— — — — — —
Cokeworth was an industrial town in the Midlands of England. Abandoned smokestacks loomed along the riverbank, and the filthy water reeked so badly that you could smell it from far away.
With a sharp crack, Tom Riddle appeared at the entrance to a narrow alley and instinctively wrinkled his nose.
"Living in a place like this, no wonder Snape hasn't washed his hair in decades. Might smell worse if he did."
Students weren't supposed to know professors' home addresses, but Tom had been sending Severus Snape Christmas gifts for years. He walked straight up to a townhouse and knocked on the door.
A little too hard.
Crack!
The already-rotting door exploded inward.
"Confringo!"
A cold voice rang out from the dark interior, and the spell's light flew even faster than the sound.
Tom hadn't even finished stepping inside before the spell slammed into his chest. Sparks burst across the room. When the glare faded, the boy was already standing inside as if nothing had happened. He looked around casually, then fixed his gaze on the bat-like figure gripping a wand.
"Sorry about that, Professor. Didn't realize your door was so fragile. Oh? Hot pot for dinner?"
Snape's wand hand trembled, his chest heaving.
Who the hell eats hot pot out of a cauldron?
The half-hearted apology was bad enough. The sarcasm nearly choked him.
Coming straight to his house to humiliate him. Even Voldemort hadn't been this despicable.
But something didn't add up. Had he done anything recently to offend this little menace?
Snape couldn't figure it out, but Tom had already made himself at home, strolling through the living room and into the small backyard.
The yard wasn't large, maybe ten meters across, with a single orange tree planted in the middle. Nothing else stood out.
Tom barely glanced at it. Instead, he looked next door. Just beyond the wall, the neighboring house was abandoned and falling apart, moss crawling over the walls, ivy spreading like a spiderweb across broken windows and red brick.
"What are you looking at?" Snape asked stiffly, irritation boiling over.
What the hell did Riddle come here for?
"Nothing…"
Tom didn't turn around. He leaned closer to the wall, curiosity plain in his eyes. "This is where Lily Potter lived, right? You taught her magic here? Then you both went to Hogwarts together?"
"Wait, that doesn't make sense. Her sister's still alive, isn't she? How did the family home end up like this?"
"Avada—"
Tom vanished like a ghost.
Snape's arm dropped hard as it was pinned in place. Tom's voice sounded right beside him. "Professor, that's crossing a line. Since when do teachers use Unforgivable Curses on students?"
"And since when do students kick down a professor's door like a bandit and try to piss him to death?"
The muscles in Snape's face twitched violently. For the first time in years, he felt real regret.
He should have beaten this brat senseless back when he still could.
Now it was too late. One-on-one, he didn't even get the chance to cast a spell. He had never seen Apparition that fast in his life.
"Professor, calm down," Tom said patiently, as if lecturing a child. "You're the greatest double agent in the wizarding world. Acting on emotion won't do. I was just testing your tolerance, and you already snapped. How are you supposed to face Voldemort like that?"
"I don't even know where the hell Voldemort is!" Snape snarled. "Ok, don't give me excuses. This is about those two points I took from you last term, isn't it? Don't think I don't know."
Tom's heart skipped.
Damn it. He'd waited this long to come stirring trouble, and Snape still saw right through him.
Typical. His Head of House was just as petty as he was.
"Professor, let bygones be bygones."
Tom's expression remained unreadable. He waved his hand, and the world shifted. In the next instant, they were standing in the dim living room again. He snapped his fingers, and every oil lamp flared to life, warmth and light pushing back the lingering chill.
Tom picked out the cleanest, most comfortable armchair, pulled over a blanket, and draped it across his legs. Only then did he settle in and speak again.
"Looks like Dumbledore didn't tell you much. You've heard about what happened at Gringotts Wizarding Bank in Egypt, right?"
Snape's eyes sharpened. He followed instantly. "That was Voldemort?"
"Yes. He was already on the verge of resurrection back then. Unfortunately for him, he ran into me."
Tom pressed his wand to his temple and drew out thin strands of silvery mist. With a soft breath, the mist solidified into vivid images, replaying Voldemort's death in full detail for Snape to see.
"After that… he's still not dead?" Snape whispered, shock and bitterness burning in his eyes.
Tom laughed quietly. "Now you understand why Dumbledore fears him so much. It's not power. It's the things he's done to stay alive. Things no sane person could imagine. Even I have to admire that kind of persistence."
"And what does this have to do with you coming here?" Snape asked, already regaining his composure. His face went blank again. "You want me to find him? Go back to being a spy? He won't trust me now."
"Using a potions master as a spy is a waste," Tom said with a sigh. "If you wanted, you could ignore all this mess. Just wait. He'll fall into my hands eventually."
"But given the hatred between you," he added calmly, "you won't be able to do that. So I have a proposal."
Tom folded his fingers atop the blanket. Snape stared straight into the boy's deep, unreadable eyes. "What proposal?"
"Focus on what you're actually best at," Tom said softly. "Professor, your strength hasn't really improved in a long time, has it?"
Snape's expression shifted. Once again, the boy had stabbed him right in the sore spot.
It wasn't that he hadn't improved at all. His magic had grown naturally over the years, and he had never neglected his training.
But those gains were insignificant in the face of the vast gap between him and the real monsters. He knew more spells now, and his stronger magic made them hit harder, yet there had been no real breakthrough. In the end, he was still trapped at the same level.
The biggest obstacle was his own heart.
He was the one who had doomed Lily. He was the one who passed on the prophecy. Voldemort had been the executioner, but the blade was his.
Snape lived with that torment every moment of every day, with no clear hope of revenge in sight. How could he ever truly calm himself, focus on magic, and dig deeper into his own potential?
Tom's appearance had given him a brief sense of urgency, a bit of pressure. But it didn't last long. After their joint ambush on Peter Pettigrew, Snape understood something very clearly.
No matter how hard he worked, he would never catch up to that monstrous student.
"When you backed me back then," Tom said, watching Snape's silence, "wasn't it because you wanted to use my hand to get rid of Voldemort?"
"Since that's the case, you might as well be more focused about it. Put all your energy into what you're best at. Help me research potions properly. Leave Voldemort to me."
Tom's voice was calm, almost casual. "I guarantee that before I kill him, I'll hand him over to you for a while. Long enough for you to really enjoy it. Do whatever you like to him."
Snape's still heart began to pound violently.
If anyone else had said this, he would have dismissed it as empty bravado. Even calling it a lie would have been generous.
But coming from Tom, it wasn't boasting. It was a promise.
Truth be told, even without a deal, the two Tom Riddles were destined to clash sooner or later. What truly tempted him was that last line.
Handing Voldemort over to him.
It was an offer he simply couldn't refuse.
"Riddle… are you serious?" Snape forced himself to suppress the urge to agree on the spot and asked cautiously. "Even Dumbledore wouldn't dare make a promise like that. Capturing someone alive and killing them are two very different things."
Tom waved his hand dismissively. "I'm still a fourth-year student. That alone is enough to see my future."
Snape nodded.
Yes. That alone really was enough.
"So all you need is for me to brew potions for you?"
"More or less. I need more potions, and stronger ones. I already have some ideas, but I don't have the time to develop them."
Sheets of parchment drifted out of Tom's pocket and settled onto the coffee table.
Snape glanced through a few at random, his heart skipping a beat.
None of the formulas were remotely respectable. They were powerful, dangerous, and absolutely the kind of thing that would be locked away in the Restricted Section.
Tom had the talent to be a true all-rounder, but not during this phase of rapid growth. Compared to his frequent use of alchemy, his potion skills had stagnated for a long time. What he handed to Snape were half-formed inspirations that would take enormous effort to brew.
Outsourcing them to Snape was the only realistic option.
"Oh, right. One more small thing," Tom added, remembering something. He casually told Snape about the morning's meeting while the man was still scribbling herb-reaction formulas.
"I want you to take part in the rank assessment, Professor. I think you'd get a very respectable evaluation."
"No." Snape replied without even looking up, irritation heavy in his voice.
"Come on. I'll give you a few bottles of Strengthening Draught."
Snape froze.
He slowly set the parchment down and looked up, his face suddenly solemn. "Wizards really do need a system like that. I think participating would be good. It would be unfortunate if professors from other schools started thinking I was on the same level as them."
Tom gave him a thumbs-up, speechless at how fast Snape could change his tune.
With both objectives accomplished, Tom didn't linger. Before leaving, he even fixed Snape's front door. Unfortunately, the ill-mannered Head of House offered no thanks at all. Instead, he quietly resolved to deduct a few more points next term.
---
The next day, Tom arrived openly on the island housing Azkaban, Ministry Travel Permit in hand.
The moment the first Dementor spotted him, the entire island erupted into chaos.
For the being who had slaughtered hundreds of their kind, the Dementors' memory was crystal clear. The panic wasn't about revenge.
It was about running for their lives.
Tom stared at the scattering black shapes, utterly speechless. He hadn't expected Dementors to be this cowardly. He quickly cast a Patronus. Thick white mist poured from his palm, not forming a giant guardian, but spreading outward into a massive dome that covered most of the island.
It was an alternative application of the Patronus Charm. Even Tom had to admire Andros—he'd taken a single spell and used it to dominate an entire era.
After a few seconds, only a handful of Dementors at the very edge managed to escape being trapped. The rest let out wails that teetered on shrieks.
"Quiet."
The dome began to shrink, forcing hundreds of Dementors to cluster near Tom.
"Our previous grudge is settled. I'm not here for your lives today. I'm here to offer you a job."
"Food and lodging included. Better treatment than Azkaban. You've been gnawing on the prisoners here for so long anyway. How much happiness do you think is left in them?"
"Follow me and...…"
Just like Snape, the Dementors were tempted by the future Tom painted.
Two Dementors, noticeably larger than the rest and clearly leaders, drifted closer. A pulse of alien intent brushed against Tom's mind, and he understood at once.
All they cared about was one thing: "Food and lodging guaranteed?"
.
.
.