Chapter Text
Tom had always imagined that Hogwarts would be a place of wonder, but even in his wildest dreams, he hadn’t anticipated just how much the castle would stir something deep within him. The way the light flickered along the stone corridors, the centuries-old portraits that whispered secrets from the past, and the palpable thrum of ancient magic in the air—it was everything he’d ever imagined and more.
The first week had passed in a blur of new experiences, each more enthralling than the last. His classes had been an assortment of delights, and he’d found himself thriving in the structured chaos of it all. He had already had Charms, Potions, Defense Against the Dark Arts—and each subject felt like a key to unlocking the mysteries of the world. Today was Transfiguration and unsurprisingly, Tom found the subject as interesting as the rest.
The late afternoon sun filtered through the tall, narrow windows of the Transfiguration classroom, casting long shadows across the rows of desks. The air was thick with the scent of parchment and ink, mingling with the faint, ever-present aroma of burnt wood, a remnant of spells gone awry. Tom, seated near the front, watched as his classmates filed out, chattering about the day's lesson—a simple introduction to the art of turning matchsticks into needles. It was a basic exercise, one that Tom had mastered almost immediately. His needle had glistened with a sharpness that was almost unnatural, and he had caught Dumbledore's eye as he admired his handiwork.
Tom’s gaze lingered on the door as the last student left, his eyes narrowing slightly. Professor Dumbledore had asked him to stay behind—a curious request, one that stirred both his curiosity and his caution. The professor was a tall, auburn-haired man with a demeanor that was both gentle and unsettlingly perceptive. Dumbledore had an uncanny ability to seem entirely present and yet, at the same time, as if his mind were elsewhere, occupied with thoughts far beyond the classroom.
Tom’s fingers drummed lightly on the desk, his expression carefully blank as he waited. He had learned early in life that patience was often rewarded, and he was nothing if not patient. Yet, beneath that calm surface, his mind worked furiously, cataloging every detail of the past hour. Dumbledore had been watching him closely during the lesson, his blue eyes twinkling with a knowing light that Tom found disconcerting. And then there was the way the professor had spoken to him—casually, almost familiarly, as if they were old acquaintances rather than student and teacher.
At last, Dumbledore turned from the blackboard, where he had been erasing the remnants of their first Transfiguration lesson. The professor’s auburn hair gleamed in the fading light, and his beard, streaked with silver, added a certain gravitas to his otherwise youthful appearance. He dusted his hands off on his robes before turning to face Tom, his expression warm and inviting.
"How have you found your first week at Hogwarts, Mr. Riddle?" Dumbledore began, his tone light, almost conversational.
Tom allowed himself a small smile. "It's more than I imagined, sir. The castle is… extraordinary."
"Extraordinary, indeed," Dumbledore agreed, his tone light. He moved to sit behind his desk, his hands clasped in front of him. "And how are you finding your studies? I hear from Professor Slughorn that you have quite the talent for Potions."
Tom felt a surge of pride at the praise, but he kept his voice modest. "I find the subject fascinating, sir. It comes naturally to me."
Dumbledore nodded, his eyes twinkling with a hint of amusement. "A rare gift, Mr. Riddle. One that I have no doubt you will continue to develop. But that is not why I asked you to stay behind."
He paused, as if weighing his next words carefully. “I wanted to speak with you today, Mr. Riddle, not only to see how you’re finding your classes, but also to inquire after your guardian, Mr. Peverell. I’ve been unable to reach him as of late, and I must admit, I am a touch concerned.”
Tom’s heart skipped a beat, though his expression remained neutral. Hadrian was not a topic he had expected to discuss today, especially not with Dumbledore. “Hadrian is… rather private, Professor. He prefers to keep to himself.”
“Yes, I am aware,” Dumbledore replied, his tone thoughtful. “But given the recent—ah, how shall I put it?—escalations in certain quarters, I feel it is my duty to ensure that Mr. Peverell is not in any undue danger. You see, Gellert… Grindelwald is still at large, and his interest in your guardian has never waned.”
The name hung in the air like a specter, and for a moment, Tom felt a flicker of unease. He had heard of Grindelwald, of course. The man was a shadowy figure, spoken of in hushed tones within the Slytherin common room, his deeds fodder for gossip among curious schoolchildren who fancy themselves budding politicians. But what did any of this have to do with Hadrian?
“Grindelwald’s interest in Hadrian?” Tom echoed, feigning ignorance. It was a skill he had honed over the years, the ability to appear innocent while his mind raced ahead, connecting dots and drawing conclusions.
Dumbledore’s expression grew more serious, the twinkle in his eyes dimming. “Yes. You see, Gellert Grindelwald has long been obsessed with certain… artifacts, shall we say? Objects of power, passed down through the ages. The Peverell family, as you may know, has a rather storied history when it comes to such items.”
Tom’s fingers tightened imperceptibly on the edge of the desk. The Peverell Legacies—he had heard of them, of course, but Hadrian had been reticent to discuss them in detail. Yet, here was Dumbledore, speaking as though he knew more than he let on.
“I see,” Tom said slowly, his voice measured. “But surely Hadrian is capable of defending himself?”
“Undoubtedly,” Dumbledore agreed, his smile returning, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Hadrian Peverell is a most formidable wizard, as you are well aware. However, Gellert Grindelwald is nothing if not persistent. He has already attempted to confront your guardian once, as I’m sure you’ve heard.”
Tom nodded, recalling the stories he had pieced together over the years. The infamous duel in New York City—Hadrian against Grindelwald, a clash that had nearly broken the Statute of Secrecy. It had ended in a draw, but Hadrian had succeeded in distracting Grindelwald long enough for MACUSA to apprehend him, though the Dark Lord had escaped shortly after. It was a tale that had captured Tom’s imagination, though the details had always been frustratingly vague.
"Yes, sir," Tom said carefully. "I’ve heard of it. But I don’t know the full story."
“Ah, yes,” Dumbledore murmured, stroking his beard thoughtfully. “The duel was… well, it was quite the spectacle, from what I understand. Hadrian was still young at the time, barely more than a boy. But he had already made a name for himself in certain circles, and Gellert… Grindelwald was intrigued by him. He sought out Hadrian in New York, convinced that he could either win him over or destroy him. And despite Mr. Peverell's young age at the time, he managed to hold his own against one of the most dangerous wizards of our age. A remarkable feat, to be sure.”
There was a pause, the weight of Dumbledore’s words settling over the room like a shroud. Tom felt a spark of pride at the mention of Hadrian’s prowess, but it was quickly overshadowed by a gnawing sense of unease. Why was Dumbledore telling him all of this? What did he hope to gain?
“As I’ve mentioned, Gellert Grindelwald’s obsession with the Peverell family is not limited to their magical abilities,” Dumbledore continued, his tone more somber now. “He is particularly interested in two of the three Peverell Legacies—the Peverell Family Grimoire and the Peverell Family Collection. Both are said to contain knowledge and power that could be dangerous in the wrong hands.”
Tom’s curiosity flared, though he kept his expression neutral. He had seen the Peverell Family Grimoire once, a massive tome bound in the skin of an unidentifiable magical creature, its pages filled with family spells and secrets. Hadrian had allowed him to glimpse it, but only for a moment, before locking it away in a hidden vault. As for the Collection, he had only heard vague descriptions—objects of immense power, some said to be cursed, others imbued with enchantments that defied understanding.
“Why does Grindelwald want the Peverell Legacies?” Tom asked, his voice soft, almost casual. “What does he hope to gain?”
Dumbledore sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. “Power, Mr. Riddle. Power and control. Grindelwald believes that they will help him achieve his vision of the Greater Good—a world where wizards rule over Muggles, and those who oppose him are eliminated. He is willing to do whatever it takes to achieve that goal, even if it means tearing apart entire families in the process.”
Tom’s jaw tightened, though he forced himself to remain calm. The idea of Grindelwald—anyone, really—threatening Hadrian was enough to make his blood boil. Hadrian was the closest thing he had to family, the only person who had ever shown him kindness, and the thought of losing him was unbearable.
“And you think Grindelwald might try to attack Hadrian again?” Tom asked, his voice steady despite the storm brewing inside him.
“It is a possibility,” Dumbledore admitted, his expression grave. “That is why I have been trying to reach him, to warn him of the danger. But as I said, he has been… elusive.”
Tom remained silent, his mind racing. He needed to speak with Hadrian, to warn him of the danger Dumbledore was hinting at. But more than that, he wanted answers—answers about the duel, about the Preverell Legacies, about why Grindelwald was so obsessed with the Peverell family.
"Mr. Riddle," Dumbledore said, drawing Tom’s attention back to him, "I would like you to write to Mr. Peverell on my behalf. Perhaps he will respond to you."
Tom nodded slowly. "I can do that, Professor."
"Thank you," Dumbledore said, his tone sincere. "And, Mr. Riddle, I would ask that you be careful as well. Grindelwald is not one to be trifled with, and if he learns that you are connected to Mr. Peverell, he may very well be a threat to you as well, if only to use you against your guardian."
Tom’s eyes darkened, but he kept his expression neutral. "I understand, Professor."
Dumbledore studied him for a moment longer, as if searching for something beneath the surface. Then, with a nod, he said, "You may go now, Mr. Riddle. And please, do not hesitate to come to me if you need anything."
“Thank you for telling me this, Professor,” Tom said finally, his voice calm and measured. “I will write to Hadrian and make sure he is aware of the situation.”
With a final nod, Dumbledore excused Tom, and the young Slytherin quickly made his way out of the classroom, his mind already working on the letter he would write to Hadrian.
.
.
.
Tom’s quill scratched across the parchment, the sound as precise and controlled as the boy himself. He pressed the nib just enough to produce a dark, steady line—no ink blots, no wavering strokes. His script was immaculate, almost mechanical in its precision, as if he had written this letter a thousand times before. The candle beside him flickered, casting long shadows on the stone walls of the Slytherin common room. The room, bathed in greenish light from the lake outside, was silent except for the soft crackling of the fire and the occasional rustle of fabric as Tom shifted in his seat.
Dear Hadrian,
According to our Transfiguration professor, Albus Dumbledore, that German dark lord from the continent has taken a particular interest in our family heirlooms. During a recent conversation, I learned that Grindelwald may very likely target you again. Naturally, I am worried and displeased that you've kept this from me. Moreover, I find myself further troubled by the revelation that you and Professor Dumbledore are personally acquainted. This is information that, in my opinion, should have been shared with me sooner.
Tom paused, his quill hovering just above the parchment. The annoyance simmering in his chest was like a persistent itch, one he couldn't quite scratch no matter how many times he tried. He inhaled deeply, the cool, damp air of the dungeon filling his lungs. It was a familiar scent, one that usually soothed him, but tonight, it only served to sharpen his focus.
He resumed writing, his strokes now a touch more forceful.
I would appreciate it if you could clarify the nature of your relationship with Professor Dumbledore, as well as provide me with any information regarding the matter of Grindelwald. Given his apparent obsession with the Peverell Legacies, I fear he may attempt something again.
Once again, I must insist on being kept informed of such matters in the future.
Yours sincerely,
Tom Marvolo Riddle
Heir of House Peverell
He signed his name with a flourish, the letters curling elegantly at the ends. As he set down his quill, Tom leaned back in his chair, eyeing the letter with a critical gaze. He wasn’t entirely satisfied—something about it felt too restrained, too polite—but he knew better than to let his emotions bleed into his correspondence. Tom valued Hadrian's opinion and he'd always adhered to maintaining composure and wit in front of the older wizard, never wanting to appear as an emotional brat—especially as he grew older. Still, a part of him wished he could add a line or two about his stronger feelings on the matter, but that would betray the very control he prided himself on.
With a sigh, Tom folded the letter neatly and sealed it with a drop of green wax, pressing his signet ring into the molten substance. He watched as the wax hardened, forming the simple but sacred crest of the Peverell family, a symbol he had come to view as both a mark of pride and a chain. His connection to Hadrian was a double-edged sword, one that granted him respect and power but also bound him to certain expectations and responsibilities. Nevertheless, Tom has cherished it ever since it had been gifted to him the day he received his Hogwarts letter.
The sound of approaching footsteps broke his reverie, and Tom glanced up to see Matteo Zabini and Isolde Prince entering the common room. Matteo, with his neat curls and mischievous hazel eyes, was the first to notice Tom at the desk. Isolde followed, her expression as cool and composed as always, though her gaze flicked briefly to the sealed letter on the table.
"Writing to your precious guardian again, Tom?" Matteo asked, a faint smirk playing on his lips as he sauntered over to the fire, warming his hands. "You know, for someone who never talks about him, you certainly seem to write him an awful lot."
Tom didn’t immediately reply, taking his time to fold the letter and place it in his pocket. Matteo’s tone was light, teasing even, but there was an undercurrent of curiosity that Tom had long since learned to recognize. Matteo was clever—far too clever sometimes—and Tom knew better than to give him any more information than necessary.
"It’s a matter of family business," Tom finally said, standing up and crossing the room to join them by the fire. "Nothing that concerns either of you."
Matteo raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed by the non-answer, but he didn’t press the issue. Isolde, however, remained silent, her dark eyes studying Tom with an intensity that made him slightly uneasy. She had always been the more observant of the two, her quiet demeanor often masking a sharp mind and a tendency to notice things others might overlook.
"And what sort of family business would require such… intensity?" Isolde asked, her voice as smooth and cool as the lake above them. She tilted her head slightly, her black hair falling over one shoulder in a sleek curtain. "You look as if you’re ready to murder someone."
Tom’s lips twitched in what might have been a smile, though there was little warmth in it. "Perhaps I am," he replied, his tone equally smooth. "Though not in the way you might think."
Matteo chuckled, clearly enjoying the exchange. "I think I’d pay good money to see that. You’ve always been a bit too restrained, Tom. It might do you some good to let loose every now and then."
Tom’s smile widened, though it still didn’t reach his eyes. "Restraint is a virtue, Matteo. It’s what keeps us from making foolish mistakes."
"And yet," Matteo countered, leaning back against the armrest of one of the high-backed chairs, "some of the greatest wizards in history were anything but restrained. They took risks, made bold moves. You can’t achieve greatness by playing it safe all the time."
Isolde hummed in agreement, though her gaze remained on Tom. "He has a point. But I doubt you need us to tell you that, do you, Tom?"
Tom met her gaze evenly, his expression unreadable. "I’m quite aware of what it takes to achieve greatness, Isolde. But I’m also aware of the cost."
The room fell silent for a moment, the tension between the three of them palpable. Tom could feel their eyes on him, both of them trying to decipher the meaning behind his words. But he wasn’t about to let them in—not yet, anyway. There were some things he preferred to keep to himself.
Finally, Matteo broke the silence with a light-hearted laugh, breaking the tension. "Well, whatever it is you’re plotting, just remember to share it with your best mates one day. We’d hate to be left in the dust while you have fun all on your own."
Tom’s smile softened, becoming more genuine as he shook his head. "I’ll do my best, Matteo. But I can’t make any promises."
Matteo grinned, clearly satisfied with that answer, while Isolde simply nodded, her expression thoughtful. Tom could tell that she wasn’t entirely convinced, but for now, she seemed willing to let the matter drop.
As the three of them settled into a more comfortable silence, Tom’s thoughts drifted back to the letter in his pocket and the questions that still lingered in his mind. He knew that his relationship with Hadrian was more complicated than he let on, but he wasn’t ready to share those complications with anyone—not even his closest friends.
For now, all he could do was wait for Hadrian’s response and hope that it would provide the answers he sought. And if not… well, Tom was nothing if not resourceful. He would find a way to get the information he needed, one way or another.
After all Hadrian was his, and he had no business keeping secrets from Tom.