes twinkling with gentle amusement. "Though I must say, fifteen years in this position has taught me that chaos, properly channeled, can be quite educational in its own right. May I offer you a drink? The journey from London can be taxing, especially in this unseasonable warmth. I have a rather excellent elderflower wine that I've been saving, or perhaps something stronger? I find that serious conversations are often improved by a touch of good spirits—the liquid variety, of course, though the other sort can be helpful as well."
"That would be... welcome," said Tom, the slight pause suggesting he was choosing his words with characteristic care. "I have indeed come a long way. Farther, perhaps, than you might imagine."
Dumbledore rose with the easy grace of a much younger man and moved to the cabinet that would one day house his Pensieve, but which now contained an impressive array of bottles from around the world. He selected a particularly fine vintage—a 1947 Bordeaux that he'd been saving for a special occasion, though he reflected grimly that this hardly qualified as the sort of special occasion he'd had in mind.
"You know," he said conversationally as he poured two goblets of the deep red wine, "I've always found it fascinating how travel changes a person. Some return with nothing more than interesting stories and a few exotic trinkets. Others..." He handed Tom his goblet and returned to his seat, settling back with the air of a man preparing for a long and complex discussion. "Others return fundamentally altered. The question, of course, is whether the alteration represents growth or... something rather less beneficial."
Tom accepted the wine with a nod that might have been appreciation or mere acknowledgment. "Indeed. Though I would argue that change, any change, represents a form of growth. Stagnation is death, after all."
"Ah," said Dumbledore, raising his goblet slightly, "but there we must agree to disagree. I have always believed that some forms of change are more akin to decay. But perhaps I'm simply showing my age—we old teachers do tend toward the philosophical, don't we? So, Tom... to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure? It's been... what, nearly fifteen years since you last graced these halls?"
Tom did not answer immediately, but merely sipped his wine with an almost ritualistic precision, his pale fingers wrapped around the goblet like talons. When he finally spoke, his voice carried a note of something that might have been nostalgia, if one didn't know better.
"They do not call me 'Tom' anymore," he said, his eyes fixed on Dumbledore's face as though watching for a reaction. "These days, I am known by another name. A name that commands rather more... respect."
"Oh, I'm quite aware of what you call yourself these days," said Dumbledore, his tone remaining perfectly pleasant even as his eyes grew more serious. "Lord Voldemort, isn't it? From the French, if I'm not mistaken—'flight from death.' Quite dramatic, really, though I confess I've always wondered about the pronunciation. Do you prefer the French styling, or have you anglicized it? These things matter, you know. Names have power, as you well understand."
Tom's expression flickered—surprise, perhaps, or annoyance at having his carefully planned revelation deflated so thoroughly.
"But to me, I'm afraid," Dumbledore continued with a apologetic smile, "you will always be Tom Riddle. It is one of the more irritating habits of old teachers, I fear. We never quite forget our students' youthful beginnings, no matter how far they may travel from them. I still think of Minerva McGonagall as the seven-year-old who turned her tea cup into a rather impressive turtle during her first Transfiguration lesson, though I suspect she would hex me if I mentioned it in public."
He raised his glass in what appeared to be a toast, though his eyes never left Tom's face. "To old times, shall we say? And the interesting paths we choose to follow."
Tom's face remained expressionless, but the atmosphere in the room shifted subtly, like the moment before a thunderstorm. Dumbledore's refusal to use his chosen name was more than mere stubbornness—it was a refusal to acknowledge the identity Tom had crafted so carefully, a rejection of the fear and power that name was meant to invoke.
"You always were... direct," said Tom after a pause that stretched just long enough to be uncomfortable. "I had forgotten that about you. Most people these days are considerably more... deferential."
"Ah, well," said Dumbledore with a chuckle, "one of the advantages of age is the gradual loss of interest in deference. I find it quite liberating, actually. Though I imagine it can be rather trying for those accustomed to more... respectful treatment."
"I am surprised you have remained here so long," said Tom, clearly deciding to change tactics. His voice took on a smoother quality, almost hypnotic. "I always wondered why a wizard of your considerable talents never wished to leave school. Surely the wider world holds more... opportunities for someone of your abilities."
"Well," said Dumbledore, leaning back in his chair with obvious pleasure, "to a wizard such as myself, there can be nothing more important than passing on ancient skills, helping to hone young minds. There's something remarkably satisfying about watching an eleven-year-old discover they can make a feather float, or seeing a seventh-year finally master a particularly complex charm. The look of wonder never gets old, I find. If I remember correctly, you once saw the attraction of teaching too—you asked Professor Dippet for a position, didn't you? Though you were, as he noted, rather young at the time."
"I see the value still," said Tom, his tone carefully neutral. "Though I merely wondered why someone like you—who is so often consulted by the Ministry, and who has been offered the position of Minister for Magic on multiple occasions—why such a person would choose to remain in what many would consider a... limited role."
"Three times at the last count, actually," said Dumbledore with evident amusement. "Four, if you count the rather persistent owl I received just last week. But the Ministry never attracted me as a career path. Too much politics, not nearly enough magic. And the paperwork, dear me—I shudder to think of it. Again, something I believe we have in common. You were never one for administrative duties, as I recall."
Tom inclined his head slightly, and for a moment, something almost like his old charm flickered across his features. "No, indeed. Though I find that... delegation has its advantages."
"I'm sure it does," said Dumbledore dryly. "Though I've always found that the quality of one's delegates says a great deal about one's leadership style."
They sat in silence for a moment, two masters of their respective crafts, each waiting for the other to reveal more than they intended. It was Tom who finally broke the silence, leaning forward slightly in his chair.
"I have returned," he said, his voice taking on a more formal cadence, "later, perhaps, than Professor Dippet expected when I left these halls... but I have returned, nevertheless, to request what he once told me I was too young to have. I have come to ask that you permit me to return to this castle, to teach. I understand that Professor Merrythought is finally retiring—a decision that is, if I may say so, long overdue. Her methods have been... antiquated for some time."
Dumbledore's eyebrows rose at this criticism of a beloved colleague, but he said nothing, merely gestured for Tom to continue.
"I think you must know that I have seen and done much since I left this place," Tom continued, his voice growing more confident. "I have traveled to the farthest corners of the magical world, studied with masters whose names are legend, explored magics that most wizards dare not even contemplate. I could show and tell your students things they can gain from no other wizard. I could prepare them for a world far more dangerous and complex than anything Professor Merrythought's dusty textbooks could imagine."
Dumbledore considered Tom over the rim of his goblet for a long moment, his blue eyes unreadable behind his half-moon spectacles.
"Yes," he said finally, his voice quiet and measured, "I certainly do know that you have seen and done much since leaving us. Rumors of your... activities have reached even these ancient walls, Tom. Tales of your travels, your experiments, your associates. I should be very sorry indeed to believe even half of them."
Tom's expression remained perfectly composed. "Greatness inspires envy, envy engenders spite, spite spawns lies. Surely you, of all people, understand this, Dumbledore. How many rumors have circulated about your own activities over the years? How many have questioned your decisions, your methods, your allegiances?"
"Oh, quite a few," said Dumbledore with apparent equanimity. "Some of them even true, which is always rather embarrassing. But then, I've never claimed greatness for myself—that's rather the point, don't you think?"
"You call it 'greatness,' do you?" he asked with delicate precision, "what you have been doing these past years?"
"Certainly," said Tom, and for a moment his eyes seemed to flash with an inner fire that was distinctly unnatural. "I have experimented; I have pushed the boundaries of magic further, perhaps, than they have ever been pushed. I have explored realms of knowledge that lesser wizards dismiss as impossible or forbidden. I have achieved things that will be remembered long after we are both gone."
"Of some kinds of magic," Dumbledore corrected him gently. "Of some. Of others, you remain... forgive me... woefully ignorant."
For the first time since entering the office, Tom smiled. It was not a pleasant expression—cold, thin, and somehow reptilian. It transformed his already altered features into something genuinely frightening.
"Ah, the old argument," he said, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "Love. Friendship. The bonds between people. You always did have a weakness for sentiment, Dumbledore. But tell me—in all your years, in all your experience, have you ever seen love stop a Killing Curse? Have you ever witnessed friendship defeat true power? Nothing I have encountered in my travels has supported your famous pronouncements that love is more powerful than my kind of magic."
"Perhaps," said Dumbledore thoughtfully, "you have been looking in the wrong places. Or perhaps—and forgive me for suggesting this—you have been looking with the wrong eyes."
Tom's smile widened, becoming even more unsettling. "How wonderfully cryptic. You haven't changed at all, have you? Still speaking in riddles, still believing that somehow your particular brand of magic will triumph over reality."
"Well, then," said Tom, leaning back in his chair with theatrical casualness, "what better place to continue my... researches than here, at Hogwarts? Will you let me return? Will you let me share my knowledge with your students? Think of what I could teach them—real magic, practical magic, the kind of skills they'll actually need in the world beyond these walls. I place myself and my considerable talents at your disposal. I am yours to command."
Dumbledore raised his eyebrows, his expression one of polite interest tinged with something that might have been amusement.
"How generous of you," he said. "Though I find myself wondering—and what will become of those whom you command? What will happen to those who call themselves—or so rumor has it—the Death Eaters?"
The effect was immediate and dramatic. Tom's careful composure cracked, his eyes flashing with unmistakable fury, and his nostrils flared. Clearly, he had not expected Dumbledore to know that particular name, let alone to use it so casually.
"I see the rumors have been... comprehensive," Tom said after a moment, his voice carefully controlled but with an underlying edge of menace. "My friends will carry on without me, I am sure. They are quite capable of managing their own affairs."
"Friends," repeated Dumbledore, as though tasting the word. "How delightful. I am glad to hear that you consider them friends, Tom. I was under the impression that they are more in the order of... shall we say, devoted servants?"
"You are mistaken," said Tom coldly.
"Am I?" Dumbledore's tone remained perfectly pleasant. "Then if I were to visit the Hog's Head tonight—and at my age, I do enjoy the occasional evening constitutional—I would not find a group of them awaiting your return? Nott, Rosier, Mulciber, Dolohov, perhaps a few others? Such devoted friends indeed, to travel this far with you on such a warm evening, merely to wish you luck as you attempted to secure a teaching position. Though I confess, the Hog's Head seems an odd place for friends to wait. The Three Broomsticks has much better wine."
Tom's composure wavered for just an instant at this display of detailed knowledge, but he recovered with admirable speed.
"You are as omniscient as ever, Dumbledore," he said, though there was no admiration in his voice. "One wonders how you find time for actual teaching, given how much energy you devote to gathering intelligence."
"Oh no," said Dumbledore with a gentle laugh, "merely friendly with the local barmen. Aberforth has always been remarkably observant, and he does so enjoy a good chat. Amazing what people will discuss when they think no one is listening. Now, Tom..."
Dumbledore set down his empty goblet and drew himself up in his seat, pressing the tips of his fingers together in a gesture that his students would have recognized as the prelude to a particularly important pronouncement.
"...let us speak openly, shall we? Why have you really come here tonight, surrounded by your... friends... to request a job we both know you do not want?"
Tom looked genuinely surprised for the first time since entering the office. "A job I do not want? On the contrary, Dumbledore, I want it very much. This position would allow me to—"
"Oh, you want to come back to Hogwarts," Dumbledore interrupted gently, "but you do not want to teach any more than you wanted to when you were eighteen. What is it you're really after, Tom? What could possibly be in this castle that would interest someone of your... evolved tastes? Why not try an open request for once? I find honesty remarkably refreshing, particularly in interviews."
Tom's expression hardened into something ugly and dangerous. "If you do not want to give me the position—"
"Of course I don't," said Dumbledore matter-of-factly, as though discussing the weather. "Did you really expect otherwise? A man who calls himself Lord Voldemort, who surrounds himself with followers known as Death Eaters, who has spent years delving into the darkest magics—did you truly think I would hand him a classroom full of children? Come now, Tom. Credit me with at least some intelligence."
Tom stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor with a sound like fingernails on stone. His features twisted with rage, making him look less like the Tom Riddle of old than ever before.
"This is your final word?" he demanded, his voice rising slightly.
"It is," said Dumbledore, also rising from his chair with calm dignity.
"Then we have nothing more to say to each other."
"No," said Dumbledore, and profound sadness filled his voice. "Nothing more to say, perhaps, but... Tom, it's not too late. It's never too late to choose a different path. The magic you've embraced—it will consume you, if you let it. You were brilliant once, truly brilliant. You could be again."
Tom's laugh was cold and bitter. "Choose? You speak as though I have not already chosen. I have become everything I was meant to be, Dumbledore. I have transcended the limitations that bind lesser wizards. I am more than human now."
"No," said Dumbledore quietly. "You are less."
For a moment, the very air seemed to crackle with magical energy. Tom's hand moved toward his wand, and Dumbledore's own hand shifted almost imperceptibly. The ancient office held its breath, portraits and instruments alike seeming to sense the terrible potential of the moment.
But then Tom mastered himself, drawing back with visible effort.
"The time is long gone," said Dumbledore, his voice heavy with regret, "when I could frighten you with a burning wardrobe and force you to make repayment for your crimes. But I wish I could, Tom... I wish I could..."
Tom's eyes blazed with memory and fury. "You should have killed me then," he said softly. "When you had the chance."
"Perhaps," said Dumbledore. "But that has never been my way. More's the pity, some might say."
Without another word, Tom turned and strode to the door, his black cloak billowing behind him like smoke. He paused only once, his hand on the doorknob.
"You will regret this decision, Dumbledore," he said without turning around. "Sooner than you think."
Then he was gone, leaving only the faint scent of something cold and unnatural in the warm summer air, and the lingering impression of a conversation that had changed everything and nothing at all.
Dumbledore remained standing for a long time after the door closed, staring at the spot where his former student had stood. In the silence that followed, Fawkes stirred on his perch and let out a soft, mournful note that seemed to echo the Headmaster's own heavy heart.
"Well, Fawkes," he said finally, sinking back into his chair with a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of years. "The Defense Against the Dark Arts position remains unfilled, and I fear it may stay that way for some time. Though I suppose, in a way, I've just conducted the most important defense lesson of my career."
He picked up the stack of applications again, but his heart wasn't in it. Some prices were simply too high to pay, even for the most qualified of candidates—and Tom Riddle, whatever else he had become, remained the most naturally gifted student Dumbledore had ever taught.
That, perhaps, was the most frightening thing of all.
---
Tom Riddle—though he no longer thought of himself by that name—moved through the corridors of Hogwarts with the silent precision of a shadow. The castle slept around him, its ancient stones holding their breath as he passed. Most would have needed light to navigate these halls, but his eyes had adapted to see clearly in darkness, another gift of the transformations he had undergone.
He paused at the entrance to the Great Hall, his pale hand resting against the familiar oak doors. How many times had he walked through these very doors as a student? How many feasts had he attended, sitting at the Slytherin table, planning and plotting even then? The memories felt distant now, belonging to someone else—someone weaker, more limited.
But tonight's humiliation burned fresh in his mind. Dumbledore's casual dismissal, his refusal to even acknowledge the name that struck fear into the hearts of wizards across Europe, his insufferable certainty that he held the moral high ground. The old fool had always been too sentimental, too willing to believe in the better nature of humanity. It would be his downfall, eventually.
Tom continued up the stairs, his footsteps making no sound on the stone. He knew exactly where he was going—had known the moment Dumbledore uttered those final, dismissive words. If the old man would not give him what he wanted willingly, he would take something else instead. Something far more valuable than a mere teaching position.
The seventh floor corridor was empty, moonlight streaming through the tall windows to paint silver rectangles on the ancient floor. Tom walked past the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy three times, his mind focused on a single, burning need: *I need a place to hide something where it will never be found.*
On his third pass, a door materialized in the wall opposite the tapestry. Tom's thin lips curved into what might have been a smile. He had discovered this room during his sixth year at Hogwarts, quite by accident, when he had been desperate to avoid Professor Slughorn's questions about his interest in Horcruxes. The room had provided him with exactly what he needed then—a place to think, to plan, to explore the darkest corners of magical theory without interruption.
Now it would serve a different purpose.
The door opened at his touch, revealing a vast cavern of a room filled with the detritus of centuries. Mountains of forgotten objects stretched as far as the eye could see: broken furniture, tarnished mirrors, moth-eaten tapestries, and thousands of books whose secrets had been lost to time. It was perfect—a graveyard of discarded things where one more lost treasure would never be noticed.
Tom reached into his robes and withdrew a small, exquisite diadem. Even in the dim light filtering through the room's enchanted windows, the sapphires embedded in its surface seemed to pulse with their own inner radiance. Ravenclaw's Diadem—one of the great treasures of Hogwarts, lost for centuries until his own considerable research had led him to Helena Ravenclaw's ghost and, eventually, to the artifact itself.
More importantly, it was now one of his Horcruxes. A fragment of his soul resided within that ancient metal, ensuring his immortality even if his body should somehow be destroyed. He had created seven pieces of his soul in total—well, six intentional pieces, plus the fragment that remained in his body. Seven was the most magical number, after all.
But tonight, this particular Horcrux would serve a dual purpose.
Tom made his way through the towering maze of discarded objects, his destination clear in his mind. Near the center of the room stood a particularly tall cabinet, warped with age and crowned with what appeared to be an old wig that had seen better days. It would do perfectly.
He placed the diadem carefully on top of the cabinet, then drew his wand. The yew wood felt warm in his grasp, almost eager for what was to come. Tom had always excelled at curses—they required a particular combination of will, imagination, and calculated malice that suited his temperament perfectly.
"Dumbledore," he murmured, his voice carrying across the silent room like a whisper of wind through a graveyard. "You want to protect your precious students? Very well. Let us see how many Defense professors you can find who are willing to take the position... and keep it."
He began to weave the curse, his wand moving in complex patterns that seemed to leave traces of dark light in the air. This was not simple magic—it required anchoring, a focus that would give the curse permanence and power. The Horcrux would serve admirably for that purpose. As long as the diadem remained hidden in this room, as long as the fragment of his soul remained bound within it, the curse would endure.
The incantation was in a language older than Latin, words that seemed to twist the very air around them. Tom had learned them from a tome he had discovered in the most restricted section of a library in Albania, written by a wizard whose name had been struck from all records for good reason.
As he spoke, the diadem began to glow with a sickly green light. The curse was taking hold, weaving itself into the very fabric of the castle, anchored by the dark magic of the Horcrux. Every future Defense Against the Dark Arts professor would find themselves touched by this magic, unable to hold the position for more than a single year. Some would be driven mad, others would simply find themselves compelled to leave. A few might even meet more permanent ends.
It was, Tom reflected with satisfaction, an elegant solution. Dumbledore would struggle year after year to fill the position, watching as teacher after teacher failed or fled. The Defense program would suffer, leaving the students poorly prepared for the realities of the magical world. And all the while, the old fool would never suspect that the source of his troubles lay hidden right under his nose.
The curse reached its crescendo, and Tom felt the magic settle into place like a weight upon the world. The diadem's glow faded, leaving it looking like nothing more than another forgotten treasure among thousands of others. Perfect.
Tom stepped back, surveying his work with cold satisfaction. In years to come, when rumors began to spread of the cursed Defense position, when even the most desperate teachers refused to take the job, Dumbledore would remember this night. He would remember his refusal to hire Tom Riddle, and perhaps—just perhaps—he would begin to understand the price of his moral superiority.
"Let this be a lesson to you, old man," Tom whispered to the shadows. "There are always consequences for those who stand in Lord Voldemort's way."
He turned and walked back through the maze of forgotten things, his black cloak trailing behind him like a piece of the night itself. The door closed silently as he left, sealing the cursed diadem away in its hiding place where it would remain undisturbed for decades to come.
As Tom Riddle descended the stairs toward the entrance hall, his mind was already turning to other plans, other schemes. Dumbledore had won this battle, perhaps, but the war was far from over. And now, every September, as the old fool struggled to find yet another Defense professor, he would be reminded of exactly what it meant to cross Lord Voldemort.
The castle settled back into peaceful slumber around him, unaware that within its ancient walls, a curse had been born that would plague it for generations to come. In the Room of Hidden Things, the diadem sat silent and still, its dark purpose complete, waiting patiently for the day when its true nature might finally be discovered.
But that day would not come for many years yet.
---
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