My Dark Lord

Chapter Twenty-Five: Steam and Secrets

Hogwarts Dungeons, January 8th

It was insufferable.

He hadn't even glanced at me in class.

Not in Charms, not in Arithmancy, not even when I'd made an intentionally sharp comment to Professor Vector just to draw his attention. He sat quietly, answering questions with flawless articulation, his tone just modest enough to avoid suspicion-- but no matter what I did, I couldn't seem to pierce through the composed veil of Tom Riddle.

I needed to know what happened.

And I needed to know tonight.

Unfortunately, fate-- or perhaps Slughorn's hopeless sentimentality-- had other ideas. When I'd lingered after dinner to corner him in the common room, Calliope had swept past with the news:

"Riddle's been pulled into Slughorn's trap. He's grinding powdered ashwinder eggs and pearl dust for the second years tomorrow. Alone. Poor darling."

Poor darling, my arse.

Everyone knew Slughorn trusted Tom with the most delicate ingredients. He'd once let him rearrange the entire potions vault while the rest of us weren't even allowed to breathe near the unicorn horn shelf. I'd hoped to intercept him-- perhaps offer assistance, brush his hand over a flask-- but by the time I made it down to the corridor near the potions store...

The door was locked. From the inside.

Of course it was.

I stared at the wood-panelled door, ancient and worn smooth with decades of touch, listening. There was no talking-- only the soft clink of glass on stone, and the faint scrape of a knife on something brittle.

I could knock. Demand entry. Pretend I had business.

But he'd see right through it. He always did.

My eyes shifted to the far shadows of the hallway.

No students. No teachers. Not even a ghost.

Well then, I thought, loosening my wand from my sleeve. If he won't let me in... I'll let myself in. Sort of.

I stepped back into the shadows and whispered the spell that had become a second heartbeat in me. A rush of cold spilled down my spine as my body folded inwards, pain blooming and then vanishing in an instant as I hit the ground, low to the stone, bones restructured, skin vanished.

I flicked my tongue to taste the air.

The serpent moves again.

Sliding beneath the doorframe took all of three seconds.

The storeroom was quiet-- stone walls lined with aged oak shelves, bottles labelled in Slughorn's loopy scrawl, soft lamplight flickering in enchanted sconces. A cauldron sat unused on a side bench, and on the long central table were neat piles of prepared ingredients-- silver root strands, thestral hair, cut belladonna leaves. Near the back wall, sleeves rolled to the elbow, stood Tom.

His wand hovered over a cutting board, guiding the blade as he diced salamander scales into precise fragments. He moved like a pianist-- deliberate, elegant, surgical. Not a speck of powder marred his sleeves.

He's changed. Not just in presence or posture, but something more elemental. Like the edges of him had been sanded down and sealed shut.
Whatever he did over the break-- he survived it. He emerged stronger.

I curled under a nearby bench, coiled tightly, watching.

Tom paused mid-slice.

He straightened. Turned slightly. Tilted his head.