Books were clattered onto desks, bags were stuffed under chairs, and quills were fingered gently in hands. The normally quiet dungeons were alive with the voices of this year’s N.E.W.T. Potions class. In a moment, Professor Slughorn would trot happily into the classroom through that door, and they would begin. But today, instead of waiting patiently for their professor, the class was in an uproar. Or most of the class was, at least.
Of course, it was the old crowd. Melby, Harrow, Larnting, and Tongerton sat at the first table. They were all Gryffindors, and loud, obnoxious ones at that. However, one had to give them credit for getting into N.E.W.T. Potions, even if it was through a bunch of luck and last minute studying.
The next table consisted of two Hufflepuffs, Harley Winston and Marisa Steel. They didn’t talk much, except to whisper among themselves on occasion. They were both Mudbloods as well, and had no talent whatsoever.
At the last table was where the true skill was. Tom Riddle sat straight in his chair, bored and looking the part of a N.E.W.T. Potions student. Next to him, was Avery, and next to Avery was Lestrange. Out of the three, only one was capable of the complicated work the class demanded.
And that one was the only one who wasn’t bothering to gossip animatedly with his neighbor. Every other student in the class was talking quickly about the latest rumor. According to word, Abby Pulmport, a fifth year Gryffindor, had been caught by the headmaster as she attempted to meet her “true love” Max Haffler in the grounds at midnight. Oh, that rebel! Tom didn’t give a damn.
With a loud bang of the door, Slughorn marched in. He had on a flamboyant set of green robes and was carrying a large book in his hands. He set the book on his desk, and then turned to the class. “Ho ho! Everyone gossiping about poor Abby? Well, quiet down. As much as we’d love to daydream that we had a romantic affair, requiring us to meet someone at midnight, there is work to be done. And Tom can’t do it all himself.”
Slughorn winked at him. Apparently he had noticed that Tom was the only one who was not worked up over the matter. Ah well, Tom had other things to be worked up over. Like who to choose next. But that could wait until after the lesson. He focused on what Slughorn was saying.
“Amortentia is an incredible potion, capable of making the drinker fall in love with whomever the maker wishes. Quite fit for the current happenings at Hogwarts, but no, I don’t believe that Miss Abby was in possession of any such potion. Though it might be possible…” Slughorn trailed off dramatically, and then chuckled.
“You know, a friend of mine once said a great man’s greatest good luck is to die at the right time. Eric Hoffer, a Muggle, but surprisingly brilliant. I think that the right time for any man would be after falling in love. To die in love, well that is all I could ask for in life.”
Tom barely repressed a snort. What a load of sentimental drivel. The whole reasoning behind that was absurd if there was any reasoning at all. He had long since come to the conclusion (through careful observation, of course, never through experience) that when one was in love, one lost all sense. That was why Tom had vowed never to fall in love.
Biting his tongue, Tom raised his hand. It was in his nature to inquire after things he didn’t fully understand, even if he was under the conception that there was little to understand about fools in love.
When Slughorn inclined his head, Tom spoke. “Really, Professor? I would think such a highly esteemed wizard such as yourself would have many high aspirations which he would want to have accomplished at the time of his death.”
“Oh, Tom, my boy,” Slughorn said, chuckling again. “When you are my age you will understand that the love of a woman is one of the highest things a man can achieve in life. It’s not a force to be trifled with. Now, turn to page 243 in your text.”
The tone with which he said this convinced Tom that Slughorn absolutely believed what he had uttered. Now, this would not normally be a problem, but because the things he’d said were so contrary to everything Tom breathed it made him wonder. It annoyed him to wonder. Tom usually got whatever he was seeking immediately, including knowledge, so when something eluded him it irked him so. Scowling as he mixed his potion - perfectly, despite the distractions - he thought further on the matter, although he wasn’t completely sure why he was wasting his brilliant mind pondering love. So many people put such high stock in it, however, and he allowed that as a fact important enough for it to merit his attention.
Why did it compel people to do such mad things? Passion in the blood? Tom could perhaps see how the need to protect one person could drive someone to harm another, but not how some poor man could be so besotted with a lady to put her before his self. Self-preservation was as ingrained in him as rings in wood.
And this Eric Hoffer! Awfully pompous of him, a Muggle, to presume what a great man thought! If you asked Tom, he would say it was a great man’s greatest fortune to not die at all. Obviously, something about Hoffer was off. Why the hell would he say something like this? Tom could practically feel the irritation building in him. It was giving him a headache. Something about you has been off lately, a voice in the back of his mind whispered, ever since you created that Horcrux. Mentally strangling his annoying conscience, Tom continued his silent tirade.
Too bad he was just so damn inquiring. Melby wouldn’t ever spare a thought to anything, judging by the perplexed look on his face as he glared at his purple-leaking green Trufula roots. But that was what separated Tom from men like that. Certainly. Eric Hoffer had no idea what he was talking about.
Still, though, the quote continued to pester Tom. Over the next few classes, it was always in the back of his head, nagging at him. His obsessive personality would not let it go. During meals, Tom could taste the words in his food, a bitter, disgusting, tinge. Throughout classes he could barely concentrate, not that it affected his grades. He even felt less inclined to please Slughorn, noting that his professor was a good friend with Hoffer. The quote kept him up late at night, much after the others had gone to sleep.
Finally, it seemed that there was only one way to rid himself of the insane nag. The idea fit perfectly into his scheme for the future. It felt right. Tom decided that it was Eric Hoffer’s right time to die.
For a while now, he had been deliberating on whom he would conquer next. He had known, since even before talking to Slughorn, that there must be seven. Seven, and seven only. But at the moment, Tom was only in possession of one Horcrux, the ring. He fiddled with it now, as he sat by the fire in the Slytherin common room. Light glinted off its polished surface, radiating with pride.
However the ring was too close. If he should be harmed, the ring was not safe near his body. Tom needed the next Horcrux to be hidden from harm. He knew what it would be. The diary upstairs was a key element in his plans for the future. Once he had secured it as a Horcrux, the path would be clear for future experiments. And who better to be sacrificed than the man whose preachings went against every word written in that diary?
There was research to be done. Tom needed to know where Hoffer lived, and what defenses he possessed. When would Hoffer be alone, and most vulnerable? There was one man who could help him, and luckily that man was easily persuadable. Tom pushed himself up and exited the common room, in pursuit of Horace Slughorn.
He knocked politely on the door to Slughorn’s office, knowing that it was where the professor preferred to spend his Monday nights. Indeed, after a second there came a call from inside. “Come in, come in!” Tom entered slowly, smiling with his politest face on. “Sit down, Tom. What a pleasure for you to visit.” Slughorn smiled across his desk, where Tom had taken a seat.
The man had an interesting personality, one of the reasons Tom so preferred him to his other professors. Slughorn had forgotten all about his discussion with Tom previously that year, in which it was evident that the old man had been extremely uncomfortable. The only possible explanation was that Slughorn had forced himself to forget, which made Tom wonder what other memories lay under the folds in his mind.
“Professor, I’ve been thinking. A few lessons back, you mentioned a certain Eric Hoffer in passing. He struck me as a very deep character that’d I’d like to know more about. I thought perhaps I’d meet him over winter break. You of all people would understand how important it is to have connections with the prominent figures of the day.” Tom leaned forward eagerly.
Slughorn nodded enthusiastically and pressed his fingers to his head. “Yes, old Eric is quite the character. I can see why you’re drawn to him, although he is only a Muggle. You’d be surprised Tom, how influential Muggles can be to the world, and it never hurts to be able to influence those Muggles. Eric is currently in San Francisco, California I believe. He’s living by himself as a longshoreman, though still the same intellectual as when I first met him. A great story, Tom, as it happens I was in California visiting another friend of mine…but that is a story for another time. I would be happy to arrange a meeting for you.”
Tom smiled politely. “Thank you, Professor. I greatly appreciate your generosity. Any time during winter break would suit me perfectly.”
Slughorn beamed at him. “You’re quite welcome Tom. Now off to bed with you, we have doubles Potions tomorrow!” So Tom rose swiftly from his chair and left the office, only letting a smirk show on his face after he was hidden in his bed.
The Right Time by YourWildestDreams
Story Notes:
The first chapter was co-written with Stubbornly_appeared, but the rest will be just me. Written for the August one-shot but was too late, so I turned it into a chapter fic.