The months following the Wizengamot session had been a whirlwind of relentless, secret activity. Minister Spencer-Moon, a man of quiet, unyielding courage, had proven to be a formidable ally. The Wizengamot, shaken from its fear-induced stupor, had reluctantly approved his new law, and a wave of magical volunteers, their courage reignited by Spencer-Moon's call to arms, had begun to flow across the Channel, a silent, unseen reinforcement for the beleaguered French magical community. Our clandestine council had been a silent, guiding force behind this, providing strategic intelligence, magical countermeasures, and a lifeline to a war that was now, irrevocably, our own.
My own work had been a constant cycle of research, training, and subtle manipulation. The "unseen hand" of my influence was now firmly at work. I had continued to place carefully chosen books and anonymous essays in the Hogwarts library, hoping that they would, over time, subtly influence Tom Riddle's guarded mind. My magical resonance sensing, a constant, low-level hum of awareness, had registered a faint, almost imperceptible shift in his magical aura, a flicker of curiosity, a brief moment of contemplation. It was a fragile, tenuous connection, but it was a connection nonetheless.
The date was July 28th, 1940. It was a warm, overcast day, the kind that promised a heavy summer rain. I had received a summons from Dumbledore, a coded message that spoke of a matter of "utmost discretion and importance" at Hogwarts. I Apparated to the outskirts of the castle grounds, my Draconic stealth charms at full power. The wards of the castle, ancient and powerful, were still a formidable barrier, but I was now an expert at navigating them. I slipped through them, a ghost in the magical ether, and made my way to the Headmaster's Office.
As I walked through the empty, silent corridors of Hogwarts, my magical resonance sensing registered a familiar, dark magical signature. It was Tom. He was in the common room, a solitary figure in the vast, empty space. My first instinct was to avoid him. My mission was to see Dumbledore. But a different, more powerful impulse, a whisper of a distant, terrifying future, urged me to approach him. This was a chance, a chance to see him, to talk to him, to see if my subtle, unseen influence had made any difference at all.
I walked towards the common room, my footsteps silent on the ancient stone floor. He was sitting in a large armchair by the crackling fire, a book in his hands. He looked up as I entered, his dark, intelligent eyes meeting mine. There was no surprise in his gaze, only a quiet, almost unsettling curiosity.
"Lord Starborn," he said, his voice calm and precise, betraying none of the internal turmoil that I knew, with a Legilimency-like certainty, was raging within him. "I did not expect to see you here. The school is empty."
"As are the corridors," I replied, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching my lips. "I am here to see Deputy Headmaster Dumbledore And you, Tom, what are you doing here? I thought all the students had returned home for the summer."
"They have," he said, his gaze returning to the fire. "I was… I was about to ask the Headmaster for a favor. A special dispensation to allow me to stay here during the holidays."
I felt a pang of sorrow, a deep, aching sadness for the boy who sat before me. His magical aura, usually a tight, controlled knot of power, was now a fragile, vulnerable thing, a reflection of his own desperate loneliness.
"And why is that, Tom?" I asked, my voice soft, but my gaze unwavering. "Are you not fond of your… home?"
He flinched, a subtle, almost imperceptible tremor in his hands. "My 'home' is an orphanage, Lord Starborn," he said, his voice cold and hard, a defensive wall snapping into place. "It is in London. In the Muggle world. A world that is, I believe, now on the brink of a full-scale war. The growing dangers there… they are not something I am capable of dealing with. The chaos and violence of the Muggle world, it is… it is a threat to my safety. I thought, with the Headmaster's permission, I could stay here. Hogwarts is safe. Hogwarts is a sanctuary. I thought it would be the best place for me to be."
I felt a cold dread settle in my gut. This was it. This was the moment. The moment that would define his future. His desperate plea for a home, for a sanctuary, a desperate hope that Hogwarts, the only place he had ever truly felt a sense of belonging, would be his refuge.
"Tom," I said, my voice gentle but firm. "I am sorry to have to tell you this. But according to the ancient charter of Hogwarts, no student, no matter how dire their situation, is allowed to stay here during the holidays. The castle is a place of learning. It is not a place of refuge. It is a place where we learn to fight the darkness, not to hide from it."
He looked up at me, his face a mask of disappointment, a flicker of pure, unadulterated fear in his dark, intelligent eyes. "But... but what am I to do? I cannot go back there. The orphanage... it is not safe. It is not a place for a wizard. I... I have nowhere else to go."
My heart ached for him. The boy, who was already on a path of darkness, was now on the brink of a profound, soul-crushing despair. This was my chance. This was the moment. The moment to offer him an alternative, a different path.
"Tom," I said, my voice soft, but my gaze unwavering. "There is another way. The charter of Hogwarts, while it does not allow you to stay here, does not forbid a student from being removed from their home if it is deemed to be a dangerous environment. But it requires someone from the magical world to take on your guardianship, to provide for you until you reach magical maturity. The Headmaster, I am sure, would be more than willing to approve of such a request, if only a wizard were willing to take on the responsibility."
He stared at me, his face a mask of disbelief. "Guardianship? But... but who would take on the guardianship of an orphan like me? A Muggle-born orphan? No one from the magical world would ever do that. They have their own families. They have their own lives. They have their own prejudices." His words were a bitter, cynical testament to the darkness that was already festering within him.
My heart ached for him. But I knew, with a certainty that was as cold and hard as a diamond, that I had to do this. I had to offer him a different path. I had to offer him a different future.
"Tom," I said, my voice low and steady. "You are not a Muggle-born orphan. You are a wizard. And you are a wizard of immense power. And you are a wizard who is destined for greatness. I believe that. And I believe that you deserve a chance to live, to learn, to grow, without the fear of a Muggle war hanging over your head. And I believe that you deserve to have a home. A magical home."
He stared at me, his face a mask of confusion, a flicker of a new emotion in his dark, intelligent eyes. Hope.
"I will do it, Tom," I said, my voice a solemn promise. "I will take on your guardianship. I will provide for you until you reach magical maturity. I will give you a home. A magical home. A home at Castle Starborn. I am a wizard of your world, and a wizard of your age. I am a man you know from before. I believe that I am the best person to take on this responsibility. And I believe that you are a boy who deserves a chance at better future and a safer present."
He stared at me, his face a mask of utter, profound shock. He was a boy who had never been given anything. He was a boy who had been defined by his solitude, his isolation, his lack of a family. And now, I was offering him a family. A home. A future.
He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. He was a boy who had built a wall of steel around his emotions, and I had, in a single moment, shattered it. I could feel his emotional turmoil, a chaotic, swirling maelstrom of confusion, surprise, and a desperate, agonizing hope.
I reached into my robes and pulled out a small piece of parchment and a self-inking quill. I quickly wrote a formal, legalistic note, a declaration of my intent to take on Tom's guardianship, and my agreement to provide for him until he reached magical maturity. I signed it with my full name, Marcus Starborn, and handed it to him.
"Take this, Tom," I said, my voice gentle. "Take this to Headmaster Dippet in the morning. He will know what to do. And he will know that you are no longer a boy without a home. You are a wizard with a family. A magical family. A family who will protect you. A family who will give you a second chance."
He took the parchment, his hands trembling slightly. He looked at it, his eyes wide with a profound, almost terrifying, disbelief. He looked at me, a flicker of an emotion that was so raw, so pure, so unadulterated, that it was almost painful to witness. Gratitude.
"Thank you," he said, his voice a hoarse, almost inaudible whisper. He quickly stuffed the parchment into his robes, turned, and walked off, his shoulders hunched, his pace quickening as he disappeared down the corridor. He was a boy who had just been given a lifeline, and he was running from it, afraid to look back, afraid to show the raw, profound emotions that I had, in a single moment, unearthed.
I watched him go, a faint, sad smile on my face. The work of saving Tom Riddle was just beginning. It would be a long, arduous, and difficult journey. But I had taken the first step. And I knew, with a certainty that was as cold and hard as a diamond, that it was the right one. The unseen hand, having found its first, most crucial target, was now ready to move from the shadows into the light. The fight for Tom's soul was about to begin.