Harry Potter : Chapter 79: Hunters II
"Filius." Hagrid rolled his eyes, "I'm sure a wizard of your caliber can manage using his name, Tom. But since you've brought it up."
Smiling openly to show that he was extremely aware of the fact that the conversation had veered onto the topic of the First Year Ravenclaw because of him, the tallest wizard asked.
"how much will I have to wait to see him pass your tests?"
...
Riddle's expression closed off, his blank face not giving away how much he still opposed the idea off adding others to the Rùnda despite the logical arguments that had been offered since Hagrid first unilaterally decided to set Filius Flitwick feet on the path that would eventually lead to what Tom had always perceived almost like a personal fiefdom.
"I'll figure something out before the end of the year, so that we can get him on board before Minerva graduates."
"And I'm almost done with mine." the Gryffindor witch grinned while Tom sealed the last barrel, her eyes still carrying an echo of the triumph felt when the three had conquered their prey, and she swiftly levitated them inside the magically crafted white chest, arranging them so that the many glass jars filled with brews meant to preserve their contents could be easily accessible."
"It'll take me a few hours to finish." Rubeus gave a hard, analytical stare to the carcass, "You're in time to return to Hogwarts and do your finishing touches on Old Sluggy for the selling, Tom, and for Minerva to get the papers from Gringotts for the transactions. Tomorrow is Sunday, no? We can get everything done once we're all back."
Riddle's eyes regarded Rubeus cooly for a second, before he pulled out a green and silver woolen scarf from under his robes, wrapping it securely around his left wrist before offering the loose end to the only witch present: "Ready when you are, Minerva."
"We still need to discuss whether there are parts of the body we don't want to sell: I know that you wanted a barrel of the blood set aside for you, Tom, but maybe...?" the witch green eyes observed with distaste the Slytherin scarf she had been offered.
"We can discuss that tomorrow morning." Riddle rose an eyebrow to underline how transparent her attempts to delay the departure were, "Now, if you will?"
"Are you sure you'll be fine finishing here alone?" Minerva asked to Rubeus's amusement and Tom's thinning patience.
"We heavily warded the area..." the Slytherin prefect began to answer.
"And you two are apparently too frail to be competent at Apparition, never mind the idea of taking too many portkeys across too big of a distance." Rubeus eyes shone with mirth: "You can't push back your return trip with false concern, sneaky witch."
"It wasn't false concern, you oaf!"
"Using a truth to your advantage, then." Riddle's smile positively oozed superiority: "How Slytherin of you, Minerva."
The witch pursed her lips in distaste for what she was about to do. Besides the common distaste for portkey travel, there was the much more visceral distaste that she held for anything that could associate her with the Slytherin Quidditch team, which was the thing that most came close to being her nemesis at Hogwarts.
Her conflict was plain to see, painted on her features, but in the end, her logical mind prevailed: "Fine, but I'm choosing the next portkey!"
Her iron grip closed around the Slytherin scarf, only for a flicker of rage to appear on her face when Riddle replied gibly: "You'll choose the portkey when you'll be the one to cast the charm. Portus."
The scarf glowed blue for a split second, and before Minerva could utter her reply, the two were yanked away from the battered clearing in an uprising, twirling spiral of intermingling colors that immediately vanished from Rubeus senses, leaving him behind as he chuckled and resumed his work.
...
Slughorn's office was as always an incredibly cozy place, ill-suited for those rare situations in which the head of Slytherin House had to discipline a student personally: there was just too much that underlined the kind of stress-free life that the man pursued to make him look anything but the comfortable, gluttonous walrus that he was.
Not that being stern had ever been a tool in his arsenal: he was very much a man that preferred using honey, rather than vinegar, to get his charges to do as they should.
And on those few occasions that needed a firmer hand ... well, his cunning fully bled through, and the events either conspired to have the peers of the students in trouble correct the issue, or to have a whisper travel up to the parents, which reeled in their children with a single letter: after all.
Those who had much to loose could easily be brought to heel by obliquely threatening those very same things, and the much rarer people that were sorted into Slytherin despite the absence of the kind of prestige almost implicit in the house of Salazar... they naturally hungered for what they saw their peers enjoy, and were much faster on the uptake.
So, flames danced merrily in the fireplace, the large, mahogany desk stood off to one side, and a crystal chandelier glittered from the stone ceiling.
Nobody was really holding the situation with the kind of somber determination that business ventures needed: Old Sluggy was sitting in a puffy armchair, nursing his heavily honeyed tea, while Tom finished talking shop, the grinning but the quiet presence of Hagrid behind him lending credit to the proposal.
Not that I'd doubt Tom, of course. Horace smiled before putting down his cup of tea: Riddle belonged very much to the category of students that wanted the prestige that only old families had.
And he was far too brilliant under every point of view to risk his standing in Slughorn's eyes, far too perfectly calculating to not realize that a failed venture of this kind would be an undeniable set back on the prefect's first step in the world outside Hogwarts.
On the students' side, Riddle was well aware that being too explicit, as Hagrid was used to do, would have Slughorn huff and bluster, refusing to acknowledge how mercenary he truly was.
Which was ridiculous, at least in Tom's eyes: Hagrid too played the game of pretending civility when outside the Rùnda, but he at least realized just how much time it burned away.
"Of course professor, we'd feel much more comfortable with this plan if you'd be willing to test the quality of the supplies, it wouldn't do to lose face just as we began with our business, and the professional opinion of a wizard as distinguished as you..." and just with that, Slughorn was completely sold on the idea.
The memory of werewolf fur casually gifted by Hagrid was too close for it to be in any other way.
"Well, Tom, if you and Rubeus insist... I suppose it would also help me direct you toward the best people for you to begin to establish relationships with. When it comes to business, you don't want to start off with the wrong foot, my boy."
Then the walrus in wizard's skin eyes gleamed with barely leashed greed as they fell on the oak trunk that the two students had carried into the office of their Head of House.
It had taken several encounters for Tom to float the idea in the correct manner for it to be tantalizing without being forgettable or perceived as being too risky, but he knew how to direct people where he needed them to be, and he did enjoy being able to do so.
It was that appreciation for the success of subtle, elegant maneuvers that Hagrid lacked, and that made him a mediocre player of chess.
It was that utter absence of interest for anything that wasn't directly related to magic, that prevented Rubeus from being anything but a piece on the board for Riddle to exploit.
Slughorn's eyes widened when a carefully chosen selection of supplies was taken out of the trunk, showcasing everything from Hydra's blood and scales, to what looked like fresh Chimaera's blood, fangs, and hide.
A small jar containing one of the precious supplies was lifted and held against the light offered by the crystal chandelier while the older wizard let out a soft, delighted belly laugh.
"Oh my, truly you embrace the best virtues of our House, boys! To begin building a business venture before even leaving Hogwarts, such ambition! Yes, I dare say that I'll be able to help you two get started!"
"By any chance professor, would you be able to help me acquire an ingot of mercury alchemically altered so that it'd retain the properties of iron?" Hagrid's voice, which had remained absent for most of the meeting, rumbled in the office, causing Riddle to sigh in exasperation and the Head of House Slytherin to turn curiously towards the youngest of his extraordinary pupils.
"Oh?" the walrus in wizard skin arched a curious eyebrow, "Surely you thought about asking our own Professor Dumbledore for that, I wonder, why might you need it for?"
"What else?" Riddle sighed exasperatedly, annoyed with his companion because he had added a request on top of everything that the teacher had already agreed with without talking about it between themselves first, "His 'cure' for Lycanthropy."
"Tom?" Horace's gaze returned to Riddle, "You're collaborating with Rubeus?"
"He's keeping me abreast of some of his ideas." the prefect replied dismissively, resisting the urge of pinching the bridge of his nose: Rubeus had clearly just thought about asking Slughorn for the thing that he didn't dare risk to interest Dumbledore with, but being so impulsive could be damaging in other occasions.
It was the same foolish mistake that brought the taller Slytherin wizard to unilaterally decide to have a first-year Ravenclaw join the Rùnda. I need to do something about it.
"How marvelous!" the professor's voice stole Tom from his own thoughts and plans, bringing him back to the present, to the polite, eager smile that he offered so easily to the professors of the school.
"Truly, I did hope that working on the Felix Felicis would show you how much you could accomplish together, but I thought you'd bee both too prideful to accept the obvious advantages! Well done boys, well done indeed!"
After the almost mandatory 'thank yous', Horace's attention returned to Rubeus: "I have to send a pair of letters, but I don't see why I wouldn't be able to get you what you asked of me, my boy: just let me know if you come close to succeeding!"
At the end of the day, more thanks to Tom's work than anything else, Slughorn had agreed to inform the students of the 'right buyer' in exchange for a limited quantity of supplies.
Simply enough, he'd hold on to the most interesting pieces, in doses that he'd find immediately useful for his brews, aware that while he was in a position that allowed him to rob blind his pupils, he'd gain much more, in the long term, by keeping them well disposed towards him.
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