Chapter Text
When the Inquisitor asked Tom to stay behind after helping with the materials, Tom wasn't surprised at all. He only noted with a bit of self-satisfaction how Minerva pursed her lips again, clearly wanting to speak with the wizard herself without any interference. He also noticed the evaluating glances exchanged between her and Rudolphus. There was something… territorial about it, which made him a bit uneasy.
Tom remained in his seat until the others left, then politely inquired:
"What did you want to discuss, Inquisitor?"
"Since it seems you've somehow become my student, it means I should take on my responsibilities and teach you," Powell adjusted his glasses, avoiding looking over them, as a certain infamous acquaintance of his would do in the future.
"So, should I start calling you 'teacher' from now on?" Tom smiled slightly. He would much prefer calling this man his teacher than Dumbledore. Moreover, it felt like a privilege, setting him apart from the others: the Inquisitor was only a teacher for him, not for the foreigners or the Gryffindor prefect.
Harold snorted without much humor:
"Yes, it seems so. I'm going to show you some less common things and hold duels if I find your progress satisfactory."
Tom forbade himself from frowning, though he wanted to. The Inquisitor was once again questioning his skills and dedication to learning. Did Powell know him so well that he had already figured out how to push his buttons? After all, people who rise to lead secret organizations rarely lack insight into others. Tom knew he had to stay alert, though this only made the man more intriguing to study.
"I'll do my best to meet your expectations," he responded as neutrally as possible.
"We'll see," the Inquisitor smirked as he stood up from the desk. "For our training, I suggest using the same room you were using earlier. The shields there are decent," he noticed the flicker of pride on Tom's face and added, "But I'll, of course, improve the protection later."
Tom didn't comment, just nodded. In this situation, he stood to gain no matter what: even if the room's protection hadn't impressed the Inquisitor, Powell had now promised to enhance it.
They walked to the room in silence. While it was unclear what Powell was thinking, Tom was mentally sorting through his priorities. The most important task was to protect his Horcruxes and secure himself as much as possible. Besides that, the mystery of his relatives' disappearance remained unresolved, as he'd been distracted by the more pressing matter of survival. The artifacts of the founders could wait a little longer. But the diary's memories… they were of secondary importance. There was also a nagging thought about the number of talented young students around the Inquisitor, like Minerva and Leticia… But why did that bother him? Maybe because if Harold got distracted by one of them, there would be no hope for protection? But since when did he rely on anyone's help? It was suspicious. He needed to discuss this with the diary.
The actual training was unlike anything he had anticipated. Tom expected elemental magic, combat techniques, or perhaps even something related to dark arts if he was lucky! But no, his new teacher, with the utmost indifference, transfigured a note into a piece of chalk, levitated it, and drew a couple of intricate figures enclosed in a circle right on the floor. Then he brushed off his hands and destroyed the chalk, looking quite pleased with his work.
Tom's knowledge was sufficient to recognize the ritual circles, but their specific function remained a mystery since they weren't crafted using standard numerology.
Tom could have sworn he saw a glint of amusem*nt in Harold's eyes, but the man's face remained utterly expressionless when he said:
"Begin."
"And what are these symbols supposed to do, teacher?" Tom asked, noting with interest how Powell's eye twitched at the title.
"Don't like it, do you?" Tom thought, finding it surprisingly fun to irritate the Inquisitor.
Meanwhile, Harold moved to lean against the wall and explained:
"These by themselves don't do anything special; they only gather the wizard's power. However," he raised a warning finger, "like all sufficiently ancient constructions, their combination requires very careful work. One mistake, and you'll have to start over. In practice, it's even more difficult than it sounds. But until you manage to make this circle gather enough power and light up, there's no point in moving on to anything else. So, start. Your first task is to focus your energy on the circle. If the outline glows, you've succeeded; if not, you'll have to start over."
Tom narrowed his eyes, examining the circle and quickly analyzing the information he'd been given. The fact that this was an "ancient construction," not built using the latest modern approaches, indicated that the Inquisitor had acquired knowledge of it from some ancient family. Such things had fallen out of common use, hidden as family secrets or even banned. The circle on the Knights' table had been constructed using numerology and runes, with the help of some family libraries, but Tom hadn't encountered anything like this in those books.
The patterns were simple but elegant, and new knowledge, as usual, intrigued him. What had the Inquisitor said? Careful work? Tom was more than confident that he could handle this in a few tries. All he needed to do was concentrate his magic in his hands and then carefully transfer it into the circle…
A dozen attempts later, Tom was no longer so sure of a positive outcome. His fingers were starting to tremble slightly, and his whole body felt heavy, clumsy, and alien. Mordred's circle showed no sign of glowing, as if mocking him. But the real mocker was the Inquisitor, still standing calmly by the wall and occasionally offering advice.
"The key is not to get discouraged! Think of something cheerful and keep going!" his "teacher" offered another gem of wisdom.
Tom vengefully imagined Powell dressed in the most hideously pink outfit with a bow. Now that would be a sight! This thought momentarily eased his frustration, but it quickly returned. Oh, how he wanted to throw something at the wall. Or make the benches in the room explode, like last time. But no. He was above that, stronger, more focused, and couldn't afford to lose.
Taking a deep breath and forcing his fingers to obey, he tried again. And again…
***
Standing against the wall with an indifferent expression was not as easy as it seemed. Harold would not want to admit it, but watching Riddle repeatedly and stubbornly try to master the circle, he involuntarily began to respect the future dark lord’s persistence. If it were Harry himself at sixteen in Tom's place, something in this room would have already been broken, or he himself would have collapsed from exhaustion. Yet the Slytherin somehow found the strength to overcome his own helplessness and rage. And at such a young age, that was no small feat... It was a pity, though, that Riddle was directing his talents down the wrong path.
That stubbornness and self-belief stirred something inside. But despite all this, part of Powell still had some doubts about his decision to leave one of the necessary rituals to the future dark lord. However, he understood that Riddle, neither in the past nor in the future, would appreciate or love this knowledge. And because of this and his immortality, Tom Riddle was the perfect candidate.
The die was cast. Perhaps someone might one day regret Harry Potter’s choice, but now was the time for decisions, not regrets. For now, he could just stand and watch as Riddle repeatedly tried to subjugate what had never been subdued. When he realized that the student was staying on his feet purely out of sheer stubbornness, the Inquisitor felt an unpleasant pang of conscience and peeled himself away from the wall.
"That's enough for today," he said, approaching Tom.
The latter did not look at all ready to give up, despite the grayish tint to his face; he only stubbornly clenched his teeth and hissed, "I’m not finished yet."
"I insist," Powell placed a hand on his student’s shoulder, receiving a burning, irritated glare in return.
"The mask of friendliness has finally slipped," the Inquisitor thought detachedly. But he was long past being frightened by such things.
"Merlin bear witness, just a few more tries, and I’ll be able to do it!" Riddle, pale as death, stubbornly replied.
"Well, when you manage to summon him, we’ll discuss it then," Harold replied, not particularly hiding his skepticism.
Realizing how many emotions he had allowed to show, Tom suddenly fell silent, lowering his hands. It was very strange; his control had never slipped so quickly and certainly not in the presence of knights or future victims.
"However, I doubt Merlin will be very pleased with his resurrection," Powell continued as if nothing had happened.
"Why is that?" Riddle asked cautiously.
"The afterlife is not such a bad thing."
The Inquisitor knew this would not convince the Slytherin, and Tom's gaze only confirmed it. But at least he was finally distracted from his anger. Still feeling a slight pang of conscience, Harold did not remove his hand from his student’s shoulder, gradually transferring a bit of his own magical energy to prevent the boy from collapsing right there.
"How noble," Voldemort’s voice rasped. "A true hero."
Powell decided not to respond, but he did remove his hand.
"Already changed your mind? Why would you? For the first time in many days, your actions are commendable. Such compassion for an enemy..."
"Your praise is the last thing I need," Harold thought in response.
"Or is it not compassion at all?" the dark lord continued to mock.
"Yeah, I’m going to listen to an egotist about how egotistical I am for shifting my tasks onto someone else’s shoulders."
"Oh, I'm not talking about that... His persistence, his determination… It reminds you of something, doesn't it, Harry Potter? Or someone? Perhaps former comrades? Or yourself?"
If poison could be extracted from these words, it would fill more than one pint. And it would surely be basilisk venom.
"That’s none of your concern."
"Oh, but why not? Everything concerns me now. Admit it, you didn’t expect to see similarities, only differences. This interest..."
"Just shut up already!" Powell snapped irritably.
For himself, Harold decided that this conversation and lesson should end as soon as possible. Even Tom was now looking at him strangely, expectantly. Realizing that they were still standing rather close to each other, the Inquisitor took a step back.
"The lesson is over for today," he waved his hand, erasing the lines of the circle. "This was a challenging task, and as far as I can recall, no one has ever succeeded on the first try. But it’s important to understand how to interact with the elements when it won’t work."
Riddle nodded curtly. From his face, still paler than usual, it wasn’t clear whether this was genuine agreement or if he was just masking his pride for the time being.
"Let's go to my office. You’ll need a restorative potion," the Inquisitor gestured toward the exit. He could have anticipated this moment and brought the potion with him, but this was yet another test. However, Harold hadn’t expected his student to be so determined to complete the task on the first try and lose so much energy.
Tom went to the exit first. He walked surprisingly straight and confidently, despite his magical exhaustion, which would have caused some to faint by now. Former Potter tried to push aside all traces of newfound compassion and watch the proceedings dispassionately, but he couldn’t help but wonder: what was driving Tom Riddle now? What was keeping him on his feet? Pride? Vanity? Or was it just unwavering conviction?
In the office, the Inquisitor took a pre-prepared potion from the cabinet and handed it to his student, who accepted it without hesitation. And that, too, was surprising. No, logic told Harold that a lack of doubt was just another way to gain trust, a manipulation... But still, for a being so concerned with his own life, this was a display of some kind of trust.
This young man did not yet know that the person standing before him was not just an Inquisitor or the head of the underground... Before him stood his future downfall, his greatest fear. There was no doubt that Riddle was already on the path to becoming a monster beyond justification, but he didn’t know that his tiny bits of demonstrated trust were already betrayed. A contradictory emotion, a mix of regret, bitterness, and faith, poisoned Powell.
It wasn’t difficult to usher Tom out of the office: it seemed he was glad to retreat to the safety of the dungeons as quickly as possible. Now, Harold no longer needed to maintain his composure. The Inquisitor smiled sourly, glancing at the table where documents still lay awaiting his attention, and lay down on the couch. He had no strength to do anything, as if he had been the one trying to pour energy into the lines on the floor. And now the familiar quagmire of gloomy thoughts was once again pulling him into its depths.
Sometimes he thought he had finally trained himself not to doubt his chosen course of action, his decisions, the consequences those decisions might bring... And yet moral dilemmas still stirred his soul, even though, by all logic, after everything he had been through, they should have become empty sounds. Yes, he had become a commander capable of making tough decisions, but he hadn’t developed that indifferent cruelty to the world that war had nurtured in those who sent people to die. He would have far more gladly and with a lighter heart sent himself to death, and he would have done so over and over again.
But now, too much depended on his own decisions and their alignment with the overall plan. The fates of thousands, tens of thousands... Simply giving up and dying would be selfishness; continuing to live was also selfishness, but somewhat lesser. He desperately wanted to return to his own school years when the world was so easily painted in black and white when he didn’t have to question every action.
In these thoughts, the Inquisitor didn’t notice when his eyes closed. He dreamed of sparks, slightly enlivening the gloomy but dry dungeon. Something was wrong. The sense of wrongness permeated every particle of existence, seeped into the walls. People stood around; he didn’t recognize all of them, but those he did…
There, off to the side, Horace was huddled, going against his habit of gathering a crowd of friends and former students around him. His usually cheerful face seemed to ripple with the failed attempts to force a smile, which again and again turned out crooked as the corners of his lips kept trying to drop.
There, even Draco, with a small group of vaguely familiar former Hogwarts students. Until the last moment, no one thought they would come, and yet they did: disheveled and pale. No one had managed to retain their aristocratic polish here; life on the run simply did not allow for it. Nearby were a few ministry workers: he recognized only Percy and some clerk he had to deal with on Auror business.
And on the other side, Kingsley leaned grimly against the stone wall, nervously twirling his wand in his hands. Near him were a junior Auror and a staff healer, holding hands as if letting go would make the whole world collapse. Maybe they weren’t so wrong... Something about this pair was very reminiscent of Nymphadora and Lupin, something fragile and sublime. Something that made this moment tremulously beautiful, like the highest note that is destined to break.
A little further away, but closer now, stood Ron and Hermione. They weren’t holding hands, just looking at each other, and you could see the tears standing in their eyes. Suddenly, Hermione wiped her eyes with her sleeve and turned to him, to Harry, smiling. And it was both beautiful and terrible. Ron also noticed him and nodded, but in that restrained nod was as much determination and support as in his friend’s smile.
Harry swallowed and nodded, trying to maintain the same confidence and resolve. Then he shifted his gaze to Ginny, who stood closest to him. In the dim torchlight, her hair no longer resembled lively rays of sunshine; her face was pale with soot marks, and her lip was split. Everyone had long forgotten about expending energy on cosmetic charms or minor healing spells. And yet… She was the most beautiful thing in this room right now. So alive, so brave…
A lump formed in his throat. He tried to smile at her, but his lips wouldn’t cooperate, and she just shook her head as if to say: no, don’t force a smile, don’t pretend. That made it easier, but also more terrifying. He wanted to hug her and comfort her, though comfort was out of the question.
Harry took a step, and the sense of wrongness grew. Under his bare feet, he felt something strange, wet. Blood. The hall was flooded with blood, appearing from nowhere. His gaze shot to Ginny in horror, but her response clarified nothing: she just shook her head again and vanished like mist at dawn. It became so cold, then unbearably hot, as if he couldn’t breathe properly. It felt like this was the end… But something pulled him out of the nightmare.
Opening his eyes, Harold cursed silently, breathing heavily. Only then did he notice the enchanted mirror on the table emitting a ringing sound, signaling someone trying to contact him. He had to get up from the couch, feeling a small sense of gratitude—he had no desire to know how that dream would have ended. Even now, the scent of a bonfire seemed to linger in the air. And in the dream, everyone had looked just like they did back then…
The Inquisitor winced as if from a headache. No, those memories needed to be banished.
Far more important was the reason why Violet was reflected in the enchanted mirror.
“Powell?” Her voice was worried but firm.
He felt the drowsiness quickly retreat, and he looked back at her with full seriousness. The witch in the reflection was concerned, and she wasn’t one to worry over trifles.
“Yes, what happened?”
“That experiment… A result was achieved yesterday,” she said, but she didn’t look pleased, though the news should have been quite good.
“Earlier than we expected. And?” Harold prompted, feeling the tension rising.
“The result doesn’t quite match what we predicted. There’s a… side effect.”
She suddenly fell silent. Powell was tempted to rush his comrade, but he waited patiently, letting her gather her thoughts. At last, Attal spoke again:
“As a result of the process, the subjects’ vital functions are indeed completely halted in time, but… but not their consciousness. They continue to be aware of everything, every minute. They…”
“Are trapped in their own bodies,” Harold quietly finished for her.
“Yes,” she frowned and nodded. “What should we do now? Our scientists hoped to eliminate this effect, but there’s no hope: magic doesn’t allow for both at once.”
He was silent, quickly assessing the situation. The new information made an already difficult decision even more horrifying. But it was too late to retreat, there was no way back; every step down this road paved with good intentions only brought him closer to his personal hell. He wanted to close his eyes and scream, but Violet couldn’t see that. She couldn’t know…
“We will proceed as planned,” he replied evenly.
“But…”
“Everything’s fine, Violet. All of this is for everyone’s safety. It’s just a temporary measure. We planned to use this on prisoners of war anyway, and isn’t this option better in wartime than ordinary imprisonment? Won’t it be safer for everyone? For the families of those still fighting? For your granddaughter?” He spoke and spoke, maintaining a steady and confident tone.
At first, Violet didn’t seem convinced, but then her features gradually softened, and she nodded:
“It’s a controversial decision, but I understand that in war, all means are justified until a better way is found.”
“Of course. Wars don’t last forever, and we’re doing the right thing. A noble thing.”
It was the truth and, at the same time, a terrible lie. His own cursed “greater good.”
