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Relief and disappointment were constant companions that Tom’s eleven-year-old mind warred with in his first two months at Hogwarts.

He was pleasantly surprised to discover that he was not just gifted in the muggle world, but in the magical world as well. While the wordy paragraphs in their textbooks were confusing for most, Tom, who had grown up reading even more convoluted passages from science textbooks and classical literature, found them straight forward and self-explanatory. Not once did he fail to perform each new spell within the period, earning both house points and the commendation of his professors. His outstanding memory, which had been sharpened by his ever-present desire to be nothing but the best, had aided him in answering all of his professors’ questions, as well as memorizing all the recipes and ingredients for his Potions class. 

He was remarkably pleased with the facilities, and the food that Hogwarts served as well. He could freely eat as much as he wanted, taste something other than porridge or gruel in the mornings, drink hot chocolate and juice instead of sour-tasting milk and gray tap water. At Hogwarts, he was no longer forced to wash other people’s clothes and clean up their messes, no longer beaten for harming others who had meant to harm him first. He slept in a soft bed that wasn’t perforated with loose springs, and had pillows that didn’t feel like wet cardboard under his head. 

However, there were still quite a few similarities between the orphanage and Hogwarts, leaving much to be desired. In fact, his academic excellence was perhaps the only favorable aspect that traced back to his grody muggle life. With that being said, it was most probably the single thing Tom had liked about that particular period in his life.

But one of the vilest constants that refused to be shaken off were the worms that dared touch him.

“Watch it, Mudblood!” 

Crabbe crashed into Tom’s body, forcing him to stumble to the side and instinctively catch himself with a hand on the sharp, edgy stones of the wall. The wall dug mercilessly into his palm, eliciting a surprised and pained hiss. Goyle snickered behind him. “Sorry, our bad.” His tool of a lackey had already insulted Tom before throwing himself at him, mercy, of course it was their damned bad. The tip of an iron-hot dagger lightly twisted Tom’s intestines over the bubbling fire of his irritation and stung pride. 

I want to make you hurt. 

In startling contrast to Tom lifting his chin and straightening his back, two thumps echoed in the empty hallway as Crabbe and Goyle fell to the polished floor. A pair of unsynchronized and gurgled gasps followed. They twitched on the marble, hands flying to their throats with eyes that threatened to pop out of their sockets. 

“Pay very close attention,” Tom’s voice dropped, very much like a deadly green snake creeping in the tall grasses and slowly encircling its fearful and frozen prey. “How does it feel to know that I am so much more?” 

You will not have the respite that air is sure to give. You will hurt. You will feel pain. Tom watched them, vindictive and expressionless, the dagger now buried to the hilt in his insides and his rage a roaring bonfire, volatile and almost uncontrollable. 

But Tom Riddle had control. 

Despite his diligence, he was still shunned by most of his housemates for being a muggleborn. A “mudblood”, they called him, sneering at him as if Tom wasn’t stronger, as if Tom wasn’t smarter, as if Tom wasn’t any better than their pathetic attempts at casting a wand-lighting spell when even his professors couldn’t deny that he would be great one day . It was disillusioning to know that even wizards and witches were not exempt from the very human and very insensible prejudice that only served as a hindrance to progress. 

He walked away calmly, leaving the two to desperately grasp at the floor as they hastily returned from the border between consciousness and death.

Of course, Tom had never entertained the idea of letting his housemates’ phase of ignorance continue for long. The worms would be easy to terrorize, just as easy as it was in the orphanage.

Before Tom Riddle bore witness to Harry Potter tipping over and falling off of his broom, he had interacted with the bespectacled boy a total of eleven times. And although neither Tom nor Harry would remember it in their fifth year, it started in their first Potions class. 

"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making.” Severus Snape, the Slytherin Head of House and their irascible Potions Professor spoke, his words deceivingly soft. Everyone inside the classroom, most especially the Gryffindors, stood a little straighter in their seats, eyes wide. Tom was not one of them. He crossed his legs and sat back, paying attention to the Potions Master but refusing to be cowed. “As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don't expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through the human veins, bewitching the minds, ensnaring the senses,” Snape nearly whispered, robes rustling quietly as he paced in front of his desk in a deliberate manner. How dramatic. 

He could hear someone from the other side of the classroom let out a shaky breath. The way the Lions did not even bother hiding their discomfort and wariness was amusing, but Tom couldn’t really blame them. It was their first time hearing the intimidating man speak, after all, and Tom had quickly learned that most of the children here, while magical, could be just as brainless and as cowardly as the children in the orphanage. Snape continued, “I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, and even stopper death—if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."

He spun to face the nearest Gryffindor, his tone sharp and commanding.

“Potter! What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?” 

Shocked, the raven-haired boy sitting at the front could only stare, his mouth falling open. Tom recognized him as Harry Potter, a small boy with big, wire-rimmed glasses, and who clearly did not make a habit of reading in advance. Hermione Granger, the bushy-haired girl beside him with a know-it-all voice that Tom could hear two classrooms away, raised her own hand, but Snape ignored her pointedly.  “I… I don’t know, sir,” he murmured miserably. Professor Snape sneered, opening his mouth as if he was about to comment on Potter’s lack of brain cells, but surprisingly turned around and called another instead. Granger lowered her own hand, biting her lip in uncertainty.

“Tell me, Mr. Malfoy, where would you look if I asked you to get me a bezoar?”

“In the stomach of a goat, sir,” answered Malfoy, none of his typical arrogance present. Interesting. So, Malfoy was perfectly capable of not acting like an insufferable brat after all. Fear was what disciplined him. 

“Two points to Slytherin. What is the difference, Mr. Longbottom, between monkshood and wolfsbane?”

Longbottom paled considerably, hunching over his desk. A beat passed and Tom was almost sure that he didn’t know the answer, when he opened his mouth, “T-t-they’re the same plant, s-sir.” A stammering Lion. He of all people knew it unwise to hold on to first impressions, but was Neville Longbottom truly fit to be in the house of the brave?

“One point from Gryffindor, as you failed to mention that they also go by the name of ‘aconite’.” It was almost humorous, how their Head of House didn’t even bother to try and hide his bias towards them. Then again, it would only be right, as most professors were biased against them. “If you know the answer, Mr. Longbottom, you best speak up, or else no one will ever realize that you are of a higher variance than Mr. Potter here.” Snape sneered maliciously. A few students glanced at him, curious how the Gryffindor would react, but Potter merely sat unaffected. “Well, why aren’t you all writing that down?” Snape snarled after a quiet moment when his insult fell flat, his voice ringing distinctly in the silence of the dungeons. At his bark, the classroom erupted into action and noise as students clamored to reach for their quills and parchment, some of them knocking over their inkpots and bags. Tom, who had already read his Potions textbook cover to cover, continued to observe while absent-mindedly writing down on a scrap of parchment for show. 

If someone walked in the room right now, they wouldn’t quite believe that Potter had just been unfairly picked apart by Snape. The way he watched Snape with semi-focused eyes was the way of a student who was fortunate enough to have avoided being called upon. Those eyes weren’t defensive or defiant, nor were there any indications of his previous embarrassment. They were almost blank. Many with a keen eye would say that Potter hid behind a well-constructed mask to conceal his emotions.

But Tom had a better eye. 

When Tom brushed past him because he was walking too slow on the way to the potions cabinet, Potter did not react either. He stared straight ahead, unchanging in his unhurried pace to where the snake fangs were stored.

It wasn’t that Potter was hiding his emotions. He simply did not feel much at the time.

Tom noticed all this, yet he did not take a personal interest. Not when there were other more idiotic Gryffindors to dislike.

The second time he got involved with Potter was nearly two months later. 

“Now, don’t forget that nice wrist movement that we’ve been practicing!” squeaked Flitwick, as he stepped down from his pile of books that served as his elevated platform. “Swish and flick, remember, swish and flick!” Tom did just that, frowning when the feather refused to hover over his shared desk with the quiet Potter boy. He wasn’t having much luck either, having already tried a few times before Tom. Finnigan, who was in the next table over, seemed to be having the same problem. 

“Wingardia Leviosum!” Finnigan chanted. Well, Tom had no questions as to why that didn’t work. Furrowing his eyebrows, Tom was just about to try again when Finnigan, in his frustration, poked his feather with his wand. 

The feather burst into flames. 

Without a word, Potter grabbed the ridiculous hat all first-years were required to buy but never wore and reached out to fan the feather with two large sweeps, extinguishing the fire effectively. It was perhaps a good thing that Potter had a rather poor sense of style and was one of the very few first-years that actually thought to bring the damned thing with them. 

Another tragedy was the fact that Weasley and Granger were assigned together, and even more unfortunately, were seated in the table in front of Tom. 

“Wingardium Leviosa!” Weasley shouted, his gangly limbs flailing about. Utterly disgraceful. Tom flicked his wrist, the incantation falling from his lips, and was unable to hide his self-satisfied smile when the feather rose skywards to levitate near his forehead. Directing it with his wand, he swung it around and aimed it at Potter’s temple in a rare show of childishness, smirking as the green-eyed boy laughed quietly and shied away from the gentle tap of Tom’s feather.

“You’re saying it wrong,” Granger reprimanded. “It’s Win-gar-dium Levi-o-sa, not Levio- sah.” Potter sat up straighter and turned to face his own immobile feather with a newfound determination, completely ignoring his two housemates’ little squabble. Tom watched him as he waved his wand and murmured the spell, but the feather only twitched in place. 

Smugly, Tom flicked Potter’s forehead with his still levitating feather. Potter scowled at him but tried again, his expression brightening once the feather trembled and soared upwards shakily. Tom caught a brief flash of Potter’s mischievous grin before his steadily levitating feather was attacked by Potter’s wobbly one. 

“You do it, then, if you’re so clever!” Weasley challenged. Tom retaliated, smacking Harry’s feather when it tried to shove him backwards.

Granger ostentatiously pushed the sleeves of her long robes back and cleared her throat, raising her wand. “Wingardium Leviosa!” Tom tore his eyes away from his feather fight with Potter and observed the girl’s technique, completely unsurprised when Granger’s feather plucked itself from the desk and rose high. Unlike Tom’s, it didn’t stop at her forehead. It floated higher and higher, until it was about four feet off the table. 

“Oh, well done!” Flitwick finally noticed. “Everyone see here, Ms. Granger has done it. Ah, Mr. Riddle and Mr. Potter, splendid control you both have over there. Most impressive!”

Granger shot up from her seat and spun around, gasping just as Tom acquiesced and allowed Harry to tackle his feather and pin it to the desk. 

“How did you do that?” she demanded. Potter leaned back a bit, taken by surprise at the girl’s loud and bossy tone. After a few moments of hesitation, he opened his mouth.

“I watched Riddle,” he answered his fellow Gryffindor with slight confusion, his soft voice a slight shock to Tom. It was the first time he had heard the boy speak, and Salazar, it was a barely noticeable little thing that was as light as the wind. His explanation did not seem to appease the girl, and so she rounded on Tom next. Without the girl’s concentration directed towards it, the feather broke free from the enchantment and descended, fluttering to rest on top of Weasley’s bright (literally, not figuratively) head. 

Tom fought back a wave of annoyance and gave the girl a false smile.

“I simply pointed my wand to the direction where I wanted it to go, and I urged the feather to stop when I felt as if it was getting a little too high.”

“There must be some technique, you can’t just urge it to stop when you want it too!” She pressed.

Tom blinked, falling easily into his illusion of a childish mix between curiosity and fascination. “But I just did.” Granger still didn’t look as if she believed him, but decided to give up and try to figure it out herself. 

Potter tapped his shoulder, mouthing a “sorry” and tipping his head towards his presumed friend. Tom waved the apology away and flipped their feathers’ positions instead, flattening Potter’s in victory. The raven-haired boy squeaked and tried to guide his upwards, but it was futile to try and escape the grip of Tom’s enchanted object. 

He crossed his arms, huffing in defeat and Tom’s smirk grew wider. 

And when Tom listened in on a ridiculous conversation about how Potter and Weasley broke away from the other Gryffindors, to try and “save“ Granger from the mountain troll that found its way into the castle, he simply sighed in his head. So, his Charms partner actually had some spine. That, or he was a raving madman. 

Tom did not dare react to the insults that the Slytherins from fourth year and above threw at him. But, he was aware that the few who looked straight every once in a while were confused as to why those closest to his age range had taken to giving him a wide berth. Little did they know that the chestnut-haired wizard had taken the time and effort to torture or blackmail the younger ones into submission. Tom still found it dreadfully disappointing that he was forced to go through the same boring mind games as he had played in the orphanage, but perhaps no place was truly perfect. 

However, there were two Slytherin boys in their dorm that Tom had been satisfied with. 

Theodore Nott was quiet and preferred solitude most of the time, although it would do others to remember that still waters run deep. Blaise Zabini, on the other hand, was much more at ease in interacting with other people, and although he at first seemed to be too different from someone like Nott, Tom observed that these two shared quite the handful of traits. 

They were both quite adept at magic, for one. 

Zabini was as skilled in Potions as Malfoy, which was admittedly a bigger accomplishment than one may think. However, he was more knowledgeable in Herbology, which, combined with his alleged affinity for brewing poison, made him a potentially dangerous fellow indeed. Nott himself had a penchant for Charms and Transfiguration, his creativity and unique way of thinking bleeding into his work. 

Second, they had both been acquainted with death. Tom, Zabini and Nott were the only ones in the dorm that could see the midnight black horses that were the Thestrals in the Hogwarts stables. From what Tom could deduce, one of Nott’s parents had died in his early life. Zabini’s history, on the other hand, was not a big secret. It was a well known fact that his ruinously beautiful mother had a string of lovers longer than Akutagawa’s spider thread, all of whom had unfortunately been ensnared by death. Or by Ms. Zabini’s poison, more like.

And the most relevant similarity of all: they had never made a fool of themselves by scorning Tom. The two didn’t go so far as to stay ten feet away from him, but were instead very polite and business-like when partnered up with him for a class. At first, Tom had suspected that Crabbe and Goyle had gone crying to them and Malfoy, but one calculating look at the two trolls had them shrinking away. Tom concluded that it wasn’t likely.

Enlightenment had come to him in the form of an overheard conversation in the library, shortly after Halloween. 

“Hey. Theo.”

“Shut up, Blaise. I’m reading.”

“No, listen, Theo, this is important, I swear.”

Tom straightened his back, the thumb that had been rubbing the spine of a book thoughtfully now frozen as he forced his muscles to stay still and his breathing to grow quiet. 

He heard an irritated sigh, presumably from Nott. “Alright, let’s hear it then.”

“Did you know a third year girl came crying to me about Riddle? We’re two years her junior.” Ah, yes. Tom remembered how perfectly the sneer fell from her face as Tom willed her to kneel. 

“Salazar, a third year this time.” Nott muttered. This time? Tom thought gleefully in his head. So, he was truly feared among the younger half of the Slytherin House. He caught the sound of wood creaking—Nott had leaned back in his seat. “Well, we’ve already concluded in the past that muggleborns were not as weak as we once thought they were. Perhaps we could’ve let Riddle slide, but we’ve seen what Hermione Granger is capable of. So?”

“So what?”

“So why bother bringing Riddle up again?”

“Because he’s bloody dangerous, that’s why!” Zabini answered in a hushed yet frantic voice. “I bet my gobstones that Crabbe and Goyle had been one of the first. They don’t even dare to glance at him in the dorm, or even in class.” 

“Honestly, Blaise, I still fail to see why Riddle’s activities are of any importance to us, as long as we keep our heads low and stay out of his business.” 

“Other than the fact that we are now confronted with the overwhelming proof of our fallacious beliefs?” Zabini knocked over some books, the pages rustling as they fluttered and the spines making loud thumps that Tom could hear as they hit the ground noisily. “Morgana,” Zabini huffed exasperatedly, the rustle of cloth indicating that he was shoving his scattered books in his bag. “Don’t you see, Nott? He’s powerful, practically an angel in the eyes of anyone who isn’t in Slytherin, and that includes the teachers. But he’s using his power to hurt.”

“I don’t want to defend the mudbloods,” Tom’s eye twitched at the derogatory term, his lowered fist clenching. At the derogatory term that applied to him as well. “But he’s not exactly in the wrong. He had most probably been provoked by all of those who fell victim to his raw strength.”

“He practically tortured them. That nightmare that Crabbe insisted was of a Hippogriff? I’m pretty sure he murmured ‘Riddle’ in his sleep that night.”

“Yes, but as long as we don’t go foolishly looking for trouble ourselves, we should be fine.”

Zabini let out a laugh that sounded far too high-pitched. “You know, I was actually kind of expecting you to say something ridiculous like befriending him or something.”

Nott let out an uncharacteristic snort. “Are you daft? No way in hell am I ever putting myself in a position where I could be in Riddle’s line of fire, whether he grows up to be influential or not.”

“Huh, I guess not.” A pause. “Do… do you think that he’s some sort of psychopath, giving out sweet smiles like candy while possibly plotting murders in his head?”

“That sounds absolutely ridiculous, yet a hundred percent possible.”

Tom smirked. Zabini and Nott were starting to get the right idea. 

He didn’t need friends. He needed to be feared.  

But all children can slip up, even a child prodigy as brilliant as Tom Riddle. As he reveled in what he thought was a milestone in his journey in Hogwarts, a wide-eyed Gryffindor covered his mouth in horror in the next bookshelf over.

It had been five minutes in their second Flying class with the Gryffindors, but apparently, five minutes was all it took for things to end up in an utter disaster.

“Well, what are you all dawdling there by yourselves for?” Madam Hooch, the grey-haired and yellow-eyed Flying instructor barked. “Go stand beside a broomstick and command it to go up, like how we practiced last time.”

The Gryffindors hurried to one straight line of broomsticks while the Slytherins walked towards the other. Tom peered distrustfully at the old wooden twig, resisting the urge to nudge the unkempt and tangled bristles with his shoe. 

“Everyone, follow after me. Up!” She boomed, her broomstick springing up from the ground to jump into her hand. 

“Up!” everyone echoed, however to Tom’s consternation, the broom hadn’t followed immediately, although it was more pliable this time compared to the first session. It took the piece of wood two seconds before it soared into his palm. Looking around, he could see that many were also having trouble with their brooms, although he could see that most purebloods had no trouble at all. 

Because they have been flying all their lives, Tom narrowed his eyes, hand tightening around his broomstick, but relaxing at once. Fine. Handicapped or not, Tom was still going to be better than all of them, even if he had to tear those who stepped up as competition apart. 

Even if he had to destroy himself to get there. 

After Madam Hooch corrected a few stances and grips, she blew her whistle to command their attention back to her. “When I signal for you to kick off, keep your hands nice and steady, let yourselves rise a few feet before trying to move left and right. We can go ahead and do a few laps around the Pitch this time around. Prepare and get ready to kick hard on my whistle.” The witch brought up a bright purple whistle, holding out three fingers. “Three, two—”

Longbottom, lost in his nervousness, perhaps, kicked off too early, gasping as he was lurched upwards in the air. His fear must have wracked his brain, leaving him a whimpering mess that clutched on the broomstick for dear life as he shot up in the air. Tom’s eyebrows raised as his eyes followed the boy hurtling upwards at a dizzying height of perhaps twenty feet. 

Longbottom hadn’t revealed himself to be a talented flier in the first lesson, but frankly, this was a bit embarrassing.

Madam Hooch pointed her wand at her throat and muttered a spell, and then speaking as if she had a microphone on, boomed even louder, “Come back down, boy, lean forward and—” 

Tom noticed two things at once. His sharp eyes first noticed the way that the boy’s clammy hands slipped from the broomstick, and the way he was leaning dangerously to the left in a manner that suggested a painful fall. 

The second thing that Tom noticed was that Potter’s eyes had widened, having spotted it too. The look on his face was fearful, fearful for Longbottom’s safety? Why? But his horrified expression wasn’t what held Tom’s attention for a second too long. There was something familiar in the way Potter stared at the whimpering Gryffindor, in the way that he tightened his grip around his broomstick in determination. It was almost familiar. 

For some odd reason that he would not be able to identify for years to come, the sight of Potter swinging a leg over his broom and kicking off had Tom running after him a split second later. 

“Wingardium Leviosa!” Tom aimed his wand thoughtlessly at Longbottom and shouted the first spell that came into his mind, widening when he felt his magic and his wand, by extension, lurch at the weight it had to carry. Longbottom was still falling, albeit a fraction slower, but Potter who was speeding up towards him would definitely never catch him in time. He gritted his teeth, eyes ablaze and mouth twisted in a snarl, repeating the spell with more conviction.

“WINGARDIUM LEVIOSA!” 

Longbottom froze in his joyride of a free fall, and he let out a loud sob that even Tom who has ten feet below could hear. Tom had a very strong feeling in his gut that he wouldn’t be able to lower Longbottom down, and that he couldn’t control the boy’s movements like he could with the feather. Not from this distance, not with this much difference in weight. Instead, he kept his wand up and trained on Longbottom, stepping forward a little to try and ease the ache that was forming in his body but nearly stumbling on his own feet. Sweat trailed down his brow and his arms trembled visibly, but he bit his tongue and kept the spell up despite the massive physical strain. 

I never knew I was this weak, Tom laughed sardonically in his head, watching Potter zoom away at a speed that was nearly inhuman. He exhaled shakily, his left hand reaching to wrap around his right arm and support it as he stayed in his position. Was Tom getting dizzy, or was Potter flying so fast that he looked as if he was a shooting star? Perhaps it was both. Tom cursed underneath his breath as Potter finally caught the Longbottom boy and helped him sit behind him. He gulped a fresh breath of air and hunched forward at once, cancelling the spell and clutching at his quivering elbows. 

“Mr. Riddle!” Madam Hooch rushed to him worriedly, and Tom feared that he was going to collapse in an undignified heap on the grass. 

Weak. 

“Mr. Riddle, can you hear me?”

Tom saw a glasslike sphere slip from Longbottom’s pocket, and then he watched as Potter noticed it as well when Longbottom let out a loud wail of despair. And very predictably, Potter went after it, his expression unchanging. At last, Tom could recognize what it was. 

It was the face of a fighter. The face of a survivor who could react far quicker than anyone else, simply because it was hammered in his system. It was the kind of face that stared back at Tom as he tripped and fell in rain puddles while running from his assailants, it was the face that stared back at Tom when he looked into his bullies’ eyes and crushed their wrists.

This time, Tom merely watched. He knew Potter could catch it.

He dove faster and faster like a bullet, his right arm stretched so far that Tom almost thought it would break, and Madam Hooch was shouting something very furiously but Tom could not hear because Potter was six inches below the ground and Tom was just about to cast another spell as his chest tightened and—

The Gryffindors erupted into cheers as Potter caught it and lurched, swerving so abruptly and narrowly missing the ground. He flew a little higher to decelerate, ascending to an acceptable height of around seven feet in the air. Just like Tom, he had begun to work up a sweat and was breathing a little too quickly. But the difference between him and the Slytherin was that he had a tired smile on his face. 

That quickly disappeared at the sound of Professor McGonagall’s bellow. 

“HARRY POTTER!” 

The tall and thin woman dressed in deep jade hurriedly brisk walking towards Potter, the Gryffindors and Slytherins parting like the Red Sea to let her pass. Longbottom tumbled to the grass, holding the sphere in his hand and allowing Madam Hooch to pull him up. Potter glanced at Longbottom with clear worry in his eyes, but gulped as Professor McGonagall cleared her throat and stood to tower in front of him intimidatingly. 

“Never, in all my time at Hogwarts—” The Transfiguration Professor was deathly pale except for an almost furious splotch of alarming red in her cheeks. She fumbled through her words in her speechlessness, although the strong-willed professor still had her eyes of steel. Even as she scolded her student, she still looked strong, admirable. 

I will be stronger. 

“How dare you do such a thing, you might have broken your neck—”

“But, Professor, it wasn’t his fault!”

“Neville could have fallen if not for Harry and Riddle—”

“Hush, Ms. Patil and Ms. Granger.” Granger, in a rush to save her friend from a reprimand (which, Tom mused, was probably the subject of the studious girl’s worst nightmares), persisted. 

“Professor, please—”

She shook her head, effectively shutting her Lion up. “Enough. Mr. Potter and Mr. Riddle, come with me. Now.”

Tom, still exhausted, warily turned his head. This time, Potter was the one to try and speak up. 

“Professor, it’s all my fault, Riddle actually—”

“I said enough, Mr. Potter.” McGonagall ended the discussion and pivoted, beginning to walk and clearly expecting them to follow. Potter slumped over, ruefully staring at the old broom in his hand that looked like it was about to snap, before letting it fall to the grass and turning to face Tom. 

His tired smile was now besmirched with a hint of sadness, and what Tom could only identify as confusion. 

Despite the dozen or so eyes staring at them, Tom allowed it when Potter gently slung Tom’s arm around his neck to support him. As they traipsed after the stern woman, Potter murmured a small and meek, “Sorry.”

But Potter was not small and meek. Oh, how appearances deceived. Tom did not believe that they were truly in trouble, but could not find it in him to swallow the sudden thickness in his throat and chose to nod at Potter instead. He chose to wonder why he had chosen to act, but seeing as how he couldn’t even remember the exact moment that he whipped out his wand, all he could draw from his pondering was a blank. One thing was for certain, no one else in that class could have reacted as fast as they did, not even Granger. 

Tom would later then be in a strange office guarded by two gargoyles, along with a burly Gryffindor named Wood and with the wizened Headmaster himself. 

He would then witness Potter become the youngest Seeker in a century. 

Potter would also witness how Tom would be awarded an actual gold medal, for springing into action and for his amazing magical control. Lauded for his abilities, his talents, his good deed. 

But what only Tom would see was how Headmaster Dumbledore gave him a twinkling smile along with the medal, a smile so apologetic and so proud that there was absolutely no chance that it had been fake. 

And that is how Tom Riddle had started straying from the path of Lord Voldemort by the fourth time he had been involved with Harry Potter.

Draco Malfoy was the last Slytherin in their dorm to have finally acknowledged his superiority. It was certainly not the first time that Malfoy had seen that Tom was more powerful, but it was the first time that the pathetically arrogant daddy’s boy had shown signs of understanding what that entailed. At least, in Tom’s presence. 

“I have a brilliant plan to get Weasley into trouble,” The peacock of a wizard flaunted to the others, chest puffed out in pride like the bird he was. Tom turned a page in his book, uninterested but pleased that the other boys had taken to speaking in softer tones as to not disturb him. Of course, Tom had intimidated them into shutting their mouths, but it was good to know that his threat still held months after he had made them. 

“What is it, Draco?” drawled Nott, a bored timbre in his words. 

Malfoy paused dramatically, and Tom could almost hear the juvenile glee in his expression. “I challenged him to a duel.”

“You what? Are you an idiot?” Zabini snapped, but his voice was still measured, controlled.

“Oh, I’m not actually going to show up.” The blonde revealed, tossing his tie over his trunk in an exaggerated show of confidence. Tom knew better. Malfoy was very organized with his things and disliked clutter. He would fold it away later. “Coincidentally, there seems to have been a first year who gave an anonymous tip to Filch. Claimed that two students were going to fool around in the trophy room tonight.”

Crabbe snickered. “Weasley is going to get in so much damn trouble.”

Zabini still remained skeptical. “Who’s going to be his second?”

“He managed to drag Potter into it.” Malfoy divulged. At this, Goyle cracked up and let out a loud, ill-mannered guffaw. 

“That pipsqueak, Potter? He’ll be off the team after Filch catches him!” gruffed Goyle. 

“Serves him right. That dirty little blood traitor doesn’t have a single talented bone in his body.” If Tom was a lesser human, he might have even rolled his eyes at that glorious show of ignorance. Only a person without eyes could get away with saying that Potter didn’t look as if he was born to be on a broom. 

“Not like I’d love to see the red-haired git’s face when he realizes he’s been played,” Zabini interrupted. “But have you ever thought about what happens if they don’t show up either? Or if that Granger girl finds out and blabs to a teacher?”

“We all know Weasley, that prat wouldn’t be able to resist a duel. He won’t have the wits to realize he’s falling into my perfect trap and would rush out, probably even forgetting his wand while he was at it.” Malfoy waved his hand, dismissing his concerns. “Plus, he and Granger are still at odds with each other, so if Granger were to find out, it’d probably be at the very last second.” Tom flipped a page in his book, looking for all the world as if he simply did not care enough to notice his surroundings, but he mentally took note that Draco Malfoy, while a pompous, ignorant fool with a fatally matching superiority complex, was still capable of exhibiting Slytherin traits. 

But the plan was riddled with holes, too many holes for it to be considered a good design. Even if Weasley and Potter did show up, who’s to say that they would get caught with someone like Filch as their pursuer? 

He could only hope that stupidity was, in fact, not contagious. 

Tom, who didn’t even have to feign his disinterest at the situation anymore, lazily redirected his attention back to his book. He couldn’t care less about the infamous Weasley-Malfoy rivalry, nor what  fate would befall those idiotic enough to get entangled in it. 

“Color me surprised if this little plan of yours manages to put Weasley out of commission,” Nott finally commented, although he didn’t look as invested in the conversation as Crabbe and Goyle did. “Classes with the Gryffindors would be a lot easier without having to put up with the freckled harebrain.”

“Yeah. Filth like him and Potter should never have been allowed to step foot in the castle,” Goyle sneered. 

“Filth like Riddle over here too, don’t you think?”

Big mistake, Malfoy. 

It was obvious that the blueblood was too cocky to heed the warnings of his fellow dormmates. Those big, condescending grey eyes were now looking at Tom up and down, as if the amusingly misguided blonde was sizing him up. He could feel the four other boys immediately stiffen up at Malfoy’s poorly constructed insult, and he allowed the silence to permeate in the air for a little longer. 

The quietude soon got unbearable for the unrightfully haughty pureblood, who blinked when he realized that his “friends” had not spoken a word to back him up. When he was sure that Malfoy had been thoroughly unsettled and was now deeply uncomfortable, he closed his book with an attention-demanding snap. 

Tom had a feeling that Malfoy’s underdeveloped, high-pitched voice would make beautiful music out of his screams. He decided to test that theory. 

His victim in question’s uncertain face morphed into a look of enormous shock as he was lifted in the air by the collar of his robes. Tom stood up gracefully from his bed, eyes locked into Malfoy with heavy concentration, his wand still undrawn in the pocket furthest from his long fingers. He wanted the impertinent boy to be flung across the room and into the sharp edge of a polished table. He wanted it, wished for it, and without warning, magic granted it. 

Malfoy screamed as he was tossed like a ragdoll, his arm grazing the sharpest point of a study desk. 

“‘Filth’, you say,” Tom nearly hissed, striding purposefully towards Malfoy. The candles that lit up the Slytherin dorm flickered, the fire extinguishing before relighting itself again and again. Shadows danced on the walls, and some beds had even started to vibrate in place. A nearby candelabrum shattered as Tom stopped before the wide-eyed Malfoy. He smirked, a pretty little upturn of the mouth that was as enchanting as it was demonic. 

Tom thought that drunk on his own power, he must have looked sublime. 

“Perhaps you can explain how mere ‘filth’ is capable of doing this?” 

Malfoy gasped as a gash dug itself into his side, tearing his expensive acromantula silk robes open and incising his skin. He pressed a hand to it and brought out his wand, but no, they haven’t been taught any spells yet, any useful spells. He didn’t have the same power as Tom had. He couldn’t even speak through his fear, his mouth opening and closing as Tom considered what to do with him. He wasn’t as great as Tom was, despite his “noble” bloodline.

He couldn’t make others hurt like Tom could. He cut Malfoy open again, this time opening up his cheek. 

He left Malfoy shivering in fright with the other four, heading for the Common Room in a better mood than he had been all week. 

Eating his meals alone had been a blessed change from dining with those loutish oafs in Wool’s Orphanage. 

With the company of a good book or with a quill and a half-finished assignment, Tom would usually sit at the far end of the table, savoring the grand taste of a lavish Hogwarts meal. It had become even more pleasant when the whole House had gone from actively trying to subdue him, to downright ignoring him right around the middle of November. But now, while the Castle was empty and weathered by the coldest days of December, it was even more pleasing and dare he say, peaceful. 

The castle was nearly devoid of people at six in the morning, despite it being Christmas. In fact, Tom was the only one present in the Slytherin table, and the Hufflepuff table was positively deserted. Tom unabashedly shoved a spoonful of roasted ham in his mouth, allowing himself to melt at the rich flavor in his tongue. There was no one to watch, no one to judge. Tom was quite satisfied, and could only mourn the fact that it wouldn’t be like this forever. 

He left the table a few minutes before seven, not wanting to be there when the professors finally arrived. Professor Dumbledore would patently arrive in the most garish of robes, the light in his eyes almost as bright as the color-changing chandeliers. Professor Flitwick, the joyous man that he was, would pop on his chair dressed in some sort of silly little costume. But even with his escape, Tom could never totally stray away from the festivities, as each corridor had some sort of tinfoil-wrapped tree or thick scarf on the decorative suits of armor. Tom walked past the mistletoe and plastic ornaments that hung around him, heading for the stairs leading out to the main grounds. 

The Black Lake was completely frozen over, and the grass was bathed in pure white. A shower of snowflakes slowly descended, lighter than the petals of a flower, and an icy gust of wind blew gently on Tom’s rapidly paling skin. Thankfully, he had always been very resistant to the cold, despite his previously negative connotation to winter. 

[Hunger. Cold. Thirst. He felt it all in the days of winter, he felt the merciless headaches and the thick throats, the uniform he wore getting thinner and dirtier every year. He never had enough.]

But this Christmas, he was no longer hungry, thirsty, sick or bullied. He was feared in the Slytherin House and respected by the older students, he was an exemplary young genius in the eyes of his professors and even an idol to some of his peers. 

This was enough for now. Then, the sun would grow warmer, deliquescing the snow and revealing the green of the earth once again, the birds would soon return to sail across the skies and perch on trees healthier than ever, and then Tom would be reborn as well. With new goals, with new knowledge and with a perfervid drive to be better than before.

He found a dry part on the steps and sat down, opening his book and leaning on the marble. For now, he would rest. 

After what felt like minutes later, but was most probably an hour or two, Tom registered the faint crunching of boots on the semi-frozen ground. He did not deign to look up and continued reading, up until he heard the crinkling of paper. 

“You didn’t want to go home either, huh?” Potter asked, his voice clearer than it was the last time Tom had heard him speak. He stood in front of the sun, casting his shadow beside Tom with the color of spring captured in his eyes. His lightly tanned skin was a stark contrast to the sleet around them, but nearly shone in the soothing light and glittered with several flakes.

But Tom blinked, and there was Potter, who looked as he usually did. Scruffy, small and with a face that was easy for many to walk past. He bent down to place a package beside him, a package that was adorned in the colors of his House. Tom did not reply, but followed Potter’s movements with a questioning and curious eye. Potter, unbothered by his gaze, continued, “It’s for you, Merry Christmas.”

Tom flickered his eyes back and forth between the Spellotaped package and the smiling, near-excited face of the Gryffindor. Was Potter expecting him to open it in front of him? Tom, nonplussed but unwilling to admit it, set his book down and carefully slipped the package into his gloved hands. He unwrapped the silver ribbon, tearing the paper in one motion, and out came a Chocolate Frog. Inspecting the package, he drew out a thin and small card that had a picture of Salazar Slytherin on it.

Tom’s first Christmas gift. Tom looked up and gave him a nod, his mouth jerking in an unfamiliar motion. Harry’s smile grew wider, before he turned around and left. 

As Tom watched, he realized that it was the first time Potter had actually addressed him, spoken to him, with words that weren’t a nearly inaudible apology. Tom took a bite from the Chocolate Frog and grimaced, finding it far too sweet for his tastes. 

He ate it all up.

As the new term began, Tom continued to impress the teachers with his brilliant wit and with his charmingly helpful act. His only academic rival, Hermione Granger, had pushed herself to do just as well as he had, although she lacked his charisma. Not many were as fond of her as they were of Tom, due to her bossy attitude and know-it-all tendencies. Granger was remarkable, swallowing knowledge like water, soaking it all and retaining it, able to recite whole passages from a chapter she had read two weeks ago. 

She may have had a remarkable memory, the thirst for knowledge and the academic competitiveness that had easily made the muggleborn the smartest witch to have ever entered Hogwarts in the longest time, but she did not have Tom’s ambition which drove him to work for greatness and not for perfect grades. They could not be any more different than they were. Granger lived by the textbook, while Tom lived by his ideals.

Of course, the fact that the two smartest First Years were muggleborns did not sit well with many purebloods. As he was no longer an option for their human punching bag, Granger had taken the brunt of their anger. She would show up to class with the telltale shine of tears in her eyes, a bag that was ripped in half or with brightly colored hair. Many professors had been outraged, but most of the time, even Granger had no idea who had attacked her. 

Unsurprisingly, Potter had taken it upon himself to glue himself to the muggleborn’s side. The professors, having partnered Potter and Riddle multiple times because “What a delight it is that a Slytherin and a Gryffindor are getting along together splendidly!”, have noticed Potter’s endeavor to try and catch whoever was hexing his oh so beloved friend, and had unofficially assigned Potter to sit with Granger in every class. Those who spent their lives picking on the people who were doing better than them had made a game of who could make Potter cry in humiliation or explode in anger, but Tom was too busy in his studies to even try and pretend that he was fascinated with such things. 

When the bullying died down in the beginning of second year, Potter chose to sit down beside him in one DADA class. And no one, not even Tom, thought anything of it.

And Tom, for all his brilliance, couldn’t have ever predicted the falling out they had after Potter had partnered up with him in Transfiguration for the last time.

“ Reparifarge is the incantation of the spell wizards and witches use to untransfigure most things. What are some instances where this spell would be needed?” Granger’s hand shot in the air as Tom thrummed his fingers attentively on his desk. Potter had his chin on his hand beside him, giving Professor McGonagall his attention. Or, the fraction of his attention that he was capable of giving, more like. “Yes, Ms. Granger?”

“The spell is commonly used when dealing with partially or poorly transfigured objects.” The words tumbled out of her mouth, like pebbles thrown down a landslide. 

“Correct, but why do we need to untransfigure these failed transfigurations with this spell? Yes, Ms. Davies?” 

“Improper transfigurations can be dangerous. The caster could have aggravated the creature, or could have developed lethal traits or the like in the object without knowing.”

“Thank you, Ms. Davies and Ms. Granger.” With a wave of her wand, various cups with tails and ears appeared on their desk, squeaking and scuttling on the surface. Potter flinched back in surprise beside him, but relaxed and sheepishly scratched the back of his neck in embarrassment. Still unused to magic, just how Tom secretly was. “Eyes here, allow me to demonstrate. Reparifarge!” Professor McGonagall’s own mouse-teacup hybrid gave one last screech before it popped back into a mouse, collapsing on her wide desk. The small mouse tried to lunge for the floor, but with another flick of Professor McGonagall’s wand, the mouse was vanished from existence. “If there are no more questions, you may now begin.”

Tom paused to reread the short paragraph and check the diagram, before waving his wand and softly chanting the spell. The ceramic disappeared, leaving a chubby mouse with its hands up, falling to the table with a soft thump. It raised its head up and sniffed the air, before stumbling towards Potter’s mouselike cup and nudging it with its nose. 

“Yeah, yeah, sorry that I’m not as talented as Mr. Perfect over here,” grumbled Potter. Tom smirked at him, observing this slightly louder and considerably snarkier Harry Potter. Now that he and Potter were cordial, it appeared that the scarred boy was comfortable in showing bits and pieces of what he was truly like. 

[“My… family doesn’t really like me that much. I never got a present that wasn’t a toothpick or a fifty pence piece.”

“Silly ickle Harrykins, you have us now!”

“Thank Merlin we stole dad’s flying car to come get you, that was no way to spend your summer!”

“I’m not bothering you, am I?”

“Of course not, squirt! Sure, the way your hair sticks up is quite unflattering and can be downright maddening, but—”

“Oh, sod off, George! We were supposed to have some sort of moment over there.” 

“But I’m George. You call yourself our brother?”] 

After a few minutes, Tom was starting to get less amused and more bored of watching Potter struggle. Granger apparently felt the same way about her own partner, and had already launched into a lengthy and involute explanation as to why Weasley was doing it incorrectly. Tom tilted his head and tried to do the same, watching the Gryffindor attentively as he was about to perform the spell. 

Then, Potter did the strangest of things. He squeezed his eyes shut and sort of held his breath, as if he was a muggle bracing himself against a sock to the face.

“Reparifarge,” Potter muttered, and to Tom’s surprise, the spell worked. Potter reluctantly cracked open one eye, as if he feared that he hadn’t accomplished it, but a big grin overtook him as he was greeted by the sight of their two mice leaping to the floor. McGonagall spotted and vanished them, giving the two boys an approving nod. Potter swerved to look at him, more excitement in his eyes than Tom had ever seen from him.

“Hey, I did it, Tom!” 

But the peace was shattered. Tom twitched at the casual use of his first name, his mood souring at once. A sudden wave of unease crashed into him, a wave that Tom could only identify as displeasure. Potter dared to call him such, as if they were friends? 

How cute of him.

“Don’t call me that.”

Potter started at Tom’s tone, and didn’t reply for a while. He lowered his head to his desk and stared, as if he was searching for an answer within the intricate wood grain. Tom could not bring himself to care if he had hurt the poor boy’s feelings, but he was never going to allow Potter of all people the opportunity to call him by that revolting name. 

When Potter looked up, Tom saw a flash of unseeing green eyes that had once regarded Snape like he would a hallucination he had no intention to acknowledge.

“Uh, sorry. Riddle.” fumbled Potter awkwardly. When the bell rang, he stiffly got up and with a nod, made his way to stand beside Weasley and Granger. The blank expression he wore beside Tom cracked into a fond yet minute smile before he turned to the right and out of Tom’s sight. 

Tom realized that he hated that smile.

Potter tried to sit near him one time in Herbology, and he even partnered up with him during Defense. Both times, Tom had allowed it. And immediately regretted it after.

“Today, class, we will be repotting mandrakes.” Professor Sprout clapped her hands together. “Mandrakes are important; they are described as plants that restore people to their normal state. Many wizards and witches that have gone afoul with dark curses or poor transfigurations need only an antidote mixed with a mandrake to get them back on track. However, even these plants could cause harm. Mr. Zabini, would you mind telling the class why a plant so integral in healing could be so dangerous?” 

“The cry of an adult mandrake is enough to kill when heard,” he answered confidently. “An immature mandrake, while softer, is capable of knocking people out for several hours.” That answer nearly sounded like it came from experience. Tom wouldn’t have been shocked either way. 

“Ten points to Slytherin,” Professor Sprout praised. “Everyone, put on the pair of earmuffs in front of you. I will demonstrate the process of repotting them, and I ask that you keep the earmuffs on and cover your ears completely during the entire process. Please remove your earmuffs only at my signal.” Tom, who was in front of Potter, picked the deep red earmuffs that was closer to Potter than it was to him, while Potter fingered the emerald green earmuffs that nearly matched his eyes. He lightly positioned them over his ears, turning to face Professor Sprout and rearing back when she pulled an ugly lime-colored creature from the soil. 

She unceremoniously dumped it in another pot until the bawling, baby-esque thing was buried deep into the compost, its harmless-looking tuft of wide, fluffy leaves the only visible part of it. She took off her own ear muffs, gesturing for the other students to do the same. 

“You may begin working in quartets, but only prepare the new pot. In five minutes, we will pull out our mandrakes together to prevent any… unfortunate accidents.” At her slightly ominous words, the now nervous second-years stood up to form groups and to look for the sacks of compost. At one point, Potter had ended up beside him when Zabini and Brown sat on his side of the bench. 

The lesson was nearly about to end. It was when everyone was removing their earmuffs and placing it back where they had found them, that a garden snake slithered inside the greenhouse. 

“Hungry…” the grey snake hissed, its words so sudden that Tom snapped his head to find its source. Potter nearly dropped his earmuffs when he presumably heard something ridiculous coming from another student, but Tom didn’t want to spare a thought for the clumsy boy when he could recognize the telltale intonation of snakespeak. “Where are the rats hiding now? Come here, little mice. Nagas is hungry.” 

Tom spotted the flick of a greyish tail near the greenhouse door. Following the serpentine body to locate its head, Tom frowned when slitted pupils stared back at him. 

A venomous snake. 

Tom almost spoke to it, but something stopped him. Maybe it was the face Dumbledore had made when he confessed to understanding them, maybe it was because he had a gut feeling that it was just not the right time. But Tom heavily suspected that the real reason lay in how Potter threw a sneaky glance at Sprout to make sure she wasn’t looking, before walking inconspicuously to the serpent. He crouched low, and if Tom hadn’t been watching this entire time, he would’ve thought that Potter had just been curious about the dittany plants. 

When Potter came back, Tom could no longer hear the hissing of the empty-bellied snake. He schooled his face, sweeping his distaste under a facade of politeness. 

[“I can speak to snakes, too, they whisper things to me. Is that normal, for someone like me?”]

The way Dumbledore froze had spoken volumes. No, his posture screamed. You are special. 

Tom gripped the edge of the table, relaxing his fingers when he felt the wood creak in protest. His skin felt sticky, his whole body felt like it was submerged in the Black Lake, twisting in algae and brushing against disgusting, slimy eels. Like if he dared look up, he would only see green-tinged water, sunlight refracted and near unreachable from where he struggled, drowning. Tom was dumped head first in the realization that Granger was not the only threat on his radar, and that somehow Potter, an average student with an aversion to books, could be as special as he was. 

Potter, who was everything that he was not, who had heard the snake like he had. 

But what really teased at Tom's volatile ego was when he found that Potter was quicker than he was, disarming him on his first try before Tom had even managed to dodge. 

Potter must have noticed how he had to check his temper and constrain the ugly snarl that threatened to escape, because that was the eleventh and the last time that he had interacted with him.

His second year went on even after the complication with Potter, but a clearer distinction between his first year and his second year was that Tom didn’t spend as much time as he once did intimidating his bigoted dormmates. Why would he, when he had more important things to worry about? His dormmates had relaxed, speaking as freely as they once did before he had frightened them all into muteness, but they still dare not approach him. Tom did not look at them, could not look at them. His vision was that of the future, his eyes no longer seeing the present but the realm of possibilities that he held in his hands. 

But somewhere, somehow, Potter had come back to haunt him. 

Were they perhaps connected by the skill Tom suspected they shared? Was the universe finding amusement in playing tricks on him, or was he just so sleep deprived that he was beginning to go a little mad? Was it the same thing that had propelled Tom into uncharacteristically coming to Longbottom’s aid, to search for the patience to try and teach Potter spells and wand movements, when he did not even bother to be patient with himself and the rest of the world? 

Whatever the reason, it only drove Tom further and further into his irrational anger. 

He watched him now, out of the corner of his eye, laughing with his friends and looking as if not a single burden was on his shoulders. As the year progressed, he started to gain more friends, he started to smile more, and it irked Tom immensely. Tom had this unexplainable desire to clench his fists and punch the smile away from the smaller boy’s face, to wipe the light away from those eyes and to crush him underneath his thumb. Tom wanted to scar him, to mark him, to ostracize him and hurt him because Tom had never felt this way before, Tom had never felt as if he had no control over his own emotions and actions, Tom had never felt like he was floundering and sinking into quicksand in the middle of a black and hopeless desert, Tom had never felt like he had no fucking idea on what was going on and Tom had never, had never—

Tom blinked, head slowly bowing as he realized that he had no recollection of what he had just been reading. 

He had never looked anywhere else except forward before. 

Growling, Tom slammed his book shut and left the Great Hall, resolving to push these unfamiliar, distracting sentiments away.

Sometimes it would work, sometimes it wouldn’t. But now that he no longer had to deal with the insolence of his housemates, he suddenly had so much more free time that was irritatingly eaten up by forcing his brain not to think of Potter. 

He’d find himself looking at him anyway.

One day in his fourth year, long after he had worked to gain both the respect and the loyalty of his dormmates, Tom caught himself listening to another conversation about Potter’s latest amazing catch. Annoyed, he turned to look away from where he was pretending to listen to Draco’s yammering about his “O” in their exams, when he unintentionally spotted those emerald eyes he so illogically despised. 

With treacle tart smeared on his cheek as he gazed lovingly at his snowy owl (for some reason, Tom could recall that the owl was named Hedwig), Tom realized that Potter looked different. 

He was no longer the boy who only spoke when spoken to. He was no longer just a boy whose only instinct was to move or get hurt. 

He realized that Tom was no longer that boy as well.

Tom would confess and would never hear the end of it in the future, but for now, he swore up and down that he would never tell a soul how it embarrassingly took two and a half years for him to realize that he had never hated Potter from the start. 

“Come in,” Professor Dumbledore’s almost sickeningly cheerful voice called from within his office. Tom, who had his hand raised in the air and was just about to knock, sighed at his headmaster’s slightly creepy if not impressive party trick, before opening the door to his office. 

“Hello, Mr. Riddle, would you like a lemon drop?” Already too used to his eccentricities to be fazed, Tom gracefully slid into the comfortable velvet armchair. 

“Good afternoon, Professor.” he hesitantly accepts the muggle candy, tearing it swiftly and popping it in his mouth. At least it wasn’t too sweet, leaving a mostly sour taste in his mouth instead. “Do you need something, sir?”

“I wanted to ask how you are faring with your prefect duties,” Dumbledore tilted his head, looking at him meaningfully through his half-moon spectacles. “I understand that you are also tutoring many of the younger years?” 

“Yes, what of it?” Tom asked slowly, a bit suspicious. Old habits die hard. Dumbledore smiled. 

“How are you doing, my boy?” he asked again. Perhaps three years ago, Tom would’ve scowled at him, but at sixteen years old, Tom could now sense his mildly concerned aura, an aura that overpowered the feeling of goosebumps on Tom’s skin whenever those piercing blue eyes landed on him. 

“I’m feeling fine, sir,” he replied, albeit monotonously. He never had the patience to act in front of the man he was now too exhausted to hate. When had Tom been sucked dry from his passionate abhorrence for the old coot? Did it all boil down to the time when Professor Dumbledore apologized for his hasty judgment, awarding him a medal and the recognition he had oh so desired in his youth? Was it because Tom had simply better things to worry about it than a magenta-loving Chief Warlock with too many names to say in one breath? Could it be traced back to the time when he no longer looked at him like Mrs. Cole and Martha had? 

With suspicion, coldness and the slightest hints of fear. 

“And what of Mr. Potter?”

Tom’s head involuntarily snapped from where he was admiring Fawkes, the Headmaster’s intriguingly beautiful phoenix, before scowling in defense at once, pretenses and maturity be damned. It was Dumbledore anyway, he wouldn’t be fooled by any of it.

“What about him?” Tom nearly bit, a thousand denials running through his mind but none of them falling from his lips. 

“I believe you two had formed a rather historic friendship in your first year,” Dumbledore explained, intertwining his fingers together and setting his chin on it. Tom’s eye twitched. “It was all the professors could talk about up until your second year in faculty meetings. A Slytherin and a Gryffindor! Why, I believe that the last time such a wondrous thing had bloomed was between a rather beautiful young witch and a studious Potions prodigy in the early seventies.”

“Forgive me, sir, but I do believe that it is none of your business,” he said stiffly, his bold warning clear despite their massive age difference. As disgusting as it was to admit, Tom was shameless like any other teenager when defending their pride.

Dumbledore ignored him, leaning back and stroking his beard in a very grandfather-like manner. He fought the urge to color it a horrid shade of neon yellow. “Did you hear that Mr. Potter had been appointed Gryffindor Quidditch Captain?”

Just because I had never shown up to a Quidditch game in his life, does not mean that I am not aware of—

Tom, not deigning to respond, nodded sharply. “A few of the students are whispering that Mr. Potter had developed a knack for getting himself injured during Quidditch Practice. Quite worrying, isn’t it, Tom?”

Tom counted to three, trying his best to hide the fact that he had taken a very deep breath to calm himself. He refused to be so childish as to throw a random tantrum and stomp out of the near-glittering office like a five-year-old because of Potter. “Indeed it is.” he agreed slowly. 

“Perhaps it would be in everyone’s best interest if a certain prefect were to keep an eye on him, and make sure the poor boy’s bones remain intact until the next match. Oh, how rude of me, would you like some tea?”

“No thank you, Professor,” Tom shook his head, feeling twitchy and discomfited. He hated how the man was always sticking his crooked nose into places where it did not belong. “I shall ask a Gryffindor Prefect to check in on their practices, if that would ease your mind.”

“And if it would ease your mind,” Dumbledore poured himself a cup of chamomile, taking a whiff of it and donning a smile so wide it was almost obscene. “Our dear Minerva has noted that the Gryffindors have booked the Pitch on Tuesday, both in the early morning and in the afternoon.”

“Good.” 

“Splendid.”

“Absolutely brilliant, Professor.” Tom jerked from his seat, tipping his head to bid farewell to the man who had introduced him to the magical world. “If that would be all…”

“Of course, of course!” Dumbledore had the audacity to wave , wave at him as if they were more than teacher and student, as if Dumbledore had any right to be cheerful over Tom’s discomposure. What was the man aiming for exactly? This visit to his office had turned out to be a rather disappointing waste of time. “And dear boy, please understand that taking a break is necessary every once in a while.” 

“Will do, sir.” Tom replied non-committedly. Tom made to leave, almost exhaling a sigh of relief when Dumbledore called out to him,

“Look around, Tom, and perhaps you will get to see the beautiful things that are not only in front of you, but right beside you, in your reach.”

And that was how Tom Riddle found himself nearly shouting out in alarm when the idiot had fallen off of his stupid broom, laughing like a lunatic while he was at it. He stood up, gripping his wand in helplessness and eyes flashing when the boy dared to recover, flying back into a near fatallic speed and zooming past two redheaded blobs. Growling, he stomped towards where the boy’s water jug was placed, planting himself on the hard bench roughly. He willed his muscles to relax, before he brushed away the stray curl that had fallen in front of his forehead and opened his thin book. He crossed his legs, feigning an air of nonchalance and turning a page before he belatedly realized that his book was upside down.

In his peripheral vision, he saw Harry turn and jump at the sight of him. “Wha—b-but you were there!” Tom looked up.

“Astounding observational skills.” 

He wouldn’t delude himself. The way he had removed Harry from his life was not something easy to forgive, and certainly not something easy to forget. He wouldn’t be surprised if Harry would put up a fight, if Harry wouldn’t even dare to believe his intentions. If Potter would even try and walk away.

But Tom always had his eyes for the best of the best.