Three days had passed since Slughorn's gathering, and Nymeria found herself following Dorea through a series of corridors in an older section of Hogwarts. The tapestries here were more faded, the portraits more ancient and infrequent, and there was barely any footfall.
"Nearly there," Dorea said over her shoulder, her voice echoing slightly in the confined space. "This is one of the family's favorite spots when we need privacy for discussions."
They stopped before an unremarkable wooden door and Dorea tapped her wand against it.
The door opened to reveal a circular room lined with bookshelves and comfortable chairs arranged around a crackling fireplace. Pollux was already seated near the flames, while Arcturus stood by one of the tall windows, gazing out at the grounds. Cassiopeia occupied a high-backed chair that almost looked like a throne.
"Ah, our mysterious cousin arrives," Pollux said, rising with a welcoming smile. "I hope Dorea didn't get you too lost in these back passages. Like the stairs, a few parts of the castle like to rearrange when you're trying to find somewhere specific."
"Not at all," Nymeria replied, looking around. "This is quite some place. How long have you all been using this room?"
"A few years now," Arcturus replied without turning from the window. "Needed a place to discuss private family matters where here at Hogwarts. We've added a few wards of our own, as you must've seen when coming."
Nymeria nodded as she settled into the chair.
"We thought it was time for a proper conversation," Cassiopeia said without preamble. "Away from the usual castle gossip and curious ears. The gathering at Slughorn's was enlightening, but hardly the place for meaningful discussion."
"Particularly given some of the more... interesting revelations that evening," Arcturus added. "Your friend Peverell certainly made quite the impression with his theories about ancient magic and legendary artifacts. Curious, but then, not so much, given his family."
Nymeria kept her expression carefully neutral. "From what I've understood, Harry has always been fascinated by magical history. It's one of the things that he must've found interesting during his travels."
"Travels," Cassiopeia repeated thoughtfully. "You've had your fair share of them, from what you told us. But you've been rather sparse on details. As you must understand, we're naturally curious about our extended family's experiences."
"Particularly given the current climate," Arcturus added, finally turning from the window. "The situation in Eastern Europe is becoming increasingly volatile. If your family has recent experience in those regions, your perspectives could be valuable."
Nymeria eyed them critically. These people were clearly more politically aware than she'd initially realized, and they were probing for information she couldn't provide without revealing dangerous truths. Time for improvisation, then.
"We spent time in several countries," she said carefully. "Romania, as I mentioned, but also brief periods in Hungary and Austria. The political landscape has been... shifting rapidly."
"Shifting," Cassiopeia leaned forward with obvious interest. "In what ways? We've heard reports, of course, but firsthand observations from someone with our family's connections would be invaluable."
Our family. Those words almost made her scoff.
"There's a growing divide between those who believe magical society should maintain its traditional separation from muggle affairs, and those who think more direct involvement is necessary," Nymeria replied instead. "The tensions are becoming harder to ignore."
"And this Grindelwald fellow?" Pollux asked curiously. "What's the general sentiment about his growing influence?"
Nymeria wondered how much to reveal. These people lived in this time period; they needed to form their own opinions based on contemporary information, not her knowledge of future atrocities that Grindelwald would commit.
"He's certainly charismatic," she said. "His rallies draw significant crowds, and his message resonates with many who feel that wizarding society has been too passive in the face of what he calls muggle aggression and ignorance."
"Interesting," Cassiopeia murmured, and Nymeria did not miss the note of approval in her voice. "It sounds like he understands what many of us have long suspected—that our current approach to muggle relations is unsustainable."
"Unsustainable how, exactly?" Pollux asked testily.
"Oh, please, Pollux," Cassiopeia said with slight exasperation. "Look around you. Muggles are becoming more numerous, more aggressive, and more willing to resort to violence to solve their problems. Their wars grow larger and more devastating with each passing decade. Remember what uncle told us about from his days here at Hogwarts? The war was so bad their economy has been reeling for what? 6 years now? Meanwhile, we hide in shadows, pretending we don't exist while they kill, multiply and spread like some sort of infestation."
"Infestation," Pollux repeated darkly. "That's an interesting choice of words, cousin."
"It's an accurate choice of words," Cassiopeia replied sharply. "When one species threatens the habitat and survival of another, what else would you call it?"
"I'd call it sharing a planet with other intelligent beings," Pollux shot back. "But then again, I don't consider muggles to be inherently inferior simply because they lack magical ability."
"That's because you've always been naive about the realities of power," Cassiopeia said with barely concealed contempt. "Magic makes us fundamentally different. Not just in capability, but in understanding, in potential, in our very nature. To pretend otherwise is not just foolish, it's dangerous."
"Dangerous to whom?" Dorea interjected quietly. "To muggles who might discover us? Or to wizards who might have to actually justify our claims of superiority?"
Nymeria found herself fascinated and horrified by this glimpse into pure-blood family dynamics. These weren't abstract political discussions—they were fundamental disagreements about the nature of humanity itself. Perhaps for the first time, she was seeing a direct glimpse into the propaganda Grindelwald had used.
"The danger," Arcturus said, his tone measured and cutting through the rising tension, "lies in extremism in either direction. Complete isolation breeds stagnation and paranoia. Complete integration risks exposure and potential persecution. The challenge is finding a sustainable middle ground."
"Middle ground," Cassiopeia scoffed. "How wonderfully diplomatic. And utterly useless when faced with real-world problems."
"Such as?" Nymeria asked, genuinely curious about how these issues were perceived in this era.
"The increasing muggle population, for one," Cassiopeia replied. "Their numbers have doubled in the past century alone despite that war in the 1910s, while our population remains relatively stable. Simple mathematics tells us where that trend leads."
"To a world with more muggles and the same number of wizards," Pollux said dryly. "I fail to see why that's automatically problematic."
"Because resources are finite," Cassiopeia snapped. "Land, influence, the ability to maintain our secrecy—all of these become more difficult as muggle populations expand. Eventually, something will give way."
"And your solution is what, exactly?" Pollux's tone had grown dangerously quiet. "Culling the muggle population? Establishing wizarding dominance through force?"
"My solution is acknowledging reality instead of burying our heads in the sand," Cassiopeia replied. "If conflict is inevitable, isn't it better to have that conflict on our terms, when we still possess overwhelming advantages?"
"Conflict isn't inevitable unless we make it so," Dorea said firmly. "And the assumption that we possess overwhelming advantages might be dangerously naive in itself."
"What do you mean?" Nymeria asked. So far, if the Blacks were to be taken as the norm, the purebloods of this era were more in touch with the developments taking place in the muggle world than they had been in her original timeline.
"Muggles may lack magic, but they don't lack ingenuity or ruthlessness," Dorea explained. "Their weapons have become increasingly sophisticated, their organizational capabilities more advanced. A direct confrontation might not end as decisively in our favor as some people assume."
"Exactly," Pollux agreed. "Which is why diplomatic approaches make more sense than antagonistic ones. We have everything to gain from peaceful coexistence and everything to lose from unnecessary conflict."
"Peaceful coexistence," Cassiopeia repeated with disgust. "Built on what foundation? Their tolerance of our existence? Their gracious permission to practice our natural abilities? The day they decide we're a threat, our 'peaceful coexistence' becomes worthless. Don't forget why the Statute of Secrecy exists. Not to protect them, but to protect us."
"And the day we decide they're inferior beings deserving of subjugation, we become the threat they should fear," Pollux countered. "Funny how that works."
The philosophical divide was stark and clearly long-standing. Nymeria found herself thinking about similar conversations that must have taken place in households across wizarding Britain during this period. These weren't just academic debates—they were the ideological foundations that would shape the coming war.
"What's your perspective, Nymeria?" Arcturus asked, pulling her from her thoughts. "Given your family's international experience, how do you see these tensions developing?"
It was a trap, she realized. Whatever position she took would align her with one faction or another within the Black family, and those alignments could have far-reaching consequences.
"I think," she said carefully, "that fear breeds extremism on both sides. The more wizards fear muggle discovery and persecution, the more attractive aggressive solutions become. The more muggles fear what they don't understand, the more likely they are to react violently when the truth emerges."
"So what's the answer?" Dorea asked.
"Understanding, perhaps. And patience. Change that happens gradually is more likely to be sustainable than change imposed through force."
"Pretty words," Cassiopeia said dismissively. "But ultimately meaningless. You can't understand someone whose fundamental nature is incompatible with your own."
"Can't you?" Pollux challenged. "Or is it just easier to assume incompatibility than to do the work of building genuine connections?"
Both cousins glared at each other, and it was looking increasingly likely that this conversation would soon take an ugly turn. Nymeria glanced at Dorea who gave her a reassuring look.
Before Cassiopeia could respond, the conversation took an unexpected turn as Dorea leaned forward with a mischievous smile.
"Speaking of genuine connections," she said, looking at Nymeria, "we couldn't help but notice the rather obvious rapport between you and Mr. Peverell at Slughorn's gathering. How long have you two been... close?"
Nymeria blinked. The sudden shift in topic caught her completely off-guard. "We've gotten to know each other over the summer, as I mentioned. Shared interests tend to form bonds."
"Indeed they do," Arcturus observed. "Though the nature of those bonds can vary considerably. What we observed indicated something rather more intimate than mere friendship."
Nymeria felt as though she were suddenly standing on shifting ground. They had not planned to go public yet.
"I'm not sure what you mean."
"Oh, come now," Pollux laughed warmly, his earlier aggression forgotten. "The way you two interacted during that gathering, the subtle glances you kept sharing, how you positioned yourselves to support each other in conversations. We're observant people, Nymeria, especially when it comes to the Blacks. Either you're both remarkably gifted actors, or there's something more substantial developing there."
Nymeria's lips pursed. It seemed both she and Harry had underestimated them. Furthermore, the casual assumption that they had any right to comment on her personal relationships was staggering.
"We work well together," she said carefully.
"Work well together," Cassiopeia repeated dryly, her eyes calculating. "That's actually quite important in marriages of our social level. Compatibility of temperament and intellect often matters more than romantic sentiment."
"Marriage?" Nymeria couldn't keep the surprise from her voice.
"Oh, don't look so shocked," Dorea said with a gentle laugh. "It's obvious to anyone with eyes that you two are well-suited. And from a practical standpoint, it would be quite an advantageous match. The Peverell name carries enormous historical significance, even if the family has been absent from British society. Combined with the Black legacy..."
She shrugged casually, and Nymeria struggled to process what she was hearing. These people had known her for days, and they were already discussing potential marriage arrangements as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
But Nymeria reminded herself that this was the 1930s. Pure-blood families probably did operate this way, treating romantic connections as matters of family interest and political alliance.
"That's rather premature," she managed.
"Perhaps," Arcturus conceded. "Though in our experience, when two people of suitable backgrounds and compatible temperaments find themselves drawn together, it's often wise to nurture that connection. Particularly when both parties possess the kind of intellectual depth we have witnessed from you two so far."
"And the kind of power," Cassiopeia added quietly. "Peverell's knowledge on ancient magic and legendary artifacts is exemplary. His points revealed depths that most people our age simply don't possess. Whatever training he's received, it's been exceptional."
Nymeria suddenly felt a chill of realization. So that's what the game was here.
These lot weren't just matchmaking—they were assessing potential political alliances. They saw her and Harry as valuable assets whose connection could benefit their family's interests.
"Power attracts power," Pollux said thoughtfully. "It's not necessarily a bad thing, as long as both parties maintain their individual integrity."
Nymeria had no interest in becoming a pawn for them, and that meant shifting this discussion away from her. She eyed Dorea and decided to turn the tables on her.
"Speaking of attraction, I also observed you being pretty comfortable with Charlus Potter. Something there, cousin?"
It was now Dorea's turn to be caught off-guard, and her composure cracked slightly. "I don't know what you mean."
"Oh, please," Nymeria grinned wickedly. "You practically orbited the poor lad at Slughorn's gathering. And don't think I didn't notice how you both kept finding excuses to stand closer together."
"Charlus is a good man," Dorea said with as much dignity as she could muster, though her blush was deepening. "We've had some interesting conversations."
"Conversations," Cassiopeia murmured. "Is that what we're calling it now?"
"Leave her alone," Arcturus said mildly, though there was clear amusement in his voice. "Though I will say the Potter family has an excellent reputation. Old blood, respectable fortune, and a history of producing capable wizards."
"There have been some preliminary discussions between us," Dorea admitted reluctantly. "Nothing formal, you understand. Just exploring possibilities. We are thinking of getting the families involved over the Yule break."
"How romantic," Pollux said with a grin. "Preliminary discussions. Still, I suppose it's progress from the days when marriages were arranged before the couple could even walk."
"Some arrangements work out perfectly well," Cassiopeia said with a shrug. "Love can grow from mutual respect and shared values. It's often more stable than matches based purely on passion."
"Spoken like someone who's never experienced real passion," Pollux shot back. "What's the point of stability if you're miserable?"
"What's the point of passion if it burns out and leaves you with nothing?" Cassiopeia countered. "Our family has survived for centuries because we make intelligent choices, not impulsive ones."
"And yet," Dorea said quietly, "some of our happiest marriages have been those where genuine affection developed alongside practical compatibility."
And so began another discussion, one that continued for another hour, ranging from family history to current events to subtle probing about Nymeria's background and intentions. She found herself impressed by their sophistication and disturbed by some of their assumptions, particularly how casual Cassiopeia's acceptance of supremacist ideology was. But then, they were the Blacks, so what else could she expect?
As the afternoon wore on, Nymeria began to understand the complex dynamics within the Black family. Pollux represented a more progressive viewpoint, genuinely questioning traditional pure-blood assumptions. Dorea fell somewhere in the middle, conservative but not extremist. Arcturus was cautious and diplomatic, preferring stability to radical change. And Cassiopeia embodied the most dangerous elements of their heritage—intelligent, educated, and utterly convinced of wizarding superiority.
These were the people who would shape wizarding Britain's response to the coming crisis. Understanding their perspectives now might be crucial for influencing events later.
As they finally prepared to leave, Pollux approached Nymeria with a serious look on his face.
"A word of advice, for you and for Peverell," he said quietly. "Be careful about who you trust with your more... theoretical discussions. The wrong people might misinterpret your interest in ancient magic and legendary artifacts."
"What do you mean?"
"Tom Riddle, for one," Pollux replied, glancing around to ensure the others weren't listening. "Brilliant fellow, certainly, and charming enough. But there's something about him that's always felt... off. Too perfect, too controlled, too willing to say exactly what people want to hear."
Nymeria's pulse quickened. "You think he's dangerous?"
"I think he's ambitious beyond anything most people would consider healthy," Pollux said carefully. "And I think ambition without moral constraints is one of the most dangerous forces in the world. Just... be careful around him."
The warning echoed in Nymeria's mind as they made their way back through the corridors toward the main castle. These people were indeed more perceptive than she'd given them credit for, and Pollux's concerns about Tom Riddle aligned uncomfortably with their own fears.
As they parted ways outside the corridor leading to Ravenclaw Tower, Nymeria found her thoughts drifting inevitably to Harry. How was he handling Tom Riddle, who represented a threat neither of them had fully anticipated?
Their mental link was closed for now, so she didn't know, but she knew she would find out soon enough.
-Break-
The Restricted Section of Hogwarts Library was exactly as Harry remembered it—shadows dancing between towering shelves, and the musty scent of ancient parchment permeating the air.
What he hadn't expected was to be here with Tom Riddle, watching the future Dark Lord run his fingers along leather-bound spines with obvious reverence.
"Magnificent, isn't it?" Tom murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "All this knowledge, jealously guarded from students who might actually appreciate its value."
"It's certainly impressive. But I think the restrictions exist for good reasons."
"Do they?" Tom's dark eyes glittered. "Or do they exist because mediocre minds fear what superior intellects might accomplish with unrestricted access to information?"
He'd agreed to this meeting after two days of careful consideration, weighing the need to keep Tom close against the obvious dangers. Too much distance would arouse suspicion, and too much closeness would put him directly in the path of a developing monster.
The decision had ultimately been pragmatic. If Tom was going to pursue his dark path—and Harry had no doubt he would—it was better to be aware of his progress. He had the advantage of future knowledge, and after being blindsided like this, he needed every advantage he could get.
"Perhaps a bit of both," Harry said carefully. "Knowledge can be dangerous in the wrong hands."
"Dangerous to whom?" Tom asked, pulling a thick volume from the shelf. "To those who would restrict others' potential? To systems built on keeping the powerful weak and the weak powerless?"
Harry recognized the book in Tom's hand—'Secrets of the Darkest Art.' His blood chilled as Tom opened it casually, as if it were perfectly ordinary reading material.
"That's..." Harry began, before he abruptly stopped himself. He couldn't reveal knowledge he shouldn't possess.
"Fascinating?" Tom asked, glancing up with that charming smile that never reached his eyes. "I quite agree. The theoretical frameworks alone are revolutionary. Though I suspect most people would focus on the applications rather than the underlying principles."
"What kind of principles?" Harry asked, eyeing the book.
Tom's fingers traced the open page with tenderness. "The malleable nature of existence itself. The idea that what we consider fundamental laws—life, death, the integrity of the soul—are merely suggestions that can be overcome with sufficient understanding and will."
Harry's mouth went dry. Tom was indeed thinking about Horcruxes, as he'd suspected he would. The casual way he discussed soul manipulation told him he'd been contemplating these ideas for some time.
"That's a rather dangerous line of thinking," Harry said, keeping his voice level despite his inner turmoil.
"Is it?" Tom looked genuinely curious. "Or is it the natural evolution of magical understanding? After all, wizards have already transcended many limitations that muggles consider absolute. We fly, we heal mortal wounds, we bend reality to our will. Why should death be the final barrier?"
Because splitting your soul turns you into a monster, Harry thought. Because immortality without humanity is worse than death. Because you become something that destroys everything you touch.
"Some barriers might exist for good reasons," he said instead.
"Perhaps," Tom conceded, though he clearly didn't agree. "But I've always believed that truly exceptional individuals have a responsibility to push beyond conventional limitations. Not for personal glory, you understand, but for the advancement of magical knowledge itself."
The rationalization was smooth and practiced. Harry wondered how many times Tom had rehearsed this particular justification for his future atrocities. But he was also studying Tom's reactions, cataloging his interests and obsessions. Every piece of information could prove valuable later.
"Noble goals," Harry said, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. "The pursuit of such knowledge would require considerable... investment."
"All worthwhile achievements do," Tom replied with a chuckle. "The question is whether the potential benefits justify the costs. And when dealing with concepts as fundamental as mortality itself..."
He shrugged, and Harry found himself analyzing Tom's demeanor. The future Dark Lord was brilliant and charismatic, but he was also young and overconfident. He'd seen as much when he'd encountered his shade in the Chamber of Secrets.
Those could be vulnerabilities if approached correctly.
"Speaking of fundamental questions," Tom continued, closing the book and returning it to its shelf, "what's your assessment of current events? Grindelwald's movement in Eastern Europe, for instance?"
The subject change was abrupt, but Harry followed it smoothly. This was intelligence he could gather without seeming too interested. "I haven't followed it as closely as I perhaps should have."
"Interesting fellow," Tom mused, selecting another volume. "Clearly powerful, certainly charismatic. His followers seem genuinely devoted to his cause."
"You sound like you admire him."
"I admire competence," Tom corrected. "The man has managed to build a significant power base in a remarkably short time. From a strategic standpoint, it's quite impressive."
"And from an ideological standpoint?"
Tom's expression shifted to something resembling distaste. "Rather crude, honestly. All that rhetoric about wizarding superiority, the destiny of magical beings to rule over muggles. It's simplistic thinking dressed up in grandiose language."
Harry blinked in surprise. He'd expected Tom to be sympathetic to supremacist ideology, given his future as Voldemort. This dismissal was unexpected and potentially significant.
"You don't agree with his views on wizard-muggle relations?"
"I think they miss the point entirely," Tom said with surprising vehemence. "Grindelwald frames everything in terms of us versus them, magical versus non-magical, superior versus inferior. But that's thinking on entirely too small a scale."
"What do you mean?"
Tom turned to face him fully, and Harry saw something in those dark eyes that was far more disturbing than simple hatred or prejudice. There was a cold, calculating intelligence that viewed everything—wizard and muggle alike—as potential tools or obstacles.
"The division isn't between magical and non-magical people," Tom said quietly. "It's between the exceptional and the ordinary. Most wizards are just as limited, just as bound by conventional thinking, as any muggle. They happen to have been born with certain abilities, but they lack the vision or will to use them meaningfully."
"And the exceptional individuals?"
"Transcend such petty categories entirely." Tom's smile was sharp as a blade. "They see the world not as it is, but as it could be shaped by someone with sufficient power and understanding. Grindelwald is still trapped in the mindset of ruling over existing systems. He doesn't understand that true power lies in remaking those systems entirely."
The casual megalomania in his voice was chilling, but also revealing. This wasn't the blood-purist ideology—this was something potentially far more dangerous. Tom wasn't interested in wizarding supremacy; he was interested in his own supremacy over everything and everyone.
"That's... quite a perspective," Harry managed.
"It's the only perspective that makes sense," Tom replied, turning back to the books. "I don't expect many people to understand it. Most minds are simply too small to grasp the possibilities."
Harry wondered if he was included in that category, and decided it might be safer if Tom thought so. He was also beginning to see the shape of a potential strategy. Tom's arrogance was massive—could that be turned against him?
"It's certainly complex," he said, acting deliberately confused to seem intellectually out of his depth compared to Tom.
"Complexity is what separates sophisticated thought from crude ideology," Tom agreed, clearly pleased by Harry's apparent struggle to keep up. "Grindelwald's followers chant slogans about magical supremacy. But they're still thinking in terms of existing power structures, just with different people on top. True transformation requires going beyond such limitations."
"And how would one achieve such transformation?"
Tom's eyes lit with genuine enthusiasm, and Harry knew he'd asked exactly the right question.
"Through the mastery of fundamental forces," Tom said eagerly. "Death, time, space, the nature of consciousness itself. Imagine someone who understood these principles so completely that conventional rules simply didn't apply to them anymore."
"Like the theoretical Master of Death discussed at Slughorn's gathering?"
"Exactly." Tom's voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "Someone who had transcended mortality wouldn't be bound by the petty concerns that limit ordinary minds. They could reshape reality according to their vision, unconstrained by fear of consequences."
Because the consequences would all fall on other people, Harry thought. Because a being without the possibility of death would have no reason to value life.
But he was also processing the strategic implications of Tom's obsession. The Master of Death angle was clearly appealing to him—perhaps more appealing than the Horcrux path, and Harry hoped it would. He could not take a step against Tom if he went down the Horcrux path. The risk was massive.
"Fascinating theory," he said aloud. "Though purely theoretical, of course."
"Of course," Tom agreed, but his tone made it clear that he didn't consider it theoretical at all. "However, there are certain ancient texts that indicate that such transcendence might not be as impossible as most people assume."
He pulled another book from the shelf—this one Harry didn't recognize, bound in what looked like dragon hide with silver clasps. The title was in an archaic script that Harry recognized only because of his work as an Unspeakable.
"Pre-Roman magical theory," Tom remarked. "Before the modern limitations were established. Some fascinating insights into the nature of magical power and how it might be... enhanced."
"Enhanced how?"
Tom opened the book to a page covered in diagrams. The symbols seemed to writhe and shift, depicting magics far darker than anything in the standard curriculum.
"Various methods," Tom said casually. "Though they all share certain common elements. The harnessing of life force, the manipulation of soul energy, the binding of power through symbolic acts. Quite sophisticated for supposedly primitive magic."
Harry leaned closer. The diagrams showed what looked like ritual circles, with figures that might have been wizards or might have been something else entirely. He memorized what he could while acting appropriately fascinated and uneasy.
"Are those... people?" he asked.
"Among other things," Tom replied. "The ancient magics often required significant investment to achieve meaningful results. But the potential rewards..." He traced one of the diagrams with his finger. "Imagine power that didn't diminish with use, knowledge that expanded rather than faded, existence that continued regardless of physical limitations."
"At what cost?"
"Cost?" Tom looked genuinely puzzled by the question. "What cost could possibly be too high for such achievements?"
Harry almost laughed at the casual dismissiveness of human life. This was not surprising at all.
"I suppose it would depend on one's priorities," he said thoughtfully, making sure not to show the revulsion that he was feeling.
"Exactly." Tom closed the book reluctantly. "Sadly, most people's priorities remain remarkably narrow. They value comfort over achievement, safety over greatness, conformity over transcendence."
"And you don't?"
"I value potential," Tom said simply. "The possibility of becoming something more than human limitations would normally allow. Everything else is secondary."
Harry felt the intensity of those words, and the meaning of unspoken threats. This wasn't just a philosophical discussion—this was Tom testing his reactions, probing for signs of sympathy or opposition. He had developed an interest in him, undoubtedly because of his family heritage.
What he didn't know though was that Harry was testing too, gauging Tom's certainty, forming an opinion that would dictate his future actions regarding him.
"That's... certainly an ambitious worldview," Harry said with an impressed look on his face.
"I'm pleased you think so," Tom replied, his smile warmer now, more genuine. "It's rare to find someone capable of discussing these concepts without immediately recoiling into conventional moral objections."
Because most people have functioning consciences, Harry thought.
Tom's reaction to his response was telling. The future Dark Lord seemed to interpret Harry's intellectual approach as tacit approval, which could be useful.
"I try to understand different perspectives," Harry said. "Even if I don't always agree with them entirely."
Tom's eyes sharpened slightly. "Oh? And which aspects do you find... questionable?"
It was a test, Harry realized. Tom was probing to see if Harry would voice moral objections or simply admit to intellectual limitations. The wrong answer could shift their dynamic dangerously.
"Not questionable, exactly," Harry said slowly. "More... incomplete. The pursuit of transcendence is fascinating, but I wonder about the practical implications. How does one ensure that enhanced capabilities lead to meaningful achievements rather than simple ambition?"
It was a careful response—acknowledging the appeal of Tom's philosophy while raising questions about implementation and purpose. Tom considered it for a long moment, his expression unreadable.
"An interesting concern," he said finally. "Though I think you underestimate the clarity that comes with genuine power. When someone has transcended conventional limitations, their perspective naturally expands beyond petty personal concerns."
Harry doubted that intensely, but he nodded as if considering the possibility. "Perhaps. But history suggests that power can corrupt as easily as it can elevate."
"History is written by the mediocre about the exceptional," Tom replied dismissively. "The greatest magical innovators are consistently misunderstood by their contemporaries and misrepresented by later generations. True visionaries are rarely appreciated in their own time."
The rationalization was both predictable and chilling. Tom was already preparing justifications for future atrocities, framing any opposition as ignorance or jealousy. But he was also revealing his self-image—he saw himself as a misunderstood genius destined for greatness that others couldn't comprehend.
"That's certainly possible," Harry agreed neutrally. "I feel differentiating between genuine vision and dangerous delusion must be challenging from the inside."
Tom's smile faltered slightly, and Harry caught a flash of uncertainty before the charming mask reasserted itself.
"Doubt is the enemy of achievement," Tom said, but there was less conviction in his voice now. "Those who spend too much time questioning their own capabilities rarely accomplish anything meaningful."
Harry filed that reaction away. Tom's confidence wasn't as absolute as he pretended—there were insecurities beneath the arrogant exterior. Something else he could exploit.
"True," Harry said. "But I think some degree of self-reflection seems necessary to avoid catastrophic errors in judgment."
"Perhaps." Tom returned the dragon hide book to its shelf with more force than necessary. "I believe we've spent enough time on theoretical discussions for one evening. Would you care to see some more practical applications?"
"What kind of practical applications?" he asked.
"Defensive magic, primarily," Tom replied. "Techniques for protecting oneself against various forms of attack—magical, physical, even psychological."
They moved deeper into the stacks, past books that seemed to whisper as they passed.
"This particular text deals with mental defenses," Tom explained. "Ways to shield one's thoughts from intrusion, to compartmentalize knowledge, and to maintain psychological integrity under extreme pressure."
Harry studied the diagrams, recognizing elements of Occlumency but twisted into something far more aggressive. This wasn't just mental defense—it was psychological warfare.
"Interesting approach," he said. "Though it seems rather... intensive."
"The most effective defenses often are," Tom replied. "The mind is remarkably adaptable when properly trained. These techniques create multiple layers of protection, ensuring that even if some defenses are breached, core thoughts and memories remain secure."
"Core thoughts and memories," Harry repeated. "Such as?"
Tom's smile was sharp. "Plans, naturally. Long-term goals. Knowledge that could be dangerous in the wrong hands. The kind of information that exceptional individuals must protect to achieve their full potential."
Tom was already thinking about compartmentalizing his psyche, creating barriers between different aspects of his personality and knowledge. It was a precursor to the psychological fragmentation that would eventually accompany his Horcrux creation.
"And the training process?"
"Requires significant dedication," Tom replied. "And certain... exercises that most people would find unpleasant. But the results are worth any temporary discomfort."
Harry's blood chilled further. The casual reference to unpleasant exercises almost certainly meant practicing on other people—unwilling test subjects who would bear the costs of Tom's experimentation.
"I can imagine," Harry said, keeping his voice steady despite his inner revulsion.
They spent another hour moving through various sections of the Restricted Section, with Tom displaying increasingly dark and dangerous texts. Harry memorized titles, techniques, and Tom's particular interests while projecting appropriate fascination mixed with caution.
It was a delicate performance—he needed to seem engaged enough to maintain Tom's interest while not appearing so enthusiastic that Tom would try to involve him directly in experiments or research. The balance required constant attention and careful word choice.
As they prepared to leave, Tom paused near the entrance to the Restricted Section.
"This has been most enlightening," he said quietly. "I hope we can continue these discussions soon. There are other topics I'd like to explore—the nature of magical binding, the theoretical limits of transfiguration, some fascinating research into temporal mechanics."
"I'd enjoy that," Harry replied.
"Excellent. Perhaps next week? There are some practical demonstrations I think you'd find... educational."
Before Harry could ask what kind of demonstrations, Tom was already moving through the shelves toward the exit. Harry stared at his retreating figure until he was out of sight, and made his own way back to Ravenclaw Tower, his mind churning with the implications of everything he'd learned.
Tom Riddle was already far more dangerous than Harry had anticipated. The future Dark Lord wasn't just experimenting with dark magic—he was developing a comprehensive philosophy of power that justified any atrocity in pursuit of transcendence. His dismissal of Grindelwald suggested he saw himself as superior to any existing dark wizard, which meant he would likely pursue goals even more ambitious and destructive.
But Harry had also gathered valuable intelligence. Tom's obsessions were clear now, as were some of his insecurities. The Master of Death concept clearly appealed to him, which might provide an avenue for misdirection. And his need for intellectual validation suggested he could be manipulated through carefully managed discussions and apparent admiration.
Most importantly, Harry now had a clearer picture of the timeline they were dealing with. Tom wasn't just older than expected—he was already well along the path that would lead to Voldemort. Which meant the moral choices Harry and Nymeria had struggled with had fundamentally changed.
As he climbed the stairs to his dormitory, Harry found himself remembering their earlier conversations about what to do with a young Tom Riddle. They'd agonized over the ethics of harming a child, even one destined to become a monster. The moral complexity had seemed insurmountable—how do you justify attacking someone for crimes they haven't yet committed?
But that calculation had been based on Tom being eleven years old, a child whose future might still be changed through intervention and guidance. The Tom Riddle Harry had just spent hours with wasn't a child. He was legally an adult, and already actively pursuing the darkest forms of magic with clear intent to harm others.
The moral equation was entirely different now. This wasn't about preventing a child from becoming a monster—this was about stopping a monster who happened to be younger than he'd previously encountered. Tom had already made his choices, already committed to a path of evil. He was either already or would soon be conducting experiments on living subjects, studying torture and murder as academic subjects, and was planning atrocities that he was known for in the future.
Harry felt a certainty settle in his chest. They weren't dealing with a redeemable child—they were dealing with Voldemort in the making.
The path forward was clear now, even if it wouldn't be easy. Tom Riddle needed to be stopped, permanently, before he could inflict the decades of suffering and death that Harry knew were coming. Not because of what he might become, but because of what he already was.
He would talk to Nymeria. They would plan, they would prepare, and they would do what needed to be done.
TBC.
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