Rosie ⎮ Tom Riddle

Forty Four

The Father

  The room was a void, a grey expanse swallowed by shadow, broken only by the weak flicker of candlelight. The air was heavy, stifling, and the smell of damp stone clung to the walls. At the room's centre, a man was bound to a chair, his head obscured by a rough burlap sack. His breaths were shallow and ragged, echoing faintly in the silence.

  The door creaked open, and footsteps, deliberate and cold, approached. Figures loomed in the dim light, their faces obscured by shadow as they circled the captive like vultures. One of them nudged the man in the chair, and the door opened once more, this time admitting Tom, his presence an oppressive force in the room. He moved with the grace of a predator, his dark robes whispering against the cold stone floor.

  Tom's eyes fell on the man with the bag over his head. His expression was one of mild curiosity, an eyebrow arched as he glanced at Ben, who stood nearby with a smug grin on his face."Well, who's this then?" Tom asked, his tone casual, unaware of the treacherous games Ben had been playing behind his back—games meant to sabotage Tom, all in the name of Voldemort's twisted cause.

  Ben's grin widened as he stepped forward, eager to reveal his handiwork. With a flourish, he yanked the bag off the man's head.

  Tom's expression changed in an instant. His face paled, the shock in his eyes quickly giving way to fury. There, bound to the chair, was Horace Slughorn, his old Potions professor. Slughorn's eyes, wide and full of fear, locked onto Tom's, searching for any sign of the boy he once knew.

  "What in Merlin's name have you done?" Tom's voice was a low, dangerous hiss, his gaze burning into Ben. "Get this man untied."

  Ben's confidence crumbled. He had expected praise, not this icy anger. With a hesitant flick of his wand, the ropes binding Slughorn fell away, and Ben stepped back, awkward and uncertain.

  Tom didn't take his eyes off Ben. "Leave us," he ordered, the command sharp enough to cut.Ben hesitated, then nodded, retreating from the room with his tail between his legs. The door closed behind him with a soft click, leaving Tom and Slughorn alone in the flickering gloom.

  Tom took a step forward, his demeanour softening as he addressed his old professor. "Professor—"

  "I have nothing for you, Voldemort." Slughorn's voice was firm, but the fear in his eyes betrayed him. He used the name like a weapon, hoping it would keep Tom at bay.

  Tom fell silent, his gaze softening, the weight of their shared history settling heavily between them. Slughorn was one of the few who had ever seen him as anything other than a monster—one of the few who had treated him with kindness, back when Tom was just a boy with a thirst for knowledge.

  "I do apologise, Professor," Tom said finally, his tone sincere. "I did intend to speak with you, but not like this."

  Slughorn's face twitched, his expression a mix of fear and reluctant understanding. He remained seated, his body tense, but he did not attempt to flee.

  Tom gestured toward a small table in the corner, where Slughorn's wand waited. "Please, come and have a drink with me. Though you're under no obligation. You're free to leave. I'll fetch your wand."

  Slughorn hesitated, his gaze locked on Tom's. He could see the remnants of the boy he had once taught in the man before him—the charm, the intellect, the disarming smile. But that boy had grown into something far darker, far more dangerous. And yet, something in Slughorn softened. Perhaps it was nostalgia, or perhaps it was the flicker of hope that Tom Riddle was not entirely lost.

  With a curt nod, Slughorn agreed to the drink.

---

  The bar was a cacophony of noise and chatter, filled with oblivious Muggles who paid no mind to the two wizards sitting at the counter. It was one of the few places Tom could go without being recognised, without the whispers and fear that usually followed him. He had chosen this bar for its anonymity, a place where the infamous Voldemort could simply be another patron.