The Years of Riddle

Chapter Nine | Hogwarts, January 1, 1945

Chapter Nine

Hogwarts, January 1st 1945

It was the final evening of freedom before winter break was finished, and the Slug Club was having and elite, private meeting in Slughorn's office. Tom was a favourite of his, and he had been preparing for this evening for a long time – Slughorn was the one who could tell him what he needed to know.

Slughorn, with his thick, shiny, straw-colored hair and his gingery-blond mustache, was sitting in a comfortable winged armchair in his office, his feet resting upon a velvet pouffe, a small glass of wine in one hand, the other rum- maging in a box of crystalized pineapple. And there were the half- dozen teenage boys sitting around Slughorn with Tom Riddle in the midst of them, Marvolo's gold-and-black ring gleaming on his finger.

Tom asked, "Sir, is it true that Professor Merrythought is retiring?"

"Tom, Tom, if I knew I couldn't tell you," said Slughorn, wagging his finger reprovingly at him, though winking at the same time. "I must say, I'd like to know where you get your information, boy, more knowledgeable than half the staff, you are."

Tom smiled; the other boys laughed and cast him admiring looks.

"What with your uncanny ability to know things you shouldn't, and your careful flattery of the people who matter — thank you for the pineapple, by the way, you're quite right, it is my favourite —"

Several of the boys tittered again.

"— I confidently expect you to rise to Minister of Magic within twenty years. Fifteen, if you keep sending me pineapple, I have ex- cellent contacts at the Ministry."

Tom Riddle merely smiled as the others laughed again. He was by no means the eldest of the group of boys, but that they all seemed to look to him as their leader.

"I don't know that politics would suit me, sir," he said when the laughter had died away. "I don't have the right kind of background, for one thing."

A couple of the boys around him smirked at each other. They were enjoying a private joke, undoubtedly about what they knew, or suspected, regarding their gang leader's famous ancestor.

"Nonsense," said Slughorn briskly, "couldn't be plainer you come from decent Wizarding stock, abilities like yours. No, you'll go far, Tom, I've never been wrong about a student yet."

The small golden clock standing upon Slughorn's desk chimed eleven o'clock behind him and he looked around.

"Good gracious, is it that time already? You'd better get going, boys, or we'll all be in trouble. Lestrange, I want your essay by tomorrow or it's detention. Same goes for you, Avery."

One by one, the boys filed out of the room. Tom hung back, knowing this was his chance. Slughorn heaved himself out of his armchair and carried his empty glass over to his desk. Tom shifted, causing Slughorn to notice his lasting presence.

"Look sharp, Tom, you don't want to be caught out of bed out of hours, and you a prefect . . ."

"Sir, I wanted to ask you something."

"Ask away, then, m'boy, ask away. . . ."

"Sir, I wondered what you know about . . . about Horcruxes?" Slughorn stared at him, his thick fingers absentmindedly caressing the stem of his wine glass.

"Project for Defense Against the Dark Arts, is it?"
Tom could tell that Slughorn knew perfectly well that this was not schoolwork.

"Not exactly, sir," said Tom. "I came across the term while reading and I didn't fully understand it."

"No . . . well . . . you'd be hard-pushed to find a book at Hogwarts that'll give you details on Horcruxes, Tom, that's very Dark stuff, very Dark indeed," said Slughorn.

"But you obviously know all about them, sir? I mean, a wizard like you — sorry, I mean, if you can't tell me, obviously — I just knew if anyone could tell me, you could — so I just thought I'd ask —"

Tom was good at this, the hesitancy, the casual tone, the careful flattery, none of it overdone. He had been working toward this moment for weeks.

"Well," said Slughorn, not looking at Tom, but fiddling with the ribbon on top of his box of crystalized pineapple, "well, it can't hurt to give you an overview, of course. Just so that you understand the term. A Horcrux is the word used for an object in which a person has concealed part of their soul."

"I don't quite understand how that works, though, sir," said Tom.

Tom worked voice was carefully controlled, and hoped Slughorn couldn't sense his excitement.

"Well, you split your soul, you see," said Slughorn, "and hide part of it in an object outside the body. Then, even if one's body is attacked or destroyed, one cannot die, for part of the soul remains earthbound and undamaged. But of course, existence in such a form . . ."

Slughorn's face crumpled. Tom waited.

". . . few would want it, Tom, very few. Death would be preferable."

Unbeknownst to Tom, his hunger was now apparent; his expression was greedy, he could no longer hide his longing.

"How do you split your soul?"
"Well," said Slughorn uncomfortably, "you must understand that the soul is supposed to remain intact and whole. Splitting it is an act of violation, it is against nature."

"But how do you do it?"

"By an act of evil — the supreme act of evil. By committing murder. Killing rips the soul apart. The wizard intent upon creating a Horcrux would use the damage to his advantage: He would encase the torn portion —"

"Encase? But how — ?"

"There is a spell, do not ask me, I don't know!" said Slughorn, shaking his head like an old elephant bothered by mosquitoes. "Do I look as though I have tried it — do I look like a killer?"

"No, sir, of course not," said Tom quickly. "I'm sorry . . . I didn't mean to offend . . ."

"Not at all, not at all, not offended," said Slughorn gruffly. "It's natural to feel some curiosity about these things. . . . Wizards of a certain caliber have always been drawn to that aspect of magic. . . ."

"Yes, sir," said Tom. "What I don't understand, though — just out of curiosity — I mean, would one Horcrux be much use? Can you only split your soul once? Wouldn't it be better, make you stronger, to have your soul in more pieces, I mean, for instance, isn't seven the most powerfully magical number, wouldn't seven — ?"

"Merlin's beard, Tom!" yelped Slughorn. "Seven! Isn't it bad enough to think of killing one person? And in any case . . . bad enough to divide the soul . . . but to rip it into seven pieces . . ."

Slughorn looked deeply troubled now: He was gazing at Tom as though he had never seen him plainly before, and Tom could tell that he was regretting entering into the conversation at all.

"Of course," he muttered, "this is all hypothetical, what we're discussing, isn't it? All academic . . ."

"Yes, sir, of course," said Tom quickly.

"But all the same, Tom . . . keep it quiet, what I've told — that's to say, what we've discussed. People wouldn't like to think we've been chatting about Horcruxes. It's a banned subject at Hogwarts, you know. . . . Dumbledore's particularly fierce about it. . . ."

"I won't say a word, sir," said Tom, and he left, feeling the same wild happiness he'd had when first finding out that he was a wizard. This was the sort of happiness that did not enhance his handsome features, but made them, somehow, less human. Hogwarts was almost over, and soon – he would have what he had always dreamt of. Very, very soon.

A/N: ohhh....tisk tisk Tom, asking about things he shouldn't...

Rose