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Horace was never quite sure how it had happened. Oh, he had ‘collected’ students for years. He had an excellent eye for potential, and he wanted to nurture it. It gave him an immense sense of achievement to watch his students go out into the world and shine in whatever field they chose, and to know that he had helped to develop that talent. There had never been anything inappropriate before but, as was his way, Tom Riddle changed everything.
Tom was an excellent student. He was intelligent and quick, he had vast initiative and an icy sort of charm. You couldn’t say he was a friendly boy, but he certainly had charisma. A real self-starter, it was clear he would go far in whatever career he chose.
And, oh, but he was astute.
Horace took a great deal of pride in his role as Head of Slytherin House. Both as Head of House and as Potions Master he was careful to cultivate a welcoming and supportive manner. He rather thought, though he said it himself, that he was the most approachable of Hogwarts’ teachers.
Tom, on the other hand, was one of the least approachable students. It was quite strange really, because he was a popular lad, but his standoffishness seemed to inspire others to try and please him – it was something even Horace was not immune to. Which was probably where it all went wrong. Horace was terribly flattered when Tom sought extra tuition from him, as the boy seemed profoundly unimpressed by most of the other teachers.
Tom’s interests were wide and varied, and it was a little thrill to have an audience so curious and interested. There were many late evenings after the rest of the Slug Club had retired to the dorms when Tom sat up with him, eager to explore the wonders of magic. They didn’t invite any of the other students to stay. It was their little secret.
He could never quite remember how it happened the first time. They’d been discussing something moderately illicit under the restrictive regulations imposed by a fearful leadership at the Ministry. A little unpleasant perhaps, but nothing Dark as such. After that he had only the haziest impressions of the boy on his knees before him, himself protesting vaguely as the lad’s soft plump lips wrapped around his penis. He definitely remembered afterwards, though. The terrible guilt of taking advantage of a pupil warring with the tight, satisfied sensation in his gut as the boy’s tongue slipped out to lick up the last of Horace’s juices sliding down his chin. The smile on Tom’s face was sweet, but his eyes were cold and hard as he looked Horace in the eye saying, “It will be our little secret, Sir.”