The autumn term at Hogwarts settled into a demanding rhythm, a ceaseless cycle of intellectual challenge and rigorous magical training. My days were a precise orchestration: early mornings honing my combat skills in Castle Starborn's dueling chambers, followed by intense apprenticeship lessons with Dumbledore and Slughorn at Hogwarts, and evenings spent back in my ancestral library, dissecting ancient texts and refining my 'unseen hand' techniques. The subtle probe of my wards a few weeks prior had instilled a fresh urgency in my training, a constant reminder that the unseen war was not only on the continent but slowly, insidiously, reaching for Britain, reaching for me.
The Ministry's budget session had been a stark introduction to the labyrinthine world of political power, a necessary evil, but one I intended to navigate with subtle influence rather than direct confrontation. I kept abreast of the Wizengamot's machinations through the Ministry owls that delivered daily reports to Castle Starborn, analyzing the various factions and their reactions to the escalating Grindelwald crisis. Minister Fawley seemed increasingly strained, his voice cracking more frequently in Daily Prophet reports as he spoke of international cooperation that rarely materialized.
My apprenticeships continued to be the primary focus. With Dumbledore, I was now delving into the ethics of intentional magical influence, the fine line between guidance and manipulation. He presented me with scenarios that blurred the lines of right and wrong, forcing me to confront the moral ambiguity of power. "Marcus," he'd muse, his eyes twinkling with an unnerving knowingness, "if one could, with a mere thought, steer a nation towards peace, yet by doing so, subtly alter the free will of its citizens, would that be a virtuous act?" These discussions were veiled references to the very 'unseen hand' tactics I was developing, and I carefully navigated them, revealing only my analytical thought processes, never the specific nature of my Draconic abilities. His magical resonance sensing was so acute, I felt he perceived the very currents of my thoughts, though he never commented directly.
Slughorn, ever ebullient, was pushing me into the realm of complex, multi-stage alchemical transmutations. We were working on a modified version of the Philosopher's Stone, not for immortality, but for the creation of incredibly stable, magically charged materials that could serve as powerful spell-catalysts or long-lasting energy sources. The sheer precision required was immense, demanding perfect Nahl (flow) and A'kren (essence) manipulation, pushing my control to the very edge. He would clap me on the back, his face beaming, proclaiming that I was "destined for greatness in the arcane arts!" His enthusiasm was infectious, and I found genuine satisfaction in the meticulous, almost meditative, work of alchemy.
The common rooms of Hogwarts, which I often passed through on my way to my private lessons or during my prefect rounds, seemed to hum with a strange mix of youthful energy and underlying anxiety. The younger students, perhaps still shielded by innocence or ignorance, engaged in their usual playful banter. But among the older years, the whispered conversations of Grindelwald's latest advances, the grim headlines of the Daily Prophet, and the general unease about the future were ever-present. I continued my subtle counter-influence, planting seeds of doubt, encouraging critical thinking, trying to gently steer impressionable minds away from the insidious rhetoric that still clung to the edges of the school's magical aura. The locket, a chilling memento, served as my constant reminder of the psychological battlefield.
September 21st, 1938. The day's classes had concluded, and a faint autumnal chill was seeping into the castle, carrying the scent of damp earth and woodsmoke. I had just finished an exceptionally demanding Transfiguration session with Dumbledore, where he'd challenged me to animate an entire section of a stone wall, endowing it with temporary, sentient thought. My mind still buzzed with the complexity of the feat, the sheer Untethered Will required.
I was making my way through the dungeons towards Slughorn's office for my final lesson of the day, a session focused on rare antidotes. The dungeon corridors were usually quiet at this hour, illuminated by flickering torchlight, giving them an ancient, almost foreboding atmosphere. As I approached Slughorn's office, the faint, sweet scent of brewing potions wafted from beneath his door, mingled with the familiar aroma of treacle tart.
I raised my hand to knock, but before my knuckles could connect, the door swung open, and Slughorn's booming, cheerful voice spilled into the corridor.
"Ah, Marcus, my boy! Right on time, as always! Come in, come in! I have someone I'd like you to meet!"
I stepped into the office, my magical resonance sensing immediately extending, taking in the room. It was as comfortably cluttered as ever, brimming with exotic ingredients, half-finished potions, and stacks of parchment. Slughorn, his round face beaming, gestured towards a small, dark-haired boy sitting politely in a plush armchair by the roaring fireplace. The boy looked to be perhaps eleven or twelve, no older than a first or second-year. His robes were neat, his posture impeccable, and his face, though young, held an almost unnerving self-possession. His eyes, dark and piercing, observed me with an intelligent, intense gaze that belied his age.
Tom Marvolo Riddle.
The name echoed in my mind with the force of a premonition. My magical resonance sensing, which had instantly registered his presence, now analyzed his aura. It was potent, undeniably powerful for a child his age, but also… deeply troubled. I sensed a raw, unrefined magical strength, a coiled intensity that spoke of immense potential, but also a profound lack of true emotional light. There was a faint, almost imperceptible whisper of something dark, something fragmented, clinging to the edges of his nascent magical core. It was not overtly evil, not yet. It was more like an absence, a void, an unformed shadow yearning for definition.
In that fleeting moment, as Slughorn's effusive introduction filled the air, a chilling realization washed over me. This quiet, polite, intensely observant child, with his powerful but troubled magical aura, was the boy who would become the most feared Dark Lord of the 20th century in magical Britain. Lord Voldemort. The very name sent a shiver down my spine, a name I had only known from the history books, from hushed whispers of an unimaginable terror. This child, an orphan, as I instinctively knew from my knowledge of the future, with a Squib mother and Muggle father, unaware of his grim destiny, was standing right before me.
My mind raced, a thousand thoughts colliding in an instant. This was a critical juncture. The future, as I knew it, was not immutable. Dumbledore himself had always hinted at the malleability of fate, the power of choice. Could I change it? Could I, Marcus Starborn, armed with the knowledge of what he would become, guide this troubled child towards a different path? Could I be to him what Dumbledore was to me – a mentor, a guide, a source of unwavering wisdom and careful correction? The thought was audacious, perhaps even foolhardy, but the alternative – allowing him to spiral into the darkness I knew he would embrace – was intolerable. This was a chance, a precarious, terrifying chance, to alter the very course of history, to extinguish a burgeoning darkness before it consumed generations. My Untethered Will settled into a firm resolve. I would try. I had to.
Slughorn, oblivious to the profound internal storm raging within me, continued his introduction, beaming. "Tom, my dear boy, this is Marcus Starborn! Seventh-year, a truly exceptional student, easily the most talented wizard to pass through my Potions classes in decades! Head Boy, Prefect, and now, my personal apprentice! Marcus, this is Tom Riddle, a brilliant first-year, already showing immense promise! Top of his class, you know! And already, a most valued member of the Slug Club!" Slughorn puffed out his chest with pride, clearly delighted with both of us.
I forced a welcoming smile, extending my hand towards the boy. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Tom. Professor Slughorn speaks very highly of your abilities." My voice was calm, neutral, masking the immense internal calculations I was making.
Tom rose fluidly, his handshake firm and surprisingly strong for his age. His dark eyes, unnervingly intense, held my gaze, assessing me with an almost adult scrutiny. "The pleasure is mine, Lord Starborn. I have heard much about your achievements. Your N.E.W.T. results were indeed remarkable." His voice was smooth, polite, yet utterly devoid of genuine warmth, a chilling precision in his tone. My magical resonance sensing confirmed the precise control he exerted over his own aura, a control far beyond what a first-year should possess. He was already guarding himself.
"Please, just Marcus," I replied, softening my tone slightly, attempting to convey a friendly demeanor. "Professor Slughorn's praises are always... enthusiastic. What subjects have you found most interesting so far, Tom?" I sought to engage him, to find an opening, a point of connection.
Tom's lips curved into a faint, almost imperceptible smile. "Potions, certainly. Professor Slughorn is an excellent teacher. And Transfiguration, though I find some of the theory rather… incomplete." His critical analysis, even as a first-year, was striking. He already saw the flaws, the limitations.
"Indeed," I agreed, a genuine spark of interest now in my voice. "The theory can always be pushed further. Professor Dumbledore has been guiding me in that very pursuit. Perhaps you'll find similar avenues as you progress." I watched him closely for a reaction to Dumbledore's name, but his expression remained carefully neutral, unrevealing. The faint glimmer of a challenge, of intellectual curiosity, was the most I could discern.
Slughorn, meanwhile, was bustling about, preparing ingredients for our lesson. "Yes, yes, the theory! Young Tom here has an exceptionally inquisitive mind, Marcus! Always asking the most insightful questions, even for a first-year! He's a natural leader, too, I dare say! I can see him going far, very far indeed!"
My gaze flickered back to Tom, who merely inclined his head slightly, accepting Slughorn's praise as if it were his due. His eyes, though, returned to me, a silent, almost predatory intelligence in their depths. He wasn't just listening; he was studying. He was already mapping the room, assessing its occupants, measuring me.
We spoke amicably for a few more minutes, Slughorn interjecting with proud anecdotes about Tom's early successes, and Tom offering concise, intelligent responses that confirmed his prodigious intellect. I tried to project an aura of calm strength, approachability, and genuine interest, hoping to penetrate the subtle barriers I sensed around him. I carefully chose my words, trying to subtly guide the conversation towards topics of collaboration, the responsibility that came with power, and the importance of choice in shaping one's destiny, all without being preachy or obvious. He listened, polite but impenetrable. It was like trying to speak to a perfectly polished mirror.
As Slughorn finally turned his full attention to the potion we were to brew, I realized the conversation was over for now. The seeds were sown, however subtly. I had met him. I had extended a hand. The challenge would be immense, a long, arduous process of slow, careful influence. But I had committed to trying.
The potion lesson passed in a focused blur, Slughorn continually praising my precision, occasionally glancing at Tom, who remained in his armchair, reading from a large, ancient-looking tome he had brought with him. I felt the boy's gaze on me periodically, an intense, silent observation, almost as if he were trying to discern the source of my own quiet power.
When the lesson finally concluded, and the last of the simmering potions had been transferred to vials, I turned to Slughorn. "Thank you for the lesson, Professor. And for the introduction. I trust I'll see you again soon, Tom?" I directed the last part to the boy, a subtle invitation.
"Indeed, Lord Starborn," Tom replied, closing his book with a soft thud. "I hope so." His tone was polite, but still held that distant, almost formal quality.
Slughorn, already excited about his next Slug Club meeting, was a flurry of activity. "Yes, yes! Do show young Tom the way to the Slytherin common room, Marcus! He's still learning the castle's labyrinthine passages, bless his brilliant little heart!"
"Of course, Professor," I said, a sense of quiet purpose settling over me. This was my chance, even a small one, to spend more time with him. "Come along, Tom."
We walked out of Slughorn's office, the heavy oak door closing behind us, plunging the corridor back into its usual quiet dimness. The silence between us stretched for a moment, punctuated only by the distant sounds of the castle and our soft footsteps.
"The dungeons are quite extensive," Tom commented, his voice smooth, breaking the silence. "I imagine it would be easy to get lost if one did not have a good sense of direction."
"Indeed," I agreed. "Though the wards of the castle often guide those who are meant to find their way. Hogwarts has its own subtle magic." I glanced at him. "You've settled in well, then?"
"As well as can be expected," he replied, his gaze straight ahead. "It is certainly preferable to the orphanage." A flicker of something, a faint bitterness, entered his tone, quickly suppressed.
I nodded slowly. "I imagine it would be. Hogwarts offers a world of opportunities that few other places can match." I chose my words carefully, trying to emphasize the positive, the enriching aspects of the magical world, rather than just the power. "It's a place where one can truly discover their potential, and shape their future."
"Potential, yes," Tom murmured, almost to himself, his voice contemplative. "It is something I feel I have a great deal of. And I intend to shape my future precisely as I see fit." His tone held an undercurrent of ironclad resolve, a will that was already remarkably developed for his age. My magical resonance sensing registered a spike of raw ambition from him, a fierce drive that was almost palpable. It was both impressive and, given my knowledge, deeply unsettling.
We continued our walk through the winding dungeon corridors, past the bustling kitchens (from which wafted the tempting scent of dinner), and eventually arrived at the bare stone wall concealing the Slytherin common room entrance.
"This is it," I said, gesturing to the blank wall. "You'll need the password."
Tom nodded, his dark eyes fixed on the wall, a faint hint of curiosity in their depths. "Thank you, Lord Starborn. For escorting me. And for your advice."
"Just Marcus, Tom," I gently corrected him again, emphasizing the familiarity, the mentor-like connection I hoped to foster. "And you're welcome. We'll undoubtedly see each other around." I paused, then added, "If you ever find yourself with questions about advanced subjects, or just need someone to talk to, my door is always open. My study in the Ravenclaw Tower, or you can send an owl to Castle Starborn." It was a deliberate offer, a lifeline thrown across the chasm of his potential future.
Tom's eyes, those unnervingly intelligent dark eyes, held mine for a moment. A flicker of something unreadable passed through them – surprise, perhaps, or a flash of calculation. He simply nodded, a more genuine, if still small, smile touching his lips. "I will keep that in mind, Marcus. Good night."
"Good night, Tom."
He uttered the password, and the stone wall slid open, revealing the cool, green-lit interior of the Slytherin common room. He stepped inside, and the wall closed, leaving me alone in the silent corridor.
I stood there for a long moment, the quiet hum of the dungeon air suddenly feeling heavy with unspoken possibilities. Tom Marvolo Riddle. The child who would become Lord Voldemort. He was so young, so full of raw, terrifying potential, already charting a course towards supreme power. But there was also a vulnerability, a sense of isolation that resonated deeply within his aura, a void I had briefly glimpsed. My promise to myself hardened: I would not let that void consume him. I would offer guidance, influence, a different path. It would be a subtle, long-term endeavor, a continuous application of my 'unseen hand', more challenging than any spell, any duel. But if I could prevent the rise of the most feared Dark Lord, if I could alter that grim future, then every effort, every subtle intervention, would be worth it. The true battle, I realized, was not just against Grindelwald, but also, perhaps, for the very soul of this quiet, intensely ambitious boy.
I turned and walked back towards the main castle, the familiar hum of Hogwarts's wards a comforting presence. My own wards at Castle Starborn awaited, a testament to my commitment. I retired for the night, the image of Tom Riddle's piercing dark eyes imprinted on my mind, the weight of his future, and the immense responsibility I had just taken upon myself, settling heavily onto my shoulders. Sleep would come slowly tonight, my mind already devising the subtle strategies of influence, the delicate dance of mentorship, that might just prevent a historical catastrophe.