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Chapter Text

“Harry Potter.”

He flexed his hand, trembling, and unclenched his fist. The resurrection stone slipped through his fingers and the hollow shades of those who had passed faded in a spray of mist. His parents. Remus. Sirius. The cold burrowed into his flesh, the scent of cloying death and molding earth clogged his senses.

“The Boy Who Lived.”

He let out a shaky breath. Green eyes locked with blood red. Unbidden, a memory lifted within his mind, one five years old. A boy of sixteen, brown wavy hair, cold dark brown eyes, mocking him in a dank chamber while a basilisk coiled behind him. A strange sense of loss and disappointment rose within him. That brilliant, yet cruel boy could’ve been so much more if he’d not stepped down this bloodied path. Splitting his soul had warped him, destroyed what sanity he’d had. He could’ve been so much, done so much, but instead spiraled down a path that led to death. So much death.

Terrible, but great.

He pitied this creature.

“Come to die.”

Harry Potter faced the flash of green light with the bravery of a Gryffindor and the broken heart of a Hufflepuff.

The white blinded him, even with his eyes closed. Harry brought his hands to his face and rubbed his eyes, scrunching them tight. He was on his back, but he didn’t know how he got there. He’d just seen the flash of green light and now he was on the ground. He didn’t remember falling or landing. Yet this place… there was something different.

It didn’t smell of the earth. It wasn’t cold.

Harry opened his eyes and saw nothing but an endless plane of white. He slowly sat up, looking around. Nothing. Endless nothing. Harry had always assumed or perhaps wished there would be something waiting for him on the other side. His parents. His ancestors. Sirius. Someone. Anyone. He’d hoped for an existence outside of pain and suffering.

But not nothing - there had to be more than this endless nothing.

A cry echoed through the white. Harry went alert, his head whipping in the direction of the sound. He got to his feet, only to notice his unclothed state. A shiver of vulnerability went through him, but in that moment, a shimmer of white robes appeared on his skin. Harry blinked, lifting a hand and inspecting them. They hung on his frame with the brushing of silk.

Harry pulled the robes closed, as if to stave off the cold that didn’t exist in this plane. He strode towards the sound until he saw it.

No, not it… Him.

Harry recognized the form and shape instantly, having seen it once dropped into a cauldron at the end of his fourth year. From it had risen Lord Voldemort. The wrinkled, leather skinned creature that looked like a twisted version of a child was crying, a cruel contrast of what he’d become.

His heart tore.

Harry dropped to his knees at his side. “Oh, Tom,” he murmured. He felt no fear towards him. No revulsion. Only pity. His chest ached for what had become of this soul. “Look at what you’ve done to yourself.” The crying stopped and the child looked up at Harry with pained, tear filled eyes. Red eyes. “You can’t deny it. You mutilated your soul and you’re in agony now. You could’ve avoided this.”

Within those red eyes, there was a deep sorrow.

“For such an intelligent man, you’re pretty stupid.”

Poor, poor Tom Riddle.

Harry leaned closer, his hand gently touching the child’s cheek. The anger in those red eyes fled. They widened in shock. Harry’s thumb brushed away a tear, his touch gentle. “I wish there was something I could do to help you.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible, my boy.”

Harry turned his head to see Albus Dumbledore standing near. It was the gaze of pity directed down on him that set Harry’s teeth on edge. He kept his mouth shut, his jaw clenched. When he regained control over himself, he kept his expression neutral.

“What do you mean?”

“There is no helping, Mr. Riddle, I’m afraid.”

“Who said?”

Dumbledore opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He appeared unsettled by the question.

“I asked you who said?” repeated Harry. “Who said Tom can’t be helped? He spent his entire life trying to avoid death because he’s afraid. You’re telling me there’s nothing we can do? What am I then, his executioner? I never wanted to be. Neither can live and all that rot—why can’t I save him?”

That look of pity intensified.

“Come, let us sit.”

“I’d rather stay here, thanks,” said Harry coldly.

“Harry… my boy, I’m sorry.”

“For what? For not telling me anything? For telling me at the last possible second that I would have to die to end Voldemort? You couldn’t even tell that to my face? I had to find out through the memory of a dying man?”

Dumbledore looked stricken.

“You know, if you hadn’t set Tom’s things on fire when he was a kid, maybe he wouldn’t have been so completely fucked up. There’s so much that I just can’t…”

Harry sighed, putting a hand to his forehead. The disfigured child of Tom Riddle’s soul began to cry again. Harry opened his eyes, lowering his hand, and tried to comfort him.

“Dumbledore, your kindness is the cruelest thing I’ve ever encountered.”

The old man let out a long saddened exhale of breath. “Harry… I have made a lot of mistakes in my life. There were a lot of burdens I bore, some of which I passed onto you, and for that I am sorry. I hope you can forgive me. But events happened because of destiny and fate. There was little I could’ve done to alter the course. Tom Riddle was irredeemable as a child. I knew it from the moment I laid eyes upon him.”

Harry gritted his teeth. He still wasn’t taking responsibility. He had placed the weight of the world on a child’s shoulders. All because of some words, a prophecy. He couldn’t understand it. Dumbledore had been a powerful wizard. He could’ve easily hunted Voldemort down, but he didn’t. If he’d seen the devil, then why hadn’t he ended him in the beginning? If Tom Riddle was an evil little devil, then why not cut him down before he stepped foot into Hogwarts?

Because he’s a coward.

A cowardly Gryffindor.

“I am proud of you, Harry, for doing the right thing, even though it was hard.”

The words twisted in his gut. He was supposed to be happy to see Dumbledore, but all he could feel was the resentment in his heart. He’d been wronged in so many ways because of Dumbledore’s mistakes - mistakes that could’ve been learned from. Walking to his death, had that truly been the right thing? It had seemed rather easy, honestly. It was easy to leave the battle. He didn’t have to kill Nagini now. He didn’t have to kill Voldemort. His duty was over. Dying, well, that had been easy.

So, why did Harry think it wasn’t over? The hardest part was yet to come.

The wrinkled creature let out a screech. Harry’s hand jerked back as if burned. The child flailed and screamed in pain. His eyes glowed briefly, before it stopped suddenly. The body slumped, chest heaving.

“Ah. It would appear Nagini is dead now. The final horcrux is gone.”

Even with his ties to immortality gone, Voldemort was still a powerful wizard and opponent. Who was going to stand against him and take him down once and for all?

“Because the horcrux was killed and not you, you can go back,” said Dumbledore. “Go back, finish it, and live your life.”

Another easy choice. It would be easy to go back, in Harry’s mind, because that was all he knew. Again, he had that feeling rise within him that something was off, that something was missing. Going back was easy. There had to be another option.

“Or you could go on. Your family anxiously awaits you.”

That wasn’t an option. Harry couldn’t leave the others behind.

Options, options… Would you like another one?

“What do you think I should do?” asked Harry softly.

“Me? Oh, I know meeting your family is enticing, but you haven’t lived a full life yet. Go back and live. Finish the fight and save everyone.”

Not everyone, Master.

Harry blinked, realizing that his inner voice had seemed to take on a different tone, more raspy, more hoarse. He glanced around, but there was no one else. Before he much time to consider it, something else drew his attention.

A door slammed open, the sound echoing throughout the white landscape. The door seemed unnatural, as if it didn’t belong within the white. Harry sucked in his breath. Robes snowy white, flaming red hair, eyes as green as his—Lily Potter. She exhaled a deep, annoyed huff. She stood at the newly formed doorway with fury burning in her eyes. Dumbledore seemed to shrink in on himself. Her gaze was locked onto his, eyes narrowing, and she pointed at the old man.

“You,” hissed Lily.

“Lily, my girl—”

“Don’t you pull that bullshit on me, you fucking bastard!”

Harry’s mouth slowly opened. Out of all of his imaginations and dreams of Lily Potter, his mother, this wasn’t one of those versions. Dear Merlin, she was an even scarier version of Molly Weasley. Perhaps a thousand fold scarier.

“I know you’re angry with me, dear Lily, but—”

“Angry?” said Lily, repeating the word as if it were an expletive. “Sending my son to his death when I gave up my life to save and protect him in the first place and you have the audacity to suggest that I’m angry? Albus Dumbledore, I am pissed. You’re lucky we’re dead—you get away from him right now and don’t you dare fill his head with any more of your lies!”

“Lily, darling, you’re frightening our son.”

His breath disappeared when the messy black hair, hazel eyes, and tanned skin of James Potter appeared in the doorway. He grinned at Harry, giving him a wave. Harry’s hand lifted on its own accord in a wave. Harry could only stare in shock.

“Harry!” Sirius bolted through the door and rushed towards him. Harry sucked in his breath and jumped to his feet just in time to throw his arms around the man.

“Sirius,” breathed Harry. Tears formed in his eyes and he couldn’t stop them from sliding down his cheeks. The pain and the guilt and loneliness he’d felt since his death came crashing on him. “Oh, Sirius, I’m so sorry—it was all my fault. I’m sor—”

“No, you stop that,” said Sirius sternly with a gentle whap to the back of Harry’s head. “I’m not gonna stand for that talk, understand? I died protecting you and if there ever was a way to go, that’s the way I wanna go, all right, pup?”

Harry buried his face into the man’s neck, his wild mane of hair curtained around Harry. He tightened his arms around Sirius and cried. He barely noticed the commotion, barely caught sight of Lily going after Dumbledore like a ravenous wild dog on a piece of meat. Harry pulled out of the hug, rubbing away his tears. He blinked, taking in the scene of Lily smacking at Dumbledore, who was hunched over with his arms protecting his head, while James tried to placate his wife.

“Uh…”

“To say Lily is not happy with Albus would be the understatement of the century,” drawled a familiar voice. “Though, I must admit, my feelings on the whole matter are rather on the same level as hers.”

Harry turned his head. Standing at the doorway were three more.

“Wotcher, Harry,” said Tonks, giving him a bright wave. “Thought I’d tag along for the fun.”

Remus stood at her side, looking far different than Harry had ever seen. He had no scars, no premature aging of his face. He looked just as youthful as James did. Harry glanced at the figure at his side. Within those coal black eyes, Severus’ expression was soft. He too looked younger. Harry glanced back at Sirius and noticed that he was younger looking as well.

The ravages of the war have been taken away.

“It was the only way to rid Harry of the horcrux!” cried Dumbledore. “Please, Lily, please understand—”

“Excuses!” snapped Lily. “Excuses to be lazy and do nothing, just like you and Grindelwald. Throwing your responsibility on poor Newt Scamander, waiting over a decade to end it—and then you did it again!”

James threw Severus a desperate look. “Snape!”

Severus rolled his eyes upward. “I’ll try to talk her down,” he muttered. “Don’t expect miracles.” As he walked towards her, he gave Harry a tentative smile. “You did well, Potter.”

This really must be the afterlife if Snape was being cordial with him.

As Severus intervened with Lily - which wasn’t going all that well in Dumbledore’s favor - James came over to Harry and drew him in for a hug.

“I’ve been wanting to do this for years,” said James, his voice a bit hoarse. “I am so proud of you, son. You’ve been through hell and back and have done so well. I couldn’t ask for a better kid.”

Harry wrapped his arms around his father for the first time. All these damn tears, they wouldn’t end. He sobbed into James’ neck, holding on tight.

“It wasn’t us,” said Remus, putting a hand onto Harry’s back. “We would never approve of you walking to your death. We were forced to watch and we couldn’t say anything. I’m so sorry.”

Harry nodded, giving him a watery smile. He’d suspected, but he hadn’t let it cloud his decision to face Voldemort and die.

“My baby!” cried Lily, leaving Dumbledore finally and rushing to Harry. James withdrew just in time for Lily to throw her arms around Harry. It was a desperate embrace, soft, but tight as if she would never let him go. “Oh, sweetie, my sweet foolish little boy. You should’ve known we wouldn’t approve of you dying.” She sent a glare back at Dumbledore, who shrank away once more. But she looked back at Harry, her hands clasped over his cheeks, thumbs tracing beneath his eyes, and looking deeply into his gaze. “The stone trapped us and twisted what we were allowed to say. I wanted to scream.”

“Harry, my boy, listen to me, the longer you stay here, the more people will die,” said Dumbledore, his voice filled with pleading. Lily stiffened and the blaze of fury returned to her eyes. “You must go back to fulfill the prophecy.”

“Fuck the prophecy,” snarled Lily, hugging Harry protectively again. Harry let out a soft chuckle. “Someone get that man out of my sight before I do something serious. Albus, if you weren’t dead, I’d kill you myself.”

“This is why I married your mum,” said James with a sly grin, patting Harry on the back.

“Still can’t imagine why she married you, Potter,” drawled Severus.

“It’s the hair and the amazing personality.”

Sirius rolled his eyes and with a grin, said, “Sure, Prongs.”

“Come on, Harry, sweetie,” said Lily, giving him another squeeze, before letting him go. “We have plenty of time to catch up on things now, but we’re not allowed here. I had to bust open a door and I don’t think he will be too pleased about it.”

Sirius shivered. 

If you go with them, you can’t save him.

Harry didn’t move when Lily tried to guide him towards the door. She gave him a questioning look, but Harry was too busy trying to understand where the voice was coming from - not his own mind or his own voice, so where?

You want to save him, don’t you? You’ve always pitied him, wondered what it would’ve been like if things were different. You could save him and them from their fates. What if there was a third option?

“A third option?” asked Harry out loud.

Yes.

A chill breathed into the white landscape. There was a collective of sharp intakes of breath. The wrinkled child of Tom Riddle wailed with a screech of terror, but the sound was cut off like a spell. The chill was like the cold of the dementors brought with their presence, but it didn’t drain the happiness and hope from his soul. It inserted dread, as if he were looking at his own mortality, and had to concede to it. A presence filled the space, one more powerful than all the magic in the world.

Harry turned and faced Death.

The figure was cloaked like a dementor, tattered and worn. His body was skeletal with the thinnest of layers of flesh. His skin was more like tanned leather, reminding Harry vividly of Egyptian mummies. This being was tall, towering over him, back unnaturally hunched, his face hovering low and close to Harry. His eyes glowed with ethereal white.

“Harry Potter,” whispered Death. His mouth didn’t move with his words, but it lifted in a broad, chilling smile. “My Master.” 

There was another sharp intake of breath. “What?” Dumbledore said, shock breathing through his tone.

Death’s head turned ever so slowly in the old man’s direction. “Decades you searched with your lover, only for this boy to stumble upon them and claim their inheritance.” His smile turned predatory. “Harry Potter was always meant to be the Master of Death. Even upon collecting all three, they would never have answered you.” Death lifted a thin, long finger and pointed it at Dumbledore. “You’ve had your time. You’ve given your options. Now it is time for mine.”

Dumbledore’s body burst into shimmering white particles, until they condensed into a glowing sphere; a brilliant thread of red tinged of gold swirled around the orb. Harry realized with a start that he’d seen something similar before, when the dementors had almost sucked Sirius’ soul away in Harry’s third year. The soul floated to Death’s outstretched hand. He gazed down at it with annoyed fondness.

“Shoo,” breathed Death. The soul of Albus Dumbledore scurried away, flying through the open door into the beyond. Death’s head slowly turned back to Harry and the smile returned.

He should’ve been frightened. This being was ethereal, with power that flowed beyond understanding. But Harry stood his ground and noted that he was unafraid, just as he’d been in the forest.

“You are the Master of Death, Harry Potter. This means you are immortal, bound to the mortal realm for eternity. Your spirit can never truly rest here. You can spend a reprieve, but it can never be home.”

Lily buried her face into her hands and let out a sob.

“How… How did that happen?” asked Harry.

“The Hallows deem you my master,” said Death, running bony fingers along the side of Harry’s face. His touch was cold. “Long has the world waited for a soul like yours.”

A soul like mine?

“I can’t die, then?”

“No.”

Well, damn. He really was The Boy Who Lived.

“However, there is one way to find your rest,” said Death, his eyes glowing with a bit of glee within them. “If you can do this, after setting the world right, then you can relinquish the title of Master of Death and move on.”

“What do I have to do?”

“You must fix this abysmal timeline.”

“I’ll do it,” said Harry without hesitation.

“Oh… So quick to agree. I do wonder… Do you think you could do it?” whispered Death. He slowly circled Harry. “Are you prepared for the answer? You agree without knowing the true nature of the task before you.”

“If I can save everyone, then I’ll do it,” said Harry. He swallowed, his gaze dropping. “So many people have died and I want to save them all. I’ll do anything.”

The macabre smile widened to an unnatural stretch. “You please me, Master.” He stopped, standing behind Harry. His voice dropped low and a bony hand gestured slowly towards the mutilated form of Tom Riddle. “You’ve seen what he can become. You’ve seen the darkness, the testament of true evil. But can you unsee it? Can you look past it all? Open your heart and let him in?”

Harry’s eyes were drawn to the shriveled creature. 

“Do you mean… like adopting him or raising him?” asked Harry softly. Yet somehow, he knew. That wasn’t what Death was talking about. 

And that terrified him.

There was a sinister laugh, breathy, coy. Harry could smell the decay. Long spindly bone fingers wrapped over his shoulder, the thin body pressing against him in a half embrace. Death leaned over his other shoulder, looking down at Tom Riddle.

“Tell me, Master,” breathed Death. “Could you ever love that? This wretched creature that tore his soul into chunks and pieces like dried up jerky. He who spat upon his very own existence because of childish fear. Could you ever love this soul that took so much away from you?”

Harry swallowed.

“That is what you must do, Harry Potter,” whispered Death in his ear. “If you want to change it all, the timeline, the deaths, the destruction, then you must go back and complete the ultimate quest.”

Red eyes stared up at Harry, wide, comprehending.

“You must love Tom Riddle and he must love you,” whispered Death, though it came out more of a hiss. “True love. The greatest power, the most powerful magic that ever was. Show him love, one that could never be replaced. Be his everything. Be his friend. Be his family. Be his lover.”

His mouth was dry. His heart pounded, the blood roaring in his ears.

“If you can do that, well… Master, then the timeline will shift. These souls here will be reborn into a world with no Dark Lord. The two of you must unite in one accord if you wish to save the world from not only Lord Voldemort, but from itself. When the time comes to welcome you back in my embrace, then I will release you from your title and chains. Otherwise, you will be reborn in an endless cycle of suffering and woe.”

His breath was shallow.

This was a lot to ask of him. Abandon the current time and go back where he knew little and was completely out of his element. But… It would be a new beginning - one where the world wouldn’t know who Harry Potter was. Could Harry do it? As he stared down at the wrinkled, broken body of Tom Riddle, a part of his heart rejected it. Go back instead. Go back and kill him. He deserves to suffer here, alone in the white, forever in agony. Or go on, even for a short time. Be happy with your family. But don’t do this. You’ll be alone, no family, no friends - nothing.

Only him.

But if he could change things…

Damn my saving people thing.

Harry glanced over at his family. Lily clung to James, her eyes wide. But her expression softened, as if she knew what he was thinking. “Whatever you choose,” she said, her voice tender. “Know that we will always love you. You will always be our son, even across time itself. Even if we don’t remember you, our souls will.”

“She’s right. We love you, pup. The choice is yours,” said Sirius, his eyes unwavering.

James nodded. “You don’t have to do this, though.” His voice was soft. “You can go back and fight or come home with us now. You don’t have to sacrifice yourself again.”

Harry broke his gaze, turning and looking down at the child. There was fear, shock, agony in those red eyes, but there was a touch of awe, a brush of hope in them. If anyone could save Tom Riddle, it would be Harry Potter.

“This love…” asked Harry, his voice barely above a whisper. “Would it be real? Real love? It wouldn’t just be another sacrifice, would it? I would have something. Some happiness?”

“If it isn’t love, you’ll know.”

Harry glanced over at his family. He gave them a gentle smile. There were tears in Lily’s eyes and James appeared to be trying to stay stoic, but there was the unmistakable glistening in his gaze. Sirius gave him a double thumbs up, a pained smile on his face, but no less loving. Remus and Tonks stood next to each other, his arm around her shoulders, pride glimmering. Severus’ expression was more subdued, but there was something in his eyes that offered strength.

With the foreknowledge of a Ravenclaw and the renewed cunning of a Slytherin, Harry stared into the face of Death and said, “I’ll do it.” 

Death grinned.

Chapter Text

He received a reprieve, even if it were brutally short.

Harry spent what little time he had to connect with his family while waiting for the end of the war - since he wasn’t going back. Seats had materialized, warm and cozy, and Harry sat surrounded by the people who had died to protect him, who had died to save their world from destruction. He could never get enough hugs from them. He listened to the laughter, watched the light in their eyes. It warmed his heart to see them all so vibrant.

There was a connection between Lily and Severus, a friendship beautifully deep. The animosity that had existed between James and Severus was gone, as it was gone between Severus and Sirius. Harry couldn’t help but have a moment imagining what his life would’ve been with his parents and all his honorary uncles. Even a part of his heart wished that Peter were here. For all sins and debts to be erased. Perhaps one day, he would be, after time healed the wounds of their hearts.

Seeing what should’ve been, what could’ve been was a precious gift Harry would always cherish. It would’ve been made sweeter if only Hermione and Ron were here to witness it with him. He wished it would last.

But it couldn’t.

When the last shard of Tom Riddle’s tattered soul arrived with the death of Voldemort - and at Neville Longbottom’s hands no less - Harry had no more time to dally. With tears in his eyes, he hugged each one of his family, including Severus Snape of all people, and watched them go back into the beyond without him.

Lily was the last to leave. With tears in her eyes, she encased Harry’s cheeks with her soft hands. “I’ve watched you struggle and fight for a place in the world,” she whispered. “I’ve watched my own sister abuse you for years. I can’t undo the harm you’ve endured, but I want you to try your best to remember that you are enough. You are a bright light, a good person no matter what you’re forced to do in war. And don’t try to force yourself with this task. Let it happen naturally. Don’t overthink it. And—” she added with a twinkle in her eyes. “—sometimes, you have to bonk some sense into a dunderhead.”

“You have experience?” asked Harry, emotion in his voice.

“A lot.”

His laugh was a bit watery.

There was a pause, before she burst out quickly, “And for the love of Merlin, when the time comes, wear a condom—”

Harry spluttered, reddening. “Mum!”

“I don’t want to hear it—you wear one, you avoid getting some kind of nasty disease from that boy—”

“Mum!”

She smiled mischievously at him. “James and Sirius are going to be so jealous that I got in the teasing side of the talk.” She winked at him. She brushed his cheeks with her thumbs, her features loosening with longing sadness. She kissed him on the forehead. “We will meet again. That’s a promise.”

“Okay,” whispered Harry.

She gave him one last hug before pulling away. He watched her walk through the door. She turned slightly, looking back at him with a bright, emotion filled expression. She smiled. And the door shut, silent.

Perhaps next they met in time, their souls would resonate.

“Come,” said Death. Harry watched the door as it faded into the endless plane of white, but tore his gaze away and came to stand near Death. Tom’s face was scrunched up in pain.

Death curled his hand, long fingers turning into claws. The wrinkled form of Tom Riddle screamed in agony as, ever so slowly, his body broke into shimmering particles. They formed into a glowing orb of a soul, but it looked much different than Dumbledore’s soul. The edges of the light appeared frayed and worn. It twisted and jerked in the air as if in pain. Harry couldn’t stop himself from reaching out and shielding the soul.

Warmth pulsed in the air around it.

Harry…

He sucked in his breath, eyes growing wide, as the soul calmed. There was a chuckle from Death, before he snatched the soul out of the air. There was a screech that fizzled out. Harry held back a gasp, feeling the fear and pain burn through his own soul.

“Ah, yes. Your souls are special, already connected as one,” said Death, his voice soft. “The essence of what mortals would call soulmates are a rarity and they do occur occasionally throughout the millennia. Though, they always tend to appear on opposing moral sides. Like Harry Potter and Tom Riddle. Like Albus Dumbledore and Gellert Grindelwald. Soulmates are never a sure thing, but the draw is powerful. If you can set aside differences, overcome your own personal obstacles, your union will be powerful. The ability to change the world is endless. We’ve yet to see such a pair, however. Until you, of course.”

There was a lot of pressure to romance a baby Dark Lord, huh. Fantastic.

“Good luck, Harry Potter,” said Death with a Cheshire grin. “You’ll need it.”

The light swallowed him whole, dragging him into the darkness.

Time travel was a bitch and Death was a little shit.

His head pounded viciously. Harry could hear the bastard laughing in his ears. The weight of being alive slammed upon him. He was face down on the ground, the hard cold pavement digging into his skin. He gasped, his chest heavy. Rain poured from above and drenched him in a matter of seconds. Thunder crashed, illuminating the darkness in a brief flash, the sound piercing his ears. His nose wrinkled against the medley of scents, rain, mud, and mildew. He shivered and tried to get his bearings, pushing himself off the muddy cobblestone road. 

He was in some kind of alleyway, though it looked a bit familiar. Hang on… He was in the alley way that led to the Leaky Cauldron.

‘There is a bit of money for you in a pouch at your hip,’ said Death’s voice in his head. ‘It will last you the next two years, possibly a third if you stretched it, but after that you’re on your own. Your name is written in the book of Hogwarts as a transfer student under the name of Harrison Evans. We shan’t be in contact unless there’s a timeline emergency or you do something extra foolish like die. Probably should avoid that. You’ll bring unwanted attention to your immortality.’

Right, no dying. Check.

“Anything else you want to warn me about?” whispered Harry.

‘You have until the end of the school year to redirect Tom Riddle before he creates his first horcrux. Once he starts that path, there’s no stopping him. His soul is intact, though a bit frayed, and he won’t remember the events of the future. Also, you might want to take out Grindelwald.’

What the fuck?

“I’m sorry, what?” snapped Harry. Thankfully, there was no one in the alleyway to notice his outburst. He dropped his voice and whispered furiously, “You want me to go after the other Dark Lord, is that what you’re saying? One isn’t enough?”

‘The Elder Wand now ceases to work for him since you’re its true master. He will seek you out anyway. Might as well save some extra lives and end the war early, no?’

This was ridiculous.

You’ve got to be kidding me.

Harry didn’t know much about Grindelwald, besides the few things he learned about Dumbledore - most of which were written by Skeeter, so he couldn’t exactly count on its accuracy. He knew Grindelwald was a brutal Dark Lord, powerful and terrible, and sane through it all - and the final duel between Dumbledore and Grindelwald had been ‘legendary,’ according to his textbooks. Harry was a damn good fighter, but that didn’t mean he had what it took for a ‘legendary’ duel. At least in his mind.

‘By killing Grindelwald, you would end the muggle side of the war as well. If you can do it in the summer of next year, you would end the war two years early. Tens of millions of souls would be saved.’

Damn, when put like that… Harry sighed. There was no getting around it, was there? “I’ll do my best.”

‘You will indeed, Master.’

That didn’t sound promising - more like misplaced confidence. Harry rubbed his temples with his fingers, digging into the flesh and hoping his blossoming pain wouldn’t turn into a full blown headache.

‘Oh, mustn’t forget, one last thing: you’re still a horcrux.’

“What?” hissed Harry. “I thought it was gone!”

‘Technically, it never left. It’s part of the reason you’re soulmates. Romantic, I know. The shard has intertwined with your soul and it’d be quite the mess to split apart. I wouldn’t recommend it. It’ll only cause your soul agonizing pain, possibly rip it apart, and you don’t want that, do you? Well, that’s all. Good luck, Master.’

What a bastard.

The connection was gone and Harry knew he was officially alone in a strange time. He sighed and stood up, curling his arms around his chest. With the rain and the night, it was cold and Harry shivered beneath the tattered clothes he’d worn into the forest. The warm, soft white robes were gone.

He grabbed the pouch that was attached to his belt and dug inside to find that it was just like the one Hermione had made, all with the same protective charms. Emotion clogged his throat when he saw his most precious belongings were deep within the magical pouch. His holly wand, his photo album, the map of Hogwarts, and his invisibility cloak. There was a large supply of galleons and a fresh change of clothes, for which Harry was grateful. There was also a list of the required necessities for the sixth year curriculum at Hogwarts. I’m repeating sixth year… I guess it could’t hurt. He noted the lack of his firebolt, but he supposed that was for the best, even if it meant waiting decades for one to reappear.

Upon entering the Leaky Cauldron, the warmth seeped into his flesh. He ruffled the water out of his hair and rubbed some of the water off his glasses - well, as best as he could with soaked clothes. The interior hadn’t changed that much from the 1940s to the 1990s, it appeared. There was still a layer of dust that hadn’t been cleaned and Harry wondered if it would still be there fifty years into the future.

There weren’t any other patrons at the moment. The bar was silent; the only soul there was putting up the chairs on the tables. It appeared that the years would not be kind to the barman, Tom. He was young, handsome, a head full of hair that would one day be lost. Harry approached the barman, wishing he didn’t look like the drowned rat he felt like.

“Uh, excuse me.”

“Dear Merlin, you all right?” asked the barman, turning around. “It’s late and you look like you’re Hogwarts age, yeh?”

“Yeah, I am,” said Harry. “I’ve been traveling and lost track of time. Could you give me the date?”

“It’s August 30^th,” said the barman. “One more day until the new school year, but you don’t look like you’re prepared at all.”

Harry gave him a stiff smile. “I’m not. I’ll get my things tomorrow. Could I get a room for the next two nights?”

The room was only a few knuts, which was far less than Harry had been expecting. Once in the room, he stripped out of his wet clothes, hanging them by the roaring fire, and dressed in his clean set. With a sigh, Harry flopped back onto the bed and stared up at the ceiling. For a moment, his mind was blank. But, slowly, the reality of it all weighed down on him.

He was alone in the 1940s. No family. No friends. Just Harry. He didn’t even know the precise year. Death had mentioned that defeating Grindelwald next summer would end the war two years early, which would mean… it was 1942?

Sounded about right. He’d confirm it with a newspaper when he could.

He was never going to see his Ron and Hermione. The Ron and Hermione born in the future, hopefully a better one, wouldn’t have the same experiences. They’d be different. There would be no bonding over the troll or friendships forged in a single chess game. The years he’d spent with them, the good times, the challenging times, the bad times - they were all gone. The loss burned in his heart and Harry hid beneath his arm, squeezing his eyes shut. His chest heaved with a deep misty sigh. Tears slipped down his temples.

He was more alone than he truly realized.

Harry had jumped into this without fully thinking it through. It’d been for the best, he mused, because now there was no chance to back out of it. But he was going to miss them. He was going to miss everything about his friends. The Weasley family. Ron. Hermione. Neville. And Luna, dear Merlin, he was going to miss her. She was a breath of fresh air that had always cheered him up in the darkest of times.

And Ginny…

No, he couldn’t think about her. He cared about her, loved her perhaps a bit more than he loved all his friends, but he couldn’t think about what could’ve been with her. He needed to think about the future and how to ensure its safety. And that meant…

Tom Riddle.

How to go about seducing a Slytherin?

Harry ran his hands over his face, letting out a soft, muffled scream of embarrassment, the absolute insanity of his life crashing down on him with the weight of a thousand hippogriffs.

Ah, fuck.

Come next morning, Harry was out of his room and shopping in Diagon Alley.

There were a surprisingly large number of families and students here on the last day before the school term. It was almost laughable, the amount. The alley was packed with the bustling life of witches and wizards. Children ran underfoot, while students frantically bought their supplies with the zeal of a seeker chasing a snitch. There were far more people here than Harry had ever seen before in the future. The fashion of the wizarding world hadn’t changed all that much, though Harry could spot the differences more in the muggleborn clothing.

A thought slowly occurred to him as he watched the families.

These people… They’d been killed, hadn’t they? In the first war. Families had been torn apart, decimated, their numbers dwindling to such a small amount. The first war that Voldemort brought to their world cut their numbers down by at least half, possibly to a third. Harry hadn’t really noticed it before, but now that he thought about it, Hogwarts hadn’t had a lot of students in his time. Not this much, at any rate.

This is what I’m trying to change. This is what I’m fighting for, isn’t it?

An image flashed in his mind, the boy in the Chamber of Secrets. Well, no. This wasn’t all he was fighting for - he wanted to save Tom Riddle. It started and ended with Tom Riddle. He hadn’t ever admitted this to anyone, but he’d always found that boy in the Chamber of Secrets rather alluring. He was pretty attractive. Then again, so was Draco Malfoy.

Uh…

Not to say twelve year old Harry had found either of them attractive, but he could appreciate a pretty face. He’d always felt guilty about it, like it was a dark secret that no one could ever know. His friends never knew, though Hermione probably suspected that Harry’s obsession with Draco in sixth year went just a bit further than, “He’s a baby death eater in training!”

Now his task was to…

Harry found his face growing heated and flushed at the thought. He ducked his head and walked into the bookstore, the bell ringing gently above. He walked down one of the aisles of bookshelves, looking at his list for reference. His mind wandered, however, and he was unable to focus on the words of his list.

Damn.

He didn’t even know how he was going to begin this - whatever it was - with Tom. He didn’t know that much about dating, let alone finding that one he wanted to spend his life with - though, that choice was removed for him now anyway. Thanks, Death. His first experience with dating had been a disaster. Sorry, Cho. And his second experience had ended because of a bloody war. All of his rather lacking experiences had been with girls and none of them had gone beyond kissing or even a good long snog. He had no idea if it were different with guys. Now he was supposed to, what, fall in love with Tom bloody Riddle himself? It had to be mutual, too.

How?!

The only version of Tom he knew was the psychopathic murderous rampaging one and Harry really really did not prefer that version. Hard pass. Tom Riddle was probably going to be an arrogant little prick, ten times worse than Draco Malfoy. How the hell was he supposed to go about this? No pressure, after all. Only got a year to romance a baby Dark Lord to save the entire wizarding world. But no pressure! The whole thing was absurd. He was going to fail, wasn’t he? Harry groaned in exasperation, causing a nearby parent with their child to give him a strange look, before hurrying them away. He tried to remove all thoughts of his task out of his mind.

Just get to Hogwarts first. We can figure out the rest of this shit later.

He really should’ve thought this all through. 

“Mum,” said an annoyed voice, sounding rather young. “I’m eleven. I can pick out my own books, all right? Tell her, Charlus. I’m old enough, aren’t I?”

Harry glanced around the bookshelf and his heart stopped. He drew in a greedy breath and stared at who could only be his distant relatives. A boy stood next to what appeared to be his older brother, who wasn’t that much taller than Harry’s 5’4” height. It’s hereditary… Their parents stood near, their father a couple of inches taller than his oldest. All three of the males had the famous wild dark Potter hair and tanned skin. Their mother had pale skin with dark brown hair and was an inch or so taller than her husband.

“Fleamont, it’s your first time and I think—”

“Don’t call me Fleamont in public, Mum!” cried the boy. “That’s so embarrassing!”

His older brother seemed to have fond exasperation and annoyance for the boy. He was wearing everyday robes, but there was the unmistakable shine of the Head Boy badge pinned to his chest. “Monty, come on, how about I go with you, yeah?”

“Okay,” said Fleamont, grabbing Charlus by the hand and rushing away from his parents. “It’s okay if my brother helps, right?” he added in a low whisper.

Charlus laughed and nodded. “Yeah,” he said, ruffling the boy’s hair.

Harry’s heart pounded in his throat as they passed. He pushed himself into the shadows, hoping they wouldn’t notice him. Fleamont stopped abruptly, his head whipping towards Harry, who held his breath.

“You look like us,” said Fleamont matter of factly. “My chest hurts when I look at you.”

“Uh…”

“Monty,” hissed Charlus. He gave Harry an apologetic look. “Sorry, my brother. He’s a bit… precocious.”

“I’m not precocious. That’s what you call little kids.”

“Then stop acting like one.”

“I’m not!”

Charlus threw Harry another look, before dragging Fleamont away, who dug in his heels, his hand over his chest, glancing back at Harry with a strange look in his eyes. When he disappeared around the corner, protesting loudly, Harry let out his breath. He peeked through the shelves, watching the two brothers bicker.

His grandfather.

And his great uncle.

He’d never met them before, only seeing a glimpse of them in the Mirror of Erised. They’d been older, of course. He never did find out what happened to them. They’d just been family that he would never see because of the deaths of the first war. His mother had mentioned something about their souls remembering, but Harry never met Fleamont.

He wanted to speak with them more, but… he knew he shouldn’t. He wasn’t sure how timeline things would work. What if he accidentally made it so James Potter was never born? Would Harry still exist?

Ugh.

He was going to have a wicked headache at this rate.

It was odd to not be noticed by others. It was a relief in many aspects, because he could just get his books without any troubles, like getting pulled into taking pictures for the Daily Prophet - or being hunted down by Voldemort’s government. It was nice to be normal for once in his life.

We’ll see how long that lasts…

Harry was able to get his supplies without any incidents. With the money he had, he’d been able to get a new trunk, new robes, a humble wardrobe, his school things, and plenty of books. 

Despite his misgivings, Harry entered the Eeylops Owl Emporium in the hopes of buying an owl, just for companionship. He was sure he was going to avoid the snowy owls, but of course he couldn’t. He was drawn to a male, feathers nearly pure white, and who was a bit smaller than his fellow male snowy owls. Hedwig had been beautiful with her black markings, but there was something about this owl that was pulling at his heart.

Harry bought the snowy owl. He spent the rest of the day back in his room at the Leaky Cauldron, working on a few assignments for the new year, as well as getting acquainted with his new owl. His work wasn’t going to be all that wonderful, since he had no time, but at least he remembered some of the material.

He only managed to get three of his assignments done before he passed out in bed, but at least he showed the effort.

Getting from Diagon Alley to Kings Cross wasn’t too difficult, Harry found. It was about a fifteen minute walk and with a trolley, Harry didn’t mind it. Kings Cross was lively with the bustle of parents and children. The snowy owl, whom Harry had named Kasper, ruffled his feathers, staring with baleful eyes at the sheer volume of the station. He turned bright amber eyes to him and seemed to give Harry a look of, ‘Really? This is what I’m being subjected to?’

Harry chuckled to himself. He stopped for a moment, ignoring the crowds of people around him and came close to the small travel cage. “Hey, you know your way to Hogwarts, then?”

Kasper fluffed up, his eyes unwavering.

“Shall I let you fly there?”

The owl let out a little bark, fluttering himself. He turned his head and cleaned one of his feathers as Harry opened the cage. Kasper hopped out, pausing for a moment on Harry’s arm. With a powerful push, he flew off Harry’s forearm and into the air with a screech. Harry smiled, a pang of sadness as he remembered Hedwig.

Harry got his belongings into the storage carriage. The train had quite a few more carriages than in the 1990s. It was just another confirmation of the devastation of war. He counted at least ten more carriages to the train, but the back of the train disappeared from his sight, so he wasn’t sure where the end was.

He kept the pouch on his hip, charmed to never fall off or be removed by any other hand besides his own. After a year of being on the run, he never wanted to be unprepared in case something like that were to occur again. As he boarded the train, he smacked into another boy.

“Oh, shit, sorry about that,” said Harry, wincing in pain. He blinked. Oh, of course it was him.

Charlus Potter stood in front of him, rubbing at his chest and wincing. He gave Harry a lopsided smile. “It’s fine—oh, you’re that boy from Flourish and Blotts. Sorry about my brother in advance. He’ll probably corner you if he sees you again. Don’t feel bad about sending him on his way if he bugs you too much.” He frowned. “Hang on, I don’t think I’ve seen you at school before. I feel like I should’ve seen you.”

“I’m a transfer. I’m starting my sixth year.”

“Ah, well, that makes sense. Welcome to Hogwarts, then.” Charlus tapped his Head Boy badge. “If you’re ever in need, feel free to come to me.”

“Thanks,” said Harry with a wave, as the boy wandered down the train corridor. He began opening compartments, checking on the occupants. 

Harry made his way down the long corridor, glancing through the glass windows for an empty compartment. Some of them had the shades down, so he avoided those. Harry was walking for a few minutes, when he was drawn to one of the compartments.

He could sense him before he opened the door. It slid open with a rattle. There was an echo in his soul, his scar flaring warm for a brief moment. There were seven boys in the compartment. Four were cramped together on the right side, one of the boys’ legs sprawled out over the other three laps, while three boys sat on the left side. Four heads turned to look at him.

But Harry only had eyes for him.

Tom Riddle sat next to the window, a textbook in hand, his long legs crossed. His robes were pressed pristinely, not a wrinkle in sight, lined with Slytherin green and the Slytherin crest. A prefect badge was pinned against his breast. His brown hair was wavy, bangs brushing over his forehead, almost naturally if it weren’t for how immaculate it was styled. A snake wound around the base of his ankle, scales a patterned dark green. Nagini. Her head rested against his trainer and she watched Harry with a deep intelligence.

Tom’s dark brown eyes flicked upward from his book; he locked gazes with Harry. A hint of amusement entered those eyes, a brush of contempt against his lips. They parted slightly. When he spoke, his voice was of dark velvet, laced with delicate poison.

“Are you lost?”

And so it begins.

Chapter Text

The boys chortled. Tom’s expression twisted into smug arrogance. His eyes slid away from Harry, a clear dismissal. Harry pursed his lips, his chest rising in a deep, steadying breath. There was no denying it: Tom Riddle was a good looking young man. His cavalier attitude towards Harry made him burn with a twisting emotion that he wasn’t quite familiar with - it was unpleasant, even nauseating.

I’ll make you look at me. Just wait. You won’t be able to look away with that cocky indifference. That’s a promise.

For a moment, he stood there, earning more stares from the four on the right side of the compartment.

“You’re a bit old to be a firstie,” said one of the boys. His black hair was short, his eyes hazel grey, and his pale round face was twisted with a sneer.

“Probably another disgusting mudblood, by the looks of him.” The other boy with wild brown hair with a glint in his dark eyes smirked. He was sitting against the window, his legs stretched over multiple laps. He folded his arms, giving Harry a once over. “So common looking. Are you a mutant house elf? Lost your master, have you?”

“Ew, a mudblood? Get out. Your very existence sickens me.”

Damn, these insults are so juvenile. Really, is that the best they can come up with? Merlin help the little shits.

The other two boys - one with short black hair, dark eyes, and dark skin; the other with light brown hair, grey eyes, and tanned skin - eyed Harry with mild annoyance.

On the other side of the compartment, Harry noted that the boy fast asleep against the shoulder of another boy bore a resemblance to Sirius, while the boy he was leaning against appeared a bit like Severus. The Snape look alike was quietly reading a book, unperturbed by his companion.

“Sorry for disturbing you,” said Harry, trying to remain as neutral as possible. “I was just looking for a free compartment, but it looks like you’re all full up.”

“Obviously, so why are you still here? Shoo,” drawled the first boy, gesturing with his hand. He narrowed his eyes. “Hang on, no house crest—who are you?”

“I’m a transfer student. I’ll be in sixth—”

“A transfer?” interrupted the second boy, who was reminding Harry a bit of the Lestrange brothers. “They never have transfers. Why would they let someone in just like that? And a mudblood no less, how revolting.”

“Place is going to the dogs, I swear.”

“Yeah, well—” began Harry, turning his eyes to Tom’s dipped head. “That’s what happens when your parents are murdered—” Tom’s eyes flicked upward, meeting his gaze. A dark glimmer flashed through those brown eyes, flecks of amber illuminating the light. “—by a Dark Lord.”

Amazing how the topic of murder caught his interest.

Tom lifted his head. “The Dark Lord killed your parents?” he asked, his voice soft, yet his eyes were hard as diamonds.

“Yes.”

“My condolences.”

That unsettled Harry. “Thanks…”

“So, have you seen him?” asked Tom, closing his book slowly. “The Dark Lord, that is.”

“Yes, I have.”

A hush fell over the compartment. A light burned in Tom’s eyes, the glint sharp as a scythe. He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, setting his book aside, his long fingers resting on the cover. Nagini curled around both of Tom’s legs, her scales catching the light as her muscles flexed. “What is he like, the Dark Lord?” he asked quietly.

No tact whatsoever, the little bastard.

What should he say? What could both draw Tom’s interest, but also dissuade him from starting a path to becoming a Dark Lord himself one day? A flash of green filled the light of his memories. Harry swallowed. His eyes slipped closed and he drew in an unsteady breath. When he opened his eyes, Tom was staring at him with the slightest upturn of his lips.

“He’s powerful,” whispered Harry. All contempt disappeared from the other boys. They leaned in slightly, all curious, including the other boy reading a book. The sleeping boy slowly opened his grey eyes, but didn’t move. “He uses magic like it’s an extension of himself, in ways you can hardly follow or understand. He is power. You can see it and respect that, but… he wastes it - all of his potential just thrown aside for brutality.”

“Some say he has good intentions for our world,” whispered the boy who looked like Snape. “If things don’t change, we could be overrun by the muggles.”

“The road to hell is paved with good intentions,” said Harry. He paused and smirked, looking directly at Tom. “Plus, he’s an absolute tosser, the little shit.”

The other boys stiffened, while Tom let out a breathy chuckle. There was a hint of approval in his eyes. “I suppose a round of introductions are in order. I’m Tom Riddle.” He gestured to the form next to him, who had gone back to sleeping again. “That’s Alphard Black. Beside him is Quintus Prince.” The dark haired boy, whose hair was pulled back in a ponytail, nodded without looking at Harry. “That’s Sebastian Lestrange.” He pointed to the boy who had his legs out on the others, who sneered in response. “Marcus Mulciber.” The boy who first spoke didn’t acknowledge Harry at all. “Roland Rosier.” The boy with light brown hair and tanned skin. “And that’s Simon Avery.” The boy with dark hair and dark skin.

The original death eaters…

“Harry Evans.”

Lestrange snorted. “Evans? Oh, definitely a mudblood, then.”

How many times was that going to be thrown around? Their obsession with blood status was more like a personality trait than a bullshit political belief. Was it so ingrained into their culture in this time, too? Could they ever get away from this obsession with blood status? Harry didn’t bother to correct him, though. Halfbloods were still half muggleborn.

Tom threw the boy a look. “No need for such language, Lestrange.” He gazed back at Harry with a benign, but sharp smile. “Do you know much about Hogwarts and its houses? Do you have an idea what house you’ll be in?”

Harry returned the smile. “Oh, after reading up on it, I think I’m definitely a Hufflepuff.”

Heh. It was amusing to watch Tom Riddle’s reaction to that. There was the barest of movements, a wrinkle of the nose. It was faint. Harry would give him that: Tom was an excellent actor, someone fully in control of his emotions. Whatever interest Tom Riddle had in him died with that. He shifted in his seat, lifting his book and opening it. “Well, I suppose we’ll see each other upon occasion,” he said lightly, a hint of boredom in his tone.

“Yeah,” said Harry, unable to hold back the knowing smirk on his face. “I’m sure we will.”

He slid the door closed and turned away. He walked most of the length of the train before he managed to find an empty compartment. He slumped against the seat, before lying on his back. He covered his eyes with an arm, listening to the beating of his heart pounding in his ears.

He was shaking.

Harry let out a low, long breath, trying to calm down. He hadn’t noticed it until it was over. The adrenaline rush left him exhausted now. Merlin. It was going to be a long year. He was going to be tense, waiting for someone to strike all year long. Could he even do this?

Harry drew in a deep breath.

Okay, calm down. This was easier than fighting Voldemort. He’d gone through one hellish of a year. This was nothing compared to being on the run, searching for horcruxes, starving in the cold - this was just dealing with little prats and one extra shitty bastard. He just had to be himself and it would work out, right? After all, Voldemort had always been obsessed with him, as had Tom Riddle in the Chamber of Secrets. Getting his attention shouldn’t be all that difficult, right? Besides… messing with the smug Tom Riddle was going to be more fun than he first imagined. Harry let out a soft laugh. He couldn’t wait to see Tom’s face when Harry was sorted into Slytherin.

The compartment door rattled open, causing Harry to flinch in response. He dropped his arm, looking towards the door. Two boys, a few years younger than him, were peering inside.

“Oh, there is someone here. How unfortunate.”

He stared, his heart stopping. It was Sirius. But no… not quite. He was too young to be Sirius and the more Harry stared at him, the more he could see the subtle differences. His eyes were too sharp. His hair was a bit lighter brown. His nose was more upturned. But there was that all familiar light in the boy’s eyes that reminded Harry too much of Bellatrix - a hint of sadistic cruelty.

Harry sat up, pushing back against the window. He folded his legs in front of himself.

“Are you going in?” asked a girl, popping her head in the door frame. Her long blonde hair curtained her face, her brown eyes bright. She glanced back behind herself. “Hurry, because I don’t want to run into Prewett.”

“It’s only him,” said the other boy. He had brown hair and vibrant blue eyes, his thin frame standing a half a head over the other two. “He doesn’t have a crest. He’s probably an apprentice.”

“He’s not.” Harry jolted. The boy sounded like Sirius. “He’s about Alphard’s age.”

The girl pushed the two boys inside and shut the door behind herself. She closed the blinds with a small huff. The boy who had to be Sirius’ father sat down next to Harry and lifted his chin, holding out a hand.

“I’m Orion Black of the Most Noble Ancient House of Black. This is Cantankerus Nott—”

“Just Nott, please.” The boy rolled his eyes. “I don’t have a first name. It doesn’t exist.”

“And that’s Selena Selwyn,”

So, it was true. This was Sirius’ father. No wonder. They truly were so similar, it was uncanny. Then again, Orion did marry a cousin, so it wasn’t a huge surprise the genetics hadn’t changed much.

He’d been staring a bit too much before he realized it. Harry shook Orion’s hand with a light smile. “I’m Harry Evans.”

Orion withdrew his hand, his nose wrinkling. “On second thought, perhaps we should switch compartments.”

“You’re a mudblood, then?” asked Nott, but his tone was far more neutral and matter of fact.

“No—sit down, Orion, I don’t want to catch Prewett’s attention,” said Selena, grabbing Orion by the arm and shoving him back down. “He’s driving me mad and I would like one train ride where he’s not bothering me. Who cares if he’s a muggleborn. Not like you’re going to catch some disease, you twit.”

Even thirteen year olds were giving him lip about blood status. Harry tried to stay calm, tried to remember they were just children. How nice it was for them to worry about unshed blood like it mattered worth a damn. They were so blissfully sheltered if that was all on their minds.

It dawned on Harry that, technically, he was a year and a half older than all the sixth years. He had ‘died’ a few months before his eighteenth birthday, but time skipped beyond July. Harry wasn’t even sure what his age was any more. Time was confusing. It was odd to feel so much older than these kids. They were so small and so stupidly innocent, the little prats.

Yet, Harry was glad they weren’t fighting in a war. He was thankful they didn’t have to worry about a Voldemort coming to destroy them.

“I’m a halfblood, actually,” said Harry. He turned to narrow his eyes at Orion. His wand was in his hand, his grip light, but promising. “I don’t like that word, Black, so I don’t want to hear it again.”

“I’ll say whatever I like,” said Orion, the light in his eyes twisting into a manic glee. “What’re you going to do about it?”

“You’re a Slytherin. I think I’ll hex your hair with red and gold and you won’t be able to get rid of it for a week. Not even the teachers will be able to fix it. Got it?”

Orion grinned viciously. “Aren’t you pissy? You’re not even a student—”

“Yeah, I am.”

“You’re unsorted. You’re not a Slytherin and—”

“I’ll be a Slytherin and I’m telling you right now that I don’t need a little kid like you who hasn’t faced a murderous Dark Lord to give me shit about blood status. I hear you say mudblood again and you’ll go blind by the sight of your own hair.”

“Dark Lord?” said Selena, leaning forward. “The Dark Lord?”

“Ugh, stop fighting,” said Nott. “I’m tired and it’s too early for this.”

“Faced a Dark Lord?” breathed Orion, his eyes glinting. “Are you inferring that you’ve faced him?”

“Yup.”

“Maybe you’re more interesting than I thought,” said Orion, his smile dangerous.

Damn all these tiny Slytherins.

It was going to be a very long eight hour train ride to Hogwarts. Merlin save him.

Orion Black took an unhealthy interest in the topic of the Dark Lord after that and proceeded to bombard Harry with endless questions. ‘What’s he like? What does his wand look like? Is he powerful? What does his magic feel like? His voice. His clothes. Blah blah blah.’ The boy wouldn’t shut up and nothing Harry could do would deflect him. Finally Harry thought, Fuck it, and began outright describing the snake visage of Voldemort.

“He’s got scales on his face, snake like eyes, and no nose. It’s gone. Flat with slits. Dreadfully ugly. He’s super pale, like he forgot what the sun is—pretty sure he’s part vampire—and long fingernails that make you question… things. He never wears shoes—”

“You’re having me on now, you liar,” snapped Orion. Nott snorted at his side, covering it up with a cough when Orion threw him a dirty look. He glared at Harry. “You haven’t faced him at all, have you? You’re not going to be a Slytherin either. You’re just wasting my time.”

Harry flexed his right hand, the cursive scars going white. “I’m not lying.”

Orion scoffed and shifted in his seat. From that point, he ignored Harry altogether, turning his nose up at him. Harry was relieved and amused. Maybe he should do this more often, embrace fucking with these little shits. At least it would be funny as hell.

The three children clustered together, spending the time playing exploding snap, reading, fighting over chocolate frog cards after the trolley passed by with some treats. Harry mostly ignored them in return, taking the time to catch up on the last of his assignments. His class roster was a bit different than what he’d taken in his sixth year, having two added classes: Divination and Care of Magical Creatures.

Damn you, Death. I didn’t take these classes last time I was a sixth year.

He had finished his Charms, DADA, and Transfiguration essays yesterday. He really should work on his other essays for Herbology, Potions, and Care of Magical Creatures, but after dealing with so many kids, he felt like he was in a bit of a particular mood.

The topic of his Divination essay: predictions of the future.

Harry Potter version.

He set quill to parchment and went all out.

As the night neared with only a few hours to go, the other occupants had long fallen into naps. Harry conjured a blanket for each of them once asleep, figuring it best to avoid letting one of them get sick.

When the door slid open suddenly, all three kids jumped awake with a start. Harry glanced up from his essay writing. He was now on Potions. He had resigned himself to not finishing the last two in time. Ah well. O for effort.

Standing at the door were two boys and Hagrid, who was over a foot taller than them. He was so young, too. Dear Merlin. He stood behind his friends, wringing his hands, his eyes darting from side to side nervously. The other two boys had familiar flaming red hair that reminded Harry so much of the Weasleys.

“Selwyn, I’ve been looking all over for you!” said the boy with an overabundance of freckles. He was a bit taller than the other red head. “My love—”

“Weasley, get Prewett out of my face before I hex his bollocks off,” snapped Selena, wand in hand.

“I tried to stop him,” said Weasley softly, towards Selena, before he shot a nasty glare towards Orion. It was returned with a sneer. “There’s no stopping him.”

“Selwyn, I’ve written a poem in your honor,” said Prewett, pulling out a wadded piece of parchment. He unwrinkled it and drew in a deep breath.

Harry threw a quick silencio at the boy. His mouth moved, but no sound came out. It took him a moment to realize it and he glared around the room, trying to find the culprit.

“Some of us are trying to get some last minute studying in,” said Harry with a flourish of his wand. “So, if you want to harass someone, do it at school. Though, I really advise otherwise. Pestering the girl you like isn’t going to win you any points.”

“Who’re you?” demanded Weasley. “Fix his voice!”

“I don’t think I will. It’ll wear off by the time we get to Hogwarts. Close the door on your way out.”

The Prewett boy glared at him. He balled up the poem and threw it at Harry’s head, which bounced off and landed on the floor. He was unperturbed and flicked a light stinging hex at Prewett. He let out a soundless yelp, before he whirled away and marched off down the corridor with Weasley shouting, “Wait!” and running after him.

“Sorry for bothering yeh,” murmured Hagrid, shutting the door. He slammed it a bit too hard and the glass shattered. “Oh!” he cried, tears welling up in his eyes. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Harry, his tone gentle. “That’s what magic is for.” Hagrid gave him a watery smile as Harry cast a reparo, the glass lifting in the air to reform the window, good as new. He sighed, digging his fingers into his temples. That headache was starting to prick at the edges of his head again. He looked up at the other kids and said sharply, “Will there be any more interruptions?”

There were three shakes of the head in perfect unison.

“Fantastic,” he deadpanned.

Damn, his little feud with Malfoy must’ve been so annoying to be around.

He couldn’t be done with the train ride fast enough. He missed Ron and Hermione. He missed Neville. And Ginny. And Luna. He missed the people in his life who knew and understood what he’d gone through already. There was an emotional barrier between him and these people. The anonymity was nice and all, but they also didn’t know him, the boy who had lived through the flash of green light - the boy with the scar, the boy who had survived an attack from the Dark Lord.

He never imagined he’d miss - well, sort of - the weight of that title.

He needed to get sorted and into bed because he was done with this day already. He needed some sleep. As he deboarded the train, a screeching bark grabbed his attention. In a flutter of white, Kasper landed on Harry’s shoulder. He fluffed up, his white breast puffed forward. His eyes gleamed proudly.

“Waited long, have you?” said Harry with a laugh at the owl’s smug expression. Kasper clacked his beak and played with a strand of his hair, before he dug his claws into Harry’s shoulder in preparation to fly. He launched into the air a moment later. Harry watched him fly off in the moonlight towards the Owlery Tower.

“First years, this way,” called a gravely deep voice. Harry saw the mop of Potter hair that was Fleamont Potter in the distance. Harry needed to be sorted, but he’d rather die a thousand deaths than get into a tiny dingy with a bunch of eleven year olds.

He walked along the path that had once led to the carriages. He sucked in his breath, shocked to see the carriages weren't being pulled by thestrals, but by hippogriffs.

He was overcome with the thought that hippogriffs pulling carriages was probably the stupidest choice of steeds ever. Were they trying to get kids injured on the first day of school? A number of the hippogriffs were kicking their hooves into the ground, clearly agitated by the throng of children. One of them threw back their head and screeched, giving the closest group of children a baleful glare. They skittered out of the hippogriff’s reach.

None of the children were showing the due respect a hippogriff expected and deserved. All right, whose dumbass idea was it to have these proud creatures be lowered to the station of a mule?

He caught a glimpse of Hagrid’s group. The boy was enthralled with the creatures, gaining the respect of his carriage’s hippogriff with a low bow. Harry smiled to himself, glad to see some things hadn’t changed.

But another group of boys, clad in blue and green, was giving their hippogriff some problems. The hippogriff was stunning, rich black coat all over with a streak of blue in its feathers. It seemed to be in some pain, however, as the boys were teasing and taunting the beast. One of the boys had his wand out, sending the familiar light of stinging hexes at it.

Oh, no you don’t.

Harry whipped out his wand, rage billowing, and shouted, “Expelliarmus!” The blazing scarlet light caught three of the boys, blasting them off their feet. They landed in a heap together, cursing in surprise. Three wands flew into the air and Harry caught them with a deft hand. The other two boys stared at him in shock.

“What was that for?” demanded one of the boys, untangling himself from his robes.

“For abusing a living creature,” snapped Harry. He tossed their wands back at them. “Now walk to school or else I’ll report you to your heads of houses. Detention and loss of points on the first day? You’ll be pariahs in your own houses until Christmas holidays.”

The boys exchanged wary glances at each other, before they scrambled to their feet, gathered their wands, and darted down the path. Harry let out an exasperated huff. He turned his attention to the black hippogriff and approached him carefully. Harry bowed low.

The hippogriff bowed in return.

“Hi,” said Harry gently, coming to stroke his beak. “Are you all right? You don’t look so well.” The beast shook his head, lifting his left hoof. Harry glanced at it, seeing that it appeared to have some scratches and a decent sized lesion. “Oh, that doesn’t look comfortable. Would you like me to unhitch you from the carriage so no one else bothers you?”

The hippogriff sorted, butting Harry with his head. With a smile, Harry patted him in return. With a few waves of his wand, he managed to detach the hippogriff from the carriage. He gave the creature another pat, before setting off on foot towards the castle. He wouldn’t make it before all the other years, but he should still make it faster than the first years crossing on the lake - especially if someone got up to mischief and fell in the lake.

Which was pretty much a yearly tradition, in his mind.

Harry was able to sneak off to the Great Hall where the first years were supposed to arrive for the sorting. He got there just before they did, so he waited in a shadowed corner, hoping to avoid any notice. The enormous double doors creaked open and the group of first years walked into the Great Hall. He snorted to himself, seeing Fleamont bouncing excitedly. The boy’s hair was dripping water everywhere and he was one hundred percent soaked to the bone.

There were so many children. When he’d been a first year, there had only been thirty to forty kids in his year. Now, there were easily over a hundred kids. A quick look over had him losing count at a hundred and twenty.

So many kids, what the hell. What happened to all these children?

Dumbledore stood at the top of the staircase, looking down at the group with a subtle smile on his face. Harry couldn’t stop himself from staring at the man. He looked nothing like the old man he would eventually age into. He was still rather young looking for being in his sixties, his hair a dark auburn with some greying along the edges. When he spoke, there was no aged rasp to his voice. Something twisted in Harry’s chest; he clutched the front of his robes.

A longing wariness warred within his heart.

“Welcome to Hogwarts,” said Dumbledore, gesturing with open arms. “Before you join the rest of your classmates, you are to be sorted into your houses. These houses serve as your home, your brothers and your sisters, for the next seven years. Don’t fret about your placement. Just be yourself and you can’t go wrong.” He gave them a wink and motioned to himself. “Come along.”

The massive group of children followed Dumbledore as the doors to the Great Hall opened. Harry held back, walking in after the last child. Harry sucked in his breath, his mouth dropping. It was huge. The four house tables held three times the number of children. The hall had expanded in size to accommodate the amount. In Harry’s time, it was far smaller. There were more teachers at the head of the hall as well.

Holy shit.

He couldn’t stop feeling sickened by the stark differences between their times. In the span of five decades, the wizarding world population had been sliced by two thirds.

The weight of his responsibility to this time bore heavily on his shoulders.

The group stopped at the end of the hall where the sorting hat sat on a stool. Harry stared at it, realizing how much bigger he was in comparison to all the other first years. Damn. He was gonna stick out. Actually, he already was, he mused, as he caught the eyes of a Gryffindor boy who stared at him like he had a second head. Harry ignored him.

Names were called out and Harry lost track of how many there were. A stocky blond boy, Alex Armstrong, was sorted into Gryffindor, while an unassuming John Baker was sorted into Ravenclaw. Another blond boy with a soft, gentle expression, Joseph Collins, was sorted into Hufflepuff. A wiry black haired boy with the exuberance of a chirping bird, Robin Dayson, was sorted into Gryffindor.

“Evans, Harrison.”

He wasn’t paying attention at first, watching the last child being sorted into Ravenclaw.

“Evans, Harrison.”

Harry started. “Oh, shit, that’s me.” His voice carried through the hall and he winced at the disapproving looks he received from the teachers. A couple of the children giggled around him, putting their hands to their faces, whispering furiously to each other. Harry pushed through the crowd of children, standing a foot taller than most of them, which was saying a lot when he himself wasn’t all that tall.

He stood in front of Dumbledore, who stared at him with wide eyes. “You’re Mr. Evans?” he asked in disbelief.

“That’s me.”

“But you’re…”

“Not eleven? That’s what happens when you’re, uh—” Hang on, how old am I supposed to be anyway, sixteen? Fuck it, sure. “—sixteen. You’re not eleven any more.”

Dumbledore blinked, but his eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “A transfer, then? We haven’t had one for over a hundred years. Very well, then. Come sit and be sorted, Mr. Evans.”

Harry stepped forward and sat on the stool. The hat rested on his head. “Oho,” the sorting hat drawled in his mind. “I do believe I’ve sorted you once before, Mr. Potter.”

“Yup. Been awhile? I guess?”

“How utterly fascinating. I’ve never had the opportunity to sort a time traveler. Or are you simply a soul who has been reincarnated? Or have you been resurrected, since you’ve died once. I don’t think I can unravel this puzzle in just a few seconds. How exciting.”

“I would have no idea, honestly, but that’ll give you something to think about when you’re not coming up with next year’s song. Are you going to sort me?”

“Diving into your mind is the most fun I’ve had all year,” said the sorting hat with a huff. “There’s no rush, I assure you. What are you, I do wonder… Oho, Master of Death, are you, hm?”

“Uh… can you just—”

“Quiet, I want to figure you out.”

“The sorting, please? People are staring.”

The hat let out a lamenting sigh. “You’ve gotten pushy in your later years, haven’t you? Very well, I suppose you want a say in where you go. I certainly hope you were joking about Hufflepuff. The badgers don’t take kindly to a snake in their midst and would surely eat you alive.”

“Oh, that. Yeah, that was a joke. So, Slytherin?”

“Slytherin?” The hat let out a barking laugh that echoed through the hall. “You think I’ll sort you into Slytherin after all you’ve done? You’re Godric Gryffindor incarnate. He would adopt you if he weren’t dead. You could call forth Godric’s sword right here and now, wield it with no resistance. You walked to your death to save everyone’s lives. You are a brave, selfless Gryffindor through and through. You chose Gryffindor and thus became one. Slytherin? What a joke.”

Oh, dear. Well, this wasn’t going according to plan. Panic began to rise within Harry. If he were sorted into Gryffindor, he would never have any time to get near Tom. It would make it harder, if not impossible, to get close to him. Tom Riddle just didn’t seem like the guy who hung out with Gryffindors.

“You said that I would do great in Slytherin,” said Harry in a rush. “Didn’t that mean anything?”

“Of course. Your path as a Slytherin would’ve been much different than your path as a Gryffindor. They each lead to different futures. Neither is better than the other, however.”

“So, let’s do Slytherin this time.”

“You chose Gryffindor. You are a Gryffindor.”

“Ah, but isn’t this a good chance to sort me into the house you thought was best for me? You said it yourself, I would do great in Slytherin. Come on, don’t you want to see me thrive in the house of your preferred choice for me?”

There was silence. Harry could feel the many eyes watching him, waiting for this to be over. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but it seemed longer than he realized. More time passed. Harry counted to thirty in his head and the panic began rising yet again. Then, the hat let out a deep, reverberating chuckle and ruffled up on his head. 

“Mr. Potter, I do believe you would be best suited in SLYTHERIN!”

Harry breathed a relieved laugh.

Chapter Text

This was particularly dull this year.

That Evans boy really shouldn’t be a hat stall, yet here they were, waiting for the sorting of this unusual transfer student. How asinine. Evans was too unassuming to be this complex. He was a Hufflepuff. Said so himself. Why did the hat have to deliberate over it so much? Was it the age difference? Eleven year olds weren’t all that deep, so perhaps the hat was having difficulty with someone older, one nearing manhood. It always dealt with simple minds.

Tom didn’t really care all that much.

Not really. He wanted the sorting to be over, so he could finally dine on some proper food after having nothing of the sort all summer long.

After Evans had said Hufflepuff, that was enough for Tom to lose all interest in the other boy. His parents being killed by the Dark Lord was rather intriguing, but it didn’t go further than that. He was a mudblood. His magic wasn’t of note, Tom was sure. His presence wasn’t all that noticeable. Evans was a boring nobody with the forgettable personality of a Hufflepuff and Hufflepuffs made the worst toys to break.

However…

The hat hadn’t sorted him yet. It was taking forever. With the passing seconds, it was nearing a full minute now - until it’d been three minutes. Tom set his book aside and watched the sorting with more focus, trying to decipher Evans’ facial expressions as he conversed with the hat. Tom had long learned to observe others from a young age, to understand people when they did confusing things. Like friendships or intimate relationships. 

He didn’t see the appeal.

The hat laughed at one point, loud, barking; it echoed through the hall. Panic rippled through Evans’ expression. Tom’s curiosity grew and he found himself wondering what could’ve been the cause of such an outburst by the hat. What could be so entertaining to the hat for it to laugh so loudly? Hm.

He watched Evans’ expressions. Panic. Amused. Coy. Nervous. Desperate. Bated breath. Then—

“SLYTHERIN!”

Oh.

A smirk.

Evans was smirking. 

Why that little minx. He’d known. Amusement flooded through Tom as his mind raced through their final moments on the train. Evans had lied. He’d known he was going to be in Slytherin and he had lied, just to mess with Tom. How peculiar. How positively fascinating. Tom’s lips curled upwards, his gaze scrutinizing Evans’ every movement for a hint. But why? Why the little lie? It was such a simple thing - so ridiculous a thing to lie about.

If Evans had said Slytherin from the start, perhaps Tom would’ve been more interested in getting to know the other boy. Would I have invited him to sit with us? He wasn’t fully sure.

At any rate, his interest in Evans had soared to new heights.

Evans got off the stool and walked towards the Slytherin table. Tom lifted a hand and motioned for him to sit with his group. Evans’ face flashed with a touch of satisfaction. He sat down next to Tom, smiling at him and giving him a little pompous wave.

Those eyes, though. They struck powerfully with the light of the death curse. Emerald death green. They were rather fascinating and unusual.

Tom let out a soft, breathy laugh. “Imagine my surprise to see you in green, Evans,” he said, his voice smooth as honey. “And here I was under the impression you were meant for the badgers.”

“It was a toss up,” said Evans with a grin, shrugging. “I was begging it for Hufflepuff, but it wouldn’t listen. Thought it was funny.”

Were you really? Or was it the other way around?

“I find that hard to believe,” said Tom, keeping his tone light. “There’s something about you that… would fit in with those darling little Hufflepuffs.”

Evans’ smirk grew wider. He leaned a bit closer to Tom, as if about to tell him a saucy secret, perhaps closer than Tom would’ve liked, but he allowed it. For now. “Did you know badgers eat snakes?” Evans whispered. He shook his head, pulling back. “No, thanks, I’d rather not have to deal with that. Badgers can be a bit scary when you mess with them.”

Tom couldn’t stop the disbelieving look from crossing his face.

Evans snorted. “Have you met a Hufflepuff? They’re scary.”

“Can’t say that I have,” said Tom, his lip curling in disgust. A Hufflepuff, scary? How ridiculous.

“I knew a Hufflepuff once,” said Evans and a faraway look entered the light in his eyes. Knew a Hufflepuff, hm? Where are you from if this is your first time at Hogwarts? “He was a seeker, wicked at magic, who…” Pain entered his expression. “Well, he was murdered, too, like my parents,” he whispered. “He shouldn’t have died. He was a nice guy, popular, and extremely handsome…”

Evans trailed off, squinting at nothing. For a moment, he appeared a bit consternated. He sucked in his breath, his eyes widening.

“Oh… Oh, shit.”

Tom’s eyes widened before he quickly masked his expression. Evans had a mouth on him, didn’t he? How uncouth. “What is it?” he asked, bemused. This boy was having a medley of emotions flooding through his face and Tom couldn’t keep up with it. He had never seen a Slytherin be so open with their emotions. He couldn’t help but be a bit fascinated by the strange boy. Evans was worried about being eaten by badgers? Wait until he entered the viper’s den.

“Shit.”

“Evans, could you refrain from using such profanities at the dinner table, please? Whatever is the matter with you?”

“It’s nothing,” said Evans, shaking his head in a way that suggested it was decidedly not nothing. He exhaled exaggeratedly. “It’s fine. I just realized something and now I’m having an existential crisis. It’s fine. Really, it’s fine. I’m fine.”

What in Salazar’s name?

The boy grabbed his head, his eyes wide again. “Oh, shit. Draco, too?” he muttered in a low voice, probably to himself if Tom wasn’t paying attention so carefully. “Ahh, fuck.”

Who is Draco to you?

A little dip inside Evans’ odd, chaotic mind was tempting, Tom admitted to himself. Sorely tempting. However, he wasn’t sure how self aware Evans was. If he noticed the intrusion, that could get Tom in trouble and a perfect record was an absolute must. Dumbledore was always looking for an excuse to accuse Tom of something. It didn’t matter what it was either. One indiscretion could prove fatal.

In all of his five years at Hogwarts, Tom hadn’t received a detention nor lost a single point. He wasn’t about to let that happen now, no matter how curious he was. No, he wasn’t going to risk his impeccable reputation on a fleeting interest.

However he went about finding his answers, it meant getting caught couldn’t have a place in the equation.

“So, you enjoy leading others astray, hm?” asked Tom, keeping his tone innocuous.

“What?”

“Telling me you’re a Hufflepuff, when you’re truly a Slytherin. I wonder what else you’re lying about.”

Evans slowly turned his gaze more directly onto Tom. There was a gleam in his eyes, a smirk lifting the edges of his features. There was a challenge in those deathly green eyes. This stranger was challenging him.

“I suppose you’ll figure it out, won’t you, Riddle?”

Tom’s eyes narrowed. Excuse me? He wasn’t sure what to make of that, but he never got the chance to when Orion Black noticed Evans and spoke up.

“What’re you doing in Slytherin?” demanded Orion. He glared at Evans. He sneered, lifting his nose as if he were smelling something awful. “You’re more suited to be a disgusting Hufflepuff than a noble Slytherin.”

“I told you I’d be in Slytherin,” said Evans with a shrug. “Not my fault you’re a dumb little shit who didn’t believe me.”

“You lied about the Dark Lord!” snapped Orion. “You said he didn’t have a nose.”

“He doesn’t.”

Tom had never seen the Black boy so flustered and angry before. Evans so easily riled Orion up when the boy was usually far more stoic and quiet.

“Grindelwald has a nose!” hissed Orion, throwing a Daily Prophet issue at Evans and jerking a finger towards the front page. The dual colored eyes of Gellert Grindelwald stared at Tom briefly, before turning them onto Evans. A shiver slid down Tom’s spine in spite of himself.

Evans lifted the paper, looked at the cover with a bored expression, and tossed it back to Orion. “Oh, so he does. My bad.”

“You don’t belong here,” said Orion, his eyes narrowed with malevolence. “Go crawl under what rock you slithered out of—”

“What?” said Evans in a mocking tone, clutching his chest as if wounded. “I’m hurt. I guess getting bitten by a giant ass basilisk isn’t good enough to get into Slytherin. How pitiful for me.”

What?

Sebastian barked out a laugh. “Bitten by a basilisk? That’s a good one.”

“You see? He’s a liar! He’s making up stories.”

Evans slid his right sleeve up to reveal a scar on his forearm. It appeared like a large puncture wound. Tom caught a glimpse of darkened veins around the area. A curse scar? There appeared to be another scar nearby that looked very much like a snake bite. A snake bite, of all things, hm? Evans flourished with his other hand towards the wound, giving Orion a taunting look.

“This shit didn’t happen on its own,” said Evans.

“You’re full of shit!”

“Orion.”

The table went quiet. Orion glanced over at Alphard, his expression twisting, appearing chastised. Alphard slowly opened his eyes, stretching out with his arms.

“You’re loud.”

Orion huffed, glaring at Evans, before turning back to his friends. Ah, blessed silence. Alphard yawned. He leaned against Quintus, falling right back asleep once again. Even after five years, Tom still didn’t know how he managed it.

“If you were bitten by a bloody basilisk, then how are you still alive?” asked Marcus, his eyes narrowed. “You should be dead.”

“You’re not a walking corpse, are you?” asked Roland, resting his chin in his hand.

Tom refrained from rolling his eyes. He couldn’t believe they were still on this topic. Of course, Evans was lying about it. Why were they humoring him? Though, it would be amusing to see Evans scrambling to make up stories and try to keep them straight. The lies would unravel at some point.

“Perhaps, you’re an inferi,” said Roland, smirking.

Evans stiffened a fraction.

“Or just inferior,” said Sebastian with a snort. The four of Tom’s dorm mates laughed together, while Quintus and Alphard remained silent.

Oh, what is this?

“Yes, Evans,” said Tom lightly. His lips curled. “How did you live from this basilisk bite? We’re all ears.”

“Phoenix tears,” said Evans without missing a beat. “A phoenix cried on the wound in time, otherwise I’d be dead.”

There were a number of scoffs. “That’s not possible,” Marcus said, rolling his eyes.

“If you’re gonna lie, come up with a better story,” said Simon, his voice hard.

But what of the inferi, hm?

Evans only smirked, shrugging elaborately. “Not my fault if you don’t believe me.” He slipped his sleeve back down, turning his head towards the sorting hat and watching as another first year joined the Hufflepuff table.

Tom frowned to himself. Evans was filled with odd dichotomies, highly unusual. Was it a lie or wasn’t it? Where would Evans come across a basilisk anyway? And a phoenix?

It didn’t make sense, yet Evans didn’t appear to be lying. He didn’t have any of the tells that Tom could usually read through. His Legilimency was getting better, but he couldn’t read surface thoughts and feelings yet. And Evans had reacted to the inferi comment. He was filled with mysteries and something odd was rising within Tom. It was an emotion Tom hadn’t felt in quite a few years.

Thrill.

A Potter was sorted into Gryffindor - shocker - and Evans clapped louder than any other Slytherin. Before Evans had been sorted, Alphard and Orion’s younger brother, Cygnus, had been sorted into Slytherin as well as Abraxas Malfoy’s cousin, Euphemia. They had to wait another fifteen minutes for the sorting to end. Dippet said some short - thank Merlin - welcoming speech that Tom tuned out.

“Enjoy the feast!” said Dippet.

“Finally,” murmured Evans, turning. Food filled the table, overflowing with endless choices. He started scooping food on his plate and Tom did the same, keeping an eye on Evans. He’s not taking much. Is that all he’s eating? It was about half the amount than the rest of the others. Evans kept to his meal, listening to the conversations that happened around him. Tom observed him out of the corner of his eye while engaging in a light debate with Simon about Ancient Runes.

He’s thinner than the rest of us. More than normal.

Tom was tempted to believe him. About facing the Dark Lord. Evans was more tense than anyone Tom had ever met before, like he was always on the alert for a strike or for an attack. At a meal. A meal. Evans had seen some fighting, more than just a few fights.

Evans was a new interesting addition to the Slytherin house. Tom had something new to play with and Evans would be a wonderful toy to break. While Tom’s plans included finding the Chamber of Secrets and figuring out a solution for his mortality, adding a little mystery hunt with Evans would make for a pleasant distraction and reprieve from his goals.

With the feast coming to a close, Dippet gave another speech. Tom rolled his eyes. Something about working hard. Learn. All that rot. The old man gave the same speech, nearly word for word, every single year. Tom had it memorized in his third year. Finally, they were dismissed for the evening and slowly the students began to stand up, stretch, and make their way out of the Great Hall and to their dorms.

“Evans,” said Tom, turning to him. “Since you’re new, stick with the first years. I’m leading them to the Slytherin dorm room this year.”

“Great,” said Evans, his smile a bit stiff. “Thanks.”

Tom stood up, giving Quintus and Alphard a look. It was all he needed to get them to pull aside from the Slytherin table and wait for him a distance from others. With a quick glance to make sure no one was listening, Tom said quietly, “I want you two to keep an eye on Evans.”

“Okay,” said Quintus, nodding, while Alphard rested his chin on his shoulder, his arms snaking around his waist. 

Tom’s expression twisted. “Yes, make your little tryst known. Loudly. You’ll lose your heirship at this point.”

“Doesn’t matter. I don’t care,” said Alphard with a shrug. “Father already favors Orion. It’s an unspoken assumption in my home that he’ll be the one to take the lordship of my family when he comes of age. Why should I bother when I have no intention of giving them a perfect pureblood daughter-in-law? Orion can go make cute heirs with Walburga. I’ve made my peace with it.”

His arms tightened around Quintus.

“Are you saying Orion will be of more use to me than you?” said Tom softly, his tone piercing as a dagger.

The muscles in Alphard’s face flinched. “If my only use to your future is my lordship, then I have failed you greatly.”

Quintus was still and silent through the exchange, but his hand overlapped Alphard’s at that moment, his gaze low. His dark eyes were filled with an emotion that Tom had no desire to understand. He turned his attention to Alphard. He tolerated their little dalliance since it didn’t interfere with their placement in his Knights.

“You’re the most observant of our group.”

Alphard nodded.

“Keep it up,” said Tom, letting approval sink into his voice. “I want to know more about Evans. He’s not what he seems.”

His dismissal was clear, but he appeased them both and the two boys left together. Tom glanced around the crowd, wishing to speak with Orion next. The numbers of his Knights were among different years and while Orion wasn’t one of them, he still maintained some healthy respect towards Tom, even if he still looked down on all those not a pureblood.

He caught sight of the boy near his friends.

“Orion, a moment,” said Tom, motioning to himself. A flash of fear crossed Orion’s face, but he quickly hid it. He stepped towards Tom, his head lowered somewhat.

“What do you need, Riddle?” asked Orion softly.

“Tell me about Evans.”

Orion’s expression twisted into annoyance. “He’s a liar. He said he faced the Dark Lord, but then said a bunch of stuff about him that was obviously made up.”

“What did he say?”

“What?”

“What did he say?” whispered Tom, his anger of having to repeat himself seeping into his tone.

Orion paled. He hurried onward. “Just… Weird things. Like the Dark Lord doesn’t have a nose. He’s a vampire or something. I’m not making it up,” he added when Tom narrowed his eyes. “He said things like he didn’t wear shoes. It didn’t make any sense.”

For a moment, Tom stood in silence, trying to make sense of it. “Did he mention his power or his magic?” he asked finally.

“Not at all.”

“Thank you, Orion, that will be all.”

As Orion left, Tom turned away, striding towards the first years that had been grouped together by Serinda Selwyn, the other sixth year prefect. He came to a halt when he heard the whispers of a couple of second years. He turned towards them, trying to remember their names… Ah, yes, Davies and Wright.

“I can’t believe he’s in our house.”

“He blew us off our feet. He’s a sixth year. We can’t cross him.”

“We barely made it back in time for the feast. And how did he get here faster than us? Didn’t he set the hippogriff free?”

“Ruin our fun—”

“And what fun was that?” asked Tom in a dark voice, grabbing the two boys by the collars and stopping them from walking away. He had a hunch. Evans again? The two boys went white when they saw him.

“R-Riddle!” gasped Davies.

“Uh, what—”

“Answer my question.”

The two boys exchanged a look before they spilled their guts in rapid succession, crocodile tears filling their eyes.

“We were just having some fun!”

“Honest fun, really!”

“We were messing with the hippogriff.”

“Very harmless, we swear—”

“New guy, that Evans boy, came out of nowhere and attacked us.”

“He was brutal and—”

“Enough!” snapped Tom; his jaw clenched. Dealing with second years was so annoyingly tedious. They were so foolish. The two boys clung to each other, their eyes wide. “You were teasing a hippogriff and Evans stopped you. Is that it?”

“Well…”

“Do not lie to me,” hissed Tom.

“Yes!” wailed Wright.

Fury burned in his chest. He had the sudden desire to set something aflame. How dare he. Evans had interfered. He had interfered in matters that weren’t his concern. He wasn’t a prefect. He hadn’t even been properly sorted and yet he was already asserting authority with his fellow students. This Evans boy had a lot of nerve coming in here and disciplining his peers without proving his worth.

It was his job. Tom was the prefect. Tom had been the one to trudge through all the imbecilic bigotry all these blasted purebloods were too obsessed with to get where he was now. Evans walked right in like he owned the place.

How dare he.

“Detention,” snarled Tom. The boys seemed to forget themselves, about to protest when Tom overrode them. “You let a stranger get the drop on you. You’re lucky that’s all I’m doing. You got caught and by the new boy, no less. Get out of my sight before I make it a week.”

The boys scrambled away. Tom growled under his breath. He inhaled, forcing his expression to be neutral. He was going to need a word with Evans next. He turned around, walking towards the first years. He stood next to Miss Selwyn and gave the first years a genial smile.

“Welcome to Hogwarts. I’m your prefect, Tom Riddle. I’ll be showing you the way to the Slytherin dorm rooms, so pay close attention.”

He made a head count, only realizing at the last minute that the newcomer, Harrison Evans himself, wasn’t among the first years.

Wait a minute. Where is he? How is he getting to the dorms?

Slipping away in the crowd was too easy. Harry loved not being Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived. It helped that there were so many students. Disappearing beneath the cloak and avoiding the crowds with the map was child’s play. He just wanted to get to the Slytherin dorms as soon as possible and since he knew where it was, there was no need to endure the embarrassment of being led around by Riddle with the little firsties.

Setting up a reputation as a liar seemed to be a success. He didn’t have the energy to try to fake and lie his way through this year. Umbridge had been a fool: Harry was a terrible liar. He couldn’t lie to save his life. Besides, the truth was far more insane than any lie he could’ve come up with. If the entire school thought him a liar, well that was on them.

This meant when he screwed up, which he would, they wouldn’t believe him or know what to believe any more. That was fine with Harry. No one would believe him if he accidentally let something slip about time travel shit or saying he died once or twice. 

This was a smokescreen - the truth full center.

No one would suspect a thing.

Unless Tom Riddle was smarter, which was a high possibility. Good, thought Harry. Try and figure me out, Riddle. Obsess about me. Lose sleep trying to figure out if I’m a little liar or not.

Harry grinned to himself. At least he wouldn’t be bored this year.

Getting to the dungeons was simple with the map. He made his way through the more obscure parts of the castle, taking a somewhat longer route - though he was sure he’d get to the dorm before Riddle and the first years. He was careful to avoid bumping into someone and alerting them to his presence. Once he got closer to where the Slytherin entrance was, Harry pulled the cloak off and stored it back into his pouch at his hip. He stepped out of the shadows and walked down the corridor. He stopped at the wall, realizing at that moment that he forgot one very important thing.

Shit.

Well, shit.

Password. The damn password, of course. Harry slapped his forehead in pure frustration with himself. Of all things, he’d forgotten about the password. Neville would be proud. How stupid. I’m such an idiot.

“Evans.”

Harry jumped, whirling around. His wand was in his hand, pointing at the source of the voice.

“Wow,” drawled the voice. “Someone’s twitchy.” Quintus Prince was standing up and stepping out of the shadows of the darkened corridor. He really did look a lot like Severus Snape, but with a more refined nose and a softer jawline. “You’re alone. How’d you get here?”

“Oh, I wandered around.”

“Hm…” Prince stared at him, eyes slightly narrowed. He shrugged. “Password is Boomslang.”

“Thanks, you weren’t just sitting there for me, were you?” Prince only smiled. Harry snorted. “Well, thanks, I wasn’t sure how I was going to get in.”

“So, you knew this was the entrance to the Slytherin dorms, hm? Without ever being a student here. Interesting.”

Oh, shit.

What the hell, are all Slytherins this smart?

“Someone might’ve pointed me in the right direction.”

Prince smirked at him and Harry had to berate himself for shrinking back slightly, thinking Snape was about to throw him into detention for a week. Get it together, he just looks a bit like a smarmy, fancier version of Snape. He has that damn pureblood look.

“We should really thank that kind benefactor, shouldn’t we?”

Harry had another start ripple through him, his wand whipping towards the floor. He blinked. How the hell… He was there the whole time?

Alphard Black stood up from where he was sitting on the floor. He brushed himself off, looking at Harry with unwavering, but all too familiar grey eyes. Sirius… Sirius had mentioned once of an uncle who had left him his money when he died. He had spoken fondly of Alphard, telling Harry he’d been a good, decent man. 

He’s obviously in Tom’s group, though. Maybe he leaves eventually?

“Where is this kind Slytherin who showed you the way to the dorms?” asked Black. There was something both benign and predatory to his smile. It was a dangerous gaze. Harry drew in a deep breath.

He’s a Slytherin, too.

They’re all Slytherins. Every single one of them. That means there’s always an angle I need to look out for.

Damn, this is exhausting.

“Didn’t catch their name,” said Harry with a shrug. “Can’t help you with that.”

“Of course,” said Black lightly. He gestured towards the wall, stepping forward after Harry. “Boomslang,” he said. The door to the Slytherin common room materialized and the three of them stepped through the entrance.

The Slytherin common room was nearly the same as it had been in Harry’s second year, when he’d infiltrated it with Ron. Except for the fact that it was three times larger. The colors were all a warm green. There were a number of tables and chairs, with a couple of plush sofas and armchairs. The lake glimmered with eerie tones, a fish swimming by the windows on occasion.

There were a lot of students in the room already, some sitting at tables, others on the sofas and armchairs. A number of eyes turned onto Harry, their gazes all appraising him. Harry could feel their intense energies as they stared him down, trying to get a gauge on him. A hidden shiver slid up his back.

It was then Harry came to a disturbing revelation.

This whole time Harry had assumed Tom was going to be the biggest snake in the den - and he was, no doubt - but he hadn’t realized that the biggest snake was still in a den with other vipers. They were all dangerous in some shape or form. He could already feel it from Quintus Prince and Alphard Black, as the pair of them watched him, looking for any sign of weakness from him - a hint of whatever they could use against him. They’d been fishing for information out of him. And there was no doubt in Harry’s mind, they could see right through him. 

If they could so quickly and so easily, then Tom Riddle could see all the better.

Well, I’m pretty much fucked straight to hell, aren’t I?

Damn it.

Welcome to the den of vipers, Harry Potter.

Chapter Text

A stroke of luck? Or a stroke of Death? Who knew, but Harry’s bed was adjacent to Tom’s because of course it was. It appeared that Riddle’s bed had once been on the end, but now that privilege fell to Harry.

Fantastic.

He had given the two strange boys the slip. Everyone in Slytherin had watched him, like hawks, only looking away when he was out of sight. It was weird. The entire Slytherin house was creepy, for Merlin’s sake. As he wandered through the winding hallways of the dorm, he’d had to check two other sixth year rooms before finding the one he was assigned to.

And of course it had been Tom Riddle’s dorm room.

He supposed that’d been the plan all along. It was just a bit daunting to see it all fall into place so easily and so perfectly. Harry sat down on the edge of his bed, glancing around the room. It was much larger than his old Gryffindor dorm, plus there were a total of eight beds instead of five. The circular room was decorated with rich mahogany woods and green bed hangings. There was a clear view into the lake. Harry smiled when a grindylow peeked through the window before hissing at him and swimming away.

When he was younger, he always imagined the Slytherin dorms were actual dungeons, but he had to admit there was something warm and cozy to the place. He would get used to living here in time. Though that didn’t mean he could let his guard down. This wasn’t the Gryffindor tower where his fellow dorm mates boldly made their dislike known to his face, like the growling little lions they were. Here, Harry could feel the difference. He had to be careful, lest he stepped on the tail of a snake that would strike without warning.

Harry stood up and pulled out some nightclothes from his trunk. He climbed onto his bed, shutting the hangings closed for privacy. He warded his bed against anyone who would try to open them and he also threw up a silencing charm, so he wouldn’t wake his dorm mates in case of a nightmare. He dressed in his nightclothes, hanging his robes over the top of the bed hangings.

Harry burrowed under the covers, when voices filled the hallway and room. He curled onto his side, eyes drooping, halfway listening to the other boys.

“Evans asleep already?”

Harry’s heart jumped in his throat. Tom. His voice was close and low, soft as if he hadn’t wished to wake him. Harry turned in bed slightly, listening.

“He was the first up here,” whispered Prince.

“Guess he was tired,” said Lestrange.

No more was said about him. Harry closed his eyes, listening to the lulling murmur of voices. He was asleep within moments.

Harry was the second one awake and out of the dorm that morning. The only other bed not occupied was Tom’s. Harry did a double take when he noticed that two beds had been pushed together. He blinked, hurrying out of the dorm before anyone woke up and noticed him staring.

Wow, okay, uncle of Sirius and uncle or relative of Snape sleeping in the same bed. As a couple. Well, it’s official: this isn’t a new timeline; this is a brand new alternate universe.

Harry stumbled into the bathroom with clean robes in hand. Had these two been dating in the first timeline? If so, what had happened to them? He was pretty sure Sirius would’ve mentioned that about his Uncle Alphard. Harry wasn’t sure how either of them died, but in some ways he hoped it was because of the next wizarding war and not because of illness or accident. They would live, then. Harry barely knew them, but he really wanted to see Sirius’ face when he learned of this. He could only imagine the wailing in despair and the cringing in disgust that would ensue.

He was dressed and ready to go as the others were rising from their beds. Harry grabbed his books for the day, Transfiguration and Herbology, and strode out into the common room. He was out a moment later, strolling through the castle and taking his time to get to breakfast. He wasn’t all that hungry, so he had plenty of time.

The castle was so much bigger than it was in the future. The staircases went on endlessly and Harry found himself pulling out the map on occasion, just to make sure he wasn’t getting lost. The map seemed to accommodate the expansion, too. The sizing of the map and the name tags were much smaller than before.

He made it to the Great Hall where only a third of the students were there. Tom Riddle was already at the table, book open in one hand, fork hovering above his plate of scrambled eggs in his other hand. He was alone.

Perfect.

“Morning, Riddle,” said Harry, sliding onto the bench next to him.

“Evans,” said Tom, not looking up from his book.

Harry poured himself a cup of coffee, sighing in relief as he took a sip. He had no intention of having anything else this morning. Tom paused and looked up, frowning.

“Is that all you’re having?”

“Uh, yeah?”

Tom huffed. He set his fork down. “You need more than coffee to get through the morning, Evans. You’re already far too waifish as it is.”

What? Harry’s mouth slowly opened. He stared at Tom. “You…” His mind caught up and he let a wry grin slip into his expression. “What, concerned for me, are you, Riddle?”

“Obviously. I am your prefect and it’s my duty to make sure you’re well during the year.”

Harry blinked. He leaned forward, reaching over Tom’s plate for an apple. He took a bite, amused when Tom rolled his eyes in annoyance.

“I suppose that’ll do…”

The other Slytherins from their dorm made their way to the table one by one. Avery, Rosier, and Mulciber sat on Tom’s other side, while Lestrange, Black, and Prince sat across the table. Lestrange poured himself some coffee, blinking blurry eyed. He dumped a few sausages onto his plate, before passing it towards Prince.

Prince curled his lip, eyeing the platter of sausages with a hint of disgust. “Pass, not a fan of sausages.”

Black swiveled his head towards Prince, a playful glint in his eyes. With delicate, deliberate movements, he took a fork and plunged it into a sausage. “Not even mine?” he asked in a low voice, proffering it to him.

Harry choked on his coffee.

Several of the nearby Slytherins groaned in annoyance. “Oh, for the love of Salazar,” Lestrange muttered under his breath. “It’s too bloody early for this.”

Prince leaned forward, opened his mouth, and took a slow bite out of the sausage. Harry went bright red as Prince chewed with a considering expression, his eyes solely on Black. He licked his lips. “Fine,” Prince said, sounding put out. “I suppose yours I can tolerate.”

Black jerked back, hand over chest. “Tolerate?” he breathed, clearly offended. He huffed, whipping his head away. “Fine, then. See if I give you any more of mine.”

“This table is covered in platters of sausages every morning,” said Tom derisively, rolling his eyes. “Why would he need yours?”

Harry coughed and spluttered, wheezing as the coffee went down the wrong pipe.

“Yeah,” said Prince, biting his lower lip with a saucy grin. “I can get any sausage I want. Without you.”

“Ah, but mine is superior.”

“Uh, Riddle, I don’t think—” gasped Harry. “I don’t think they’re—talking about sausages.”

Tom gave him a weird look. “What else would they be talking about?” He shook his head in utter exasperation, snapping his book shut, and giving the flirting lovebirds a glare. “As if I can get any studying done without you going on about your petty breakfast squabbles.”

Tom strode off. Harry was reeling, trying to make sense of everything. Black yawned and was already snoozing against Prince’s shoulder, while Prince calmly ate his breakfast, sans sausages, as if nothing had happened.

What?

Wait.

What the hell?

Am I missing something? Did Tom not understand what was going on? How?

A bit of concern flared inside Harry’s chest. Did Tom not understand all that had been flirting? How could he not get any of that? It was so bloody blatant! Merlin, Harry hoped Tom wasn’t that dense when it came to someone flirting with him. That would make this whole thing far more difficult. Surely not. Tom was praised for being highly intelligent. He’d know. He’d have to know. 

Harry finished his apple, downed the rest of his coffee, and got up from the table. He walked towards his first class of the day, getting turned around on the way. He ducked behind an armored statue and pulled out the map again, trying to find his class. A map should be mandatory. Finally, he could see Albus Dumbledore’s name on the map within a large classroom. A lot of the students were already there.

Ah, shit. I’m gonna be late.

Harry shoved the map back inside his pouch and broke into a run. He barely made it in time, pausing at the entrance of the classroom to catch his breath. He blinked, amazed by the size of the room. There were also far more students than he was used to. He didn’t make it in time to sit next to Tom, unfortunately. The other Slytherin boys had already taken their seats next to him, so Harry ended up a couple of seats away, sitting next to Rosier instead.

“Welcome to N.E.W.T. Transfiguration.”

Harry inhaled. He was overcome with the stark differences of the past and future again. It was a bit strange to see Dumbledore this young, with only a bit of grey edging into his auburn hair. He was so different from the old man Harry was used to - the eccentricities weren’t quite there yet. The grandfather wisdom and omniscience wasn’t there either. He appeared normal here. 

And far more fallible.

“This year, many of your classes will be focusing on training your ability in wordless magic. Transfiguration will be no different.”

Dumbledore raised his wand, a dandelion lifting from his table. With a little flick, the dandelion twisted and bloomed into an orchid. The girls ‘ooh’ at that, giggling and whispering among each other.

Dumbledore smiled. “Effortless magic like this is in your futures, I’m sure. What is required for wordless spell casting?”

A couple of Slytherins raised their hands. A Gryffindor raised her hand. Dumbledore pointed to her. “Miss Stacy?”

“Um… silence?”

There were some snickers. Dumbledore chuckled. “Yes, a good, yet incomplete answer. Some days you can’t always count on peace and quiet while spell casting. Five points to Gryffindor anyway.” Another hand went up. “Yes, Mr. Bones?”

“You need to concentrate on your intent to be able to cast wordlessly.”

“Excellent, take another five points.”

Dumbledore flicked his wand, transfiguring a match into a needle. “We’re going back to the basics,” he said with a wink. “Why would we do that?”

Rosier raised his hand.

“Yes?”

“We’re well practiced in basic spells, so theoretically we should have an easier time with wordless basic spells.”

“Correct, three points to Slytherin.

Harry frowned.

“Now, who can tell me why we practice wordless spells in your sixth year, hm? Why not start earlier? Third or fourth or even fifth year?” There was silence around the room. “Anyone?”

Tom lifted a hand. For a moment, Dumbledore didn’t call on him, still glancing around the room. Dumbledore breathed out. “Go on, Mr. Riddle.”

“As students of magic, we need extensive practice with our control. Accidental magic at our age is relatively unheard of and we’ve had five years to hone our abilities. Maturity matters and as young adults we can concentrate for longer stretches of time than our younger peers.”

Dumbledore nodded once. “Precisely. Now, let me demonstrate this one more time before I let you start.”

Hang on. He didn’t… He didn’t give Tom any points for that?

What the hell.

Something twisted inside Harry’s gut. He glanced over at Tom - watched the contracting of the Adam’s apple, the slightest tensing of the jaw, the long drawing inhale of breath, the glimmer of light echoing suppressed emotion - those brown eyes locked with Harry’s gaze, a flicker shimmered within them, before they dropped away. Tom’s hands tensed briefly, before relaxing.

All of it happened in a few, fleeting seconds.

A strange thought crossed Harry’s mind. The more it passed through his heart, the more he realized it must be true. It reflected part of Harry’s deepest feelings when he’d been in Potions’ class with Snape.

He still wants it. He still wants Dumbledore’s approval, deep down. Even when he knows he’ll never get it, he still wants that out of reach approval.

He understood how Tom felt.

Damn. Dumbledore is like Snape.

Snape had had a reason for being a dick to Harry - a bullshit one, but he had one. No excusing the bastard of a man, but Harry could have a little understanding for him and after seeing him with his parents, there was some forgiveness in Harry’s heart for him. As a child, he had wanted Snape’s approval, deep within his heart. Harry hadn’t understood why a complete stranger would have such hatred for him, without even knowing him, and he had always kept that wish for approval hidden.

He’d been resigned to the hatred, just as he had been with the Dursleys.

But what was Dumbledore’s reason and excuse for clearly targeting Tom? For disliking him when there was nothing to base it on? From Harry’s knowledge of the past, Tom hadn’t even done anything yet. Yet, of course. But what did this enmity serve, though? Dumbledore was suspicious of Tom’s potential, but what good did it to show his dismissal of him? That only created hostility. What if Dumbledore had tried to mentor Tom, like he’d had with Harry? Would things have been different?

Tom didn’t need to be pushed away. He needed someone to care about him for him. Not for his accomplishments or his lineage or his blood or his magic, but because Tom was a person who deserved it.

Harry could still remember the memory of that eleven year old boy in a dark, dilapidated room in an orphanage. He’d grown up without anyone to care for him. Everyone feared and hated him. What if Dumbledore had conjured a toy, instead of setting his things on fire? What if kindness, when it’d been so sorely lacking, had been shown to the orphan boy?

Would Tom Riddle still have become Lord Voldemort?

“Professor,” said Harry, calling out. “Didn’t Riddle give the correct answer?”

Dumbledore shifted his eyes onto Harry. “He did.”

“Then why are you blatantly favoring the Gryffindors over the Slytherins? You give them five points per correct answer, while the Slytherins get three, while Riddle gets shafted with zero. Is this a custom I’m unaware of here at Hogwarts?”

A chilly silence fell over the classroom. Harry met the man’s gaze, challenging him. Those sharp blue eyes narrowed. When he felt a tiny pressure in his mind, panic flooded his system.

SHIT!

Think of something. Anything. What. Ah—Fuck.

‘Clear your fucking mind, Potter!’  

Somehow that sounded a bit like Snape and Harry a bit hysterically wished he’d heard the man swear like that. Clearing his mind so quickly was impossible. He had the crazy, desperate idea to imagine something wild. He focused on unicorns. Hell, make them rainbow. In a field. Harry grinned devilishly. Shagging.

He met Dumbledore’s gaze full on with the vivid picture of rainbow unicorns shagging in a field in the forefront of his mind. Enjoy, arsehole.

Dumbledore blinked, averting his eyes.

Victory!

“Ten points from Slytherin for questioning my teaching methods, Mr. Evans,” said Dumbledore with a faint tremor in his voice. He turned away. “You’re new here, so I shall be lenient. Avoid this in the future.”

Wow, you utter arsehole. What a dick.

But he wasn’t Harry Potter for nothing.

“I wasn’t questioning your teaching methods, sir,” said Harry, his voice clear throughout the classroom. “I was questioning your bullshit bias and unfair dealings with your students.”

There were multiple sharp intakes of breaths.

If I’m gonna go down, I’m gonna go down a Gryffindor.

Dumbledore’s head slowly swiveled towards Harry. “Detention, Mr. Evans.”

Of course. Harry met his gaze unwavering, making sure to keep those fornicating unicorns at the ready. But he didn’t feel any pressure again. Dumbledore moved on with the lesson, as if nothing had interrupted him. The Gryffindors threw Harry wary looks, while the Slytherins continued their neutral appraisals of him.

Tom, however, was staring at him.

He didn’t look back, not at first. Tom didn’t stop and finally Harry couldn’t take it any more. He met his gaze. Tom’s expression didn’t falter. Anyone else would’ve just assumed Tom was too busy thinking to notice he was staring.

But Harry could decipher some of the emotion in his eyes.

Confusion.

A touch intrigued.

He gave Tom a half wave of the hand, giving him a smile. Tom blinked, unsettled, before dropping his gaze. Briefly, his eyes flicked back to him, but Harry didn’t acknowledge him again.

Harry stayed quiet for the rest of class, as did Tom. When it was over, the students dismissed, Harry was the last one to leave the room. Dumbledore didn’t acknowledge him. Harry couldn’t suppress the colossal disappointment he felt in the man. It hurt in more ways than he realized possible.

He was tired of being angry, tired of being so full of pain and hurt. He’d forgiven Snape in the afterlife, even had some forgiveness for Pettigrew. He hoped that when the timeline changed, his parents’ generation would grow in a world without war. Severus and Lily’s friendship would never be severed. Peter’s loyalty would never be tested.

Harry wouldn’t let it happen.

And yet…

He could still feel it in his heart, that bit of resentment towards Dumbledore. He’d been the adult who’d had the most power over Harry’s life and yet he’d been so passive in his efforts to guide the world towards the greater good, that he ultimately led it to its own demise. Where others had played active roles in cruelty, Dumbledore had chosen to do nothing with his power and influence.

Passive with Grindelwald.

Passive with Riddle.

Passive with Harry.

He’d had the magical ability and political power to do more, be more for others, and yet he’d stayed his hand. Why did the lack of good hurt far more than  the overabundance of evil? Why did Dumbledore’s lack of action hurt so much more than Voldemort’s Cruciatus?

As Harry looked back inside the transfiguration room, he stared at the turned form of Dumbledore. He smiled a little to himself, thinking of how the fiery Lily had reacted to this man. But her motherly righteous fury was not his own. In that white plane, he’d been irritated with him, hurt by the way Dumbledore had led him to the path of death without having the courtesy of being honest with him.

He wasn’t going to let that happen any more.

“I forgive you,” whispered Harry.

Dumbledore turned around slowly. “Now, Mr. Evans, whatever do you think I need forgiveness for? You’re the one who acted up in my class.”

Harry was rooted at the spot, not expecting the man to have heard him. What to say now? Harry drew in a deep breath. He didn’t meet Dumbledore’s eyes, keeping his gaze at the man’s chin. He felt the pressure again and he quickly threw up his buck wild image of rainbow unicorns rutting in a pasture. Dumbledore’s eyes faintly narrowed. The pressure faded.

“Forgiveness is rarely for the other person,” said Harry.

Stop trying to read my mind, you bastard.

“I see,” said Dumbledore. He leaned against his desk, his posture open, yet his expression was chilled. “Though, in your mind, I must’ve done something to warrant this need for forgiveness. Yet, we’ve never met before the sorting, so I’m still at a loss as to what has brought this up.”

He isn’t going to let this go.

“My parents are dead,” said Harry softly. “Because of the Dark Lord.”

Dumbledore faltered. The blood drained from his cheeks. His head bowed somewhat, his hands crossing over his chest. “I’m sorry for your loss,” Dumbledore said; his voice was hoarse. “And you blame…” he trailed off. He swallowed, his chest shuddering. “Losing loved ones… is never easy.”

“When is my detention?” asked Harry, trying to keep his tone gentle.

“Tomorrow. At seven o’clock. My office,” whispered Dumbledore.

“Have a good afternoon, sir.”

Harry walked towards the end of the classroom. As he closed the door behind himself, he caught sight of Dumbledore hunching over, hands curling around his head. The door clicked shut. Harry stood out in the corridor, heart thumping in his ears, chest aching, eyes burning, desire crying with the urge to tell the man, who’d been a mentor to him, everything.

But he resisted.

Harry turned away. 

I have to go at this alone. If he knows the truth, Dumbledore might try to stop me and I can’t let that happen. I’ve seen how bleak the future can be and I’ve got the chance to change it. So much is at stake. Dumbledore had his chance. It’s my turn now.

I’m going to save Tom from himself.

Tom Riddle wasn’t a lost cause, despite what Dumbledore might think. He walked down the hallway, his head bowed, his thoughts in a whirl. Something caught his eye and he glanced up. He sucked in his breath. All seven of his dorm mates, including Tom, were waiting for him at the end of the corridor, hanging out as a group. They couldn’t have been waiting for me, right? No way—

“Evans!” called Rosier, waving from a distance and motioning towards himself. “You survive Dumbledore’s wrath?”

“When’s your detention?” asked Tom when Harry was closer, his voice low.

Harry opened his mouth, but nothing came out at first. The group of boys were staring at him expectedly, with a sense of openness that hadn’t been there before. They weren’t quite Gryffindor level of welcome, but their sharp edges had dulled somewhat.

Well, that’s interesting.

“Tomorrow.”

Rosier threw an arm around Harry’s shoulder. “You, my friend, have bullocks of steel,” he said with a grin. His skin was a shade darker than Harry’s skin and it contrasted with his light brown hair. His grey eyes twinkled with mischief. “I suppose you’re not the worst to have been transferred to Hogwarts.”

“Thanks? I think?”

“Took a lot of guts standing up to Dumbles,” said Lestrange. He narrowed his dark eyes, sniffing. “Stupid. Gryffindorish.” He paused a half a beat and a tiny hint of approval entered his gaze. “But you got some brass in you, Evans. For a mudblood, of course. Consider me… impressed.”

Oh, how cute. ‘For a mudblood’ huh?

“Well,” drawled Harry. “When you’ve fought a mountain troll before and lived to tell the tale, then calling someone out on their bullshit seems to pale in comparison, yeah?”

Silence.

Oh, did I fuck up this adorable camaraderie already?

The Slytherin boys burst into laughter. “Good one, Evans,” Mulciber said with a snort.

“Dumbledore, a troll,” said Avery, snickering. “That’s the best comparison I’ve heard in years.”

The feeling had shifted slightly. Instead of the open hostility, there was a tentative tolerance from the group. He could work with that. Though, Harry was pretty sure he was going to screw it up eventually.

I always do, he thought a bit fondly to himself.

Harry hung back as they walked to their next class. As Tom and four of the boys continued onward, Prince sidled up beside Harry with Black at Harry’s other side.

“So… I couldn’t help but notice you were staring at Tom,” said Prince, his tone light. His voice was low.

“A lot,” added Black.

Harry came to a halt. They stopped in front of him, eyeing with quiet interest. Harry stared back with a frown. Wait a minute… Sure, he’d looked at Tom a few times, but it couldn’t have been that much. How could it be noticeable at all?

“I didn’t?” said Harry, confused.

The two boys shared a look. A rather heavy look. Harry frowned as their heads turned back to him. Prince shifted a little closer, leaning in and dropping his voice. “I caught him staring at you, too,” Prince whispered.

Hearing someone else notice that did something to Harry. His stomach flipped a bit, warmth and light filling his chest. His breath stole away. He felt dizzy. He knew this already, had caught Tom in the act of staring at him. So why, when someone else mentioned the fact, did Harry feel lightheaded?

“I waved at him,” said Harry, a little breathless, but grinning through it. “I caught him staring, too.”

Black and Prince exchanged that look again. A smirk slowly lifted the edge of Black’s lips, a bit roguish, reminding Harry painfully of Sirius. It softened after a moment, a touch of sadness slipping in between the cracks.

“It’ll be nice,” murmured Black.

It came out in a whisper. “What will be nice?”

“Seeing Tom have an interest in someone,” said Prince, gentle longing in his tone. “Hopefully, it’ll be a long lasting, genuine one.” He pursed his lips in a quiet smile. He gave Harry a nod, before the two of them turned, making their way through the corridor.

And Harry was left just a bit more breathless than before.

Chapter Text

Repeating sixth year was going to be a bigger drag than Harry first realized.

He was so bloody bored!

As he stood in Herbology, listening to the same rehash of the NEWT speech about exams and buckling down and the hardest year yet and on and on and on, Harry nearly lost it. He was over this and it was only the second class of the semester. A headache was on its way and he massaged his temples to ease the pain.

Going back to school was going to be hard. He was having a difficult time caring about the social dynamics of the school and the academic side, like the point system. He didn’t care about winning the house cup and it wasn’t because he was a Slytherin this time around. At least in Herbology there hadn’t been any favoritism shown.

Damn Dumbledore.

It was hard to care about something so inconsequential as a reward system that had no real world significance. Fake gemstones in an hourglass were meaningless in a world at war. He just couldn’t bring himself to care - not after being on the run for a year. Not when he’d been living in a tent, wondering if tomorrow would finally bring his capture and death. He had traveled in the dead of winter, lived through harsh conditions. He’d been able to handle the sparse amount of food better than his friends, due to the ‘Dursley Treatment’ in his childhood. His life had been so different the past year. How was he supposed to live a normal life now, going to classes, doing homework again, acting like any of this stuff really mattered in the long run?

The more his thoughts dwelled on the past, the more his encounter with Dumbledore irritated him. Interacting with the old man had sent Harry down a spiraling mood. He barely paid attention to the Herbology lesson. It wasn’t like anything was new to him, at any rate. He was the first to leave when the class was dismissed. He stormed out of the greenhouse, making his way towards the edges of the forest where no one would find him.

Hidden in a nook of trees, Harry sat down on the ground, lying on his back. He covered his eyes with his forearm, drawing in a deep breath. Memories burned in his mind, flashing with renewed, vivid colors. Battle and blood, spells and carnage, venom and screams, death and more death - scenes replayed in his mind with crystal clarity.

His heart twisted with loneliness. 

Harry gasped, his heart pounding in his chest, his breathing labored. He rolled onto his side, arms tight against his chest. His eyes burned. He didn’t know how long he was there on the ground, trying to blink and breathe through this strange attack. Black dots sparkled like the night sky in his sight. His head throbbed with pain.

When is this going to end?

Eventually, it slowly faded. When he regained some control over himself, Harry collapsed onto his back, digging deep into his temples with his fingers to ease his awful headache. He steadied his breathing. For a moment, he rubbed the palms of his hands against his damp eyes. His arms flopped to his sides and he stared up at the sky above.

What am I doing any more?

Why am I even here? Why did Death think I was the best man for this?

Dammit.

Harry forced himself up to his feet. He brushed the dirt off his trousers and set off towards the castle in the direction of the Owlery Tower. Once inside the castle, Harry didn’t pay much attention to his surroundings in the corridors. There were a lot of students out and about after lunch, but he kept to himself. It wasn’t until Harry was down a more secluded corridor that he noticed something off.

At the end of the corridor in the shadows, Harry made out four figures, all wearing green robes. However, it appeared as if it were a three versus one scenario. Harry stepped towards the group, feeling a bit apprehensive at the scene. When he got closer, he recognized the side profile of the leader of the trio.

Lucius Malfoy? Wait, no…

The older boy had similar regal features that both Lucius and Draco Malfoy had, but there were enough differences in his features for Harry to realize this was a relative or even a direct ancestor. Draco’s grandfather, maybe? His white blond hair was pulled back in a half ponytail, the length above his shoulders. The two other boys at his side reminded Harry of Crabbe and Goyle. They bore very strong resemblances to Gregory Goyle and Vincent Crabbe. 

Harry was suddenly trying to figure out how the same three families managed to have kids in the same exact year.

Did they plan for it every generation? What the hell.

The Malfoy ancestor was saying something. When the other Slytherin shook his head, Malfoy reached out and shoved the other boy. He slammed into the wall, toppling to the floor, his schoolbooks scattering across the ground.

“I keep telling you, mudblood, every year, in fact. Why do I have to keep reminding you?”

“Who I date is my business.”

Malfoy narrowed his eyes. He snapped his fingers and the two boys converged on the fallen boy, raising their fists.

“Hey!” snapped Harry, wand whipping out into his hand. Crabbe and Goyle paused their assault, glancing over at him. “The hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Can I help you?” asked Malfoy cooly, calm as the eye of a storm. “You should know better than to interfere with matters that don’t concern you. I am the Malfoy heir and—”

“Yeah, don’t give a fuck about who your father is,” interrupted Harry, rolling his eyes. Malfoy sucked in his breath, his expression twisting with insulted rage. Must be a Malfoy thing. He gestured towards the fallen Slytherin. “Knock it off. Why are you bullying a fellow Slytherin?”

Malfoy’s grey eyes flicked over Harry, taking him in from his trainers to his hair. His lip curled upwards. “Oh, lovely. Another mudblood. A white knight one, too,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “Aren’t you that new kid?” He gave out a contemptuous laugh. “You should show some respect for your elders. I suggest you move on and look away. This is between us and not you.”

“I’ll show some respect when you stop acting like an arrogant arsehole.”

The other two boys stiffened at Malfoy’s side. Malfoy licked his lips, a low laughing huff exhaling from his mouth. He took a slow step forward, glaring down at Harry from his full height, which had to be around eight inches or so taller than Harry.

Damn bloody tall Slytherins.

“Are you challenging me?” asked Malfoy in a low voice.

Harry’s wand pushed against Malfoy’s ribcage. Grey eyes widened. Harry smiled. “I dunno, you tell me.”

Malfoy leaned down and whispered in his ear, “You’ll regret this.”

“No, I don’t think I will.”

He received narrowed eyes at that, but Malfoy motioned to himself and his two friends followed after him without a word. Harry turned to the form knelt on the ground. He bent down, gathering the strewn books.

“You all right?”

The brown headed boy nodded. He was short and stringy, even a bit smaller than Harry. When the boy looked up, curls framing his face, Harry sucked in his breath.

“Thanks,” said the boy, his tone bright. He held out a hand. “Name’s Edward Pettigrew, seventh year.” Harry took him by the hand and shook it. Pettigrew smiled at him. “You did a foolish thing there. I appreciate it, but Abraxas Malfoy has been bullying me since the day we began school. I only have this year left. He could make things worse for you next year.”

“Even though he won’t be here?” asked Harry.

“Definitely,” said Pettigrew with a wry grin. “A Malfoy has connections. I think his cousin Euphemia started this year. If she’s anything like him, she could cause you trouble, too.” He gathered his things, patting Harry on the arm. He stood up. “Thank you, though. Got a bit of a Gryffindor in you. Better hide that lion side - Slytherins don’t usually know how to appreciate chivalry.”

Pettigrew gave him another thankful nod, before turning away, leaving Harry reeling with even more emotions.

He exhaled and turned into the other direction, making his way towards the owlery. While he hadn’t been all that hungry, he’d lost the rest of his appetite now. As he climbed the tower, he listened to the fluttering of wings, the hooting, and the screeching. He smiled when the full group of owls came into view.

A barking call caught his attention and the small snowy owl flew downward, landing on his shoulder.

“Hey, Kasper,” whispered Harry, stroking the owl’s breast feathers. He’d been hesitant to get this little owl, but now he was truly thankful to have him at his side. The owl began to preen his feathers, occasionally grabbing a strand of Harry’s hair and cleaning it as if it were one of his own.

Harry sat down in one of the cleaner corners of the tower, leaning his head against the wall. He sighed. He shut his eyes, trying to calm down. His entire body felt tense, like a strung string that could snap at any moment. He was constantly ready to fight and jump into situations without thinking. He probably shouldn’t have interfered with Pettigrew, but the thought of standing back made his stomach twist with nausea.

Pettigrew of all people. I wonder if he’s Worm—Peter’s father.

Peter’s father. Damn, this was getting too insane for Harry now.

“I really rushed into this whole thing without thinking,” whispered Harry.

Kasper barked softly.

“What am I gonna do?” said Harry with a groan, hiding his face in his hands. He exhaled. He felt this overwhelming pressure weighing down on him. How was he going to get through this year when the first day was already too much for him?

“Fuck…”

Kasper cleaned a strand of his hair, nipping his ear gently. Harry leaned back against the wall, listening to the melody of soft hoots the owls made in their sleep. The presence of the owls and Kasper calmed some of the anxiety in his heart. Harry supposed he shouldn’t be surprised at how quickly he’d bonded with this new owl. He hadn’t imagined a new companion after Hedwig, but Kasper was quickly becoming a dear familiar.

Harry sat in the owlery for hours. Kasper never left his side, falling asleep on his shoulder, leaning slightly against Harry’s head. It was when the owlery began to come to life with louder hoots and the sky darkening outside that Harry realized how late it had gotten. With a final pet of his feathers, Kasper leapt into the air, cuffing Harry lightly with his wings. He circled around Harry with a screech before flying out into the evening to hunt.

With a groan, Harry stretched his stiff limbs and stood up, brushing himself off. He left the owlery, climbing down the winding staircase. It was too late to get dinner, so he walked the path to the kitchens in the hopes of a sandwich. After tickling the pear, Harry tentatively opened the door to the kitchens, praying he wasn’t about to be accosted by a hoard of overenthusiastic house elves.

The answer to that prayer was no.

After explaining for the eleventh time that, ‘No, I don’t need a five course meal,’ the elves and Harry came to a compromise of a large sandwich, an enormous portion of chips with ketchup, two sliced apples, and a treacle tart the size of a full pie. He was lucky the elves didn’t weep when he couldn’t finish even a third of it. Stuffed, Harry thanked the elves - much to their wailing bemusement - and left the kitchens feeling more exhausted than before.

He felt a pang at the thought of Dobby.

Harry pulled the map out of his pouch, checking the route back to the Slytherin common room, before pocketing it. Harry barely made it to the common room before the ten o’clock curfew. He refused to make eye contact with the rest of his housemates and went straight to his dorm room. The other seven boys were in their beds; they looked up as Harry entered the room. 

“You missed dinner,” said Prince, setting his book down. He was sitting on the double bed with Black asleep, curled at his side. “You all right?”

“Fine—I’m fine.” Harry waved him off, going straight to his bed.

“You don’t look fine,” said Rosier.

“Didn’t get lost, did you?” asked Mulciber with a laugh.

“Nope.”

“How do you find your way around?” asked Tom, his tone soft. “It’s a big castle. It’s easy to get lost.”

“I make do,” said Harry, pulling out his nightclothes. He was in no mood to chat tonight. There was a rising tenseness in his chest, guilt mixed with pressure. I’m supposed to make friends with Tom, supposed to… But he couldn’t—not now, not tonight. His eyes met Tom’s dark gaze briefly, before he dropped his head and grabbed his bed curtains. He hid himself from sight.

“What’s got his knickers in a twist?” asked Lestrange.

“Who knows,” murmured Avery.

Harry threw up silencing charms and warded his bed. He slipped out of his robes and into his nightclothes, before burrowing under the covers. He was out before he knew it.

Harry woke groggy and exhausted the next morning, Thursday, as if he hadn’t slept a wink last night. Yet, with a quick tempus, he realized he had slept for over twelve hours.

Damn.

Harry threw open his bed curtains. Only Lestrange and Rosier were left in the room. They gave him a nod, before leaving together for breakfast. Harry hurried and got dressed, following after them with his bag over his shoulder.

The Great Hall was rather crowded, the noise level causing Harry to wince in pain. He sat down at the Slytherin table, taking a seat next to Prince. The rest of his year mates were nearby, with Tom across the table with his head in his potions’ textbook. Harry tucked into his breakfast, wanting nothing more than to crawl back into bed and sleep another twelve hours. The food was heavy and he could barely get through any of it. He put some fruit on his plate and tried that instead. He drank a sip of coffee when a high voice broke through the surrounding murmur of voices.

“I better not get paired with a mudblood this year,” said a girl with long dark hair and a pug nose, reminding Harry of Pansy Parkinson. She brushed her hair over her shoulder, giving a girl further down the table a sneer. “It was a disaster last year and I refuse to let my grades suffer due to the incompetence of a mudblood.”

Harry clenched his fists.

“Just threaten to report Slughorn this year, Prim,” said her friend, looking a lot like the Greengrass sisters from Harry’s time. “You don’t have to take it this time.”

“It’s so annoying that Slughorn tolerates mudbloods—”

“Do you people ever shut up about blood purity?” snapped Harry, slamming his fork down. He caught the attention of the entire Slytherin table. His fellow year mates glanced between Harry, Parkinson, and Tom, who slowly looked up from his book, his eyes hard. The younger years were peeking at the end of the table, trying to get a look at what was going on.

“Excuse me?” hissed Parkinson.

“Hell, no. You’re not excused. I have had it up to here—” Harry motioned over his head. “—with this blood purity bullshit. You’re all a hive mind about this—it’s ridiculous and downright annoying. Is this all that’s on your puny little minds? Can you all not already? There’s a fucking war out there, people are dying, and all you can whinge about is unshed blood. Grow the fuck up, princess.”

Parkinson sucked in her breath, going bright red. Her friends opened their mouths in silent outrage. Harry shoved his plate forward and bolted to his feet, the control on his magic sizzling beneath his skin. He whirled away, shaking from the fury that burned in his chest.

A war. There’s a fucking war and they can’t even care about people’s lives. And because of all this, it becomes yet another war in the future.

All about invisible blood… There’s nothing tangible about it. This whole thing about blood being more powerful, it’s all in their heads - just look at Voldemort and Dumbledore and even Grindelwald.

They’re all halfbloods.

Blood purity is utter bollocks.

Harry paused in a secluded hallway, letting out a groan of frustration. He was making a jackass of himself, but he couldn’t help it any more. His patience for this shit was on a short tether. He leaned against the wall, hiding his face in his hands. What am I going to do? I wish Hermione was here. She’d give me some advice or something.

How the hell am I supposed to do this alone?

I never did anything without them and their help and their encouragement.

Harry sighed. He was fucking this all up and it wasn’t even the end of the week yet. Day four in the alien timeline and he was exhausted, burdened, and done with these braindead prats.

Save the wizarding world?

How, exactly, when I’m barely keeping it together myself?

Well, Evans certainly has a short fuse.

He was getting more vocal about his stance on blood purity, which was dangerous. It would upset most of the house of Slytherin and that wasn’t a good thing in Tom’s book.

He watched Evans’ receding frame leave the Great Hall and without an escort. Somehow Evans was getting around the castle without getting lost. There was something strange to Evans and the more Tom listened and paid attention, the more the peculiarities sprung up.

“Riddle.”

Tom’s head tipped to the side, acknowledging Abraxas Malfoy. Aaron Goyle and Neil Crabbe sat at his sides, eating their meal.

“I had a run in with Evans yesterday.”

Tom drew in a deep breath through his nose. “Already?” he asked lightly. “It’s barely the start of the second day of school.”

“He defended Pettigrew.”

Muggleborn seventh year… Evans defended a fellow Slytherin, hm?

“He didn’t back down, then?” asked Tom.

“A mudblood defending a mudblood, Riddle. He’s a wild one. What are you going to do about it?” demanded Abraxas.

A sharp smile lifted Tom’s features. “Mind your tone,” he said softly. Crabbe and Goyle had visceral reactions, shivering, at his voice, while Abraxas paled slightly. “And I have suspicions about Evans. I don’t think he’s a mudblood.”

Muggleborns tend to be sensitive to being called mudblood, but Evans doesn’t react to it. However, he defends others. He can’t be a pureblood, so that leaves halfblood.

“He’s still a mudblood lover,” said Abraxas, his expression darkening. “We can’t have someone like that in Slytherin.” 

The obsession with blood purity was a touchy topic in the Slytherin house. Tom made sure to act like it was his priority in his aspirations of a better future, to soothe all the pureblooded feathers of the members of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. In reality, Tom didn’t really care about blood purity so much as magical might.

Power, no matter where it came from, was the pinnacle.

Tom didn’t know his own parentage, but he knew he couldn’t be a pureblood - not with a last name like ‘Riddle.’ But he was far more powerful than most, if not all, of the purebloods in attendance at Hogwarts. There was more to magical abilities than blood purity. The Slytherin house conveniently forgave Tom his lack of pureblood status since he was a parselmouth.

It hadn’t taken much to assert dominance over the Slytherin house when forced to face a powerful parselmouth.

But maintaining power was also about dancing the political waltz. It was easier to stick with the current beliefs of blood purity than alienate the majority of his house. When he was out of school, had traveled the world, and gained more power and knowledge, they would understand.

He would make them understand.

“I’ll speak with him when I get the chance.” When Abraxas opened his mouth, Tom threw him a withering look. Abraxas swallowed, pale as his platinum blond hair. “Patience,” Ton chided. “Evans has been through some kind of trauma with his parents being killed by the Dark Lord. I will advise him. You’re not to go after him unless I tell you otherwise. Am I understood?”

Abraxas nodded.

“Excellent,” said Tom cheerfully. He stood up, stepping away from the table. He paused. His tone dropped to a dangerous level. “And next time, Abraxas, torment your fellow Slytherin in the cover of your own dorms. You’re lucky it was Evans who caught you. Really, you’re too old to be getting caught like that.”

Abraxas flushed.

Dealing with these seventh years was always a full time job, especially when they were like Abraxas Malfoy. Tom didn’t dislike the older boy, though. He had his influence and political reach, plus he was stupidly wealthy. But it was upon occasion that Abraxas overstepped his bounds, forgetting his place in the hierarchy that had been established since Tom had been a third year.

Tom Riddle was unequivocally at the top. 

He strode to the Potions classroom, wishing to be early. As Tom entered the room, he saw Evans already there, pulling his book out of his shoulder bag and setting it on a table in the back. Tom walked towards him, placing his bag on the seat next to him. Evans gave him a nod, opening his book to page ten, glancing through it.

They stood in silence. There were a number of cauldrons, steam filling the air and making it heavy with a medley of scents. Students slowly trickled into the classroom. Alphard and Quintus took their places at Tom’s other side. Five minutes before the class was to begin, Slughorn came out of his office.

“Good morning, Mr. Riddle,” said Slughorn in a jovial tone. “Ready to start a new year, yeah?”

“Yes, sir,” said Tom with a nod, keeping his expression warm and open. 

Slughorn laughed. “Good, good! We have some wonderful potions to learn about this year. Should see excellent things from you.” The man turned to the rest of the class and extended his arms. “Welcome to your sixth year of Potions. This year, we’re going to learn some exciting, yet dangerous potions. You have to keep a sharp head about you or accidents will happen. But before we begin, let’s have a bit of fun exploring some of the potions you’ll all be able to make after you pass your NEWTS.”

He stepped forward, excitement in his strides. He gestured to a cauldron, taking the top off.

“Who can tell me what this is?”

Slughorn proceeded to show them a number of high level potions, which included Veritaserum, Polyjuice, and Felix Felicis. 

“Now this…” said Slughorn, carefully lifting the lid to another cauldron. “This is Amortentia.”

Evans stiffened.

“Mr. Evans,” said Slughorn, catching his movement. “Welcome to Hogwarts, by the way. Now, you wouldn’t happen to know what this is?”

Evans nodded. “It’s the most powerful love potion.”

“Correct! Take five points to Slytherin. Anything else?”

Evans’ expression darkened with hidden sorrow. His bright green eyes glanced over at Tom briefly. “It doesn’t create love, not true love,” he said softly. “Usually, everyone will smell three things that attracts them. I’ve seen someone under the influence of a more mild love potion and it’s not a pretty sight.”

“Rightly so!” said Slughorn, smiling. “Looks like we have another smart student in Slytherin.”

Evans’ smile was a bit stilted. 

“Now before we begin, make sure you have all your supplies…”

At Slughorn’s direction, the class bustled into action. A few of the students paused at the cauldron of Amortentia, sighing over it like the dogs in heat they were. Tom rolled his eyes. He resisted the urge to find out what it would smell like for him. However, when no one was around it, his curiosity got the better of him. Tom shifted closer to the cauldron of Amortentia. The mist wafted in the air and as the rest of the students were moving away, Tom stood there, waiting for something to happen.

But there wasn’t a scent.

His jaw clenched. He glanced to the side, feeling oddly self conscious and took a step closer.

Still nothing.

Nothing.

Tom was standing right in front of the cauldron, leaning over it, his feelings in a whirl of hidden confusion and frustration. He still couldn’t smell anything from this blasted potion and he had no idea what it meant. It obviously meant something, when everyone else was making a big deal about it. Yet, it had no scent for him. He was supposed to be smelling three things.

He wished his gut feeling wasn’t shame. 

He knew everyone else in the class was smelling something—it was written all over their faces. He was the only one. It didn’t take a genius to understand the meaning behind Alphard and Quintus smiling at each other with those sappy expressions. Though the potion itself created fake affection, people were still attracted to the individualized scents.

So, why can’t I smell anything?

He glanced over at Evans, who was placing his tools at his place on their table. The mist wavered in the air as Tom turned away from the cauldron. He stilled when he noticed the ever so faint scent of peppery wood. Ebony? It disappeared as quickly as it appeared. His hand clenched at his side in spite of himself.

He glanced back at the potion, but the fleeting scent didn’t return.

It doesn’t matter. It’s not like you’re ever planning on attaching yourself to anyone. You are better than this—better than everyone else. There is no equal to you.

This isn’t a weakness.

It’s a strength the rest of these fools don’t have.

Tom moved away. He shoved all thoughts of Amortentia out of his mind. He organized his section of the table, everything set in the right spot for a perfect work flow.

“Today, I’m going to have you brew a Draught of Living Death,” said Slughorn, excited. “The instructions are on page ten of your books. I know it’s a very complicated potion to make in your first day of class, but do your best. An hour is more than enough time. The best attempt wins a vial of Felix Felicis.”

There were murmurs of excitement at that. Tom sat up a little straighter. Now that was interesting. Winning some Felix Felicis would be an excellent tool to have. Perhaps under its influence, Tom would find the Chamber of Secrets and discover the truth of his heritage. His heart fluttered at the thought. There had to be answers there in that chamber. There could be a library of ancient tomes or other magical artifacts. Liquid Luck would be an invaluable item to obtain.

This might be just the boon I need this year to finally find the Chamber.

“Now, I’ve yet to teach a student who has made a perfect Draught of Living Death, but I have all the confidence that one of you will this year. ”

Slughorn gave Tom a wink.

“Begin!”

Tom opened his book to page ten, reading through the complex instructions. It was definitely a potion he’d never attempted before, but he had confidence he could follow the directions. He began preparing the ingredients, working through the potion steps. He was focused through it all, not paying attention to the other three boys at his table.

Halfway through the potion making process, Alphard set his cauldron on fire. Quintus sighed, putting out the fire.

“Dear Merlin, everything all right over here?” asked Slughorn, coming to check on things.

“Yes, sir,” said Quintus, rolling his eyes. “I’m surprised he made it this far, honestly.”

“Oh my…” said Slughorn, catching sight of Alphard’s potion. “I’m afraid it’s quite ruined now.”

“Ah, well,” said Alphard, sighing. He sat down next to Quintus and, as usual, was snoozing in minutes with his arms folded across his chest.

The distraction didn’t affect Tom’s process, thankfully, but he did catch a look over at Evans’ work. He was working silently, moving with the grace of someone who knew what he was doing.

Wait a minute…

Evans’ potions book was closed. It was closed. He wasn’t following the instructions—he was going off on his own memory?

What?!

Tom broke his attention away, returning to his potion, confusion bleeding through him. He couldn’t think about Evans now. He had to focus. He redoubled his efforts back onto his work. There were times the instructions seemed a bit counterintuitive and occasionally Tom took the risk to do something a bit different - like crushing the Sopophorous beans instead of cutting them.

However, by the end of the class, he knew there was something off with his potion. He wasn’t sure where he went wrong with it, though. He sighed. Well, it was a first attempt. Perhaps they’d be given another chance to try again. He’d like to perfect the process.

At least his potion wasn’t noxious like Roland and Marcus’s attempts, while Sebastian and Simon’s potions blew up in the third quarter of the lesson. At the end of class, Slughorn inspected everyone’s potions, but all of the others failed terribly.

Slughorn came to their table last. His forlorn expression brightened when he tested Tom and Quintus’ potions.

“Oho, Mr. Riddle and Mr. Prince’s potions are quite close, very close, though Riddle’s is a smidge better I’m afraid.” Slughorn moved to Evans’ potion. He paused, looking into the cauldron. Without a word, he dropped a leaf into the cauldron. For a moment, he stared, shock in his eyes. “Well, now…” Slughorn beamed. “This is quite the occasion. Mr. Evans, let me congratulate you on being the first student in my class to make a perfect Draught of Living Death. You have earned this well,” he said, pride and awe in his tone. He handed Evans the vial of Felix Felicis and patted him warmly on the arm. “Excellent work, Mr. Evans. This is going to be a wonderful year. I expect great things from you!”

Evans smiled in return.

“Class dismissed!”

How did Evans make a perfect Draught of Living Death without looking at the instructions?

Who are you?

In the flurry of the class, Tom watched Evans gather his things. Alphard stared at his ruined cauldron with a mixture of resignation and contemplation.

“I think I’ll order a new one,” said Alphard. His tone became a bit dramatic. “The effort to clean this is too great—”

“You will do no such thing,” said Quintus firmly. “You’ll not waste a good cauldron while I’m around.”

“Dammit.”

 Sebastian sidled up to Evans, nudging him. “Congrats. But you best hide that liquid luck or someone might filch it from you,” he said with a wicked grin.

“What, you’re going to steal it?”

Sebastian shrugged, while Roland and Marcus laughed.

“Go ahead and try,” said Evans with a smirk, pocketing the vial in his robes. He threw his bag over his shoulder and walked out of the classroom. Tom hurried after him, calling to him in the corridor.

“Evans, a word.”

The other boy slumped, sighing deeply. He didn’t look back. “What do you want, Riddle?”

How rude. Tom was a bit affronted at Evans’ terrible, impolite manners. “I merely wished to congratulate you on your success in class. Also, I was quite impressed that you didn’t need to open the book to make a perfect Draught of Living Death.”

“Thanks.” It was stiff. “I’ve made it before. Is that all?”

Absolutely not.

“Just a bit of friendly advice as well, Evans,” said Tom lightly, yet there was a touch of darkness within his tone. A warning. He took a step forward. “Avoid alienating your fellow Slytherins. You’ve certainly shown house spirit by defending me - unnecessary, but appreciated - and you’re an intelligent, bright student.” He paused for a moment, growing more irritated that Evans wasn’t looking at him. His tone turned harsher. “But don’t be a mudblood defender. That’s not a good look on you.”

Evans slowly turned his head, his body following afterwards. Unbidden, a chill brought goosebumps to Tom’s arms. A delightful shiver shot through his spine and he had to hold back the urge to smile with excitement.

What is this?

“Riddle, a bit of advice,” echoed Evans, drawing closer with the allure of a predator. His eyes were vibrant, a light of fury burning within them. A thrill rushed through Tom. He fingered his wand in his pocket, half tempted to draw it and see Evans’ reaction. “Stop assuming that I give a shit about what the Slytherin house thinks.”

“Don’t you?” whispered Tom.

“No, I don’t. I don’t care about your stupid blood politics. It’s rubbish.”

“Blood is everything.”

“Blood purity is the dumbest bullshit I’ve ever heard,” hissed Evans. “I’m sick of it—”

“It’s about power, Evans, and—”

“—and those too weak to seek it?”

Tom sucked in his breath. “Yes, then you understand—”

“No, all I see are those too weak to use their power in the right way, like bettering this world instead of fucking it up.” Evans’ expression crinkled; he rubbed his face with his hands in exasperation. “And I’m sick and tired of being the one to clean it all up—” He broke off, shaking his head. “You know what, I’m not in the mood. I can’t right now.”

Evans whirled away, marching off down the corridor towards the DADA classroom. Tom didn’t stop him.

He was a bit breathless.

Tom wasn’t sure why.

Evans was such a strange, fascinating creature. He was a wild colt, free spirited yet clumsy. But there was power there. Tom could feel it in the air, crackling and all encompassing. Just who was this stranger who had come to this school in the middle of his education? Where had he been all this time?

Tom wanted to know more.

But there was no doubt: this Evans boy was going to be Tom’s constant source of a blistering headache. Defiant. Combative. What in Salazar’s name was he doing in Slytherin? He didn’t have any self preservation to speak of and he didn’t have a subtle bone in his entire body.

All in all, Evans was the worst Slytherin ever to be sorted into the esteemed house.

He’s more Gryffindor than Hufflepuff.

Tom strode towards the classroom, hoping to engage Evans in some more advice veiled with threats. He quickened his steps, expecting to catch up to Evans eventually. But at the entrance of the DADA classroom, Tom still hadn’t encountered Evans. The corridor was empty. Tom glanced around, turning in a full circle.

How…

Where did he go?

Tom walked into the classroom, his eyes glancing around, searching for the untidy mop of black hair, but he couldn’t find him. Tom sat down in a seat, waiting. The rest of the students arrived before class began. But Evans wasn’t among them.

He’s not coming… He’s actually skiving off a class.

Professor Merrythought strode in the classroom, her gait long with each step. Her short hair was a bright, wild, almost unnatural red color. She wasn’t a young woman, but there was still fire and power in her movements. Tom had a healthy amount of respect for this woman. She glanced over the room, her eyes narrowing.

“Riddle, where’s Evans?” demanded Merrythought.

“I’m not sure,” said Tom, trying to keep his frustration in check. “I believe he disappeared on me.”

“Hmph.”

Well, Evans was in a world of hurt, if the glare in Merrythought’s eyes was to go on. Tom inhaled; he clenched his fists. Evans was going to need an attitude change as soon as possible. Fighting with Abraxas. Skipping classes. Anti blood purity. Obnoxious attitude.

I need to nip this behavior before it gets out of hand or else the rest of my house is going to think I can’t handle one wayward little Slytherin.

Tom could hardly concentrate during class, though he had little trouble with the lesson, which was practicing nonverbal spells. The annoying new Slytherin was driving him mad with his constant presence in Tom’s thoughts. It was positively aggravating. 

Once class was over, Tom had one more class to attend after lunch, Ancient Runes. Evans wasn’t in the Great Hall for lunch, however. Where is that boy disappearing to? How is he not getting lost? Why is he delinquent on his schooling so early in the semester? Is he not eating anything when he’s already impossibly thin?

Tom gritted his teeth, fuming, and the others eyed him warily. They didn’t bother to ask what was wrong - intelligent of them - Tom was frightfully close to cursing someone. After lunch, in his Ancient Runes class, Tom’s thoughts were clouded once more and he could hardly get through the hour.

This is ridiculous. What is wrong with me?

Evans wasn’t in the common room in the afternoon.

Evans wasn’t at dinner either.

Tom had a glorious vision of strangling Evans. How wonderful it would be. There was a threshold before he’d pass out and die, but he’d turn a beautiful color before Tom would release him and let him breathe again. Can’t have him dying, after all.

Well, can’t strangle him either.

It would look bad on his school record.

Evans entered their dorm room at five after ten. Tom stood up from his bed, his frustration climaxing, about to dismiss the other boys for a few minutes so he could have a word with Evans alone about his appalling behavior, when Roland piped up and asked, “How was your detention, Evans? What did Dumbledore make you do?”

That’s right… He had a detention. Maybe that was why he was so late.

Evans paused for a moment, his eyes growing wide. He groaned. He ran a hand through his wild black hair.

“…Ah, fuck, I knew I forgot something.”

And then Evans was in bed, hangings shut before Tom could speak with him.

He’s a bloody menace!

Chapter Text

“Evans! Get your arse over here. I want a word or three with you.”

Harry blinked, halting at the entrance of the Great Hall on Friday morning. He glanced over at a tall woman, who reminded him strongly of McGonagall, if it weren’t for the short bright almost unnaturally red hair. She wore black robes with red trim. This woman was giving off, “I don’t fuck around.” vibes, which was far different than most of the teachers Harry had encountered so far. If she weren’t glaring at him with the threat of true pain in her grey eyes, he would’ve adored this woman.

“Uh, yes… Professor, uh?”

The woman crossed her arms. “If you had bothered to show up for my class, you might’ve learned who the hell I am.”

Uh, oh…

“I’m so sorry, Professor, uh…”

“Merrythought,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “I am Professor Galatea Merrythought, your Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.”

“I’m sorry, Professor. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Mm. Pleasure,” said Merrythought, deadpanned. “Mr. Evans. Let me make one thing very clear to you. Unless you’re incapacitated, unconscious, or on your very death bed, you get your arse in my class and you never miss or else I will string you up and you’ll be the brunt of target practice for an entire lesson. We could always do with a refresher on stinging hexes. Am I understood?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Harry quickly, swallowing at the thought. “Absolutely. Transparently clear.”

“Good,” said Merrythought with a sharp nod. “I’ll see you in my next class, then. Do not disappoint me.” With a huff, she strode into the Great Hall towards the teachers’ table. Harry drew in a deep breath.

What a terrifying woman!

Harry knew exactly where McGonagall had learned all of her scary teacher techniques. Merrythought was a force to be reckoned with - he was a bit anxious to see what her class would be like now. There was no doubt in Harry’s mind that Merrythought would make do on her threat and the last thing Harry needed was Tom to have legal means of cursing him.

Note to self: never skip Defense.

There was a soft chuckle from behind Harry. “Don’t mind my wife too much, dear. Her bark is far less frightening than her bite.”

Harry turned to see another teacher he hadn’t met before. She was a small woman, only a couple of inches taller than Harry. She was wearing sun yellow robes with dark blue trim. Her vibes were the complete opposite to Merrythought and Harry was instantly sure this woman had once been in Hufflepuff. She had to be. Her brown hair was shoulder length and her brown eyes were soft, though with a hint of mischief.

“Uh, well, I think she did threaten to bite,” said Harry with an awkward chuckle. “In the form of a full class of stinging hexes.”

“Mm, yes,” said the woman, her smile fond and impish. There was a lilt to her voice. “She’ll do that. I’d avoid giving her a reason to in the future, Mr. Evans.”

“Yes, of course. Professor… uh…?”

“I’m Professor Ophelia Fortinbras, your Charms teacher.” She gave him a light smile. “I certainly hope to see you in my class after breakfast. Wouldn’t want you to miss it.”

“Yes, ma’am—I mean, no ma’am, wouldn’t miss it for anything,” said Harry in a rush. Damn, these women are hardcore. “I won’t skip any more classes.”

“Don’t make impractical promises,” said Fortinbras, but the smile turned less threatening. “Until later.” She gave him a nod and entered the Great Hall, walking towards the teachers’ table. She sat down next to Merrythought and whispered in her ear for a moment. Merrythought locked gazes with him. Harry could see her narrowing her eyes at him.

The fuck—

All right, who needed breakfast? Harry didn’t. Nope. Not at all. Sustenance was for the weak.

Harry whirled around, about to flee the Great Hall and go straight to the Charms classroom to avoid future problems, when his heart sank at yet another voice calling out to him.

“Mr. Evans, might I have a word with you?”

Ah, shit.

Harry winced, turning around to face Dumbledore. Gotta be kidding me. How to get out of this one? “Hello, Professor.”

“Good morning, Mr. Evans,” said Dumbledore, his tone rather genial. His eyes crinkled with a smile. “It is quite a beautiful morning today, wouldn’t you think so?”

“Yes, sir,” said Harry tentatively.

“It was also a lovely evening last night,” said Dumbledore, glancing outside, his gaze wistful. “But I’m afraid we didn’t get a chance to chat about it since—” His head dipped slightly with a look that Harry worried was piercing directly into his soul with those sharp blue eyes. “—you missed your detention.”

There was an uncomfortable moment of silence between them.

Ah, fuck it.

“I’m so sorry, Professor, I honestly forgot!” cried Harry, throwing extra emotion into his voice. He cast his eyes downwards, sighing with his entire body, sagging visibly. “It’s been really hard, you know… after my parents…”

Dumbledore flinched.

Harry glanced up, giving the man some powerful puppy eyes, trying to look like a sad little orphan as much as he genuinely could. He rubbed the edge of his eye, blinking away newly formed tears. “I was in the owlery most of yesterday,” he said softly. He sniffled. “I completely forgot about it. I’m so sorry, sir.”

Dumbledore opened his mouth. He closed it. 

“Am I in more trouble?” asked Harry as pathetically as he could.

“No,” said Dumbledore, his voice low and soft. “Let’s reschedule your detention for tomorrow at one o’clock.”

Harry brightened. “Yes, sir, thank you so much.”

“Just… try to remember this time, all right, Mr. Evans?” said Dumbledore, sounding a bit exasperated. There was an uncomfortable pause. “If you need to talk… Your teachers—that is, well—” He coughed and his expression softened. “Know that my door is always open to you.”

Harry drew in a deep breath. “Of course, Professor. Thanks,” he said, guarded. Dumbledore walked into the Great Hall, while Harry slipped away, breathing a sigh of relief.

Harry Potter: one.

Albus Dumbledore: zero.

Not bad for a Gryffindor in green.

Harry ate a quick breakfast in the kitchens, narrowly avoiding getting plumped up to death by the house elves. One elderly female elf, Minsby, had taken it upon herself to fatten Harry up.

“You’s too thin, Master Evans,” said Minsby, shaking her head sagely, her long ears flopping about. “We’s not liking children looking so thins these days. You’s be eating more or else Minsby be hand feeding you. You’s not looking so well, Master Evans. Tis not right,” she added with another shake of the head. “Tis not right at all.”

He barely managed to escape in time to get to his first class of the day. The house elves had insisted on filling his robe pockets with apples. Harry sat down in the back of the class, sighing in his seat.

House elves or the Great Hall?

I need a third option now, dammit.

“Welcome to sixth year Charms class,” said Fortinbras in a warm voice. “It’s going to be a fun, yet difficult year for you all, but I have no doubt that you’ll flourish and succeed.” She pointed to the chalkboard. “This is our syllabus for the year. One of the hardest charms we’ll be learning later is the Patronus Charm…”

Harry glanced over at Tom, his thoughts wandering.

I wonder if Tom will be able to cast a patronus… He’s powerful enough.

His patronus is probably a snake, because of course it would be.

But it took true, genuine emotion to conjure a patronus. A happy memory was too simple, too incomplete for a corporeal patronus. It wasn’t just the happy memory that Tom would need, he’d need the happiness and joy to fill his soul. Love was an excellent source to fuel the patronus.

Pity entered Harry’s breast.

It was… difficult imagining a Tom who could love, especially love him. What would it look like? How would Tom treat him? Harry wasn’t completely stupid: he knew there would be some problematic shit in their future. This was a baby Voldemort, after all. Harry hoped to Merlin he wouldn’t have to help bury bodies. Hopefully, Tom would value his advice against such things…

Somehow, Harry doubted it.

He barely knew Tom beyond a handful of memories and the twisted being from the diary in the Chamber. He’d seen enough to understand what a post horcrux Tom was like and the difference was vast.

Tom, as he was now, was still very much human.

He was revered by the entire Slytherin house, respected by other students from the other houses, and was always surrounded by his dorm mates. Were they friends? Harry wouldn’t say Tom was friends with them per se, but it was obvious that they accepted Tom as their friend. They cared for Tom, no doubt. However, the dynamic between them was different than Harry, Ron, and Hermione.

They didn’t act as if they were family.

Tom was dangerous, of course, and had the potential for a great deal of harm, but Harry wasn’t without fault. He himself had used unforgivables in the heat of war - had done so unflinchingly. And he’d do it again in a heartbeat.

To protect those he loved, Harry would do anything.

Could Tom become someone like that for me?

A tiny seed sprouted with that hope.

Class passed rather quickly for Harry. It was the usual sixth year introduction on what to expect during the year to help them be prepared for their NEWTs next year. Once class ended, Harry left the classroom before the crowd of students. He stood aside in the hallway and pulled out his class schedule. He froze when he saw the class listed after Charms.

Divination.

Ah, fuck, no.

Well, impractical promises aside, there was nothing in this world that could convince Harry to step foot in a Divination classroom. Not going to happen. No way in hell. He doubted Trelawney was a teacher in this time, but he wasn’t about to take any chances.

Prophecies and the like could fuck off.

Harry shoved his class schedule into his pouch, pulling the map out, and threw his shoulder bag over his back. He slipped away from the crowd, dipping into a secret passageway. He activated the map. He needed a place where he wouldn’t have to worry about someone coming after him.

To the grounds, then.

He opened the map fully, scanning the grounds for an empty place. The greenhouses were full with overlapping names. There was a strange name, Gamekeeper Ogg, in Hagrid’s old hut. Or I guess it’s not Hagrid’s hut or never was. Ugh. Time travel. But it was the lone name in the hippogriff stables that caught his eye.

Newton Scamander.

Harry frowned, staring at the name. Wait a minute, Scamander… isn’t that…? He sucked in his breath when it dawned on him.

It was the author of ‘Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them.’ The man’s book was a textbook for Care of Magical Creatures even at this time - it had been on the list for Harry’s current year.

Why is he here?

Harry didn’t know much about the man, beyond that trashy novel Rita Skeeter had published after Dumbledore’s death. He’d also heard Hermione mentioning that Scamander had been involved in the first capture of Grindelwald in the 1920s. There’d been rumors about him having a hand in Grindelwald’s defeat, but the legends always told of how Dumbledore was the one who had fought him.

Took his long ass time about it, though. What the hell was he doing for nearly twenty years? Having a picnic?

Maybe this Mr. Scamander had some helpful information about Grindelwald. Harry hesitated, looking at the name on the map. He had the urge to go meet the man, but caution was holding him back. Though Scamander hadn’t been a member of The Order of the Phoenix, he had refused an interview with Skeeter. He had seemed loyal to Dumbledore.

I can’t risk tipping off Dumbledore if this guy is loyal to him.

But…

Harry had to take the chance. It wasn’t every day that Newt Scamander himself would be here at Hogwarts. There wasn’t anyone else around at the stables either. It was the perfect opportunity to go speak with him and he couldn’t ask for better.

But if he goes to Dumbledore…

Harry huffed. Decision made, he put the map away. There hadn’t been anyone else on the grounds and Harry knew his way to the stables now. Harry drew in a deep breath as he walked outside, enjoying the crisp fresh air and the bright sunshine.

As he walked across the sloping grounds, Harry noticed the Whomping Willow was missing in the distance. His heart twinged at the thought of Remus. Memories of his third year entered his mind, as well as the adventurous, yet dangerous deeds that Harry’s father and his friends had gotten up to.

If Harry succeeded in changing Tom’s future, then he was going to try to better other lives, too. Remus, Sirius, even Severus - he was going to do everything in his power to make sure their lives were better this time around.

That meant cracking down on bullying here at Hogwarts.

But how to do that? It was so rampant, Harry wasn’t sure where to begin. Not to mention, the generation before Harry’s parents’ generation weren’t out of school, let alone even married. Harry would be an adult, gone from Hogwarts years before that generation.

Unless…

Harry halted, his eyes growing wide. It was a brilliant idea, but how was he going to compete with Dumbledore? No one was going to hire some smart mouth kid over Albus Dumbledore, the conqueror of Grindelwald—

No, but he isn’t going to defeat Grindelwald this time, is he?

I am.

And that was the key.

It was an overwhelming thought, yes, but there was something about winning one over Dumbledore that brought a little spring to Harry’s step. Of course, there was the first obstacle of Tom and, well…

Harry knew he was doing a bang up job of it.

Hah, no.

He knew he couldn’t force it, though - and it wasn’t like he didn’t have time. It was day five coming back in time.

‘Don’t try to force yourself with this task. Let it happen naturally. Don’t overthink it.’ 

Lily’s voice echoed in his mind and a bit of peace entered Harry’s heart at that. It was going to be okay. It’ll happen. I just have to be myself.

My cranky, sassy self. Perfect.

Bolstered by those thoughts, Harry reached the stables after a few minute stroll across the grounds. The stables were a large wooden building, enough to house quite a number of hippogriffs. The front of the stables had a large pasture where a couple of them were sunbathing. There were a couple of fledgling colts bounding clumsily after each other, cawing in their play. Harry walked to the entrance of the stables, peeking through the open doors. Harry entered the building slowly, catching the eye of a hippogriff in its pen. He froze. It gave him a long look, before going back to eating. Harry sighed in relief.

“I know, I know, just a bit more, Nightwing,” spoke a soft, gentle voice, though it was a bit muffled. It came from the end of the stables. “There’s a good boy. Almost done now.”

There was something ever so kind about the voice. Harry instantly felt at ease. It was just the type of voice to use to keep an animal calm. As he approached the back of the stables, he recognized the black stallion he’d saved from those bullying kids. At the stallion’s side, a middle aged man with light brown hair, a bit of greying at the sides, sat on a three legged stool, his wand tucked neatly in his mouth. 

Mad Eye Moody’s voice echoed in Harry’s head: ‘Don’t put your wand there, boy!’ 

The hippogriff’s left hoof was propped up in the man’s lap as he tended to it with a white colored salve. The stallion’s dark brown eyes made contact with Harry, who stilled; he bowed low, trying not to blink. The stallion immediately bowed his head in return.

The man jolted at the movement, glancing up to see Harry. “Oh,” he said, startled, taking his wand out of his mouth and tucking it away. “Oh, stay back now, you shouldn’t be in here—Nightwing will get a bit testy if he’s around children again.”

“It’s okay, I understand,” said Harry with a light chuckle. “I would get testy, too, if I were him.”

The man eyed him for a moment. “Would you? And why is that?”

“He was getting bullied by some kids, the little prats. I just hope he doesn’t hate all of them after that.”

Nightwing huffed, shaking his feathered mane. Harry laughed, approaching the stallion and petting his feathers before the man could protest further. Nightwing nudged him until Harry pulled out an apple from his pocket and gave it to him. Okay, maybe the house elves were onto something. The man blinked in surprise as Nightwing crunched on the apple.

“He likes you.”

“Yeah,” said Harry with a smile. “We’re friends, aren’t we, boy? Sorry I don’t have something better to eat, like some meat.” Nightwing rubbed against Harry, causing him to laugh some more. “You’re a good boy,” he cooed, delighted. He stroked his feathers, remembering Buckbeak. His gaze softened.

The man took him in for a long moment. “I’d heard of a boy who defended Nightwing and calmed him down.” The man’s hazel eyes rested on the Slytherin house crest. “Are you him, then?”

“That’s me. Harry Evans, at your service.”

“Newt Scamander.”

“D’you mean the Newt Scamander, the author of my textbook?” asked Harry, glancing over at him. Newt shifted, appearing a bit uncomfortable. With his head ducked slightly, a smile tugged at the edge of his mouth; he nodded. “Cool,” Harry said and Newt let out a laugh. “Nice to meet you.”

“Thank you for protecting Nightwing. Not many would.”

“I’ve got a soft spot for hippogriffs.”

“Shouldn’t you be in class?” asked Newt, eyebrows furrowing.

Harry shrugged. “Free period. So, what’s wrong with Nightwing?”

“Ah, he’s got a bad case of greasy hoof, also known as mud fever or dew poisoning,” said Newt, pointing to the long and rather deep scratch on the hoof, his attention solely on the stallion now. “It’s a skin lesion caused by bacteria, possibly contracted due to the wet season we’ve had.”

“Is he going to be okay?”

“Oh, certainly,” said Newt, his smile soft as he stroked Nightwing’s breast. “It’s not the worst case. He’ll pull through just fine.” His smile turned a bit mischievous. “Though it’s a bit of a blow to his pride—” Nightwing shook his head, huffing more irritably now. Newt breathed out a quiet laugh. “I know,” he said, patting him. “I know, pulling carriages for loud, rude little children isn’t suitable work for a noble, proud creature such as yourself, but we thank you for it. There’s little patience to be had when you’re sick. I understand.”

Newt stroked the stallion for another moment, before going back to his ministrations. With a flick of his wand, white bandages wrapped around the hoof, twisting into a decorative bow. Newt smiled at it, setting the hoof down on the ground. He stood up, patting Nightwing on the back.

“There. That should do it.”

“A handsome bow for a handsome boy,” said Harry.

Nightwing puffed up, preening under the attention.

“You have a way with him,” said Newt, gesturing with his chin. “Experienced with hippogriffs, are you?”

“Just a bit,” said Harry with a shrug. He stroked Nightwing’s beak, slow and gentle. “When I was thirteen, I saw them for the first time in a class. This one kid, right big arsehole that one, marched up to Buckbeak and insulted him right to his face. Buckbeak didn’t take it well and scratched him for it. The kid was such a baby about it. Whinged for months and milked it for all it was worth.”

“Only a scratch? He was lucky it wasn’t worse than that,” said Newt, shaking his head. His expression darkened with sadness. “I’ve seen hippogriffs put down for less,” he said bitterly.

“Wasn’t for lack of trying,” said Harry. He grinned, winking at Newt. “I may or may not have illegally helped Buckbeak escape his execution, but you didn’t hear it from me, though.”

Newt laughed, his eyes bright and merry. He peered at Harry through his fringe, leaning a bit closer and said, “I, too, may or may not have illegally rescued a creature or two in my day.” He glanced over at Nightwing, a faraway look in his eyes. “A creature should never suffer, no matter how different they are.” He looked back at Harry. “Remember, rules are important, but they’re not always there for everyone’s benefit. Sometimes…” His voice dropped a tone. “Sometimes, rules must be broken for the sake of the one.”

Something swelled in Harry’s chest. He stared at the man, taking in a deep breath. He’d never heard an adult talk like that. Sirius had always been a rulebreaker, but it was for the thrill and fun of it. And while Dumbledore wasn’t exactly a stickler for rules, something about the way Newt said it seemed all the more powerful. It felt almost opposite to how Dumbledore had dealt with things.

‘For the sake of the one.’

Not the greater good. Not actions and choices made in shades of grey. Were the decisions made in the name of the ‘Greater Good’ truly ever for the benefit of others? Or were they made under the guise for personal gain?

Maybe… Maybe he’s safe. He’s… different than Dumbledore. He seems to run by a better moral compass than Dumbledore, if he’s thinking of the impact of one, instead of many as a whole.

How much would Harry’s life have been different if Dumbledore had been more concerned for Harry himself, instead of the greater good?

Can I trust him?

“It’s… It’s nice to hear an adult say that,” whispered Harry. It’s now or never. He hesitated, but shifted the conversation. “This whole thing with Grindelwald makes me question adults and their choices.”

Newt’s expression twisted with pain. Haltingly, he put a hand on Harry’s shoulder, though he seemed uncomfortable. He squeezed lightly.

“I know.”

Well, let’s see what he says to this.

“They say Dumbledore is the only one powerful enough to face him,” said Harry, looking up at the man. Newt didn’t make direct eye contact. “So… why hasn’t he? Wasn’t Grindelwald first captured over a decade ago?”

Newt’s body sank in a deep sigh. His hand withdrew from Harry, running over his face for a moment. His expression turned guarded, but there was a darkened light in his eyes. “I really couldn’t say,” he said softly, glancing downwards. “You’d have to ask him yourself why… why he hasn’t.”

“But… Well, I thought—I mean, I’d heard you were there at Grindelwald’s first capture.” Newt sucked in his breath, startled; he looked at Harry, his eyes wide now. The man swallowed. “I’m sorry, I just… I thought maybe you’d know more.”

“Where did you hear that?” asked Newt.

“Just… rumors, sir.” A hint of suspicion entered the man’s expression, so Harry added, “And you know, when there’s a secret, naturally everyone at Hogwarts will know about it.”

This softened Newt. He let out a soft exasperated chuckle, his eyes shutting closed briefly. He nodded. “Yeah,” he whispered.

Harry bit his lip. He was pushing it, he could tell, but he wanted some more information on Dumbledore and where Newt stood with the old man. There was a part of Harry’s heart that wanted to have someone else in his corner and he had a touch of hope Newt Scamander could be such a person.

His warmth was different than the wise grandfatherly aura of Dumbledore. There was something more gentle and open to Newt, despite the obvious discomfort he had when speaking to Harry about anything that wasn’t about the hippogriff. He didn’t want to scare off the man, but if he defended Dumbledore, it didn’t matter anyway.

“I know this is a hard question, but… If Grindelwald is so awful for our world, then why hasn’t anyone stopped him? Why hasn’t Dumbledore gone after him yet? People are dying.”

Newt let out a heavy sigh, averting his gaze. For a moment, he didn’t say anything, shifting his stance, looking everywhere but at Harry. His jaw clenched briefly. “You’re correct,” he said softly. “I was there, but only by circumstance of chance—and you’re right, he’s done terrible things to innocent people, but—” He sighed again, his head ducking slightly. “I-I don’t have the answers you’re looking for—you should go back to the castle, go to your next class. I—if you’ll excuse me…”

Newt turned away, wand flicking, his supplies flying into his hands.

“The Dark Lord killed my parents.”

Newt froze. His head slowly looked back at Harry.

“That’s why…” Harry glanced at the ground. Inaction had been the key to Voldemort’s rise. Dumbledore hadn’t tried to stop him, both before the first war and after the second war. Hagrid himself had said Dumbledore suspected Voldemort wasn’t gone after trying to kill Harry as a baby. So why? Why hadn’t Dumbledore tried to find him? “It’s hard to see inaction when he’s got the ability to stop him.”

Newt met his gaze, pained pity swirling in those hazel eyes. But it was more than the usual pity Harry had received from others when mentioning his parents - there was a connection, an understanding. Empathy. Newt, too, had lost those dear to his heart.

“Harry…” Newt reached out, putting a firm hand onto Harry’s shoulder again, this time with assurance. With his head tucked, he leaned intimately close to Harry, warmth and kindness in his expression. And oddly, it reminded Harry of Sirius. “I’m so sorry for your loss. I can’t make your pain go away with any words or magic, though I wish I could.” He appeared to struggle with his next words. “I-I don’t know—” He inhaled. “—I don’t know why Professor Dumbledore has been holding back—there must be a reason, must be.”

It sounded more like he were trying to convince himself as well as Harry.

“I don’t have the answers you need, but I know Dumbledore’s door is always open. He’ll listen, he always does.” A wry, somewhat pained smile lifted the edge of Newt’s lips. “I can’t promise he’ll give you a satisfactory answer… but it might be worth a try at least.”

If that wasn’t a fact…

Harry nodded, a lump in his throat. But he knew better. Dumbledore’s door was open, just not to him. Not Harry Evans the Slytherin. He’d had too much experience of Dumbledore not listening to him when he was the Golden Boy and was in the old man’s favor. There had always been reassuring words, side stepping Harry’s concerns with gilded reasons, but he never truly heard Harry.

After all, he had sent Harry back to an abusive home, over and over again, year after year, excuses upon excuses as to why.

He didn’t trust Albus Dumbledore.

It hurt to come to that realization. He hadn’t entertained it before, but he knew it to be true. He couldn’t trust Dumbledore to put Harry’s needs into consideration. Not really, not truly. There had always been an illusion of helping him, of being concerned for his welfare. But he hadn’t championed for him, not like Sirius had.

Dumbledore wasn’t a mentor.

Harry knew the old man wasn’t malicious in this, but for all his praises and accolades, Albus Dumbledore was not all seeing nor all knowing. He sprouted the ‘Greater Good’ rhetoric and all that lovely shit, but Dumbledore was incapable of seeing the bigger picture. His ‘Greater Good’ was and always had been a farce.

Emotion clogged Harry’s throat. A feeling of loss burned inside his chest, one he wasn’t prepared for; his eyes glistened. He nodded and mumbled, “Thanks, sir. I don’t think Dumbledore will have an answer for a Slytherin like me.” He gestured to the crest on his breast.

There was a sharp intake of breath.

Newt gave his shoulder a squeeze. Harry looked up into Newt’s warm expression, boundless sympathy in his eyes, though it was tainted with a bit of hidden sorrow. “Harry… uh, well—if you, uh—if you’re ever down, I want you to know you can send me an owl.” Harry’s eyes widened and Newt’s expression softened further. His words became more assured. “Even if you just need to talk, I’m free. Anything you need, don’t be shy to ask for help.”

Yet again. This man was so different. They were strangers, yet Newt offered a listening ear without being a teacher here at Hogwarts. Without it being expected or required. He gave the offer with true genuine sincerity.

“Thank you,” said Harry quietly. “I really appreciate that.”

“I…” Newt made a sound in the back of his throat. “Perhaps I’ll speak with Professor Dumbledore myself. He might give me an answer—no, I’ll make sure he gives me a proper answer this time. He’s certainly due for it.” The man nodded, more to himself. “Yes, I’ll do that. I’ll write to you about how it went, for your peace of mind. Whether or not it’s good enough, well… I’ll do my best.”

“Thanks,” whispered Harry. His heart filled with a new kind of emotion. His feelings were dangerously verging how he felt towards Sirius and Remus, but he pushed them down. No matter how much he wanted to confide in an adult again, he couldn’t.

I can’t—I really can’t risk it.

“You’re a good lad,” said Newt warmly. His hand withdrew.

Harry laughed. “Thanks for the chat, Mr. Scamander.”

“Newt, call me Newt.”

“All right then. Thanks again, I appreciate—”

“Evans!”

Harry glanced back to see Tom marching through the stables. He stopped a good enough distance from Nightwing, barely giving the stallion a look. His furious gaze was solely for Harry. His hair was a bit skewed and he appeared somewhat ruffled, as if he’d ran part of the way.

Harry bit back a smirk. “Can I help you, Riddle?”

“You skipped Divination,” said Tom, his voice low and dangerous.

“Oh… heh.” Harry winced at the scrutinizing look Newt was giving him. “Uh, oops?”

“Oops?” hissed Tom. “That’s all you have to say? This is the second class you’ve skived off, plus you forgot about Dumbledore’s detention—you’re making the Slytherin house look like a joke!” 

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist,” said Harry. He almost laughed when Tom looked like he would love nothing more than to curse Harry right then and there. “Dumbledore rescheduled my detention for tomorrow. He was very understanding. And it’s just the first week of class—dear Merlin, Riddle, you’re so uptight.”

Tom inhaled. “Detention.”

Harry acted nonchalant about it, shrugging, hoping to irritate Tom. It worked: Tom turned a shade of puce, his chest heaving deeply.

“Thanks again, I best get to my next class before Riddle here busts a blood vein.”

“I’d rather you thank me by attending your classes and staying out of trouble, Mr. Evans,” said Newt, crossing his arms. His look was firm, but his tone was lighthearted.

“Nah, I doubt I can do that, sir,” said Harry with an impish grin. “Trouble always finds me.”

Newt appeared to make an effort to look stern, but his lips gave away his amusement. He ducked his head and turned away, but Harry caught a glimpse of a smile.

“Bye!” said Harry with a wave. He strode past Tom, giving him a double eyebrow lift and a smirk. He relished in the glare he received in return.

Winding Tom Riddle up was far too much fun.

When Tom entered the classroom to Divination that morning, the last thing he’d been expecting was to be sent back out to collect a wayward Evans.

But here he was.

Professor Cassandra Trelawney was an old woman whose age was unknown, though the way she talked about Headmaster Dippet, Tom had to wonder if she were older than the centuries old Dippet. The room smelled faintly of incense with the windows cracked open to not overwhelm the room. Trelawney sat on a plush armchair wearing burgundy velvet robes, appearing smaller than she was in the oversized seat. She lifted a hand and motioned towards herself.

“Ah, Tom, dear, I’d like a word with you.”

Students were piling into the room, taking their seats. Tom set his bag on one of the tables and came to stand in front of her. “How may I be of assistance, Professor?”

With slow, shaky movements, Trelawney took him by the hand, encasing it with both of her wrinkled hands. She patted him warmly and he fought the urge to pull away. 

“Yes, I need you to fetch your Harry, if you wouldn’t mind?”

“Excuse me?” said Tom, baffled.

Harry? Who’s Harry?

Wait… MY Harry???

“Mr. Evans is on the grounds this morning,” said Trelawney, her brown eyes twinkling. Harrison Evans—She’s calling him Harry? Is that what he goes by? Harrison is rather American… “I believe he’s making his way to the stables now as we speak. You can see him now if you look out the window.”

Tom strode to the window with the speed of a serpent’s strike.

He inhaled deeply. Sure enough, there was a lone figure in the distance with wild black hair strolling across the grounds. The figure paused abruptly for a moment, before continuing onward.

Rage poured into Tom’s chest.

Tom had always prided himself on remaining well spoken, acting with refined propriety before all others, but Evans was enough to make even the purest of saints swear like a sailor.

That motherfucking…

“As you can see, your Harry dear has no intention of joining us for class today. Would you mind so terribly going to him and seeing if he’s all right? Why not escort him to his next class, Care of Magical Creatures, I do believe. There’s no need to come back to class. You won’t make it back in time, but it’s just the first class. No need to stress about it.”

“It would be my pleasure,” said Tom, his fury burning hotter. A number of the Slytherins stiffened, alarmed, but Trelawney didn’t notice the shift in Tom’s energy.

She smiled at him. “I knew you would. Off you go now.”

Tom grabbed his bag and marched out of the classroom. His strides were long and powerful as he walked through the castle.

He had counseled Abraxas to have patience, but sending him and the other seventh year Knights after Mr. ‘Harry’ Evans was beginning to look like a fantastic idea. He’d never met a more infuriating boy such as Evans. Tom had to figure out his pressure points and fast. Nothing besides blood purity seemed to get under his skin.

Tom needed leverage.

It was a beautiful day outside, but Tom didn’t notice it as he broke into a run. His legs pumped beneath him and he didn’t bother to care about his appearance.

When he reached the pasture outside the stables, Tom doubled over for a moment, catching his breath. He ran a hand through his hair, adjusting the stray bangs that had fallen over his eyes.

He strode towards the stables, pausing at the entrance. At the end, he could see Evans speaking with an unfamiliar man.

“Evans!”

The following exchange with him forced Tom to give him a detention. He was so close to hexing him and might’ve indulged in one or two if they’d been alone. Hexing Evans until he was screaming in agony would’ve been a better lesson, but a detention with Slughorn would have to do.

And the most infuriating thing: Evans didn’t even care! He simply shrugged and strode on by. 

This aggravating, son of a—

“Evans. Evans.” Tom marched after him, but the other boy didn’t pause. He strode towards the castle, not looking back at him. Tom had the overwhelming desire to hex him yet again. “Evans!”

“What?” snapped Evans, whirling around. “What do you want, Riddle, seriously?”

Tom paused, trying to calm down. “It looks poorly on you if you continue to skip classes.”

“Do I look like I care?”

Tom gritted his teeth. “Why come to school at all, then?” he hissed. “If you plan on skiving off so much?”

“Hell if I know.”

“I don’t understand why you would skip Divination and Defense Against the Dark Arts. They’re vital—”

“The fuck?” Evans barked out a laugh. “Divination? I don’t need that shit.”

“Of course you do,” said Tom, genuinely taken aback. He let out a derisive laugh. “You can’t dismiss the future. Divination is such a flighty, even obscure branch of magic. There are endless possibilities in the future and to know one’s future—you’re given the chance to alter it or secure it. ”

Evans scoffed. “Please, Divination is a crock.”

“And how would you know?” snarled Tom. “You didn’t bother to show up.”

“The future isn’t such a mystery as you’d think.”

“What, a seer, are you?”

Evans grinned. “Maybe.”

“Oh? Then, do be a dear and prove it.”

The grin turned deadly. Evans looked Tom right in the eyes, took a step forward, and placed a hand onto Tom’s shoulder. Tom jolted slightly at the touch. Evans leaned in closer, looking up at him through his black fringe with a soft, mischievous expression. This close, Tom could see how vibrant those green eyes truly were.

Killing curse green.

“I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you, Tom Riddle, are not going to age well. Not at all.”

“Pardon?” breathed Tom.

“You’re gonna be bald by your thirties. Quite atrocious, honestly. You’re gonna lose all of those good looks your daddy blessed you with.”

What in Salazar…

“Not attractive in the slightest,” continued Evans, the mischief dancing merrily in his eyes. “You might also want to start a skincare routine, too, while you’re at it.”

Tom officially wanted to murder this boy.

Chapter Text

Operation ‘Piss Off Tom Riddle’ had commenced. Harry wanted his attention on him and nothing else - like on murder and mayhem, for example. So what better way to get his attention than to act like an emotionally repressed seven year old and pester the living shit out of him.

The hilarious part?

It was working.

Harry let out an exhaling laugh at Tom’s expression. There were two red splotches on his cheeks, his eyes wide with fury. His fists shook. Tom’s chest heaved in a deep breath; it slowly lowered with a long exhale.

Well, it was decided. Harry needed to order some skin and hair products for Tom’s Christmas present. Because why the hell not?

“You certainly have a way with words, Evans,” whispered Tom.

“Why, thank you, Riddle!” said Harry with a wry grin, bowing with a flourish. Tom’s nostrils flared. “I am delighted you appreciate the fine arts of my bullshittery.”

Harry ducked. A streak of heat rushed overhead. He rolled to the side, dodging another spell - the white light of a stinging hex. Wait, just a stinging hex? However, if the singed patch of grass was anything to go by, that would’ve hurt like a bitch. Harry whipped out his wand, but too slow—the third stinging hex struck his shoulder and blasted him off his feet. “Fucking hell!” he cursed, landing hard onto his back. He groaned. His shoulder burned something fierce now.

Before Harry could retaliate, Tom had already tucked his wand away and held out a hand. Harry blinked, staring at it.

“Do you plan on lying on the grass all day?” asked Tom with a raised eyebrow. His expression was impassive, yet there was a hint of satisfaction in his eyes.

Harry grabbed the proffered hand and allowed himself to be pulled up. His hand... it’s soft. Harry stumbled backwards. He hid his hands behind his back, vividly aware of the wild thumping in his chest. He barely noticed the pain in his shoulder over the roar of his heart and the fleeting sensation of Tom’s hand in his.

Bloody hell, get a grip on yourself.

“You have a wicked stinging hex.”

“I haven’t the foggiest idea as to what you’re talking about,” said Tom in a haughty tone, brushing invisible dust from his robes. “But you’re lucky that’s all it was. Slytherins are adept in darker curses should you ever cross one.”

I’ll say.

“Worse will happen to you if you continue this outrageous path of self destruction.” Tom’s gaze was hard. “I’m warning you, Evans. Stop this absurdity.”

“Awe, but where’s the fun in that?”

Tom sighed in exasperation. “Evans, at least go to your classes, for Salazar’s sake.”

“I don’t want to go to Divination.”

“Then why ever did you select it?”

“It was picked without my consent.”

Tom frowned. “You didn’t choose your own classes?” he asked, baffled.

“My enrollment at Hogwarts was kind of a last minute thing,” said Harry with a shrug. “My classes were chosen for me, but I’d rather not deal with Divination.”

Even if I did have fun with the assignment…

“I suppose you could drop it,” said Tom with a thoughtful expression. “You’d have to go to Professor Trelawney, though.”

Harry froze. He stared at Tom in utter horror. “Sorry, what?”

“What about what I said was confusing?”

“Who is the teacher?”

“Professor Trelawney. What’s wrong?”

Harry let out a long sigh and shook his head. “My life. That’s what’s wrong. Everything about my fucking life.”

Tom tried to get more out of him at that point, but Harry refused. Everything he ever knew was a lie. It had to be. He knew Dumbledore had met Trelawney in the Hog’s Head months before Harry was born. That was when the damned prophecy had been made. But Sybill Trelawney couldn’t have been that old. At any rate, he wanted nothing to do with the woman who had screwed with his life so much.

The last thing Harry Potter needed was another damn prophecy.

Tom backed off eventually and they fell into an easy silence as they walked together across the grounds towards the border of the Forbidden Forest where Care of Magical Creatures would be held. Harry appreciated the silence. He’d been sure Tom would pester him the entire way, but he surprisingly didn’t. 

Care of Magical Creatures was taught by Wilhelmina Grubbly-Plank, though she appeared much, much younger than in Harry’s time when she had substituted for Hagrid. The class would cover more exotic creatures and even hippogriffs were on the list this year. They spent most of the class documenting all of the creatures they were required to read up on.

When the class was dismissed, Harry quickly put his book away, wanting to bolt as quickly as possible. Tom had a look in his eyes that told Harry he was about to be cornered. He slipped away into the shadows of the trees, pulling out his cloak and disappearing beneath it just in time. Tom had rounded the area, looking around with confusion. He lifted his wand. Harry covered his mouth with a hand and held his breath.

“Revelio,” whispered Tom. The glittering spell surrounded the tip of his wand, but revealed nothing. Tom frowned. He took one final glance around the forest, before walking away.

Harry didn’t move for a couple of minutes.

When he was sure Tom was gone, he left the forest, but kept the cloak on. He had no desire to encounter anyone. He had a workload to deal with and he wanted to do it alone. Thankfully, he kept his books in his pouch, leaving only the ones he needed for the day in his schoolbag. He walked across the grounds towards what was quickly becoming his favorite place to be.

The owlery.

After casting a few scourgify charms, Harry sat in his corner of the owlery with Kasper sleeping on his shoulder while Harry worked on his assignments.

Every class he had attended had assigned foot long essays on their understanding of the course and what they looked forward to learning the most. It was grunt work, but it wasn’t that difficult. There was still a lot of writing to do over the weekend and Harry preferred to get what he could done now. Ron had always wanted to procrastinate until the last minute, while Hermione had always wanted to go above and beyond what the assignment asked.

With both of them no longer at his side, Harry was beginning to understand what he wanted. They’d both had their good and bad qualities and he loved them dearly, but to avoid fighting, Harry went along with Ron most of the time, relying on Hermione to bail them out at times.

But his OWLs made Harry realize that he wasn’t that bad at his schoolwork. Some classes were awful, like History of Magic. Umbridge had been the worst teacher he’d ever had.

But with the right learning environment, Harry thrived.

The teachers could either make or break the class for him.

Harry took his time with the assignments, even rewriting them properly on a cleaner piece of parchment once he was done brainstorming. He ended up knocking out three of his essays before dinner. He reread them, admiring his work. Sure, they weren’t the best written essays, but he did pretty good, if he did say so himself.

Not bad.

Now. Eager house elves or cranky Slytherins?

Dinner in the Great Hall it was.

After packing his things and watching Kasper fly off into the night to hunt, Harry left the owlery. The Great Hall was crowded with loads of students; their voices were a cacophony that crashed in his ears. Harry stood at the entrance, a bit overwhelmed. He was about to turn away, go straight to the kitchens instead, when an arm wrapped around his neck.

“Evans, you finally decided to show up for dinner,” said Rosier, his grey eyes twinkling. Harry turned to see all seven of his dormmates gathered around him. Tom watched him with a studying gaze. Fan-bloody-tastic. Rosier threw out a hand towards Mulciber, his fingers gesturing towards himself. “Pay up, I told you Evans would show up for dinner tonight. Where’s my galleon?”

“You bet on me?”

“What else are they going to do?” said Avery with a roll of his eyes. Mulciber wrinkled his nose, dug into his pocket, and slapped a coin into Rosier’s hand. Rosier grinned in triumph. He withdrew from Harry, giving the galleon an exaggerated kiss.

“Prat,” snarled Mulciber with a glare towards Harry.

He lifted his hands into the air in his defense. “Hey,” Harry protested, indignant. “I just showed up to eat dinner. Not my fault you’re betting against common sense.”

Lestrange snorted. “He’s got you there.”

“But you’ve skipped so many meals, so we weren’t sure,” said Quintus softly. Alphard clung to his arm like a spider monkey, yawning widely. Quintus gave Harry a once over with his dark eyes. “Not that you should. You’re rail thin.”

“I’m fine.”

What the hell. Are these Slytherins secretly mother hens in disguise?

“You don’t even look seven stone, mate,” said Rosier, frowning at him. “I bet Avery here could throw you farther than the quaffle. What d’you think?”

Without preamble, Avery stepped forward, who was easily a number of inches over six feet tall, placed his hands underneath Harry’s underarms, and lifted him into the air. 

Harry squawked.

“The fuck! Put me down!” He couldn’t help but kick his feet.

Avery set him down. The other boys snickered as Harry jerked away, glaring. Even Tom had an amused twitch of a smile. Avery glanced over at Rosier. “I’d say you're a few pounds under six stone, give or take.” How the hell… He looked at Harry. “You could be a seeker with that build, but you should gain some weight for your health and some muscle before you try out. You’re underweight.”

Harry clamped his mouth shut, memories of winter nights in a tent with little rations rushing to the forefront of his mind.

“Simon is the Quidditch Captain,” said Rosier.

“I play Keeper,” said Avery.

“I’ve… I, uh…” 

Harry trailed off, debating what he should say. He wasn’t sure if he actually wanted to try out for the Quidditch team, especially without his old firebolt. He missed flying and loved the thrill of Quidditch, but it required a lot of time and dedication. He had enough to deal with as it was. While Avery didn’t seem high-strung like Oliver Wood or Angelina Johnson, Harry wasn’t sure if he could handle the stress of it on top of everything else.

Like saving the world from two Dark Lords and multiple wars.

Nothing big, after all.

“I’ve played before,” said Harry, his tone guarded. “I’m a Seeker.”

Avery nodded. “Thought so. Seemed like the type. Travis Carrow graduated last year, so we could use a Seeker.”

Hope flooded Harry’s chest. Dammit. “Well… maybe I’ll give it a try.”

“Do that,” said Avery, a touch of a wry smile lifting his mouth. “Tryouts are next week. I expect to see you there.” 

Rosier and Avery walked together towards the Slytherin table, with Lestrange talking with Mulciber about their latest charms homework.

“Do try to eat something more than apples,” said Quintus with a wry smile, walking by with Alphard still hanging onto him. Alphard winked at him.

And then Harry was left alone with Tom.

“Where did you disappear to?” asked Tom.

“What’re you talking about?”

“After class. You disappeared after Care of Magical Creatures. Where do you go all day? And how in Salazar’s name do you not get lost?”

Harry couldn’t resist. “Magic.” He grinned at the annoyance in Tom’s expression. Harry bounced his eyebrows mischievously, before he strode into the Great Hall.

Heh.

Harry was pouring himself a cup of coffee the following day, Saturday morning, when the post arrived in a flurry of feathers, screeches, and hoots. Kasper landed elegantly amongst the chaos on Harry’s shoulder, barking softly in his ear.

“Got some post for me?” Kasper fluffed up and held out a leg. Harry pulled two letters off his leg and stroked his feathers. “Thanks, boy,” he whispered fondly. Harry looked to the table and leaned down. “Hey, um, could I get a bit of rare meat for my owl, please?”

“Why the hell are you talking to your plate?” demanded Mulciber.

Lestrange barked out a laugh. “Evans, you cracked finally?”

Raw meat magically appeared on Harry’s plate. He grinned. “Thanks a bunch.” Harry gave the slab of meat to Kasper, who gave a slight muffled thankful bark, and flew into the air with his meal.

Mulciber and Lestrange stared, gobsmacked.

“You were saying?” asked Harry smugly.

“How’d you…”

“Magic.”

Tom snorted, before quickly covering his face with his charms book. Harry stared, taken aback at the realization that he’d actually gotten Tom to laugh. He shook himself and opened the first letter. His lifted mood vanished when he recognized Dumbledore’s handwriting.

Don’t forget: my office at one o’clock.

Harry crinkled up the letter, annoyed. He opened the other one, which was from Slughorn, and let out a low groan.

Mr. Riddle has informed me that he’s assigned you detention for skipping Divination. Mr. Evans, I strongly disapprove of skipping classes. Please refrain from doing this in the future. Your detention will be in my office at seven pm.

Harry wadded up the letter. He had a half notion of throwing it at Tom’s head. He almost gave into the urge. Almost. He was about to tuck into his breakfast when a voice halted him.

“Hi,” said a young voice. Harry glanced back to see Fleamont Potter looking at him with a steady gaze. “You’re the boy from the bookshop who looks like us. But Charlus pulled me away before I could talk to you. How come you look like us?”

Harry blinked like a stag in wand light. “Uh…”

“Are you related to Mom? Are you a long lost son of an uncle?”

“We’re human,” said Harry, letting out an uneasy laugh. “You have a face… I have a face. We just share a passing resemblance.”

“Oh, it’s definitely more than that,” said Monty, shaking his head with confidence. Harry could feel the eyes of the Slytherins on them. “You’ve got the Potter genes, I’d bet ten whole galleons on it and that’s a lot of gold for an eleven year old like me. You’ve got the same hair and the same nose and the same skin color, even down to the right saturation and shade.”

The fuck? How—what—how is he—

“So, the only explanation is you’re related to us and I want to know exactly how. Are you my cousin? Or my uncle? No, that’d be weird. Can’t be that… How are we related?”

Nope. I’m your grandson, but you’re a bit young to be married with kids at eleven, Gramps.

“No idea.”

“Why?”

“Why is a Gryffindor at the Slytherin table?” demanded Lestrange.

“Beat it, kid,” said Mulciber. “You’re bothering us.”

Monty looked over at him. “But I wasn’t talking to you. I was talking to Evans here, so how could I be bothering you?”

Mulciber gritted his teeth.

Monty looked back at Harry. “Are you the secret son of Uncle Andal? Or Uncle Edward? Is that why we haven’t met before?” Monty’s eyes grew adorably wide on his young, round face. “What if Mom had an affair with another man? No, that wouldn’t make sense. She’s only a Potter by marriage. Dad would have to have the affair. You’d be my half brother, then. Oh. That’s probably going to cause my parents some problems.”

The Slytherin table broke into furious whispers amongst themselves.

Shit!

Shit shit shit, this kid needs to shut up real quick!

Mulciber growled. “Kid, if you don’t get lost, I’m going to curse you.”

“I’m right behind you,” said Lestrange darkly.

“You can’t in front of the teachers,” said Monty in a matter of fact tone. “You’ll get in trouble.”

Mulciber brushed a finger along his wand, eyeing Monty with a dangerous glint in his eyes. “I’m close to taking my chances.”

Monty turned his face back onto Harry, a clear dismissal. He stepped forward, standing right in front of Harry. “Uh… What’re you—” Monty put his small hands onto Harry’s cheeks, squishing them. Harry stiffened, sucking in his breath. He jerked back, but the little boy held fast. Monty’s dark eyes studied him intently.

What a… precocious child. This is my Grandfather. How…

How the hell did he survive his childhood?

“You don’t have our eyes, though,” said Monty, sounding a bit disappointed. He perked up. “They’re very pretty, though, your green eyes. I really like them.”

A sudden sense of overwhelming loss assaulted Harry’s senses. He had the urge to hug the boy, but he longed for Monty to be an adult, to be the grandfather he should’ve been to Harry.

“Monty!” cried Charlus the moment he entered the Great Hall. He rushed over to the Slytherin table. He grabbed the boy by the wrist, pulling him away. Harry sat there, stunned, uncomfortable, and heart twisting with mournful longing. “Monty, you can’t do things like this. You can’t accost others.”

“But I wasn’t. I was talking to our cousin Evans.”

“Cous—He’s not our cousin!” snapped Charlus. He huffed and threw Harry an apologetic smile. “I’m so sorry, Evans, my little brother is… Well, he hasn’t got a filter when it comes to people. Don’t mind him.”

“I’m right here.”

“He’s fine,” said Harry with a fond smile. “He’s just friendly.”

“See, I’m not bothering Evans.”

I wouldn’t say that, per se…

Charlus sighed. “All right, all right, let him eat his breakfast in peace. Come on.” He pulled Monty away from the Slytherin table. 

Monty turned back and gave Harry a bright smile, waving enthusiastically. “Bye bye, cousin,” he chirped.

Harry was torn between fondness and dread.

“That’s one odd kid,” said Mulciber, his lip curling in disgust. He eyed Harry narrowly. “So, are you really related to him?”

“I’m a mudblood, remember?” snapped Harry. “How could I be related to the Potters if I’m muggleborn?”

“Bastard born,” said Lestrange with a shrug.

“My parents were married, thanks.”

“And how would you know?” asked Mulciber with a sneer. “They’re dead.”

Harry slowly turned his head towards Mulciber. Magic shifted in the air, crackling silently, and the other Slytherins took notice, eyeing the two of them warily. Mulciber’s smile turned nasty.

“Oh, is the mudblood going to cry?”

“Fuck off,” said Harry cooly.

Mulciber yelped. He bolted to his feet and grabbed at his backside in quite the undignified fashion. “Something bit me,” he gasped. “Something bit me!”

Without a word, Harry grabbed a couple of apples and tucked them into his robes pockets, before getting up from the table. He strode only a few steps, when a hand brushed against his arm, stopping him. Harry sucked in his breath. Tom Riddle looked up at him with a strange light in his eyes.

“Are you all right?” asked Tom.

His tone was everything but compassionate.

“Fine,” said Harry, frowning. He tried to leave, but a hand reached out, slender fingers curling around his wrist. Harry’s breath hitched; his heart thrummed. He tried to jerk away, but Tom’s grip was immoveable. “Do you mind?” he demanded. “Why are you touching me?”

Those fingers loosened their hold. Tom withdrew, his hand closing, a sharp smile lifting his features. The hairs stood on Harry’s neck; he felt like a mouse caught in the sights of a dangerous predator.

“No reason,” purred Tom, a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes.

Harry fled, perturbed by the encounter.

Against his better judgment, Harry camped out in the kitchens. He was getting tired of apples at any rate and the house elves were more than happy to house Harry for a few hours, so long as he ate whatever they shoved at him. There was no escaping it either, since the old house elf, Minsby, eyed him the entire time. She wouldn’t give him a moment of peace if he stopped eating.

“You’s need to be eating more, Master Evans.”

“Just call me Harry, please, and I’m trying, but this is a lot of food—”

“Not for a growing boy, tis not. Now you’s eat.”

Once the elves got Harry to cooperate with their insistence on feeding him astronomical amounts of food yet again, they were pretty good at leaving him alone to do some more of his assignments. It was only when the elves tried to get him to eat lunch that Harry became aware of the time.

He left the kitchens, pockets loaded with apples and even some homemade caramels wrapped in wax paper. He didn’t know exactly where Dumbledore’s office was, but Harry walked towards the office McGonagall had once used in Harry’s time. When he reached the office, he knocked on the door.

“Sir, I’m here for my detention,” said Harry. A bout of anxiety rushed through his stomach and he felt flighty, ready to bolt at any moment. He tried to shove the feeling down. He twisted his hands together, waiting, until a voice called through the door.

“Yes, yes, come inside.”

Harry strode into the office and his heart broke.

The office was almost exactly the same as what it would be in the Headmaster’s office. Barely anything would change when - or if - Dumbledore became the Headmaster. There were magical trinkets on shelves, wall to wall books, and other strange artifacts. It was quintessentially Dumbledore and something inside Harry’s soul wanted to scream and cry and rage, yet also reconnect with the man who he’d once considered a mentor.

No.

I can’t.

Don’t you dare. If I confide in him, it could ruin everything. He might actually hurt Tom and I can’t let that happen. He’d never listen to me if I confirmed any of his suspicions of Tom.

“What am I going to be doing today, Professor?” asked Harry, looking around. He didn’t see the man anywhere in the room.

“I have an errand that I need to run and I could use your help,” said Dumbledore; he popped up from beneath his desk, a warm smile on his face. Harry blinked in surprise. “Shall we?” he said lightly, gesturing towards the door.

Panic rushed into Harry’s chest. It was too reminiscent of previous events. Memories filled his mind, a terrible cave, a trashed living room - but they wouldn’t happen now. Harry would never be bait for Slughorn. Harry would never go to a cave filled with inferi, only to find a fake horcrux.

He wouldn’t be used by this man. No more.

But this still made him uncomfortable.

“Where are we going?” asked Harry, trying to sound nonchalant. His heart pounded in his ears and his stomach twisted with the flurry of anxiety. “Not Diagon Alley, right?”

“No, no, not that far. We’re going into Hogsmeade.”

Okay. That’s fine. The tension unclenched in his stomach. “Isn’t this supposed to be a punishment?” Harry asked, raising an eyebrow.

Dumbledore chuckled. “I don’t believe in detentions that force a student to scrub cauldrons,” he said as he grabbed a small money purse. “Or Merlin forbid, detentions that use corporal punishment. Such things only teaches the student to fear authority, not learn from their mistakes.”

Okay…

Wait a minute, the hell is corporal punishment?

“Come along now.”

Dumbledore swept out of the room. Harry rushed after him, trying to keep up. The man didn’t look back, which Harry thought odd. It was a lot of confidence in him to assume he wouldn’t run off. Of course, it would only make things worse and Harry would probably have to redo the detention plus a couple more. Instead, Harry did his best to keep up with him, impressed by his long strides.

As they crossed the ward border of Hogwarts, Dumbledore slowed his pace on the road towards Hogsmeade. Harry caught up enough to be able to match his strides, walking alongside the man.

It was such an odd feeling being around Dumbledore again. He was Dumbledore, yet he wasn’t the Dumbledore Harry had known. He could see hints of what the man would become, but then he’d be reminded that this person was, essentially, a stranger.

“Sir, where are we going?” asked Harry as they approached the little wizarding village.

“Ah, I find myself in need of some books,” said Dumbledore. He winked at him.

“Books…” Harry raised an eyebrow. “You need my help to get books?”

“Oh, absolutely. Your help is vital.” 

Uh huh…

Well, it would appear some things never changed, no matter the time. Albus Dumbledore was still barmy as ever.

Much of Hogsmeade was familiar to Harry. Many of the shops hadn’t changed - except for one, however. Harry noticed the absence of Zonko's Joke Shop and felt a pang of disappointment.

Well, no wonder all the Slytherins have a stick up their arse. They have no healthy outlet like going to a joke shop for laughs.

They strolled through the little village until Dumbledore stopped at the entrance of Tomes and Scrolls, a quaint little bookshop in the middle of the village. Dumbledore gazed up at the name of the store for a moment, pensive.

“Do you enjoy reading, Mr. Evans?”

“Uh… Occasionally,” said Harry. Reading hadn’t been something he had gravitated towards when he was younger. The Dursleys never liked it when he got better grades than Dudley, so at some point in his childhood, Harry had stopped trying. Things had been easier that way. “Mostly school books. I haven’t really found something to read for fun.”

“What a shame,” said Dumbledore, frowning. His blue eyes were soft as they gazed at him. “There’s much to learn from books. You might consider giving them a try in the future. There are so many different viewpoints of the world if one would simply expand their horizons, but alas many do not look outside their circles of friends and peers.”

Preaching to the choir, sir.

They walked into the shop, a bell jingling at their entrance. Harry looked around as he followed Dumbledore into the aisles of bookshelves. He stood back and watched while the man began looking through the books. He pulled one out, flipping through it briefly, and handed it to Harry.

“Would you mind holding this for me?”

“Uh, sure…”

And that was only the beginning. Harry soon found himself burdened with an armful of heavy books. This guy is worse than Hermione, damn. Harry had to make a quick trip to the front register, setting the growing stack on the counter, before going back to Dumbledore’s side. The man handed him four more heavy tomes.

Dumbledore clapped once, smiling. “I believe that’s all I need,” he said brightly. “Let’s check out.”

With a heave, Harry set the second stack of books next to the larger one. He stood a few steps back, waiting as Dumbledore paid for his books. The cashier gushed a few minutes over Dumbledore, making the whole process much longer than it needed to be. Harry sighed, wishing he were gutting flobberworms for five hours.

“A pleasure, Mr. Dumbledore. Would you like me to shrink your purchases for you, sir?”

“Oh, that won’t be necessary,” said Dumbledore, winking at the woman. She blushed. Dumbledore gestured towards Harry, who blinked. “I have this strapping young man to carry them for me.”

Oh. Oh…

Oh, so that’s how this is gonna be.

He’d been demoted to a glorified handbasket. Fantastic.

“Why?” asked Harry.

“Why not? Why do we do anything, hm?”

Harry closed his eyes, exhausted by the man’s philosophical bullshit already. “How is this supposed to help me learn from my mistakes?” he said, wishing this man would just be direct with his meanings for once in his bloody life. “You’re just pimping me out for free labor, which if I can remind you is ridiculous since we’re wizards.”

For a moment, Dumbledore seemed confused, but then he patted Harry on the upper arm. “It builds character. Come along, Mr. Evans.”

It… builds… character.

Albus Dumbledore, you should be carrying your own fucking books.

Harry sighed. He stared at the two book stacks, trying to decide how the hell this was going to work. The cashier gave him a sympathetic smile. Harry made the towers even and gathered them to his chest. He lifted with a grunt.

Holy shit, they’re heavy!

He stumbled out of the bookshop. It took all of his focus to not drop them. They only walked a few paces before his arms were getting tired and achy. This was definitely a new type of detention. They passed the pet shop when Dumbledore paused mid stride. Harry wanted to curse.

“Mr. Evans, I couldn’t help but notice that you have quite a sense of justice.”

Oh, so we’re going to stand around and have a conversation while I hold five stones worth of books. Great.

“Yes, sir.”

Dumbledore gave him a look. “That’s usually a Gryffindor trait.”

Fuck.

“The hat couldn’t decide between Hufflepuff and Slytherin, sir. I doubt Gryffindor was an option.”

“All houses are an option,” said Dumbledore stiffly, though to Harry it sounded a bit forced. The old man’s stance softened. “Though, I must admit I am biased towards Gryffindor, being one myself. You speaking out in my class - though quite inappropriate - did open my eyes a bit. I can see you’re more than your house colors.”

No shit. Thanks for stating the obvious.

The books were getting heavier.

“I think it’s because you’re older, less impressionable. If you’d been sorted younger, perhaps your house would’ve shaped you more.”

I don’t like this. Where is this going?

Dumbledore glanced at him. “I’d… well, I’d like to mentor you, if you’d be all right with that,” he said with a hint of that grandfatherly persona twinkling in his eyes. “I’d like to foster some of your more Gryffindor qualities before… Well, I see a lot of good in you, Mr. Evans, and I’d like to help you.”

Harry’s chest twisted with heartache.

Gryffindors were just as prejudiced towards Slytherins as the Slytherins were to everyone else. It was an endless cycle; both sides were poisoned by their thinking.

The old man was sincere, that much was true. A part of Harry wanted to agree to this. He wanted to believe in Dumbledore. He was a good man, misguided as he was. He meant well enough, always did. Maybe things could be different… Maybe Harry could convince him of the truth. Maybe he could inspire him to go after Grindelwald. Then, Harry wouldn’t have to deal with that and he’d be free to save Tom.

His memories flooded his mind. He could remember all those evenings in Dumbledore’s office during sixth year.

And his heart yearned for his old mentor.

“Harrison—”

“Oh, just Harry, sir.”

Dumbledore’s smile was soft, until it tightened. He placed a hand onto his shoulder. It added more weight and Harry had to shift to not drop the books. “Harry, listen to me, Slytherin is a dangerous place. I hope you’ll consider my offer. Slytherin House is filled with old prejudices that sully their world view. I see a bright future before you, but I fear their influence over you. One day, you’ll be made to submit and… Well, I’ve seen it happen before.”

Harry drew in a deep breath.

Really? Really, Professor?

“And you must stay away from Tom Riddle,” said Dumbledore, his voice dropping low, his tone more intense. “He’s the most dangerous of them all. I see things in him that… I should’ve seen in Gellert.”

Harry’s jaw clenched.

This son of a bitch.

He exhaled. “Tom is just a boy, sir,” Harry said, his tone sharp. His magic grew taut within him, threatening to snap outwards. Dumbledore drew back. “Have you ever thought about mentoring him, instead of condemning him?”

“Harry—”

“He’s been here for five years and never once have you thought to extend your illustrious help?” snarled Harry. Magic lashed out. He had let go of the books without realizing it. They floated in the air around him, slowly beginning to spin. Dumbledore watched, wide eyed in shock. “He’s a fucking orphan!” he shouted. “In muggle London! Stop acting like Slytherins are evil. They’re children. Fucking children! They don’t know any better because they’ve been raised by shitty parents. It’s your job as their professor to teach them other points of view. But instead of loving them and caring about them and trying to help them open their eyes to the world, you just prove everything they’ve ever been taught! It’s them versus the world. This is bullshit!”

Harry heaved, breathing hard. The books landed on the ground with multiple thuds. There were a couple of other shoppers in the village, watching them with fierce whispers amongst themselves. He glared at Dumbledore, ignoring everyone else. For a moment, they stood there, staring at one another in silence.

“Albus? Harry? What… It’s too early for a Hogsmeade weekend.”

Harry sucked in his breath, the fury in his chest fading away like the tide drawing out to sea. He turned to see Newt Scamander himself with a pretty woman with short brown hair on his arm. She gave Harry a warm smile. He suddenly felt shy and awkward around them both.

“Ah, Newt, my boy,” said Dumbledore, acting as if nothing had happened. He waved his hand and the books flew into the air, stacking neatly and floating at his side. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“We’re on some errands,” said Newt, giving them both a strange look. “Again, Albus, why are you here with a student?”

“Ah, I needed a bit of help carrying these heavy books, but I think that’s all sorted now.” With another wave of the hand, all of the books except for one shrunk, flying into Dumbledore’s hand. He pocketed them. He plucked the last book out of the air and offered it to Harry. “Mr. Evans, I thought you’d appreciate this. It’s a book about the four houses. I hope you give it a read and consider what you can learn from it. With this, your detention is now over. I suggest you make your way back, but I wouldn't fault you if you took a moment to try a butterbeer.”

Harry accepted the book and tucked it underneath his left arm, still trying to collect his thoughts after his outburst.

“Evans?” said the woman with an American accent, glancing between Newt and Harry. “Are you Harry?” When he nodded, her smile brightened. “How lovely. Newt has told me all about you. I’m Tina Scamander.” She held out a hand and Harry took it, shaking it. Harry blushed at her attention.

“Nice to meet you, ma’am,” said Harry, shifting his feet, uncomfortable at the thought of Newt talking about him. But it was also flattering. “I hope he didn’t say anything bad,” he joked.

“Newt would never,” said Tina, winking at him.

“I told her how you have a way with hippogriffs,” said Newt with a smile and a hint of pride. “Pleasure to see you again, Harry. I hope you’re well…” He lifted a sardonic eyebrow, giving him a pointed look.

Harry nodded. “I’m fine,” he whispered. He let out a low breath, his unease slipping away. His smile turned genuine. He wanted to stay and speak with them, but at the look Dumbledore was giving him, he knew he better leave. “Sorry, I can’t stay. I better go back to school. Nice to meet you, Mrs. Scamander.”

“Tina, please. Until next time, then.”

Harry waved, which Newt returned warmly. Harry slipped out of sight. He quickly put the book into his pouch without so much as a glance and pulled out the cloak, throwing it over his shoulders. He turned back and approached the adults, who had moved to a more secluded area of the street. He stood a few feet away, making sure to stay out of Dumbledore’s eyesight since he wasn’t sure if he could see through cloaks.

Even the cloak of Death.

“You always did have unusual detentions,” muttered Newt. He shook his head. “Making him carry that many books—really, Albus?”

“Headmaster Dippet has his preferred methods, while I have mine,” said Dumbledore. “If it were up to me, I’d remove all detentions that include the cane, but alas, I’m not the Headmaster.”

Oh, fuck, I forgot they did that shit in the past. Is that what he meant earlier?

I need to be more careful.

“I offered to mentor him, but I fear I offended him,” said Dumbledore, sounding disappointed. “He’s young, but wise that boy.”

“You offended him? Really? Couldn’t tell,” drawled Tina. “We certainly couldn’t hear him yelling at you from a mile away.”

Newt winced. “He’s a good kid,” he said quickly with a placating gesture. “He’s obviously been through some trauma and he may just be acting out, but I’m sure he’s just trying to cope with the loss of his family. As best he can…”

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. “He confided in you about his family? When did you get the chance to speak with him? I assume it was while you were tending to our poor wounded hippogriff?”

“Yes, we ran into each other briefly,” said Newt. A soft, yet saddened smile filled his features. The light in his eyes was hard. “What we discussed will remain between us, unless he chooses to share it with you himself.”

Harry inhaled softly, surprised. He hadn’t expected any adult to keep information about him from Dumbledore. He’d been The Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One, so The Order always knew everything about him when it came to his scar or the war. He’d always been pressured to tell Dumbledore whenever something was wrong, like his scar, his nightmares, or the detentions with Umbridge. 

The adults in his life always took it upon themselves to report things to Dumbledore, whether Harry wanted them to or not. 

Harry learned to keep those things to himself. 

“Albus, I've lived with a Legilimens. You know that won’t work on me,” said Newt casually, but with an undertone of seriousness. 

“Sorry, old habit, my boy,” said Dumbledore. “I meant no harm by it.”

“Actually, I’m glad we ran into you. There’s something I wanted to discuss.”

“Of course, anything at all. You have my attention.” 

“It’s about the…” Newt’s voice dropped so low Harry couldn’t hear him. 

Dumbledore stiffened. His face went pale. “Don’t say such things in the open, Newt,” he said sharply. “We can’t discuss that so freely, you know.”

“I meant no harm by it,” said Newt, repeating Dumbledore’s words back to him. “Shall we move this discussion elsewhere?”

Dumbledore sighed. “What about it?”

“Didn’t you break it? What’s going on?”

“Well, yes.” Dumbledore shifted. “It is broken, almost five years now, but—”

“Five years?!” yelped Newt. “What the devil have you been doing all this time? The war is getting worse!”

People glanced around, looking around for the source of the newest outburst. Tina placed a hand over Newt’s forearm. Newt instantly calmed down and he let out an embarrassed cough. He drew in a deep breath, his tone dropping.

“Albus, what are you doing?” said Newt, leaning closer. “Five years, really? Why haven’t you gone after him?” He exhaled a soft, disbelieving laugh. “Are you waiting for him to invite you to tea?”

Albus Dumbledore is a passive little bitch, that’s why.

If he hadn’t mentioned Tom, Harry might’ve fallen for the grandfather act once more. He’d been close, ever so close, to giving into that overwhelming desire to have some help, to not be alone in all this. Thank Merlin for Dumbledore’s prejudices. They saved Harry from his own stupidity.

“Breaking it doesn’t magically enable me to stop Grindelwald,” said Dumbledore softly.

Newt rubbed a hand over his face. “Entire families have been killed by Grindelwald. Albus, I’m not saying you're responsible for those deaths, but what could you possibly be doing to stall you these past five years? Grindelwald could’ve been stopped.”

“Newt, stopping Grindelwald was never going to be easy. I regret the deaths of so many innocents, but I’m not omniscient nor all powerful.”

“Albus—”

“I’m afraid that my time is up now,” said Dumbledore with a benign smile. He took Tina by the hand. “It was a pleasure seeing you again, Tina. We should get together again soon.”

“Perhaps we will,” said Tina, her smile a bit sharp. “We could continue this conversation when we have your undivided attention.”

“Uh, of course…”

The wild Dumbledore fled.

Silence reigned between the Scamanders as they looked after the man. They shared a pair of frowns with one another. Harry stood there, waiting, his chest rising and falling with a steady rhythm that he was vividly aware of.

“Sometimes,” murmured Tina, leaning closer to Newt. “Sometimes that man makes me want to hex something.”

“Tina!” whispered Newt, aghast. “Don’t say that… That’s not very nice.”

“I’m simply stating a fact. He makes me… uncomfortable, in a way.” She shook her head, her nose crinkling. “I know he’s a good man, but I’m not sure why you British wizards revere him so much. There’s something manipulative about him.”

Newt sighed. “I know… When I went to Paris, I went there to find you, but I ended up getting pulled into what he wanted me to do. I tried to say no, but… you know how that went. It’s strange, though—he couldn’t have had any control over what happened, but it still feels…” Newt trailed off, shaking his head. 

The two of them walked away from the bookshop, down deeper into the village. And Harry stood there in the middle of Hogsmeade, hidden beneath the cloak, reeling with confusion as he tried to make sense of what he’d overheard.

Chapter Text

Five years.

Harry went through the details in his head quickly, trying to hold onto random information that was fading from his memory like sand slipping through his fingers. Something had been broken - what, he had no idea. A curse? A vow? Whatever it was, it sounded as if it’d been stopping Dumbledore from going after Grindelwald. And yet, it was gone now—had been for five years. What did that mean?

He knew of the stories, the trashy ones that Rita had sprouted on about Dumbledore and Grindelwald in their youth. Death had mentioned something about them being soulmates, but Harry hadn’t really given it much thought. Tom Riddle and Harry Potter were soulmates, but the events and choices of their lives kept them apart. 

What if that hadn’t been the case for Dumbledore?

This whole time Harry had been going on the assumption that Dumbledore was avoiding the fight with Grindelwald as he would with Voldemort. For reasons, whatever they were - ones that made no sense.

But now one possibility rang clear in Harry’s mind.

What if…

What if Albus Dumbledore is in love with Gellert Grindelwald?

It made sense why he would wait for so long to confront him. Dumbledore was a Gryffindor, but Harry had occasionally seen some cowardice in the man.

‘We must all face the choice between what is right and what is easy.’

Wise words.

But it appeared Dumbledore took a few easy routes during his life. 

A wall lifted up within Harry’s heart. Beneath the cloak, he pinched the bridge of his nose. He’d been too close to revealing things to Dumbledore. How thick can I get? The man was dangerous. Harry was going to have to keep his distance away from him no matter what happened in his class or anywhere else. Harry could not afford to make a mistake with this.

He had pity for the man.

But it ended there.

I can’t let myself be manipulated like this again. I have to be a Slytherin when I’m around him. I’m not going to act like a pureblood snob, but I can’t be the sympathetic orphan to him any more.

I’ve got to shake him off.

Harry sighed.

And the weight of the world never felt heavier than in that moment.

Later that evening, Harry knocked on Slughorn’s office door for his second detention of the day. The door opened and Slughorn beamed at him.

“Mr. Evans, come in, come in,” said Slughorn, gesturing towards himself as he walked back inside his office. He sat down behind the desk and waved towards the seat across his. “Sit down. I think we should have a chat.”

A chat…

These damn men and their fucking chats.

Harry sat down in the chair. “Sir,” he said, hoping to get ahead of whatever lecture Slughorn was going to inflict upon him. “Could we skip the lecture? I’ll just gut flobberworms for a couple of hours, please?”

Slugborn let out a belly laugh. “Oh, don’t be so worried, Mr. Evans. I don’t think that’ll be necessary. I just wanted to take this chance to get to know you better, make sure you’re settling into the Slytherin house all right. I know Mr. Riddle was rather… enthusiastic in assigning you a detention, but he doesn’t get to choose what happens here.”

Harry grimaced. This was almost worse than the lecture.

There was something warm in Slughorn’s eyes, but then they softened more. “I’m sure you understand that it is rather unusual for a child to come to this school when they’re entering their sixth year. You’re obviously not uneducated and your potions work is outstanding.” Slughorn’s chest expanded in a deep breath; he gave Harry a firm look. “The circumstances that brought you here couldn’t have been good. It’s my duty as your Head of House to make sure you’re doing well, both physically and mentally.”

Harry blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Mr. Evans, I understand that it might be difficult to talk about your traumas, but it would be good to get them off your chest.”

Get my… traumas off my chest?

What the fuck.

Slughorn was smiling at him in a kind, inviting way, but Harry could see the cracks in the man’s facade. There was some sincerity there, of course, but there was also a hidden agenda beneath the mask, a purpose, a reason for the kindness.

He’s a Slytherin. There’s always an angle.

“You’re a bright student, Mr. Evans, and while you’re not a pureblood, I have no doubt you could achieve great things. You could have a promising future as a Potions Master if you wanted.”

And there it was.

Connections.

That’s right, the Slug Club.

He’d forgotten about that. He’d been Harry Potter, a connection, in his original time. He hadn’t liked the club then and he knew he wasn’t going to like it now. Dear Merlin, he forgot about this bullshit. He had the overwhelming desire to rub his eyes in utter exhaustion.

All right.

Bare minimum. Saying as little as possible about his family and past - beyond the shittakes to confuse the hell out of the Slytherins - that was his best strategy to avoid crossing his wires later.

“My parents died, so here I am,” said Harry, his tone soft. “I was… privately taught and I got good at some things.”

Slughorn nodded, his expression turning sympathetic. “That must’ve been hard to lose them at your age.”

“Yup,” said Harry, popping at the end. He didn’t bother to correct the man. “So… Is that everything?”

“On occasion, I have little dinners with some… select students. I’d like to see you attend one of them. You can never start too young to make connections in the world, I always say.”

“Sounds… wonderful, Professor,” said Harry with a tight smile. “I’d love to attend.”

“Wonderful!” Slughorn clapped his hands in delight. “Do you have any idea on what you’d like to do in the future?”

Harry sat still, his heart pounding in his ears. Shit. That was right. He needed to have career options. He had no idea about his OWLs either. Did they exist here in this time? Was he going to have to take his tests all over again?

I better not. I don’t want to go through that shit again. I wonder if there’s a way to find out if my test scores are here…

I hope you did whatever you had to for that, Death.

But what to say, to answer? He wasn’t going to say Headmaster of Hogwarts. He didn’t want anyone to know that ambition just yet. He wanted to keep that close to his heart for as long as possible.

Ambition.

That wasn’t something he ever imagined he’d have, but Harry truly wanted to become the Headmaster of Hogwarts in the future. Sooner than later. He couldn’t remember when Dumbledore took the position, but Harry needed to be the one who succeeded Dippet.

“I’d like to be a teacher,” said Harry, scrunching his shoulders and trying to act shy. “Not sure what I’d teach, though…”

“That’s a mighty fine career goal,” said Slughorn. He winked at Harry. “I hope you’re not coming for my position.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, sir,” said Harry, smiling. “I might be—” I can’t believe I’m saying this. Hope Snape doesn’t pop up from the afterlife to get me. “—good at potions, but I don’t want to become a Potions Master. Perhaps a Defense Against the Dark Arts assistant in the future. I like defense.”

“Oho, don’t let Galatea hear you coming for her job.”

Harry let out a chuckle. “I said assistant, sir.”

“I’m merely jesting,” said Slughorn with another belly laugh. “You’ve got some time; no need to stress about it.” He smiled at Harry and gestured towards the door. “Well, my boy, I won’t keep you any longer, but if you’re ever in need of a chat, my door is always open to you.”

You did most of the talking.

“Thank you, sir, I appreciate that,” said Harry, standing up.

He left the office and walked down the corridor that led to the Slytherin common room entrance. He let his feet carry him, his thoughts whirling with everything that had happened today. He hadn’t gone very far when he heard a commotion down a separate corridor. He broke into a run, darting towards the direction of the derisive laughter. He skidded to a halt to find a group of first years from different houses. There were two Slytherin girls, two Ravenclaw boys, and one familiar lone Gryffindor boy.

Monty.

He was in the process of getting to his feet. He wiped blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. His jaw was clenched, his chin lifted. One of the Ravenclaw boys grabbed Monty by the front of his robes.

“Hey!” shouted Harry. He jerked the boy away from Monty, glaring down at him. “The fuck do you think you’re doing?”

The boy’s eyes widened, almost comically. The girls clutched at each other.

“What-what—”

“That’s my fucking question!” snapped Harry, shaking the boy slightly. The boy squeaked in surprise. “It looks like you’re bullying a fellow classmate. Is that what you’re doing?”

The boy shook his head so quickly it looked like it was going to fly straight off his neck. “No-no-no—”

“Good, sure wouldn’t want you to get in trouble for hurting another classmate, right?”

The boys shook their heads.

“Then get out of here!”

The boys scampered off. The two Slytherin girls stood wide eyed, staring at Harry. He narrowed his eyes at them. “You two just stood there and did nothing to help a fellow student. Anything to say for yourselves?”

“Why should we help him?” said the brown haired girl. She lifted her nose into the air. “He’s stupid and weird and not like the rest of our year. Besides, why help a Gryffindor?”

Harry growled underneath his breath. What eleven year old thinks they’re not to help a Gryffindor? It’s their fucking parents’ fault. He turned his gaze back to Monty. “Hey, you all right?” he asked softly.

“No,” said Monty, shaking his head. His lip quivered, but he showed no other emotion. “I’ve got some kids picking on me from multiple houses and it’s really disrupting my ability to cope with being in a new place away from my parents.”

Harry blinked. But he smiled fondly. “Hey,” he whispered, putting a hand onto the boy’s arm. “It’s gonna be okay. I know it’s hard being in a new place, but you’ll get used to the castle. Soon, it’ll become a home away from home.”

Monty ducked his head and nodded. “That’s what Charlus said.”

“And he’s right. You should listen to your brother.”

“But you said it better.”

Harry smiled. He sensed movement behind himself. He didn’t look back, but said in a sharp voice, “I didn’t say you two could leave.”

The girls froze.

He turned back, eyes narrowed. “You should help others in need, no matter their house colors. One day, when you’re older and graduated, you’re not going to know who was in which house. It’s not going to matter then, so it shouldn’t matter now.”

“Well, I don’t have to listen to you, mudblood,” said the brown haired girl. She took a step back, before darting away as fast as she could. The other girl sucked in her breath, glancing back briefly, before her grey eyes locked back at Harry. There was a hint of fear in her expression. She had familiar near white blonde hair that gave her the distinct look of a Malfoy, but Harry wasn’t sure how she was related to Abraxas.

“Uh…”

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose, exhausted once again. “I dunno, how about you introduce yourselves and be fucking nice for once? For the love of Merlin. You’re first years, right? You’ve got seven years together. Probably in a lot of classes with each other, too. How about you be friends?”

Because the teachers are masochists, I swear to Merlin.

“You have a filthy mouth,” said the little girl.

“Yeah, well, you would too if you’d been through shit.”

Monty took a step forward. “I’m Fleamont Potter, but I much rather be called Monty. And you are?”

“Euphemia Malfoy,” she said in a haughty tone. “Only special people may call me Effie.”

Harry squinted. That name sounded familiar… A name he’d seen in his family history… His eyes darted between Monty to Euphemia a few times, realization dawning. My grandmother… Fleamont Potter and Euphemia Potter…

Damn, I’m related to the Malfoys.

“Pleasure to meet you, Miss Malfoy,” said Monty, putting a hand over his chest and bowing to her.

I’m witnessing history and I’m not sure how I feel about this.

“Not a pleasure for me,” said Euphemia, lifting her chin into the air. “Slytherins do not consort with Gryffindors and Malfoys do not consort with Potters.”

“Why?”

Euphemia flustered hotly. “Because you’re a bunch of blood traitors. That’s why. I heard my mother talking about it with my father.”

“What’s a blood traitor?” asked Monty. “How do you betray blood? It doesn’t have feelings.”

“A blood traitor is someone who breeds with muggles and mudbloods.”

“Oh. Well, that’s ridiculous. That doesn’t make a lick of sense,” said Monty, growing a bit indignant. “Your logic is faulty. All that nonsense about blood is just that, nonsense. My dad says so.”

“Your blood is filthy!” snapped Euphemia. “I heard your mother is a muggleborn. You’re nasty because of your mudblood heritage.”

Okay, I need to leave before I intervene and do something I regret.

“Well—” Monty huffed. “Well, you must have Fae blood in your veins since you’re so pretty.”

Euphemia sucked in her breath. “What?” she gasped. Her tone became confused. “What?”

“I said that you must have Fae blood because you’re so pretty.”

Euphemia’s cheeks went bright red. She was at a loss for words, her lips trembling, soundless mutters exhaling with every breath. “You—what? Uh—I—d’you really mean that?”

“I said what I said because it’s true,” said Monty. He punctuated his words with a sharp nod. 

Euphemia went an even brighter red. She ducked her head, covering the bottom half of her face with her school bag. She glanced at Harry, as if expecting an explanation about this. A strange thought occurred to Harry. The look she gave him… It almost appeared ass if she expected him to disagree with Monty.

“I mean, he’s not wrong,” said Harry with a shrug.

Euphemia’s eyes grew wide. She strode past the two of them, clutching her bag tightly. When she threw a look at Monty, she squeaked and darted off down the corridor. 

Monty looked at Harry in confusion. “Did I say something wrong?”

Harry let out a long breath. “No,” he whispered. “But, uh… Just keep being yourself, Monty. Don’t change.”

“Well, I don’t intend to, but I am eleven. I’m bound to change some as I grow older.”

Mother of Merlin, Harry wished he’d known this man as an adult.

Harry walked the boy back the familiar trek towards the Gryffindor tower. The boy chattered about potions constantly, would not shut up about them, and Harry indulged the boy by throwing out comments randomly, only to be shown up spectacularly by an eleven year old.

“That’s not how a Befuddlement Draught works,” said Monty in an exasperated tone. “Please try to keep up. Aren’t you a sixth year? That’s a fifth year potion.”

“Uh… Right, must’ve slipped my mind—oh, look, I think you’re common room is here.”

The Fat Lady sat in her portrait. A wave of nostalgia rushed through Harry.

“Oh, you’re right. How’d you know? You’re a Slytherin.”

Harry shrugged. He waved and said, “See you later, Monty.”

“Bye bye, cousin!” said Monty cheerfully, waving back.

Harry knew then and there: it didn’t matter if they were related or not, he’d protect that adorable boy until the day he died.

His walk all the way back to the the Slytherin common room was uneventful, blessedly. Harry stepped through the Slytherin entrance. While he missed the warm colors of the Gryffindor tower, there was something calming about the green colors of the Slytherin common room.

Most of his dormmates were gathered on a pair of sofas by the fire. Tom wasn’t around; neither was Mulciber or Avery. Harry was tempted just to go to bed early, but with a suppressed sigh, he strode towards the group and sat down next to Rosier on the sofa. 

If he was going to be a Slytherin, then he needed to make some friends.

“Evans, how were your detentions today?” asked Quintus, looking up from his parchment. Alphard was sitting on the floor at his feet, tucked against Quintus’ knees, hunched over his books with his quill, ink bottle, and parchment scattered around him. He chewed on his lower lip.

“A pain in the arse,” said Harry. He grabbed an apple from the bowl of fruit that sat on the little table next to the sofa and took a bite out of it. “Both were shit.”

Alphard snorted. “Don’t get detentions, then.”

“Perfect,” said Harry. “Brilliant. Would never have thought of that on my own.”

Rosier laughed, while Lestrange’s mouth quirked into a lopsided smile. From another part of the room, cruel laughter broke through the calm quiet. Harry glanced over to see Abraxas and his buddies messing with Pettigrew. He gritted his teeth and had to resist the urge to interfere again. He wasn’t sure how the rest of the Slytherins would react to him getting involved.

Abraxas was sitting on the arm of the sofa, looming over Pettigrew, who looked exhausted and annoyed.

Ah, fuck it.

But before Harry could get up and intervene, little Euphemia had marched up to Abraxas, stopping right behind him, and shoved him off the arm of the sofa for all she was worth. Abraxas squawked, dropping to the floor.

Oh, shit—she’s a spitfire!

Harry murmured to the bowl of fruit, asking for some popcorn. A bowl of popcorn appeared on the table and Harry grabbed it, digging into it with glee. 

“You nasty little cockroach!” shouted Euphemia, drawing the attention of the entire room. “I am TOO pretty. You’ve been lying to me for years and I won’t have it any more.”

“What’s happening?” asked Rosier with wide eyes, craning his neck to get a better look.

“A show,” said Harry, grinning.

“Wait, where the hell did you get the popcorn?!”

“Effie, what the devil—”

“No!” snapped Euphemia. “You don’t get to call me that. Don’t you dare speak to me ever again. You’re a foul, vile cousin and I want nothing to do with you.”

Abraxas got to his feet and towered over her, glaring down at her. “Euphemia Malfoy, this is unbefitting behavior for a Malfoy. You’re causing a scene here. If you don’t settle down, I shall write to your mother about your deplorable behav—”

“Fine! See if I care! Not like she didn’t agree with you. Well, two boys - complete strangers - said I was pretty. You can just go jump in the lake.”

“Boys? Boys?” said Abraxas, flabbergasted, his voice growing higher an octave. His eyes narrowed. “What boys? Who is talking to you like that?”

“Mr. Potter, that’s who.”

“That brat?” Abraxas laughed. “From what I’ve been hearing, he’s dimwitted. Don’t be ridiculous, Effie. What he says doesn’t matter.”

Euphemia’s face reddened with increased fury. “Shut your face! Mr. Potter is very intelligent. He’s the best in our potions class, Professor Slughorn said so. And Mr. Evans agreed with him, so there.”

Abraxas’ head whipped in Harry’s direction. Harry popped some popcorn into his mouth and gave him a wave, grinning in satisfaction. Abraxas gritted his teeth.

“Effie, listen—”

“No, I’m very pretty, so stop lying to me,” snapped Euphemia. “A boy called me pretty, so you can just go… go… just go…” She struggled for the right word for a moment, before her face lit up, and she proudly continued at the top of her lungs, “You can go suck a penis!”

Harry choked on his popcorn. He crowed with laughter. The rest of the Slytherins started to snicker as Euphemia Malfoy marched off, chin in the air, leaving Abraxas red with embarrassed fury.

I love this girl. My grandmother. She’s a riot.

“You—” Abraxas rounded on Harry, wand in hand. “You did this! You put weird things into her head.”

Harry put his hands up in a placating gesture. “Sorry, can’t claim responsibility here. I just agreed with Monty. And I dunno what you’re smoking, Malfoy,” he said with a mischievous grin. “Your cousin is a gem among rubies.”

Confusion flashed through Abraxas’ expression. “What’d you say to me?” he growled. He advanced on him, a dark glint in his eyes. Harry raised an eyebrow, his wand quickly moving into his hand. 

“Oh? Wanna have a go?” Harry’s smile turned dark. “I’ll take you out, Malfoy.”

“What, on a date?” asked Alphard. The rest of the Slytherins broke into laughter, cutting the tension immediately, and Harry threw him a jovial middle finger. Alphard barked out a laugh, sounding so much like Sirius. It cut like a knife in Harry’s chest. Damn, okay, calm down.

“Abraxas!” screamed a new voice. An older girl, about fourth or fifth year, came marching down the staircase. She had the same white blonde hair, signature Malfoy, pulled back into a long braid. She whipped out her wand and pointed it at Abraxas, who cursed, ducking just in time to avoid a spell. “Oh, no. Take it like a man,” she snarled, stalking after him. “Get over here and take this like a man.”

“Who’s that?” asked Harry in a low voice to Rosier.

“Belladonna,” whispered Rosier, grabbing some of his popcorn. He grinned. “I’d say it’s where little Effie gets her fire. They’re sisters.”

She’s… my great aunt, then?

Mixed feelings welled up inside Harry’s chest as he watched the girl shout at Abraxas. There was so much extended family around him and he’d never known how much family he had in Slytherin house. He’d gone his entire life without knowing or realizing they even existed. He didn’t care that he was related to the prick, Abraxas Malfoy. These people should’ve been in his life.

“If you ever bully my sister again,” snapped Belladonna, her wand pressing at Abraxas’ throat. “The Malfoy heirship will have to go to a different family line because you will never be able to procreate when I’m through with you, got it?!”

“Bella, dear—”

“I won’t just hex your bollocks off, I’ll go for your willy, too. You leave Effie alone or else!” Belladonna stormed off, huffing loudly. “Ugh, I can’t believe I’m related to you, you prick!” Her ranting voice disappeared as she stomped up the stairs.

“If there’s any wisdom I can… impart to you, it’s this,” said Rosier, grabbing another handful of popcorn. He gave Harry a wry smirk. “Don’t mess with Slytherin women. Outside these dorms, they’re perfect demure little angels. They’d never act like this in front of others. But within these walls, they’re feisty, they’re queens, and they’re downright scary.”

“But you like them scary,” said Lestrange, rolling his eyes.

Rosier grinned. “That I do. What’s life without some risk?”

Abraxas was bright red, thoroughly humiliated by his own cousins. A number of Slytherins were still snickering under their breaths. With a low growl, Abraxas shoved his wand into his robes pocket and marched out of the common room, just as Tom was stepping through the entrance. He strode by without another word.

Tom frowned, glancing back briefly. “What’s got Abraxas in a tizzy?” he asked in a mild tone, eyebrow raised.

Harry laughed.

Slytherin house had more drama than Gryffindor. Damn, he’d been missing out, hadn’t he? All those years, he could’ve had a front row seat to Slytherin shenanigans.

What a shame.

It was Sunday.

Finally.

The first Sunday of each month during the school year every Slytherin knew of its significance, even those who didn’t attend the meetings. There was an unspoken rule that all Slytherins who were not in attendance were to be in their dormitories at nine o’clock, not a minute later.

Or else face Tom Riddle’s displeasure.

These meetings were his oyster pearl; his Knights were stunning jewels Tom hoped would shine bright in their crumbling world. Summer had been hell once again and sitting in the common room, surrounded by his Knights, his supporters, his true allies, this thought had been what carried Tom through the difficult days.

There was another jewel he wished to add to his collection.

Harry Evans.

But he needed more time to tame him, to cultivate the loyalty he expected from his Knights. Evans was a rarity. He wouldn’t be easy, but perhaps it would be possible. Especially now, since he’d found it.

Evans’ pressure point.

Tom could hardly contain his pleasure over the discovery. He’d rarely seen others avoid casual touch. Most would unconsciously lean into a hand on the shoulder, while others barely noticed it at all. But Evans… Evans wasn’t comfortable with any type of touch. He shied away from it, even from an eleven year old little boy. He had been visibly uncomfortable when the Potter brat had grabbed his face.

And he had stumbled away from Tom when pulled to his feet and he’d jerked away from Tom when he’d casually brushed a hand against his arm.

How positively delightful.

It was effortless to trigger this in Evans, took no strategy or cunning - it was almost disappointing. Evans made the hunt too easy. But that didn’t mean Tom wasn’t going to use this to his advantage.

The fiery wild Evans’ submission would be beautiful. Tom would savor it when the time came.

This Sunday evening, Tom carefully warded the common room, making sure any intruder would get a painful reminder to not disobey him. He sat down in his usual armchair and crossed his legs, resting his elbows on the lush arms. The carvings of snakes that decorated parts of the wall moved with his breath, coming alive with his soft command. When the Slytherin common room itself obeyed him, Tom was convinced of his heritage: heir to Slytherin. His wand was loose in his grip. He waited.

Alphard and Quintus were the first to enter, fifteen minutes early. Quintus sat at Tom’s right, with Alphard sitting down at his side.

These two Tom considered his closest and most trusted of allies.

Roland was a light hearted boy, preferring jokes and pranks. He’d been easy to sway to Tom’s vision of the future, especially once Simon joined their group. Simon was more reserved, but athletic. He’d joined the Quidditch team in his second year. 

Marcus and Sebastian had been tough nuts to crack, both requiring intimidation to subdue them. Between Tom’s parselmouth ability, his magical prowess, and his impeccable grades, Marcus and Sebastian had been convinced of the value of submitting to Tom’s leadership.

Tom trusted the four boys to stay at his side the most out of the rest of the Knights. They were part of the inner circle, his elites.

But Quintus and Alphard had been loyal to Tom since the beginning. They had befriended him, had been kind to him, even when everyone else scorned him for being a muggleborn. Their loyalty went beyond what Tom even understood, but he was assured in them. They were his second in commands.

And he valued them.

“I love starting a new year,” said Alphard, sinking against Quintus’ side and snuggling against him. “Fresh meat.”

“I hope you have names to put forth,” said Tom with a raised eyebrow.

“Oh, I’ve got one.”

“I’ve got a few,” said Quintus, putting an arm around Alphard. “We need some more girls.”

“Mmm,” murmured Tom in agreement. “Alphard… So far, what do you make of Evans?”

For a moment, Alphard didn’t say anything, pensive. He rubbed his mouth, brows furrowed. “Well,” he began finally. “I’d say he makes for an interesting Slytherin. He shakes things up.”

“That’s putting it lightly,” muttered Quintus.

“Where to begin… He has problems with food,” said Alphard, turning serious. “Not sure why, though I can only assume either he’s not interested or isn’t used to having it. Loud crowds bother him.” He paused for a moment, before continuing. “Problems with control. We see this in impulsive behavior, like calling out Dumbledore in class and snapping at others over blood purity. Got bit of a temper. And did you see his accidental magic yesterday morning? I’d bet ten galleons whatever bit Marcus’ arse was Evans’ accidental magic.”

“You think that was him?” asked Tom, leaning forward with interest.

“I’d bet on it,” said Alphard. “And win.”

Tom leaned back in his chair, his thoughts on Evans. Fascinating. He’d noticed some of those things as well, but he hadn’t realized that Evans didn’t have control over his magic.

“Accidental magic… Doesn’t that go away before puberty?” asked Tom.

“Not always,” whispered Quintus. “I think… Well, there are some signs that Evans has dealt with some trauma. He’s mentioned the death of his parents. That’s obviously traumatic, but I think there’s more he hasn’t shared with us. If the food thing is anything to go by…”

And the way he cringes away from casual touch.

What if someone laid hands on him?

Fury burned inside Tom at that thought. Evans was aggravating, yes, exasperating, yes, infuriating, absolutely - but if someone had struck him, or worse, Tom found himself with the overwhelming desire to kill that person, whomever they were. A bit odd, considering he’d never had the urge to kill someone on the behalf of another.

Perhaps as a gift. I wonder if that would ensure his loyalty.

He’d have to think about it.

“Keep watching him,” said Tom softly. “If you learn anything new or make any connections, tell me immediately.”

“Of course, my lord.”

“Now… on a different topic,” said Tom in a low voice. “You’ve made your relationship known this year.” The two of them stiffened, both growing tense. Their hands intertwined with one another, knuckles white. Tom rolled his eyes. “Calm down, you’ll get no censoring from me, but there are some concerns.” They visibly relaxed. “Alphard, you’ve said the Black heirship is going to Orion, but you—” Tom gave Quintus a pointed look. “—you are the sole male heir to the Prince line. I doubt your parents would give the heirship to your sister, Eileen.”

Quintus’ jaw clenched and he shook his head. “No,” he said in a low voice. “Especially since she was sorted into Ravenclaw.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled slowly. “The letter I got was the most scathing vitriol I’ve ever had the displeasure of reading. I burned her letter, but not before she got the chance to read some of the rubbish our father wrote. Bastard.”

Alphard stroked Quintus’ forearm in a slow, soothing gesture.

“If my parents catch wind of me dating anyone who isn’t a fertile pureblooded witch… It won’t be good.”

“I’m content with being the other woman,” whispered Alphard.

Quintus sucked in his breath. “That’s shit,” he hissed. “I want more than that.”

The two of them fell into silence. Tom had nothing to offer. Family politics were far different than Slytherin House politics. While he didn’t care one way or another, Quintus and Alphard did and a part of Tom wished for their success. He didn’t understand their need and desire to entangle themselves with each other, but if they were happy, if their relationship didn’t interfere with their goals, then all the better.

Tom glanced at them. Their expressions were a bit sullen and subdued now. Tom refrained from sighing. Reassurance was in order, he supposed.

“Whatever you decide, I will not stand in your way,” said Tom in a low, soothing tone. “You are my elite among elite. If it were me…” He trailed off; he gave them a sly smile. “I’d take the heirship and marry my lover.”

Quintus let out a soft laugh. “Yes, you would, my lord.”

“So, do it. We’re here to make ripples in a stagnant pond.”

Alphard threw Quintus a wry smile, lifting their intertwined hands to his mouth and pressing a light kiss against the back of Quintus’ hand. And then, they shifted in their shared armchair, backs straight, chins lifted with the air of Tom’s second in commands. Together, the three of them waited.

The moment the minute turned to nine o’clock, the ward border shimmered. 

The rest of Tom’s inner group arrived first: Simon, Marcus, Sebastian, and Roland. There was only one other sixth year boy, Wesley Flint. He was in the second dorm room of sixth years. The seventh year boys entered next, which were Abraxas Malfoy, Aaron Goyle, and Neil Crabbe. William Avery and Maximilian Mulciber, also seventh years, were older brothers to Simon and Marcus. Cassia Carrow, Primrose Parkinson, and Gwendolyn Greengrass were all sixth year girls, while there was only one seventh year girl, Aurora Avery, who was a cousin to Simon.

Seventeen in total.

The Knights of Walpurgis.

His Knights were all here once again.

Tom had started the Knights of Walpurgis in his third year with only the inner circle. It wasn’t until their fifth year that Tom expanded the group, looking for others to join him. Two of his Knights had graduated last year, but the majority were here.

Nagini was the final one missing, but she was busy on a mission of her own.

“Welcome,” whispered Tom. “My beloved Knights, how I’ve missed this.”

Chapter Text

“My lord.”

The murmur echoed through the group, each one giving Tom a reverent nod before taking their seat. Outside this meeting, he was Tom Riddle, fellow classmate. Within this meeting, he was the leader of a revolution, a catalyst for change. Grindelwald threw the Wizarding World in a state of fear and disarray. Tom hoped to be a beacon of reason and transformation. One day, they’d look to him for their answers, for their wisdom.

Not Albus Dumbledore.

“It has been a number of months since last we’ve seen each other,” said Tom, his voice low, yet it flooded the corners of the common room, covering them all with the warmth of flames within a hearth. “I have counted the days.”

Tom smiled, soft and sensual.

“And we’re finally reunited. My true family.”

He gained a few contented smiles at this. Family was such a fragmented word to Tom. He didn’t have any connection to a family of his own, so blood held little weight to him. And yet… Tom had that overwhelming desire to find his roots, to find his family and his ancestors, and to know for certain where he’d come from. 

However, it didn’t have the effect of an enticing song of a siren on him, as it did for others. He was aware of the need for connection, for a place to belong. Calling his Knights ‘his true family’ bolstered their egos and their sense of belonging with him.

That was key.

“Come,” murmured Tom, leaning forward and reaching out with his hand, palm facing upward. With his wand in his left hand, he began the spell, silver runes pouring out of the tip. They coiled around his arm in a stream. “Let’s begin.”

As a group, everyone huddled close, touching the tips of their wands to his outstretched hand. Magic bloomed from their collective wands and a smoky snake burst to life in Tom’s hand. His smile was hidden as the snake slithered upwards into the air, coiling around the vestige of a small flickering fire.

For a brief moment, Tom let the ritual magic fill the room. Every decorative snake within the common room shifted, life and magic within them. It flooded the room with its intoxicating power.

This is what I want to protect.

Then, Tom snapped his hand shut and the image disappeared, the magic vanishing altogether. Everyone’s breaths had been caught up. A number of them let out audible exhales.

The ritual was a simple one. While it began their meetings with a boost of magic, it also warned Tom if someone wasn’t quite aligned with him. Nothing like Veritaserum of course, but enough to alert him to any emotional dissonance.

Abraxas was furious about something.

Unsurprising.

Most of the emotions Tom felt were the buzzing hum of excitement of being back at school and being part of the meeting once again. Quintus and Alphard always had some kind of syrupy affection in their emotions. The swirl of emotions that overlapped Tom’s senses were fascinating, if not a bit overwhelming. He couldn’t understand how they all lived with themselves, feeling so much all the time. It was enough to give anyone a headache.

“Be seated,” said Tom, settling back. He gave them a moment to sit down and catch their breaths. “Since it’s the start of a new year, let’s begin with recruitments. Do we have any names to put forth?”

“Belladonna Malfoy seems like the perfect fit, my lord,” said Alphard with a wry smile. “I suggest adding her to our ranks.”

“No, not her,” snapped Abraxas, crossing his arms over his chest and narrowing his eyes. “She wouldn’t understand any of this and if she doesn’t like it or is against it, she’ll tattle to all the teachers.”

“You’re just scared of her.”

“I’ll hex your bullocks off, Black!”

“Don’t, please. I like them,” said Quintus mildly.

Abraxas sneered. “Yes, we already know you’re a pair of fairy boys—”

With a flick, Tom sent a stinging hex and it struck Abraxas in the side. He sucked in his breath, eyes wide as he glanced at Tom.

“If I have no issue with them, then neither do you,” said Tom with a mild warning tone. Salazar, it was barely the start of their meeting. “Mind yourself, Abraxas. Let’s continue.”

“All right, I have another,” said Alphard. He smirked. “Harrison Evans.”

Tom blinked in a slow motion. Should’ve known.

“Oh, hell no!” snapped Abraxas, bolting out of his seat. He rounded on Tom, who lifted an eyebrow. “Riddle—”

He moved with the striking speed of a cobra: the stinging hex slammed into his leg and Abraxas let out a cry of pain, dropping to a knee. Tom stared down at him, his gaze cold.

“Excuse me?”

Abraxas gritted his teeth, looking up. “My lord.”

“Better. Continue.”

“In just a few days, Evans has shown that he doesn’t care for the sanctity of tradition. Something must be done about Evans—you have to do something.” Tom narrowed his eyes. The defiance in Abraxas’ tone grated on his nerves with every word he spoke. “He’s out of control and he’s putting strange ideas into Euphemia’s head.”

“I was under the assumption he agreed to the statement of her beauty.”

“And that’s a problem.”

Malfoys. Why was this a topic of debate in his meeting? Pathetic. They had names to put forth, connections to make, missions to assign - petty topics of whether or not a prepubescent eleven year old girl was pretty was a colossal waste of his valuable time.

“If you don’t do something about him, then I will.”

“Is that a threat, Abraxas?” asked Tom in a low voice. A hush fell over the group. Tom traced a finger along the wood of his wand in an idle motion. “Tell me, what will you do if I deny you your demand?”

“My lord, why are you soft with this mudblood?” snarled Abraxas. “I don’t understand why you aren’t harsh with him. You’ve put others in their places much sooner. Why not Evans? Surely… you’re not going soft?”

The tension in the room was palpable.

“Crucio,” whispered Tom.

Abraxas’ screams filled the room. Tom lifted the curse after two seconds. Abraxas lay on the floor, panting, tears already streaming down his cheeks. He struggled to get to his knees, keeping his head bowed. Tom uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. He reached out with his right hand, his wand languidly held in his left hand. Tom brushed his fingers beneath Abraxas’ chin, lifting it upwards.

“Abraxas,” purred Tom. “I think you’ve deluded yourself. You mistake my leniency and mercy for softness. I am a merciful Lord, my Knights.”

Tom withdrew, returning to his previous posture.

“Do not forget your place again, Abraxas,” said Tom coldly. “I grow tired of your whinging about the minutia. We have other things to achieve and such talk will only hold us back. I expect better from you. I shan’t be merciful a second time.”

“Yes, my lord, forgive me,” whispered Abraxas, his voice shaky. He got to his feet and sat down, subdued.

Tom looked around the room, a challenge in his gaze. “Anyone else have anything to complain about over my treatment of Evans? No?”

Their silence was his answer.

“On the topic of Evans… It’s true, I admit I am interested in adding him to our group. He’s willing to stand up for Slytherins. He’s different and I value that quality. However, we’d have to see how he fairs in his studies.” Tom paused, letting his words sink in for a moment. He dropped his tone, filling it with a menacing warning. “But understand… Evans is mine. He’s a wild creature and wild creatures were made to be tamed. Only I, and I alone, will do this, unless I ask for your assistance. Anyone going after him without my consent will be met with swift punishment. Am I understood?”

There were murmurs of agreement.

“Good. Any other names?”

Out of the names given, Tom was only interested in Lilith Rowle and Magnolia Bulstrode, both fifth year girls. They were both from strong families. There were a few fifth year boys that could be good to add, but Tom wasn’t ready to invite them.

“Do whatever it takes to enter Slughorn’s favor,” said Tom. “I want every one of you to be invited to attend his parties. If one of you isn’t, another is to invite you as their plus one. I don’t care how you do it, you get into those parties. I want you all to begin establishing connections and contacts with the adult world. Those of you planning on ministry jobs, do whatever it takes to gain favor.”

Tom drew in a deep breath.

“We don’t know how much longer the war will be, but I suspect it will continue longer than we expect. We need our Knights in the government.”

“Perhaps Grindelwald has the right idea,” said Primrose. “Getting rid of the muggles is the way to do this.”

Tom wasn’t a fool. If they got rid of all of the muggles, the wizarding world and magic itself would one day die out. Purebloods were so focused on the small issues and this clouded their ability for reasoning. It took two hands to count the number of squibs that had been born to the pureblood families and those were only the siblings or cousins to his inner circle. The Lestrange and Black family were particularly nasty when it came to ‘dealing with’ squib children.

Tragic accidents.

Other families, their squib children simply disappeared, thrown into the muggle world.

Purebloods were more inbred than they realized. It took more births to get magical children. Quintus had confided in Tom one year about a younger brother he had no idea if he were alive or dead because he’d been tossed into the muggle world for being a squib. If no muggleborns were added to the pool of blood, squib children would become more common.

Tom had other plans for muggleborns. Grindelwald wanted to subjugate the muggles, while Tom wanted complete separation from them. Magic was the most important factor. Preserving magic at all costs was Tom’s ultimate goal.

He’d seen enough to know the wizarding world was stagnant, set in their ways, and afraid of change. But he had to be careful around them, say the right things, and make them happy while still furthering his true goals.

He couldn’t be a Grindelwald sympathizer and he couldn’t completely denounce him either. Slytherin politics was such an annoying tightrope to perform on.

“Getting rid of such a mass amount of people is a waste of time and resources,” said Tom, keeping his tone light. “Grindelwald will fail because he’s so obsessed with the muggles and can’t think outside of them.” He shook his head. “No, I’d rather our cause not be noticed just yet. First, we get into the government and make smaller changes. That’s where we will gain power.”

Primrose nodded, agreeing with him.

The clock turned eleven o’clock, its gentle chimes ringing through the room. Tom uncrossed his legs and with a powerful wave of his wand, he brought the wards of the room down.

“Meeting adjourned.”

It was strange to Harry how quickly he was getting used to the Slytherins. With his second week already half gone - it was Wednesday morning - it was becoming easier to slide back into school mode. The Slytherins weren’t the worst lot, all things considered. Sure, many of them were a bit heavy handed with their prejudice, but they weren’t the evil little demons Harry had once thought they were when he’d been eleven.

They were just kids with some family shit to unpack.

Okay, a lot of family shit.

He hadn’t ever known just how much pressure the purebloods had from their families, but it was there and tangible. It was like he could cut the tension with a butter knife. No wonder they all acted like they had a stick up their arse.

There was definitely a hierarchy to the Slytherin house with Tom and his dorm mates at the top. Harry was quickly beginning to pick out others who were at the top as well - or at least were in Tom’s favor.

He could also pick out who were muggleborn in Slytherin.

The muggleborns were either treated like pariahs or were targets for bullying. Most of the time both. Harry was so damn tired of it all.

He sat at the Slytherin table with his dorm mates, putting some eggs on his plate, for once wanting something more than just fruit for breakfast. Everyone looked a bit hungover this morning, coffee being the first thing in most of the fifth years to seventh years’ hands. It was only midweek, too, but the pressure was already getting to everyone.

Well, what better way to shake things up than to be a delightful little shit in the morning.

“Look, I don’t get the weird vibes Slytherin and Gryffindor houses have going on, like you’ve been slighted or something. It’s your destiny to get along. You really need to lighten up,” said Harry, rather loudly so a lot of the table could hear him. A number of heads turned towards him. “See, it’s my head canon that Slytherin and Gryffindor were actually lovers—”

Rosier spat out his pumpkin juice.

Avery threw him a blank look.

Black blinked, staring at him as if he’d grown antlers.

Prince slowly looked up from his book.

“Your what?” demanded Lestrange.

“What the hell?” said Mulciber.

Tom frowned.

“It makes sense, all right?” said Harry, having a very difficult time keeping a straight face through this. This was beautiful. Where was Colin Creevey when he needed him? This needed to be immortalized in perfect moving picture. “The whole shit about Gryffindor and Slytherin being enemies and fighting honestly just sounds like a rocky relationship between lovers who became petty and bitter over the years. But of course they couldn’t work out their differences and Slytherin had to run away like a little bitch.”

The Slytherin table erupted.

“Shut your face! Quit making up lies like that!” snarled Lestrange. Rosier was laughing his head off, clapping slowly. “Roland, stuff it!”

“You’re going to give us a bad name,” hissed Mulciber. “There’s no way in hell that Slytherin was-was—”

“Was gay?” said Harry with a gesture of the hand.

More confusion. All of the boys glanced between each other.

“Gay? You mean happy—No!” snapped Mulciber. His voice dropped like a stone. “I meant a poof. Slytherin couldn’t be a… a homosexual.”

That’s what I said, you bloody moron.

Black and Prince sat up slightly, folding their arms in perfect unison, giving him the darkest look they could muster.

“No offense, I’m just saying it’s not possible,” said Mulciber quickly.

“Evans, I love you,” said Rosier, wiping a tear from his eyes. “Marry me.”

“I’ll pass, thanks.”

“Well, Salazar Slytherin had to have some relations with a woman,” said Avery. He glanced at Tom, before he cleared his throat. If Harry hadn’t already known Tom’s ability, it would’ve gone over his head. “Parseltongue still lives on, so… Logically speaking…”

“Still doesn’t mean he wasn’t having a nice shag on the side with Gryffindor,” said Harry with a shrug. Lestrange let out a strangled sound. “Those two screamed lovers. I swear to Merlin.”

“That can’t be true!”

“You can’t say things like that.”

“If that spreads to Gryffindor, they’re going to be pissed.”

Harry snickered into his breakfast, enjoying the arguing that ensued between many of the Slytherins. It rippled up and down the table, spreading like wildfire. It was loud enough that the nearby Ravenclaws were noticing something was up, before listening in.

The rumor was going to be the talk of the school by first period.

And my job is complete here.

 The morning post brought a flurry of owls with letters and packages for the students. Harry glanced up, wondering if Kasper would pay him a visit, when an unfamiliar owl landed in front of him. It was a brown colored great horned owl with a perpetual angry expression because of its thick, eyebrow like feathers. It seemed to glower even more at Harry, looking like it wanted nothing more than to rip his intestines out and gorge itself on them.

“Uh…”

The owl let out a warning screech.

Harry drew back slightly. “Hi,” he said, hoping it’d let him know what it wanted. He glanced to its claws and noticed a letter attached. “Have you got a letter for me?”

The owl let out a soft huff of a hoot.

“May I have it, then?”

The owl eyed him with bright yellow orange eyes. Finally, it slowly held out its leg, staring at him with those unsettling, unwavering eyes. Harry slowly reached for the letter and was overwhelmingly thankful that the owl didn’t bite a finger off. He removed the letter from its leg.

“Thank you,” said Harry with a tentative smile. The owl didn’t move. Maybe he was supposed to send a response back with the owl? He looked at the front of the letter to see his name in the center written in unfamiliar neat handwriting. In the top corner, Newt Scamander. Harry grinned and opened the letter to read.

Dear Harry,

Seeing you again the other day was quite a nice surprise, especially so soon after meeting you. I’m glad we had that chance. Tina was delighted to meet you and she’d tell you that you’ve been on my mind a lot since we first met. I hope you’re doing well and working on your studies. You’re not skipping any more classes, are you? I know there’s a lot to adjust to, but do try to attend all of your classes, please?

I spoke to Professor Dumbledore after you left, but I didn’t tell him about your personal life. I promised that it would stay between us and I intend to keep that promise. However, despite my dogged determination, I’m afraid I didn’t get a satisfactory answer out of him.

I’m sorry, Harry. I know it’s frustrating (trust me, I know ) and you deserve better. You really do. I’m truly sorry that I’m unable to deliver on my promise. Perhaps in the future. Though, I have a feeling I may never get a straight answer out of the man. Few do, I’m afraid.

Tina wanted me to say on her behalf that if she ever gets the opportunity to corner him, she’ll drag some answers out of him for you. I’d trust that, if I were you. She is an auror, so if anyone could do it, my Tina can. Her interrogation skills are legendary, but you didn’t hear that from me.

I know there’s little comfort for you, especially after what’s been in the Daily Prophet this morning. But Hogwarts is safe. You are safe. Hogwarts is a veritable fortress and would never face battle. Not ever. You are safe. I need you to believe that. There are countless witches and wizards doing everything they can to stop Grindelwald. His forces will not get anywhere near Hogwarts. I swear this to you.

Everyone at the Ministry is working round the clock to stop him. I can personally vouch for the Head of the Auror Department. He’s working night and day, using all his resources, to stop him.

Don’t lose heart, Harry. No one man is meant to nor can be the one to single handedly save the whole world. That just doesn’t happen. And no one really expects that, either. It will take countless people and their combined efforts to end Grindelwald’s reign of terror.

I know this doesn’t excuse Professor Dumbledore, but I can assure you that he’s trying to help in his own way, even if we can’t see it.

My offer still stands, you know. Tina would be thrilled to get some letters from you. Please don’t feel shy or feel like you’re bothering us. Owl us whenever you like for whatever reason, even if it’s just for a listening ear. I hope to see you again.

And do try to stay out of trouble, hm?

Sincerely, 

Newt Scamander

and Tina Scamander

PS: Be a dear and please be patient and kind with Archimedes. He’s a rescue and is a bit on the temperamental side. 

No kidding…

“Thank you for the letter, Archimedes,” said Harry, looking up from the letter at the angry looking owl. It fluffed up, as if grudgingly accepting his thanks. “Did you want me to send back a reply? And would you like some raw meat—”

But the owl leapt into the air, flying out of the Great Hall.

Well… what an odd owl.

The letter, though, was illuminating, to say the least. Harry knew that Newt wouldn’t reveal much, but his stance on Dumbledore appeared to be rather neutral. That was comforting. He could even sense Newt’s exasperation of Dumbledore in the letter and was trying not to reveal that too much to Harry.

After listening to Newt and Dumbledore in Hogsmeade, Harry was more than sure that Newt was disillusioned with Dumbledore - and that was good enough in Harry’s book.

Newt could be trusted. 

Harry couldn’t help but laugh at a few points, though. Hogwarts never face battle? Oh, what a sweet summer child. If only he knew… And no one expecting a chosen one to save their world? Dear Merlin. That had been laughable.

Harry was touched about the offer to owl them. He might have to try that soon when he got a moment. He’d been so busy this week, he hadn’t thought about that. There was something warm and safe about Newt, and it’d be nice to have someone to send letters to, even if he didn’t really know the man all that well.

Harry put down his letter, only to notice the mood at the breakfast table had grown worse, dropping like a stone. Clusters had formed at every house table, furious whispers echoing with a touch of fear. He glanced around to see the Daily Prophet in a number of students’ hands. Prince was reading a copy with a pinched expression.

“What’s wrong?” asked Harry.

Prince showed him the title of the article on the front page. Harry caught sight of it and his gut twisted, his breath catching.

BREAKING NEWS: GRINDELWALD INVADES BRITAIN

What the hell.

Dread filled the pit of Harry’s stomach. He was pretty sure that never happened in his original timeline. Grindelwald never reached Britain. What was this supposed to mean for this timeline? It wasn’t like Harry was a history buff or anything, but he knew changes like this would cause a ripple effect.

This is huge.

Shit.

What am I supposed to do? Am I supposed to go after him? Stay here? But…  

What had changed? What had caused this massive shift in Grindelwald’s movements? Harry had barely been here for over a week. It couldn’t be his fault… could it?

This must be the reason why Newt had mentioned something, why he had been trying to reassure Harry. Well, that was sweet, if not naive. 

This isn’t good. I wasn’t prepared for this. What the hell am I supposed to do?

Harry looked up in time to see Tom snatching one of the Daily Prophets out of Lestrange’s hands and reading the headline with feverish eyes. There was a faint tremor in his hands, the paper fluttering slightly.

Tom handed the paper back to Lestrange. “Thank you,” he said.

The tremor had gotten worse.

Tom stood up abruptly. Just as he strode by Harry, he snapped to a halt. He glared down at Harry. “What?” he demanded.

Huh?

Harry let go of Tom’s arm as if burned, not even realizing he had reached out to him. Tom’s eyes narrowed. “Are you all right?” Harry asked softly.

Tom’s jaw clenched. He gave him a curt nod, before he walked away with long strides and left the Great Hall. Harry watched him go, concern filling his breast.

Wool's Orphanage was in London. More than likely, the orphanage would’ve experienced the effects of the Blitz, perhaps even had a bomb shelter built on the property. What if… What if Tom had been there during the bombing?

Gentle pity rose within Harry. He could only imagine the terror that must  have gone through Tom during those intense times. Not even a wizard could completely protect themselves from bombs - and Muggle inventions would only get more complex and far more powerful in the future.

No wonder Tom sought immortality. 

A lone raven fluttered towards the Slytherin table and landed in front of Harry. It let out a loud caw, shaking its head. It hopped towards him and held out its leg, a black letter attached there.

Harry took the letter and said, “Thank you.”

With another caw, the raven flew out of the Great Hall. Harry looked at it, flipping it over, but there was no name or address on it, except for a white wax seal with no symbol imprinted on it. Harry tried to break it, but it wouldn’t budge.

Who sent this?

As Harry traced his thumb over the wax, the symbol of the Deathly Hallows shimmered briefly. Harry inhaled sharply and stood up, ignoring the curious looks he received from the others. He left the Great Hall and dipped into an empty corridor. Once alone, he tried to open the seal.

It opened.

Black smoke poured out of the letter, thick white words writing on the parchment paper.

He’s on the move. He seeks the Master of the Death Stick. The cloak will hide you should you ever encounter him. When in need, write my symbol and call my name. I’ll come, Master.

And then the letter disintegrated into black fluttering dust, rising upward until it vanished altogether.

Harry stared at his empty hands, trying to control the fear that was rising up inside of him. If Death felt it so important to send him a letter to warn him about Grindelwald’s movements, what on earth did that mean?

This is worse than I thought. Encounter him? I’m at school! Is he going to pop out from behind a suit of armor? Merlin, I’m fucked.

He was torn between staying at school and just running off to confront Grindelwald right now. Consequences be damned. Harry paced in the hall. He was more than torn—shit—he was actually thinking about it. He could already hear Hermione’s voice in his head, scolding him for even letting that thought cross his mind. “Don’t you dare, Harry Potter!” Harry paused, running a hand through his hair, tugging strands of it at the scalp.

It would eliminate a big problem.

What the hell am I even thinking? It’s not like I’m Grindelwald’s horcrux. I don’t have a backup plan. I don’t have Ron and Hermione.

Harry buried his face into his hands. He couldn’t face another Dark Lord all alone. It’d be stupid and impulsive. Gone were the days of running head first into danger with his friends, surviving by the skin of their teeth. He really needed to start thinking like a Slytherin more.

An agitated exhale heaved from his body.

He couldn’t go off on his own. He needed to save Tom Riddle from himself. He had a true chance of making a difference here. If he got himself killed, then what good was that? Going after Grindelwald, in this case, was saving the many. Staying here, whether Tom realized it or not, was saving the one. 

And Tom had looked shaken by the news. He was alone somewhere, processing difficult feelings on his own without anyone for support.

I can’t leave him alone.

With a sigh, Harry pulled out the map from his pouch, looking for Tom. He found him close by in an empty classroom. He put the map away and strode towards the direction of Tom. The corridors were full of students, so he went unnoticed as he reached the classroom within a few minutes. He waited for a lull in the crowds before opening the classroom door, wincing at the noise it made. So much for being quiet. He peeked inside. It was on the larger side with numerous students desks and chairs facing a professor’s desk. Tom stood at the front with his back towards Harry, hunched over the professor’s desk with his hands on its surface.

His shoulders shook.

Tom’s head lifted at the sound of the door and the trembling ceased immediately. Tom turned slowly, leaning against the desk in a casual, nonchalant motion. If Harry hadn’t noticed that something had been off, it would’ve seemed so natural. Tom’s eyes narrowed when he caught sight of Harry. “Evans,” he said, his tone slightly clipped. “Fancy seeing you here in a random classroom.”

Harry shrugged, pausing in the middle of the room.

“How’d you find me?” asked Tom, folding his arms. “You’re new here, aren’t you? Now… how would you know where to find me, hm?”

“Lucky guess.”

Tom snorted. He didn’t look convinced. He pushed himself off the desk and took long, but languid strides down the classroom towards Harry. His hands idly brushed the surfaces of a few desks, until he stopped a foot away from Harry. He studied him.

“Why are you here?” asked Tom, his tone a light accusation.

Harry sighed, running a hand through his hair, his gaze dropping. After a beat, he looked Tom in the eyes. “You seemed… a bit… distressed,” he said softly.

Tom’s eyebrow twitched upward and he barked out a laugh. One step closer and he was standing in Harry’s space, a mere few inches away. Harry’s breath caught in his throat. Tom looked down at him, his dark eyes glinting with suppressed emotion.

“Do I look distressed to you?” whispered Tom, a smirk tugging at the edge of his lips.

“Yes.”

An Adam’s apple bobbed. A jaw clenched.

“That news would shake anyone,” said Harry softly, keeping his voice even and unthreatening. Knowing Slytherins, Tom could easily take anything he said as some bullshit powerplay and that wasn’t what he wanted to do here. He wanted to know the truth. He wanted to be a safe place for Tom. “Have you been affected by Grindelwald’s war, too?”

Tom tilted his head to the side, as if half considering. “Muggle technology is dangerous,” he said quietly. “And if Grindelwald has invaded Britain, it means the muggle war will get worse.”

Harry nodded slowly. “And that means…”

“There might be another Blitz,” whispered Tom. There was a faint shake in his voice.

And if that wasn’t a sobering thought…

And here Harry was yet again, feeling torn about being here at school. The guilt for staying here was overpowering. The pressure was on and Harry was wasting time with school every day and with petty bullshit the Slytherins thought were important. Why was he even here at school if he was supposed to stop Grindelwald on top of everything.

Stop Grindelwald? Stop Voldemort from ever rising? Fucking hell, this is a lot.

Harry slammed his thoughts silent.

Stop it. Focus on him. Not Grindelwald. Not Voldemort.

Tom.

“It’s okay, you know,” whispered Harry. “It’s war. Terrible things happen in war and it’s okay to be affected by the thought of those things, like torture and… death.”

Tom flinched ever so slightly.

But Harry noticed.

“What do you know of Grindelwald?” asked Tom. Harry blinked, confused by the shift in the topic. “What do you think of his design for the wizarding world?”

“It’s shit,” said Harry flatly. “Killing people never solved anything.”

Tom rolled his eyes. “No, I’m asking about his politics.”

“What does politics have anything to do with murder?” said Harry, incredulous. He shook his head. “Murder is politics—please.”

“That’s how he’s going about changing the world, but that’s not his politics,” said Tom, folding his arms. “Grindelwald wants to expose the wizarding world to the muggles and rule over them. He feels we’ve been hidden for too long and we deserve to live our lives out in the open without fear. He wants total muggle subjugation. What do you think of that?”

What do I think of that? Why is he asking about this?

“I suppose I can see his point,” said Harry slowly, choosing his words carefully. “But murder—”

“—is wrong, yes, so you’ve stated,” said Tom with a roll of his eyes and with an annoyed huff. “Focus on the politics—Salazar, you have the attention span and focus of a Gryffindor.”

Wow, rude much?

“If no murder was involved,” said Tom, watching him intently. “What do you think of it?”

He didn’t answer at first. Tom was waiting patiently and didn’t appear frustrated by Harry pausing to think. The air felt heavy around Harry, as if his answer would either make or break the cordial, tentative connection they had. He wasn’t sure what Tom wanted to hear, but he wasn’t about to lay down on something serious like this.

Harry wasn’t sure what Voldemort’s original plans for the world had been, but Harry had to make it clear that messing with muggles on a massive scale was stupid in the long run.

“Muggle subjugation?” said Harry in a dubious voice. He scoffed. “You think they’ll be all right with that? They have thoughts and feelings and dreams of their own and you think they’ll take this—” He lifted his hands for air quotes. “—subjugation lying down?” Harry laughed, shaking his head. “It would be a war of the millennium. A minority like us, even with magic, won’t win against so many muggles. It’ll be a bloodbath. Wizards are powerful, but muggles have numbers and technology.”

A light filled Tom’s dark eyes. “Then…” he said, drawing out the word. His body pulled towards Harry, the space between them narrowing to only an inch. “If you had all power to change things, what would you do?”

The air was too hot.

Harry inhaled, trying to clear his mind. All power to change things? It wasn’t like Harry was informed enough to really know what he’d do. Living a life without fear would be nice, but he’d lived with the Dursleys long enough to know that muggles would be the ones living in fear if they were aware of a powerful race who lived among them.

The world would never know true peace.

“If the world finds out about magic and a race who can use it…” Harry shook his head. “It wouldn’t end well for us. We have to stay hidden, I think. But I don’t think muggles and muggleborns are less than us. My friend was a powerful witch, the smartest one around, and she was a muggleborn. Purebloods are full of shit. Magic is magic. Why does it matter where it comes from? I don’t think it should.”

Tom smiled.

It was genuine, how it brushed against his lips, how it crinkled the edges of his eyes. Harry’s feelings somehow had been the right answer.

And Harry couldn’t stop staring at how human the smile made Tom look.

“Evans,” said Tom, his voice ever so soft, barely above a whisper. There was a deepness to his tone. Harry’s stomach fluttered. “I think you’d make a good fit in a little group of mine.” 

Harry’s eyes widened.

A group… Holy shit, does he mean the baby Death Eaters?!

“We’re a small, private group, rather exclusive. We meet once a month, the first Sunday evening. We’ve devoted our lives to protecting magic and keeping ourselves separate from the muggle world. You can see how you’d really be a great fit to join us. We call ourselves… The Knights of Walpurgis. ”

Tom really needs to get a naming book or something. He’s so fucking edgy.

“We want to better our world,” whispered Tom and true excitement echoed within his tone. “You align with our goals perfectly.”

The air had changed around them and Harry had the distinct impression that he was peeking into the window of Tom’s soul, of one of his true desires. The sorrow filled Harry a moment later, knowing what he’d become and how he’d fail.

Well, it was an opportunity he couldn’t miss.

“Sounds like a club.”

“It’s not a club,” said Tom, frowning.

“Do any of the teachers know about your little club?”

“It’s not a club, Evans!”

“Okay, Riddle, I’ll join your… ‘not a club’ club. Sounds fun.”

Tom gritted his teeth, while Harry merely returned his irritation with a beaming grin.

Chapter Text

Harry was not prepared for how strong his little rumor would take root within the entire school.

But oh, Merlin, did it ever.

Wildfire didn’t touch on how fast it had spread and morphed with a life of all its own. The rumor had evolved into a spectacular beast, now with speculations on Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff possibly being in a secret tryst as well, though knowing those ladies, Harry was pretty sure they wouldn’t have cared to be secret about it at all.

But Harry’s personal favorite was the rumor that all four of the founders had been in a polyamorous relationship with each other.

The Slytherins were quietly seething over Harry starting all this, while the Gryffindors were losing their shit at every turn. The Ravenclaws were constantly in hot debate over the validity of the rumors, while the Hufflepuffs were in a perpetual state of bemusement.

It was great.

If only Harry knew how to write in parseltongue, he could’ve upped the rumors to a whole new playing level. It wasn’t like he knew what he was doing when it came to speaking parseltongue, but writing in the language? He was going to have to experiment with that.

But the thought of Tom ‘accidentally’ finding a journal of Slytherin that detailed his, ahem, exploits with his Gryffindor boyfriend was enough to send Harry into a burst of giggles every now and again. Students passing by would throw him weirded out looks before moving on.

Ah, well. He couldn’t have it all, now could he?

Class with Dumbledore was a tense affair for Harry. Thankfully, the man didn’t try to engage with him in class nor did he try to speak with him afterwards. Harry gritted his teeth all through the class, forcing himself not to speak out yet again. Dumbledore showed the same favoritism from his last class. Didn’t even try to be a little better.

Bastard.

The day melded into the next with potions being the first class of the day. The only reason Harry didn’t have the intense desire to blow up the entire classroom with a screwed up potion was because Snape wasn’t teaching the class. Thank Merlin for small mercies.

Harry was dreading the next class.

DADA.

He’d already decided that he was going to take it easy with his experience in fighting. Hold back as best as he could. Better to be underestimated, after all. All of the Slytherins thought him weak because of his blood status and Harry wasn’t in the mood for the fallout that would happen when they realized he was good.

He had a half notion to skip again, but thought better of it. Harry knew better than to poke the bear that was Merrythought.

Though, to be fair, if he had his way, he wouldn’t attend any class.

He showed up early for her class, leaving Potions as soon as possible. The DADA classroom was set up much differently than other classrooms. It was also the largest classroom Harry had seen in Hogwarts so far. Half of the room had the usual desks and chairs for students to sit and set their books down. The other half of the room had training dummies and a wide open space, perfect for dueling.

As the room filled with students sitting at their desks, Merrythought walked out of her office. Her eyes scanned the room, pausing on Harry.

“So nice of you to join us, Mr. Evans,” said Merrythought, loud enough for all to hear. Harry winced. “Let’s do hope you’ll continue to do so, hm?”

“Of course, ma’am,” said Harry.

Shit, this woman is still fucking scary.

“Today, we’re going to practice dueling today,” said Merrythought in a voice that carried across the room. “Pair up.” Her grin was devilish and a number of students shivered. “Let’s see how well you all fair. Simple spells only. Take this time to practice nonverbal if you can. Disarming spells and stinging hexes only. Nothing more. If I even see a hint of anything that can injure your opponent, you can kiss all your freedom goodbye until the end of the year.”

Chairs scraped against the floor as the students stood and began to pair up. Harry had barely turned around to look for a partner of his own, when Tom approached him.

“Want to be dueling partners?” asked Tom in a charming voice.

Of course, you want to pair up. Of course.

Should’ve seen that coming.

“All right with me, Riddle,” said Harry with a shrug, nonchalant. A vein in Tom’s neck twitched. Hah, victory for me.

“Face your opponents now,” said Merrythought in a loud voice. “In a real fight, nobody is going to give you a chance to bow, but—” She rolled her eyes. “Niceties have to be observed in school, I suppose.”

Tom’s smile was sharp, his eyes burning with rippling excitement. He lifted his wand, left handed, in front of his face and bowed, his eyes never wavering from him. Harry returned the bow, his body tensing.

Never thought I’d see you bow that low to me.

“Duel!”

Tom’s reflexes were fast. That much hadn’t changed. Harry barely managed to duck to the left, narrowly avoiding a burning stinging hex from hitting him in the shoulder. Harry sent off an expelliarmus, but Tom easily avoided it.

They circled each other, eyes never wavering. Harry’s mind raced. He sure as hell didn’t want Tom knowing what he could do. Tom flicked his wand and Harry ducked out of the way of another stinging hex. He avoided two more stinging hexes. He threw one back and Tom easily side stepped it, sending yet another after him.

He hasn’t used a disarming spell. He’s trying to figure out what I can do.

Well, time to disappoint him. 

Harry twisted, allowing one of the hexes to strike him in the shoulder. He cursed underneath his breath. Fuck, that hurt.

“Expelliarmus!”

Tom dodged it, as expected. The duel didn’t last much longer. Harry balanced his movements between dodging and fending Tom off with a handful of stinging hexes, until he decided it was time to end this. Finally, when Harry caught the wand movement and light of the expelliarmus spell, he moved and took it directly in the chest. The force of it blew him off his feet and he landed hard on his back, the breath escaping his lungs. He wheezed, moaning. Tom strode over to him, looking down at him with a smirk.

“Not bad, Evans,” said Tom, still with that damnable expression on his face. He held out a hand. “You definitely can improve… well, a lot there, but you have potential.”

You bastard, I’ve kicked your arse more times than I can count. 

And I did it as a damn baby, too.

The things he did for this man…

Harry just smiled and took his hand, letting Tom pull him to his feet. “Thanks,” he said, drawing a step back. He wanted nothing more than to hand Tom his arse on a silver platter right then and there, appearances be damned.

“Elegant as always, Riddle,” said Merrythought. For a moment, she stared at Harry, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “Evans, stay after class. I’ll have a word with you.”

Well, shit.

That didn’t bode well, not at all.

Harry had a couple of other dueling partners, one of which he thought was a Weasley or a Prewett. He maintained the same air of mediocrity as best as he could, though one of his partners made it near impossible to lose to them, they were so bad.

Trying to be bad at this is exhausting, damn.

When the class ended, the students slowly milled out of the classroom, while Merrythought disappeared into her office. Alone, Harry gathered his things, hoping this wouldn’t be long. The door shut, the final student gone. Silence lifted in the large classroom. Harry glanced around, but Merrythought was no where to be seen.

His stomach squirmed; an uneasy feeling filled Harry, the hairs on his neck rising.

A second later, he threw up a silent protego. A spell shattered against his shield. Numerous spells flew his way, powerful, dangerous ones. Harry ducked out of the way; the desk exploded at his side.

Shit!

Harry rolled in time as another blasting curse obliterated a second desk. He gritted his teeth, unsure who was attacking him, but he wasn’t about to let this go.

He bolted up and let loose a flurry of spells in the direction of the last blasting curse. He darted away; he sent a blasting curse of his own. Merrythought’s desk exploded. Papers burned as they fluttered wildly.

“Come out and face me,” demanded Harry. “Who’s attacking me?”

But no answer came.

“Fuck!” cried Harry, rolling out of the way as another spell zoomed past his head. Another desk exploded. Harry curled his arms over his head, splinters flying in the air around him.

Okay, okay, calm down. Let’s go.

Harry stood, wand raised. Another spell shot towards him. He threw up a protego; the spell slammed uselessly against it. He whipped an expelliarmus in the direction of the spell, but it struck nothing.

“Expelliarmus!”

What?

“Protego Maxima!” shouted Harry. His wand moved slightly in his hand, but he held onto it through sheer willpower. He stared at his attacker, utterly flabbergasted.

Merrythought appeared in a shimmer, standing in the center of the room, a triumphant smile on her face. She clapped her hands slowly. “Impressive, Mr. Evans. A far better performance.”

“Professor?”

“You’re a fighter, kid. So why the hell are you holding back in my class?”

Harry inhaled, his mind racing. Shit. Shit. Shit. I didn’t think anyone would notice. He tried to smile, but Merrythought folded her arms, eyeing him with a lifted brow. She gestured to him, wordlessly saying, ‘Go on.’

Damn.

“It’s better to be underestimated,” said Harry.

She gave him an appraising look, before she nodded. “I’ll give you that. Very well. I’ll make you a deal. Every time you underperform in my class on purpose, I expect double the length of your essay. If I assign two feet, you give me four feet. Lessons you perform at your skill level, you can skip the assignment altogether.”

Her smile was predatory. It was not a comforting look on this woman.

Harry was rooted to the spot. He swallowed. “I’ll take the double essays, Professor,” he said in a low voice.

Merrythought smirked. “You won’t forever.”

Lovely. That didn’t sound reassuring.

Harry ran a hand through his hair, his scalp hot with perspiration from the surge of adrenaline. He didn’t know how to end this and escape, but he was blessedly given an out when Merrythought began to repair the desks and chairs that had been destroyed in their short fight.

“Good luck, Evans, you’ll need it.”

Harry fled.

He made it down the corridor and round a corner, when he saw his dormmates standing in a group, waiting for him. Rosier grinned at him and waved him down. As Harry approached the group, Rosier threw his arm around his shoulders.

“She didn’t murder you, did she?”

Harry chuckled nervously. “No, of course not.”

“She’s frightful,” said Rosier, shaking his head. “Glad you’re still in one piece. What did she want?”

“To scold me for missing her last class.”

“Ah.”

“You like skipping classes?” asked Mulciber, sneering. “That’s not a good look, Evans.”

“It’s our duty as Slytherins to have exemplary grades,” said Lestrange.

“Missing a few classes isn’t the end of the world,” said Prince lightly. A sly grin lifted his features. “As I recall, I remember during one class period you and Marcus disappeared. Came back after dinner drunk and disheveled. I never did get a good answer out of you two. Care to explain?”

Black snorted. The blood drained from Mulciber’s face, while Lestrange’s expression went utterly blank.

“Can’t remember,” said Lestrange flatly. “Too drunk.”

Prince licked his lips and threw Black a knowing look. The two of them merely smirked at Mulciber and Lestrange.

“Well, I have no secrets,” said Rosier. “I’ll take any pair of legs and any pair of knockers I can get.”

Harry wheezed.

Tom rolled his eyes in the most exasperated, exaggerated way.

“That’s because you don’t get them very often,” said Avery.

Rosier let out an offended squawk. “Excuse me, and how would you know?”

“We know,” said Black and Prince in unison.

Rosier put on a wounded look.

The squabble that broke out among the boys was mostly lighthearted from there. As Harry strode with the group, he glanced over at Tom, noticing the faint little smile that barely lifted the edge of his lips. There was something soft in those dark eyes.

It was bittersweet.

Because Tom had once lost this, these friends, in favor of something that would ultimately lead to his demise. But hopefully Harry could ensure he wouldn’t this time.

As Harry laid in bed that night, curled on his side, sleep wouldn’t come to him, his thoughts focused on Tom and where to go from here. Most of the other boys had long been asleep, though he’d heard something from Rosier until Avery apparently threw a pillow at him and Lestrange told him, “Go to sleep or I’m going to hang you upside down from the Gryffindor Tower!”

Harry wasn’t sure what to think about being invited to Tom’s little baby Death Eater meetings so soon. It was a step in the right direction, of course. But where the hell did Tom get the idea that Harry would be a good fit? He’d been below average in DADA, been a smartarse as much as he possibly could, and threw the entire Slytherin house into disarray with his chaos.

And yet Tom thought him a good fit?

Really?

That wasn’t what Harry knew of Voldemort. Somehow, Tom had seen something in Harry that he wanted to cultivate. What did he see? It just didn’t make a lick of sense. Harry rubbed his eyes, letting out a low sigh. He wasn’t trying to catch Tom’s eye and somehow he was without much effort on his part. It made  him nervous, uneasy. Something was off. Harry bit his lip, his mind racing with thoughts, trying to figure out what the angle was.

A voice echoed in his mind, clear and melodic: the voice of Lily, his mother.

‘Remember that you are enough.’

‘You are a bright light, a good person…’

‘Don’t try to force yourself… Let it happen naturally.’

Harry rolled onto his back, looking up into the darkness. He put a hand over his chest and drew in a deep breath.

‘Don’t overthink it.’

He closed his eyes. His body slowly relaxed. Okay, Mum. Okay. I’ll keep being me. I won’t worry about it. Easier said than done, but the tension in his heart had faded some, with hope blossoming in its place. 

A soft slithering sound drew his attention from his thoughts. Harry tensed, his fingers wrapping around the hilt of his wand. He sat up slightly, waiting.

“Nagini, you’ve returned,” said Tom in a low hiss.

“So I have.”

Harry froze, heart pounding out of his chest. He held his breath as the fear threatened to overtake him. Images flashed in his mind. An outstretched mouth. Fangs bared. A lunging snake intent on devouring them. An old wound, old scars pulsed with ghost pain on his right forearm.

Harry blinked, ridding himself of the memories.

There was a put out sigh. “You’re in a mood, then?”

“You would be too if you were asked to slither around these dirty halls filled with noisy brats who thumped around with the elegance of clodhopping giants.”

“Did you find it?”

“I’m hungry.”

“Nagini.”

“I’m going to rest and then I’m going on a hunt.”

“Nagini—”

“Nestling, if I had found your little chamber, don’t you think I’d say so immediately?” snapped Nagini. “This castle is massive. I’m doing the best I can here, all right?”

“And I appreciate your efforts—”

“Yes, yes, you’re just saying that so I’ll go back out there.” There was a hissing noise, a mixture of amusement and irritation. “I haven’t given up, don’t you worry. I’ll find your little chamber.”

“It’s not a ‘little’ chamber. It’s Slytherin’s Chamber of Secrets. It’s my heritage—your heritage, too, and—”

“Sure, sure. I know. Mhm. Mhm. Hey, someone here smells a bit like you. Found a mate, have you?”

“I believe you’re confusing me with Alphard and Quintus,” said Tom, annoyance bleeding into his tone. “You know I have no need nor desire for such attachments.”

“If you say so. Now let me under the covers. I’m cold!”

“Nagini—” There was an annoyed huff. “Very well.”

The room fell silent. Harry settled back against his pillow, thoughts whirling once more. I knew he had to be looking for it, but I didn’t think Nagini was the one who’d found it. This was also the first time he’d heard Nagini speak. She didn’t seem like the perfect obedient little servant that Harry had always assumed she was. Had things changed when Tom became Voldemort? Or had she remained silent around Harry? At any rate, Nagini was another glimpse into Tom and how he dealt with his allies.

And there was one thing Harry was certain of.

This Nagini and Harry were going to get along perfectly.

With coffee in his veins and an apple in his stomach, Harry started another school day, Friday, with reluctance. Charms class was uneventful, if not a bit dull. As he made his way towards the Divination classroom, Harry pinched the bridge of his nose, exhausted already.

Yet another class he was dreading.

Harry stepped inside the classroom. It looked familiar to him, which made him even more wary. While the air was scented with incense, there was a window open, keeping the air fresh rather than suffocating. Thank Merlin. Being in this room had always made Harry rather ill. He looked around and noticed with a grimace that he was the first one here.

Wonderful.

“Right on time, Harry Potter. I’ve been wanting to speak with you.”

Harry’s blood went ice cold. He turned to see a very old woman standing next to a plush armchair. Her robes were of thick velvet, nearly drowning her tiny, hunched frame. Her face was layered with wrinkles, but her eyes were sharp and piercing.

“I’m sorry?” Harry barely managed out.

“I know who you are, dearie,” said Trelawney. With a shaky hand, she gestured to the nearest table. “Sit. I wish to talk with you before the others arrive.”

“Class starts in five minutes,” said Harry with a nervous laugh.

“No, it starts in twenty-five minutes, dearie. I might’ve warned my last class to arrive twenty minutes late.” She smiled knowingly at him. “And no student is going to argue about starting class later.”

This woman…

She was the real deal. Harry swallowed and sat down on a cushion, his body tense. Trelawney shuffled to her armchair and sank into it with a deep sigh.

“How do you know my name?” asked Harry in a low voice.

“How do I know much of anything? I See.”

“You’re nothing like your granddaughter.”

“Sybill is my great great granddaughter, actually,” said Trelawney in a cheerful tone. “But no, I wouldn’t be, now would I? Her Sight will be a bit different than mine. Hers is wild in nature and not under her control. It’s much too bad I shan’t be around to help train her, but alas, my time is limited.”

Harry looked at her, horror in his expression. Trelawney only gave him a pitying look.

“Dearie, when you’ve lived as long as I have, it’s not such a terrible thing.”

Harry could only nod.

“I See a lot of things,” said Trelawney in a low voice. “A lot of possibilities, other worlds perhaps. I’ve Seen a Harry Potter who never became The Boy Who Lived, that lot fell to another tender soul, and excelled as a leader of light for his world, becoming headmaster of Hogwarts much like our Dumbledore would in this world in one timeline.”

A world without being The Boy Who Lived? That sounded like a dream, a wonderful life to live where he never had to worry about Voldemort trying to kill him.

But he’d never wish that weight on someone else’s shoulders.

“Who was The Boy Who Lived in that world?”

But Trelawney only smiled and said, “There are many timelines. They split apart into infinite paths.”

“Why are you telling me this?” asked Harry. “What does that mean?”

“Whatever you wish it to mean.”

Harry frowned. “I’m confused.”

“Good. You should be. Time is an element and magic that shouldn’t be taken lightly.”

“Is there a purpose to this… little chat? Or are you just trying to confuse me?”

Trelawney was silent as she stared at him. Her gentle grandmother demeanor faded in an instant. Her back straightened. Her entire form seemed to shift with power and even the wrinkles on her face seemed to lessen. Her voice became sharp and low, and it reverberated within Harry’s very lungs. 

“Beware the weighing of the souls.”

His breath quickened. “What? What is that?”

“Don’t die and you won’t find out.”

“I wasn’t planning on dying?”

Trelawney chuckled. “Most don’t.”

His heart raced. This whole conversation was unsettling. The thought of having to stay here for an entire class period made Harry want to scream. Divination had ruined his life so many times. If it was going to do it again…

“Remember, Harry,” said Trelawney, her voice far more powerful than was normal for a centuries old woman. “A day of reckoning must come. If you’ve not accomplished what you’ve come to do by the weighing of the souls, you will lose everything.”

Her piercing eyes seemed to glow a bright vibrant blue color. It struck Harry to his core, as if those eyes could see deep within his very soul. He held his breath, terror gripping him with an iron fist. It threatened to squeeze the life out of him.

“You mustn’t die before that time. Under no circumstances can you die. Or all will be lost and your efforts here a waste.”

A chill began at his neck, sliding down his back all the way to the base of his spine. Goosebumps rose on his arms. “What is lost?” Harry whispered. Mouth dry, he licked his lips. “What would be lost?”

She gave him a sad smile. “You know who would be lost, dear.”

He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe. Harry bolted to his feet, his lungs expanding, but no air reaching them. Her words hadn’t been spoken as a name, as Harry had always heard the phrase said before, but it was uncanny and eerily close. The double meaning had been more than clear. He whirled away from the woman and marched to the ladder that would lead out of this accursed classroom.

“Harry, dear.”

He froze, heart racing, blood roaring in his ears. He slowly turned his head to look back at her.

“I’ll let the Headmaster know that you no longer wish to attend Divination,” said Trelawney, smiling through those mounds of wrinkles. She looked the part of the ancient woman once more. “You needn’t come back, dearie.”

Harry gave her a curt nod and left.

His mind spun; his destination was anywhere but here.

A body tore around the corridor and nearly slammed into Tom as he was on his way to Divination. His hands shot out, grabbing shoulders that were a number of inches shorter than Tom before the figure could lose their balance.

“Dammit, Riddle.”

Ah, this grating, melodic voice. Harry Evans.

“All right there, Evans?” asked Tom, raising his eyebrow at him. “Perhaps if you didn’t fly around the corridors like a bat out of hell, we wouldn’t meet in such a lurid fashion.”

Evans pulled back, glowering at him, and Tom allowed him to slip out of his reach. Evans let out an aggravated breath through his mouth, running a hand through his wild hair. Tom caught a glimpse of the strange scar spidering across part of his forehead, reminiscent of the wild nature of a bolt of lightning that crackled across the sky. It disappeared beneath his bangs. There was something in Evans’ eyes, the way they darted back and forth, and the tension in his shoulders that piqued Tom’s curiosity.

“Did you just come from Trelawney’s classroom?” asked Tom. “Did you speak with her?”

“No.”

Tom’s lips twisted. “You’re lying. What did she tell you?”

“Nothing,” snapped Evans.

Oh, it wasn’t nothing, now was it?

“Did she give you a prophecy?” asked Tom lightly. Evans threw him a horrified look. “It’s been known to happen,” he added, finding that he had the desire to reassure Evans. “I do believe four years ago a girl received a prophecy about becoming a teacher, but I doubt it’ll come to pass. Miss McGonagall is too Quidditch obsessed to teach at Hogwarts.”

Evans inhaled sharply, face writhing with new emotions so fast that Tom couldn’t decipher them all. 

“Great,” said Evans flatly. His chest heaved. “Just great.”

Whatever Trelawney had said to Evans had certainly shaken him. It must’ve been bleak if it was bothering him this much. Tom wanted to drag answers out of Evans, but instead the words that came from his mouth weren’t demands, but further reassurances.

“Divination is fascinating, but it’s not always a sure thing,” said Tom, his voice low, smooth, and what he hoped was soothing. “One mustn’t put too much stock into it. I’ve found that a healthy amount of respect and skepticism is required for the art. Whatever she said, I wouldn’t worry about it too much. Prophecies are only what you make of them.”

They were supposed to be helpful, his words. But they didn’t seem to have the effect that Tom had hoped for them.

Evans stared at him. Those emerald eyes cleaved Tom with two emotions, one rather affectionate, while the other burned with loathing. Evans’ lips thinned. Hurt caved through. He strode past him without a word, and Tom didn’t seem to have the breath to stop him. Evans paused briefly at the end of the corridor. He glanced back. Evans spoke one more sentence before disappearing round the corner.

“You’re such a fucking hypocrite, Riddle.”

It was said almost fondly.

And Tom didn’t understand why.

Evans pervaded his thoughts during his classes again. Those eyes haunted his mind. Evans was more a riddle than he was, a mystery to unravel and figure out. Tom wanted to know what was in his mind, what were those thoughts that seemed to torment him - yet oddly enough, Tom didn’t want to extract it by force.

He wanted it to come willingly.

Evans was missing from Care Of Magical Creatures as well. Tom sighed. Grubbly-Plank didn’t notice and Tom wrote plenty of notes in his absence. He hoped to give them to at dinnertime in the hopes of starting another conversation with the boy.

But Evans was missing at dinner.

Tom sat in the Slytherin common room in an armchair, pretending to read his potions assignment, but his mind was elsewhere, on a pair of pained green eyes. How their light was haunted by some distant agony, one that Tom couldn’t reach.

What did Trelawney say to Evans?

There’d be no getting an answer out of the old woman and no answer from Evans.

Whatever she said, prophecy or not, it wounded Evans deeply.

“You haven’t turned the page in ten minutes. Something tells me there’s something on your mind.”

Tom looked up to see Quintus looking down at him with a questioning gaze. “Where’s your other half?” he asked, closing his book.

Quintus shrugged. “He’s with Orion right now. He’ll be around later. So. Knut for your thoughts?”

“Do thoughts have a monetary value?” asked Tom, bemused.

“Perhaps.”

“It’s Evans.”

Quintus quirked a brow, the edge of his lips sly with a smile. “Oh?”

“Missed classes again. Not sure what he’s thinking.”

“Have you tried asking him?”

“And when would I have found the time?” drawled Tom. “He missed dinner. Again. He’s yet to appear.”

“Well—” But he stopped when William Avery approached them with a dark expression. He knelt beside Tom’s armchair, drawing close to Tom’s ear.

“We have a problem,” whispered William. “There was a fight in one of the seventh year dorms. Pettigrew punched Abraxas,” whispered William. “Sinistra is defending him.”

“What?” hissed Tom. Must I deal with all of these children? “Bring them here.”

William nodded once, getting to his feet. Tom stood up, chest rising in a deep, furious intake of breath.

“Should I stay?” asked Quintus in a low voice.

“No,” said Tom sharply. “Go to the dorm.” He glanced around the common room, where every Slytherin stared at him with wide wary eyes. “All of you,” he snapped out. “To your dorms. Go.”

No one disobeyed him. The Slytherin common room was soon empty with just Tom waiting. After a moment, William had Pettigrew by the underarm, dragging him along, with Aaron and Neil pulling Aeolus Sinistra, seventh year boy, behind them. Pettigrew and Sinistra were friends since both were muggleborn. Abraxas trailed behind last, nursing a bloodied nose with a handkerchief.

“What happened?” asked Tom, his tone cutting like a blade. Pettigrew flinched, dropping his eyes, while Sinistra glared at him.

“Malfoy is a prick,” snapped Sinistra. “He’s always bothering Pettigrew and I and all the other muggleborns here in Slytherin and you always let him. So this time, we decided we weren’t taking it no more.”

“Who threw the punch?”

“I did,” said Sinistra proudly.

But Tom knew instantly he was lying. He turned to Pettigrew, who slowly met his eyes.

“Me,” whispered Pettigrew.

“I see.” Tom lifted his wand. A healthy amount of fear entered Sinistra’s eyes. Pettigrew’s jaw clenched.

However, before he could say anything more, the common room door opened and Evans stepped through. He paused, noticing the tension in the room. He walked towards them, pausing near Pettigrew. “What’s going on?” he asked, guarded.

“Nothing,” said Tom with a forced smile. “Nothing you need to concern yourself with. Go up to our dorm.”

Evans bristled. “You can’t tell me what to do like I’m one of your little minions, Riddle.” Tom’s nose flared. “Just because you invited me to your little club, that doesn’t give you the right to boss me around.”

The irritation pricked his skin at the sound of ‘club’ once more.

“Club?” said Abraxas, his voice cracking. He turned a bit green. “Club? What’s he on about? Invite?”

This was not how he wanted his Knights to find out.

“Later,” hissed Tom to him. He turned his attention back onto Evans. “I expect everyone to listen to what I say, no matter their status.”

Evans barked out a laugh. “And that makes it so much better, huh?”

He could feel their eyes on them, watching, evaluating, weighing every word against Tom. Evans’ continued defiance was a nail in a coffin. There would be unrest among his house and among his knights if Evans was allowed to keep defying him like this so much. Tom had nothing to fear when he came to his power, but he had worked hard to get to this point.

And one newcomer wasn’t going to ruin it for him.

“Evans, go to our dorm,” said Tom softly.

“And leave you to torture someone? Hell no.”

Tom’s lips curled; he rolled his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. There’s no torture here. But Pettigrew and Sinistra know better than to fight and hit one of their own. They’ll learn to avoid this in the future.”

The color slipped from Pettigrew’s cheeks, but he held up his chin, eyes burning. Sinistra appeared faint.

“And what about Malfoy?” demanded Evans, gesturing to Abraxas. “I’ve stopped him in the middle of bullying Pettigrew before. I’m pretty sure this was justified.”

“There is a hierarchy—”

“That’s bullshit.”

“Sometimes the lesson of learning one’s place is unpleasant,” said Tom firmly, but his lips thinned with rising frustration. He’d known Evans would be difficult to tame, but this was moronic. Someone with a smart head on their shoulders would’ve felt the tension and backed down. He added with a warning tone, “And now you must understand your place—”

“No, you know what? Fuck you, Riddle,” snarled Evans.

The air grew frigid. Abraxas went pale as snow, the blood on his face growing stark, while Aaron and Neil glanced between Evans and Tom, their eyes wide. Even Pettigrew looked wary. Tom drew in a deep breath.

“Leave us,” said Tom, his tone glacial. When Evans made to move, Tom’s hard expression narrowed. “Not you, Evans.”

No one argued. His knights obeyed as they always did, while Pettigrew and Sinistra sagged with relief to escape. As Abraxas strode past, Tom’s hand shot out, grabbing him by the wrist. Abraxas flinched. “And you—” he whispered in a low hiss. “—will put these unproductive ways to bed. Understood? Or else.”

He released Abraxas and didn’t wait for a reply.

The common room was empty except for Tom and Evans. Tom activated the magic of the room and wooden snakes coiled around Evans’ ankles. Patterned scales were on their backs; one snake lifted a head, a forked tongue slithering out. Evans glanced down, his eyes widening, before they snapped back up to glare at Tom.

Evan’s tensed, hand slipping into his robes pocket. How adorable. He thought his wand was of any use. After what Tom had seen in DADA, Evans was slightly above average, but had the potential to be more than that. As he was now, they were no match. Tom drew close, stopping only a few inches away from him.

“I’m disappointed,” said Tom softly, looking down at him. “I really had hoped it wouldn’t come to this, but you’ve forced my hand.”

Tom pressed the tip of his wand against Evan’s jugular.

“It’s time we had a little… discussion… about your behavior.”

Chapter Text

This bastard.

Don’t flip out. Don’t flip out. Don’t curse him to hell and back.

Harry inhaled.

I REALLY WANT TO CURSE HIM.

His jaw was locked, clenched so tightly his teeth hurt. His hand shook in his pocket, fingers tense around his wand. How was Harry supposed to get anywhere with this man when he wanted to strangle him with his own bare hands? The arrogance. The superiority. The audacity! How dare he act like he was in charge of Harry now.

Fall in love?

How about a… hell no.

Harry kicked the snakes that were at his feet. The two of them went flying, hissing wildly, twisting madly midair, when the magic released them and they shattered into a spray of mist. Harry met Tom’s eyes with a dark sneer. He took a step forward, Tom’s wand digging into his neck. It was harsh against his flesh, threatening to choke him, but he didn’t care. He lifted his chin. He was ready. If Tom attacked, then he was going down. Going down hard. He stared up at Tom, whose eyes widened slightly.

“Go on then, gonna curse me?” demanded Harry, a challenging, mocking lilt in his voice. “Didn’t like me interfering with you torturing someone? You think I’ll stand by and watch? Oh, get used to this, Riddle. I’ll stop you every time.”

I’ve stopped you before and I’ll do it again.

You pale in comparison.

And yet that wasn’t quite true; deep down, Harry knew Tom had a different kind of power than Voldemort. Tom seemed to instill true loyalty among his peers. How and why, Harry wasn’t sure, but it was a far cry from how Voldemort controlled his followers. There were only two types who had followed Voldemort: the insane who thrived on evil and the terrified who feared for their lives.

Of course, there was one more, an anomaly: the spy.

Tom raised an eyebrow. “You keep insisting that I was going to torture them,” he said, his voice smooth with a hint of amusement. “I’m not sure where you got such a silly idea from—have you spoken to some Gryffindors? They do have some…” There was a breathy laugh. “…wild tales.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “So you weren’t going to crucio them?”

Tom’s expression went blank. “And if I was?”

Harry’s rage peaked. He slid away from the wand at his throat and shoved Tom with both hands to his chest. Tom stumbled, steadying himself quickly, his nostrils flaring. “That’s fucking torture!” he shouted. “D’you not understand that?”

Tom’s eyes glittered with simmering anger. And yet, he lowered his wand, its aim closer to Harry’s chest. The patience of this guy… “I beg to differ,” he said softly. “Two seconds under the spell gives no lasting damage. The message is swift.” A shadow cast over his expression, his mouth twisting. “If I were to report them to a professor for fighting, however, they’d most assuredly have received the cane and that leaves marks for days. Using the Cruciatus Curse is merciful.”

“The hell it is—you can’t justify using the Cruciatus Curse!” snapped Harry.

“So you rather they get caned and then barely sit for days where the entire school can see their humiliation?” Tom sneered. “Duly noted.”

“No—neither are right! They should just get detention like normal.”

Tom sniffed. “You haven’t been here long to understand how this school runs here. Or how life is in general, it seems. You’re naive.” Tom leveled his wand to Harry’s forehead. Harry stiffened. A dark smile spread across Tom’s features. “Now, this is long overdue. Your disobedience is not appreciated—”

“Fuck you, you arsehole.”

Tom’s lips thinned, fury flashing in his eyes.

“Very well. You lack understanding. Time to rectify that.”

“Mm… I’ll pass, thanks.”

There was a touch of amusement. “Oh, Harry, darling,” Tom purred. “That wasn’t a suggestion.” His mouth opened slightly, a tongue curling behind his teeth. Harry stiffened at the silky hissing words that poured through his voice. “With the voice of Salazar, come to me, little ones.”

The walls began to move.

What had once been only two snakes before were now countless numbers. Snakes slipped through the cracks of the walls, tens of them, hundreds of them, thousands of them. Some were made of wood, of the drapes, of inorganic materials. They slithered on the ground, twisting around each other in massive heaps of snake bodies. They made their way towards Harry, surrounding him on all sides. Harry tried to take a step back, but a furious hissing stopped him.

Ah, shit. Really? Why does it have to be an army of snakes?

“It’s time you learned an important, vital lesson,” whispered Tom. He gestured towards the snakes, his eyes pinned on Harry, and the snakes rustled together in response. “You’ve been quite unruly.” His smile was condescending. “Haven’t you been, Harry? Besmirching the fine name of Salazar Slytherin. Making this house look like a joke among the entire school. Amusing as it is, you’ve crossed the line,” he breathed, emphasizing his words with a slight hiss. “There are boundaries here in Slytherin and yet you keep dancing right over them. No respect whatsoever for our traditions. I’ve cautioned you, warned you, and yet you’ve ignored me - even provoked me. Let’s make one thing clear: when I ask you to do something, you do it.”

He made a gesture with his hand. The snakes hissed loudly, moving more quickly now. Tom’s expression grew light.

“Or… You can learn why I am at the top of Slytherin, why all of Slytherin answers to me.” His lips curled. “Bind him.”

The snakes lunged at Harry, curling around his legs and squeezing, their muscles flexing with power. He stood rock still as they crawled all over him, slithering up his legs and around his torso. A snake wrapped around his neck, tightening without quite choking him. Harry locked gazes with Tom, staring deep into those dark eyes, refusing to back down. Harry didn’t waver.

This was child’s play to him.

“You do have guts, I’ll give you that. Bravery beyond Slytherin itself,” murmured Tom. “Gryffindor like, even.”

He stepped forward. His snakes parted for him, slithering around his footsteps without touching him. In his absence, they gathered back together, roiling and coiling around themselves eagerly. Tom lifted his right hand, a finger ghosting the line of Harry’s jaw; Tom gripped it in a powerful vice, pinching his cheeks. A wand pressed beneath his chin.

“I am merciful, Harry,” whispered Tom, so close to Harry he could feel the warm caress of his breath. “I acknowledge that you’re different. You’re something this house hasn’t seen before and I like that. Others would be whimpering, crying, begging for my mercy, but you—you stand here without flinching. Unafraid. So, I’ll give it to you, my mercy, freely.” The smile was sinister. “Simply admit your failings and cease all this… childish defiance.”

Tom took a breath.

“Or… you’ll get a taste of my, so called, torture.”

The wand dug into his flesh. The snake around Harry’s neck lifted its head, gazing at him with bright eyes. Its tongue flickered out. The arrogance was so thick, Harry could barely breathe through it. His lips curled with loathing. Harry glared.

“Is this supposed to intimidate me?” hissed Harry. “Is this really the best you can do, Riddle?”

Tom froze.

Eyes wide, his grip went slack and he retracted from Harry as if burned. Tiny hissing voices overlapped each other, surprise and excitement echoing within their tones. All of the snakes that hung on Harry dropped to the ground, curling and twisting at his feet.

“Another speaker.”

“A second heir.”

“Two speakers at the same time.”

“We are blessed.”

“So blessed.”

Hang on.

Wait just a fucking minute…

“Uh… shit.” Harry groaned, running his hands over his face. “Shit. Fuck. Stop it. Shit, stop it. Turn off, will you already?!”

“You’re a parselmouth?” whispered Tom.

Shit! I can’t just stop talking. Damn snakes. How do I do this again?

“Uh… Yes? Shit, make it stop!”

“You keep speaking in parseltongue and you don’t know how to stop?” asked Tom, incredulous. He was breathless. He shook his head, becoming exasperated. His eyes rolled up into the back of his head briefly. “Salazar, Harry, how thick are you? How could you not know?!”

“Hey! Get rid of your dumb noodle buddies and then maybe I can go back to speaking English again.”

“You can’t control it?”

“I’m fucking trying to here!”

That time sounded more English, thank Merlin.

“A parselmouth…” murmured Tom, more to himself it seemed. He stared at Harry as if he’d never seen him before. “You?” he said, with a mixture of surprise, awe, and a hint of disgust. “A parselmouth?”

“Surprise?”

Tom narrowed his eyes. “You’ve known all along.” Magic expanded from Tom, flooding the room. It rushed over Harry, hot as the scorching wind of a desert. The snakes scattered, shattering into sparkling mist. Tom bared his teeth and lunged forward, grabbing Harry by the throat and slamming him against the wall. Harry gasped, stars lighting up in his vision. “How are you a parselmouth?” Tom hissed. “You’re nothing more than a muggleborn—where could you have gotten such a bloodline?”

Harry wheezed. “Aren’t you muggleborn, too, you basta—”

“I’m a halfblood,” snapped Tom. He shoved Harry away, letting him go. Harry doubled over and gasped for breath; he whipped up, glaring at him. Tom glared back. “I am descended from Salazar Slytherin himself, the greatest of the four founders—”

Harry snorted. “Of course you’d say that. Please, if you were descended from Hufflepuff, you’d say she’s the greatest of the four.”

“I must be a halfblood.”

There was something in his tone that Harry found himself unable to not pity. There was the tiniest hint of vulnerability, of uncertainty. Tom didn’t know for sure of his heritage, not yet anyway. He had no idea of his lineage. He could still be a muggleborn and be descended of Salazar Slytherin. His insecurities echoed within his voice against his will.

And Harry had no desire to soften his blows.

“You don’t actually know, do you?” said Harry. “You don’t know. Do you?”

Tom inhaled sharply, fury widening his eyes.

“Well, I know my lineage, unlike you,” said Harry, his words acerbic and razor edged like a dagger. “I’m a halfblood. Pureblood father, muggleborn mother.”

Tom’s breath came out in a harsh exhale. “I know mine,” he snarled. “Only those of Slytherin descent are parselmouths. I am his heir.”

“Yeah, yeah, sure,” said Harry, rolling his eyes. “Whatever you say. Maybe if you say it often enough, it’ll make it true.”

Tom’s lips twisted, the anger now mixed with the barest hint of injury. “And you…” His chest heaved in annoyance. “You’re a parselmouth, too, so you must be descended from Slytherin as well. We must be related.”

“Oh, please, the entire wizarding world is related in some shape or form. No, we’re not related.” Harry shrugged. “Distantly, I guess.”

“How do you know?” said Tom; his wand instantly trained to Harry’s forehead. “How would you know anything about my family line?”

Oh, shit. Shouldn’t have said that.

Gotta backtrack somehow. Distract.

“You just said—” Harry let out an exasperated sigh, shaking his head. “You’re so uptight. Don’t get your knickers in a twist.”

“How would you know?” whispered Tom, his tone low and dangerous, like a thread threatening to snap at any moment. “How would you know?”

Dear Merlin, this man was like a dog on a bone.

Harry’s voice was soft. “My grandparents and my parents didn’t have siblings or other children. I know.”

Tom’s eyes narrowed briefly. 

“So, look, I know this was a lesson in Slytherin shenanigans—I mean, hierarchy or whatever the hell this is—politics?” Harry rolled his eyes. “Merlin help us. Anyway, I suppose I fail…” 

He took a step closer, staring up into Tom’s face, standing only a few inches away from each other. He had a clear view of every contour of Tom’s face, of how the light shadowed his features. He never realized just how rich a brown his eyes were. Harry’s stomach did something funny on him, his breath hitching briefly, before he smiled innocently. 

“Because I really don’t give a shit about your little Slytherin power plays.”

Tom’s jaw clenched; his Adam’s apple bobbed.

“But,” said Harry grandly, withdrawing from him and extending his arms out. “I’m willing to compromise.”

“I don’t compromise,” hissed Tom.

“Oh, you do now. Or I’ll just show off my parseltongue skills to the entire school.” Harry smirked. “How would the Slytherin house feel if there were two of us? Would it confuse them? Who is truly the heir?”

“I am.”

“Ah, but are you really sure?”

“I can control my ability,” said Tom with a sneer. “Can you?”

Harry shrugged elaborately. “So I’m inexperienced. It’s not like I’ve had the chance to learn about my illustrious heritage. I barely knew I could speak to snakes until I was ten and it was only when I was twelve that I understood what it meant. Can hardly fault me for not knowing.” Harry put on a sad little pout, exaggerating it up to mess with Tom. “The poor newcomer with little education about Hogwarts and Salazar Slytherin. I’m going to need all the help I can get.”

Silence reigned.

“Would they turn on you?” whispered Harry. “To help the less threatening heir?”

Tom stared at him. The only indication of his boiling rage were the white knuckles that clutched his wand.

“Power in numbers. If they turned on you… how much of a chance would you have… an entire house against one?”

His words hung in the balance between them, weighted, dark, and cruel. Tom’s throat contracted, his breathing shallow. Harry struck into every crevice of his doubts. Harry didn’t think Tom realized how much it showed all over his face, no matter how impassive he tried to remain.

“You’re more of a Slytherin than I first assumed,” said Tom softly. “You would’ve destroyed Hufflepuff.”

“Highly doubt that.”

“You knew.” Tom gave him an appraising look, eyes narrowed. “You’ve known all along that you belong in this house. Interesting.” His lips thinned, his expression growing pensive; his fingers brushed against the grain of his wand. After a moment, he said, “Blackmailing me won’t get you very far.”

“This isn’t blackmail. This is me telling you to cut this shit out. I’m not going to bend to your commands. Got it?”

Tom let out a soft chuckle; it sent a chill down Harry’s back. He leveled his wand to Harry’s forehead once more, swift and absolute. There was no light in his eyes, steady and dark as they burrowed into Harry’s soul.

They were a promise, a vow.

“I don’t enjoy being blackmailed, Harry, darling,” whispered Tom. “You’re impressive, I’ll give you that much. But… I don’t appreciate being cornered. I have no choice but to make an example of you.”

The flash of red light and softest whisper of, “Crucio,” was Harry’s only warning of the spell. He dropped out of its path just in time, the fiery heat rushing overhead, toasting his skin somewhat. Harry rolled to the side, ducking behind one of the common room sofas, narrowly missing another flash of red light.

“Harry… Come now, Harry, it’ll be over in a handful of seconds,” said Tom, his voice soft, entreating, like a parent chiding their wayward child. “It’ll be over before you know it. I just need you to scream for me.”

This fucking bastard!

This was too much to ask of Harry. What the hell had he been thinking in the first place? Maybe dying did something to the brain because he had to have been out of his fucking mind to agree to this. He should’ve just gone on with his family to the afterlife or gone back to end the bastard himself.

Go back in time to give this arsehole a second chance?

How stupid.

“Harry, darling, come on now,” purred Tom. “Come out and face me. It’ll be quick. After all, I am quite merciful.”

A calm settled over Harry. He was done. Done. Harry slowly stood up from behind a sofa, turning to face him. His wand lifted, ready. His magic crackled and rippled through him, fierce and raring to go. Tom smiled at him, soft, gentle, confident, condescending. His lips upturned.

“If you force my hand,” whispered Tom. “I’ll make it more painful.”

“Riddle. I’ve said it once, but I’ll say it again since you seem to be slow of hearing - or maybe just slow of wit.” Anger flashed through Tom. Harry sneered. “Fuck you.”

Tom opened his mouth, the Cruciatus Curse clearly on his lips. Harry was ready for it, to go all out and ruin this man’s life and show him once and for all why Harry Potter was Tom Riddle’s equal through and through - when the common room door opened.

It was like a bucket of ice had been thrown over them.

Instantly, Tom’s wand dropped to his side, disappearing. His demeanor shifted back into the perfect, obedient schoolboy, a warm, welcoming smile lifting his features. Slughorn walked inside and Harry barely had the chance to shove his wand back into his robes, heart thumping wildly against his chest.

“Good evening, boys,” said Slughorn cheerfully. He glanced around, frowning. “Oh, empty tonight, then? I’m surprised. It’s a bit early for the older students to be in bed. I was hoping to visit tonight.”

“My apologies, Professor,” said Tom, smooth as ever. His tone was silk, thick and saccharine. “Many of the students were looking more tired than normal, so I sent them up to bed early this evening. Harry and I were just going to tuck in for bed, weren’t we, Harry?”

His chest expanded. Harry wasn’t sure if he wanted to answer. It was a beat before his stiff face loosened and he put on the same fake smile that Tom was such an expert in.

“Yup, long day,” said Harry flatly. “Long week. Long life, actually. Gotta get to bed—super tired and all.”

His smile was still stiff and he caught an eye roll from Tom. But Slughorn never noticed. Slughorn chortled. “Well, Tom, that’s why you’re one of the best prefects that I’ve had. You always make sure this house is in working order, far better than I ever could. I suppose I’ll check in another time, then. Have a good night, boys.”

It was tense as they watched Slughorn leave the common room. It hung around them, thick and choking. When the common room was empty again, just Harry and Tom standing opposite of each other, they didn’t say anything for a number of minutes. Neither moved. Harry was ready for the fight to restart, but it never did.

“We should go to bed,” said Tom.

I’m sorry, “What?”

“Unless you’d like to find out the outcome of a clash between us? I assure you it’ll end with your screams.”

Harry gritted his teeth. So presumptuous. But… He was being given an out. It was painful. It was so fucking painful to shove his pride down, chain it down and force it into a cage while it fought and raged and clawed against him to burst free. It wanted blood. It wanted Tom Riddle writhing on the ground. It cried and screamed for that fight, for the war, for the clash of magical power that would ensue between them if Harry went all out.

But he shoved his pride into its cage and locked it tight.

“I’d rather go to bed,” said Harry, unable to keep the odd emotion out of his voice. He licked his lips. He inhaled greedily. He let out a breath, but he was still overwhelmed. “Yeah. Go to bed…”

Tom turned and strode towards the stairs to the dorms. He paused at the landing, throwing Harry an expectant look. Every breath Harry took wasn’t enough. There was no leaving this. He couldn’t escape to the owlery as he always did, hidden in the corner with only Kasper for company. With another lacking breath, he followed Tom, taking the stairs with wooden feet. The tension in his body was frayed, ready to snap. He couldn’t calm the whirling emotions. He couldn’t calm the battle torn man who’d been ready to end it all.

But Tom wasn’t Voldemort.

No matter how much Harry hated Voldemort, no matter the hints that Tom gave of whom he could become, he was not currently that murdering monster. He was just a boy with dark inclinations with also a hint of light within his soul. Dim as it was, Harry could see it in Tom.

That made the whole thing even more frustrating.

At the top of the stairs, Tom asked, “All right there, Harry?”

Harry blinked, staring at him. “I don’t remember giving you permission to call me Harry, Riddle.” 

Tom’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I don’t remember asking for it.”

This bastard.

Well, two can play at that game.

Harry took a step closer, stopping an inch away from him, looking up at him with a sly smile. “Then, I won’t either, Tom.”

Tom licked his lips.

Harry strode passed him, walking to their dorm and opening the door. He paused as all eyes fell upon him. The air in the room was brittle, tense.

“Evans,” said Prince. That same feeling could be heard in his tone. “You’re back.”

Tom put a hand onto Harry’s upper back, warm and weighted. Harry was suddenly and vividly aware of his touch and how it felt against him. Gently, he was pushed inside the room and he allowed it. Tom shut the door behind himself, before facing everyone. The hand moved upwards, brushing his shoulder, until it rested at the nook of Harry’s neck, fingers splayed over him. His grip tightened, lightly digging into his flesh.

“Harry here is now part of our inner circle,” said Tom, his tone light. The group exchanged looks. “He’s earned it.”

Harry blinked, not fully comprehending what that meant. His mind was a bit too focused on the hand at his neck. But by the looks that were exchanged by the others, it meant something significant.

“Not among us, though,” muttered Lestrange.

“Yes, I’m aware of that,” said Tom; his hand dropped, slowly, brushing ever so lightly against the middle of Harry’s back. He felt its absence more than he realized possible. Tom’s jaw tensed briefly. “However, I would appreciate all endeavors on your part to understand why. Harry is officially one of us and I’ll hear no arguments about it.”

What the hell is happening?

Prince clapped Harry on the arm, grinning. “Good enough for me. Call me Quintus.”

“Alphard.” Black gave a little wave from his spot on their double bed.

“I’m still looking forward to seeing you at tryouts tomorrow,” said Avery with a smile. “I’m Simon.”

Hang on, wait, tomorrow?!

“You can call me Roland!” chirped Rosier.

They glanced over at Mulciber, who rolled his eyes in disgust. “Fine,” he said grudgingly. “I give you permission to call me by my first name. It’s Marcus.”

“And I’m Sebastian,” said Lestrange, his nose upturned.

Slytherins were odd ducks. No doubt about that. The tension instantly faded and the conversation turned light, normal topics expected of schoolboys, homework, girls, etc - though Alphard was quick to snuff out all enthusiasm to talk about sex, while Quintus smiled through it.

All the while, Tom would occasionally glance over at Harry. He could feel those eyes on him, piercing his soul and trying to extract answers out of him. And once, Harry met his eyes.

His heart thrummed.

His stomach fluttered, a heat clawing upwards to his heart, where it warmed with every beat.

Harry dropped his gaze. “Well, good night,” he said, feeling a little breathless. There were short murmurs in response. As he crawled into bed, shutting his bed curtains, he caught Tom’s eyes once more.

He fled from those dark, penetrating eyes.

Harry threw up silencing charms and wards to protect himself. Harry flopped back onto his pillow, covering his face with his hands. He groaned softly. He put a hand over his heart, feeling it beat wildly beneath his fingers.

Shit.

He wasn’t expecting to actually have some attraction to Tom. Shit. Being attracted to guys was actually a thing for him, then. Great. He was attracted to guys and girls. And, of course, to Tom fucking Riddle, too. Why hadn’t anyone ever mentioned that was possible to him? Shit.

Well…

It made things easier in some ways.

In other ways, not so much.

Chapter Text

Everything had shifted now that Harry was part of their little group. Or club. Or whatever the hell they were up to - Harry didn’t know and, honestly, he really didn’t care. He’d only said yes because he knew it was the smartest move. The Slytherin move. They were just a bunch of kids playing adults in Harry’s opinion. He knew it would eventually change, but that was when Tom became Voldemort and that wouldn’t happen for decades - or in this case, never, if Harry was successful in stopping him.

These children, they had no idea what it was like out in the real world.

Harry pitied them, but also had no patience for them. Luckily, he wouldn’t have to deal with this club meeting for a number of weeks.

When was it again? First Sunday of every month?

Ugh, I feel like I’ve signed up to something boring and stupid.

That wasn’t for another two weeks, though, so he had time. He didn’t think it would be as ‘exciting’ as Voldemort’s Death Eater meetings. At least, he hoped it wasn’t…

He and Tom were going to have a big problem if that were the case.

It was Saturday morning and Harry was at the Slytherin table with a knot in his stomach about tryouts. It wasn’t that he was nervous about flying. He was nervous about the brooms. It was fifty years in the past and he knew Firebolts didn’t exist. Plus, it wasn’t like Hogwarts was going to be up to date on the latest brooms.

So, they’re going to be slow.

Fantastic.

“Good morning, Harry,” said Quintus pleasantly, taking a seat beside him as Alphard sat on his other side. Alphard yawned, snaking his arm through Quintus’ and leaning against him. He gave Harry a sleepy nod.

“Morning,” said Harry, guarded.

The boys exchanged a look. Their expressions were downright lecherous. Oh, no, this can’t be good. “So… about last night…” Alphard began, a sly smile spreading across his features. “You and Tom were alone for a bit.”

Yeah, and almost murdering each other, the little bastard.

“Anything… interesting happen?”

Harry squinted at him. “Besides nearly getting cursed?”

Quintus shrugged. “Sure.”

“Nothing happened.”

Alphard and Quintus glanced at each other, before looking at Harry. They grinned. “Are you sure?” they asked in perfect unison. Harry was officially getting Weasley twins flashbacks.

“Yes?”

“You know, I didn’t think Tom had it in him,” said Quintus lightly. “Who knew Tom would have an… awakening this year.”

“And that you’d be the cause of it.”

The hell are you talking about?

“We’d been waiting for it.”

“Our Tom is a bit of a late bloomer,” added Quintus with a sage nod.

“You do know I have no idea,” began Harry, frowning, “what the bloody hell you’re going on about, right?”

“Oh…” Alphard grinned. “But you will.”

Alphard and Quintus had to be the twins incarnate. Or was it the twins were them incarnate? At any rate, the pair of them were a right terror. Harry was forced to sit in confusion as the two of them fell silent. Soon, the Great Hall began to fill up, albeit more slowly since it was a Saturday. Marcus and Sebastian ambled into the Great Hall within ten minutes, while Roland and Simon soon followed.

“Harry!” cried Roland brightly, sliding up to him and throwing his arms around his shoulder. Harry stiffened at the touch and tried to discreetly squirm away from Roland’s arm. Roland caught the hint. Simon sat next to him, while Sebastian and Marcus took their seats on the other side of the table. Roland grinned, eyebrows bouncing. “You ready for tryouts, yeah?”

“We expect good things from you,” said Simon.

“Uh…”

Great, no pressure.

“Hey,” said Alphard, leaning forward in front of Quintus and nodding to Roland and Simon.

“Yeah?”

“Budge over.”

“Why?” asked Roland, as Simon moved over without question.

Alphard’s eyes flared slightly; his tone was firm. “Just do it.” With a shrug and a disgruntled sigh, Roland slid over a space. Alphard smiled. “Thank you.” Roland grunted.

The space remained empty at Harry’s other side.

Weird…

Harry tucked into his breakfast, idly listening to the other boys. He was beginning to learn the individual quirks of each of them. Sebastian, Harry was quickly learning, was probably the biggest arsehole of the bunch, with Marcus at a close second. Sebastian reminded Harry a lot of Draco, who did nothing but complain or bully others whenever Harry interacted with him. But it seemed that Sebastian was close to Marcus. Perhaps they gravitated to each other because they both were arseholes? He only had so much to go off on…

“You sure you shouldn’t get it looked at?” whispered Sebastian, gesturing to Marcus’ arm, which was covered beneath his robes.

“I’m fine. It’ll be gone in a week.”

“But it’s bruising.”

“I said I’m fine.”

“You can’t hide it forever.”

“I do every year.”

Harry frowned to himself. Mm…

Roland was the loudest of the group, ever the social butterfly and constantly cracking some kind of joke. He bounced off Simon the most, who was quiet and often to the point with his replies. Those two talked about Quidditch about seventy-five percent of the time.

I think Ron would’ve liked those two.

Harry was reminded, once again, that these were just boys, still children, even if they were nearing adulthood soon. He’d been so used to villainizing Slytherins ever since he had arrived at Hogwarts and he hated that he was still being surprised to learn that they were no different than the rest of the students. It made him slightly uncomfortable in his own skin.

I wish I hadn’t scorned an entire house based on what others told me.

“Tom’s late,” said Quintus softly.

Alphard nodded, lips thinned. “I’d noticed.”

“He’s fine. He’s Tom.”

“Hm.”

Alphard glanced towards the staff table, where Albus Dumbledore was taking his seat near Merrythought, who was giving him a shrewd look. He appeared to say something further and her lips thinned in response. She straightened in her seat, giving him a sharp look, before turning away to Fortinbras, who put a hand to her mouth, shoulders shaking with a laugh.

“What d’you reckon?” asked Alphard.

“You’re going to have to elaborate, love,” said Quintus mildly. He didn’t look up from his breakfast.

“Dumbledore.”

“What of him?”

“What d’you reckon? Do you think our dear Professor Dumbledore would be a man who enjoyed a good mount? He looks like he needs it, too… I don’t think Merrythought likes him that much.”

Quintus smiled wildly, eyes twinkling. “Are you asking what I think you’re asking, love?”

“Of course, I am.”

“Why are you talking about horses so early in the morning?” demanded Sebastian. “You two are so weird.”

Alphard grinned. “We’re not talking about horses. We’re talking about sex, my dear Sebastian, not that you would be particularly well versed in that regard. What I want to know is what Dumbledore would be so inclined towards. Is he a rider… or a mount?”

Harry choked on his bacon. The other boys groaned. Even Roland rolled his eyes, while Simon sighed. “We’re eating here,” Marcus said, glaring at them. “I don’t want those images in my mind while trying to have some breakfast. Ugh.”

“It’s Saturday and I have every right to contemplate the sexual exploits of our professors,” said Alphard with a smirk. He glanced back at Quintus. “You don’t think he’d be a rider, do you? Doesn’t seem like him. Or perhaps he’d prefer… a bit of variety?

Harry inhaled, nostrils flaring, trying not to lose his mind since he’d read Rita Skeeter’s scathing biography of Dumbledore out of morbid curiosity and if it had even a grain of truth, he had his own thoughts on the matter and he needed to stop thinking about it right now.

Not to mention all of the terms Dean and Seamus used and talked about - in fucking detail, pun intended, unfortunately - in the boy’s dormitory. Alphard was far more dignified in his questioning of whether Dumbledore was a top, bottom, or a switch.

Probably bottom—Fucking hell, I did not need this shit before Quidditch tryouts!

There was a pause as Alphard and Quintus stared at one another before Quintus chimed, “Dumbledore has the impeccable air of a humble rider.” 

“Yes, exactly what I thought.”

“Oh, for the love of Merlin!”

Harry wheezed.

“What has everyone red in the face now?” asked Tom, taking a seat next to Harry at the breakfast table. Sebastian raised his eyes briefly at Harry.

“They’re at it again,” said Marcus, motioning towards Alphard and Quintus.

Quintus put on a benign smile. “Don’t mind us, Tom. We were just wondering if Dumbledore… mounts.”

“And we decided that he definitely doesn’t,” said Alphard, his smirk mischievous.

“This is the topic at breakfast?” asked Tom, bemused. “I haven’t missed much, then. You’re debating if Professor Dumbledore, a wizard who can apparate or fly a broomstick, rides horses?”

Harry spat out his pumpkin juice, spraying Sebastian and Marcus, choking and wheezing as the drink went down into his lungs. There were annoyed complaints from the boys, while Tom looked mildly concerned for Harry - the concern was most decidedly surface level.

“What did I say that was so startling?”

Harry couldn’t speak. He crossed the line of losing his mind. It was gone. Fornicating rainbow unicorns were no longer the image in his mind now. Most unpleasantly and unfortunately, a new terrible image had taken its place.

Harry shook his head, while Quintus patted him on the back. He coughed, just shaking his head and glaring at Alphard and Quintus for good measure. They only smiled innocently through it all.

Once the coughing fit settled, Harry refused to look Tom in the face—refused to look anyone in the face. But as he kept to himself, listening to the conversation that took place among the rest of the Slytherins, a thought dawned in Harry’s mind.

Wait… How did Tom not understand what they meant? Those two are always talking about sex. How did that go over Tom’s head?

Even though Harry wasn’t exactly experienced with relationships, he understood plenty of innuendo. That was just the nature of living in a dorm of teenaged boys where hormones were raging madly. But he’d never seen Tom Riddle be clueless about a subject. Yet, when it came to every innuendo that Alphard and Quintus threw at him, it always seemed to go over Tom’s head.

What does that mean…?

Dammit, Death, is this going to be harder than I first thought?

What’s that term again? Hermione would know—she was always well informed.

Fuck, what was it—OH!

And then he remembered—talking to Hermione once about sexuality when they’d been alone in the tent. She’d made a passing comment about Draco, but at the time Harry had brushed her off. The conversation had evolved past that, though.

Asexual. That was the term. No sexual attraction. Sometimes, asexuals had no interest in sex at all, while others would still engage in sex without feeling sexual attraction to their partner. Many asexuals were interested in romantic relationships, but others could also be aromantic with no interest for an emotional or intimate relationship with someone else.

‘It’s all a spectrum, though,’ Hermione had said. ‘Some asexuals can experience attraction, but on such a small scale that they still identify as asexuals.’ She had given him a smile, putting a hand over his. ‘Asexual, gay, straight - whatever you are or want to identify as, I support you.’

His heart hurt at the memory. Those days where it’d been just Harry and Hermione had been the hardest of them all. He missed her and he missed Ron.

Harry inhaled, shaking himself, and darted a glance at Tom. 

Shit. That sounds a lot like Tom Riddle. I don’t remember anything in those old memories with Tom that had him showing any interest in someone. Shit! Why didn’t I think about this possibility sooner?

Don’t fucking tell me he’s asexual!?

Death, you son of a bitch!

Harry fumed all through the rest of breakfast.

The broom situation was far worse. These kids were riding the very first of the Comet line, the Comet 140, and the second of the Cleansweeps, the Cleansweep two. Trying to figure out how to fly these old rickety sweeps was going to be a nightmare. They should’ve been left in the broom cupboard where they belonged. 

Harry sighed. It was going to take him a little bit to get used to them. That was definitely going to affect his flying. He was so used to the ease that was his old Firebolt. Its loss was hurting more than ever now.

There were a number of other Slytherins on the field, including Orion. Nott patted him on the back, before walking to the stand with Selena at his side. Simon was wearing the captain’s badge, standing straight as he looked over the group. He towered over most of the players. He crossed his arms, frowning.

“Mm.”

“What’s he doing here?” demanded Orion, glaring at Harry. His upper lip curled. “Only skilled players are allowed to try out. What makes you think a little mudblood like you is skilled at flying, let alone at Quidditch?”

Geez.

“Good luck,” said Alphard, slapping Harry on the back. “I mean that. Orion is pretty damn good. But he’s also a prat.”

“I heard that!”

“I wasn’t whispering, now was I?”

“Leave him be,” said Quintus softly, putting a hand onto Alphard’s arm. He turned his attention onto Orion. “Talking is meaningless. Just fly and win your place as a seeker. Prove it on the field.”

Orion sniffed, turning away.

“I will give you ten galleons if you beat my brother,” said Alphard.

“Is that a promise?”

“Absolutely.” 

“I’ll hold you to that,” said Harry, throwing out a hand. Alphard gave him a firm handshake before turning with a wave. The pair of them walked to the stands.

Simon blew his whistle. “Listen up,” he said, his voice carrying across the field. “You’ll each take turns going for the snitch. You’ll be measured on your speed of catching the snitch, but also on your skill as a flier. Everyone in the air.”

The whistle rang once more and the group was airborne.

“Youngest first,” called Simon, taking his place at the goal post. Roland grinned, tossing the quaffle to another chaser, whom Harry didn’t recognize. There was a pair of beaters that appeared to be fourth years. From the ground, the snitch was released, darting wildly in the air before disappearing.

The whistle blew again and a tiny second year started looking.

Bloody hell, these brooms were terrible. How were they supposed to fly properly with these, let alone play on them? The steering was all wrong and the delay to obey Harry’s nudging was about five seconds. The broom had the sensitivity of a brick.

With a growl of annoyance, Harry dove, weaving through the air, trying to get used to the delay. He kept trying to figure the damn broom out, while also paying attention to the whistle blows and avoiding the random bludger who darted his way. It was almost like the broom was fighting him on everything.

“All right there, Harry?” asked Roland, flying up to him and stopping nearby. His broom slowed, but continued another foot even though the pull on the handle had been earlier.

Damn.

“I’m fine. Just used to better brooms.”

Roland laughed. “You sure that’s the problem?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” groused Harry, eyes narrowing.

The whistle blew again. “Harry, you’re up.”

Well, then. Time to show them where he soared.

As he searched for the snitch, he was slowly getting used to the broom’s quirks. He was going to need more practice to really be able to excel on it, though. A glimmer caught his sight to the right and he dove immediately. He cursed at the delay.

It was a false alarm and Harry stopped his dive in time to avoid crashing into the stands. Some of the Slytherins shrieked. Harry waved at them, grinning. His eyes widened when he saw Tom watching, book in lap, sitting a distance away from the others. Their gaze connected.

Harry tore away, redoubling his efforts. The snitch was kind to him, showing up barely five minutes later, near the bottom of the stands. 

He dove.

The broom wasn’t as fast as a Nimbus 2000, but it was still fast. The snitch hovered near the ground and as he approached, Harry hoped it wouldn’t move - but of course it did.

It shot up, towards him. 

As the ground rushed to him and the sounds of the other students turned from cries of joy to gasps of fear to screams, Harry tugged on the old broom. It tried to obey his command, but that damn fucking delay—It wouldn’t pull up in time.

Well, shit, Harry thought, barely having a moment to whisper a spell before he crashed into the ground, blacking out immediately.

But not before he heard a chilling chuckle.

‘Oh, Master… such a foolish child. It’s a little early for you to die again, isn’t it?’

The fastest Alphard had ever witnessed Tom going was a brisk walk and when that happened, it was best to flee - though he’d never seen anyone get very far. Tom Riddle never sprinted. He never ran for anyone nor for any reason. Ever.

Until today.

Alphard had, with horror, watched Harry smash into the earth, broom snapping in half beneath him, body thrown like a rag doll and tumbling a number of meters away, before coming to an abrupt halt. Unmoving. The sound he’d made when he hit the ground had been spine chilling. A crash like that… fatal. Few ever survived a crash like that and no one came out of a crash unscathed. He’d seen a few national Quidditch matches in his life before. It was common for players to go home with major injuries and one match Alphard attended, at six years old, had ended in the death of one of the seekers.

Death, especially in Quidditch, was something Alphard was used to, but this was school with children. Students weren’t supposed to die in Quidditch tryouts. He’d seen Harry’s recklessness, but he hadn’t dreamed the boy was this suicidal. This reeked of Gryffindor antics.

It was supposed to be disturbing, but he could only watch the chaos unfold, numb to it all. The only clue to his inner turmoil was the trembling hand that clutched Quintus’.

But as he was processing it all, he saw something new. 

Tom ran.

He was sprinting across the field from his lone spot in the stands, shouting orders to the rest of the Quidditch players. He’d jumped into action. Tom nearly threw himself into a kneel beside Harry, his wand alight with numerous spells as he waved them over Harry’s crumpled body.

And then the unthinkable happened.

Harry bolted upright.

“He’s alive,” whispered Alphard.

“Thank Merlin,” breathed Quintus.

That was not normal at all, though. Harry had hurtled to the earth at such an insane speed. He shouldn’t be stirring, let alone conscious. Yet, there he was - he was sitting up. What the hell? Tom was grabbing his wrist and trying to heal him.

Alphard smiled, tight and trembling, at Quintus, pressing a light kiss to the hollow of his ear to whisper, “I do believe our Tom has a bit of a crush.”

“Is that so?”

“Isn’t it pretty clear?”

“Tom is too wrapped up in his own ideals to figure it out.”

“Gonna be an interesting year, isn’t it?”

Quintus turned his head, kissing him once, before standing up. The light in his eyes told of his unease. “Indeed. I’ve been waiting for this day. I just didn’t think it’d be here so soon.”

“Yeah… and I’m just glad it isn’t a girl. Can you imagine our Tom? With a girl?”

Quintus laughed and Alphard was glad to have drawn that out of him.

Fear was a strange, choking emotion.

It gripped the heart, terrorized the mind, and mauled its victim at the jugular with the full intention of bringing them down to their knees.

Tom wasn’t a fan of the feeling.

He hadn’t known fear all that often, except when he went back to that awful orphanage, and yet here it was, inside Tom’s chest, furious, raging fear for the stupid idiotic boy that was Harry Evans. If Harry wasn’t dead, Tom was going to kill him himself. He hadn’t pegged him for the showing off type. What had prompted such foolhardy, rash actions in Quidditch tryouts, of all things?

Stupid, stupid, brash Gryffindor behavior!

When Harry crashed, Tom had moved without realizing it, book forgotten. It wasn’t until he was halfway to Harry that he realized he’d been running as fast as he could.

“Someone get the nurse!” bellowed Tom, dropping to his knees at Harry’s side. He caught a glimpse of Roland speeding off on his broom towards the hospital wing. Tom didn’t touch Harry at first, looking over the damage. The broom was totaled and splinters were scattered everywhere. Harry was on his back, eyes closed as if sleeping. There were a few sections of the broom handle that had been embedded within Harry’s flesh. Blood, so much blood, decorated the grass and Harry’s uniform. His chest didn’t rise and fall with breath.

A landing like that… He must be dead.

Somehow, that thought clenched something in his chest.

The air shifted. 

Shadows moved unnaturally beneath Harry’s lifeless form, slowly expanding outwards. The air in Tom’s lungs suddenly felt as if it were suffocating him; it grew thicker, darker. As Tom opened his mouth, no breath entering, his wand lifted on its own accord, drawn like prey to the Siren’s call, and pointed towards Harry’s forehead.

The splayed wild lightning was slowly changing, becoming dark veins among the rapidly paling tan skin. They rippled beneath the surface, like a beast waking from its slumber.

The shadows grew; the air thickened; unnatural, but unseen magic weaved tendrils around Tom’s throat. It threatened to choke him.

“Enervate!” gasped Tom.

With a terrible crack, Harry bolted upright.

Shit! Why’d I do that?!

Tom blinked. Stars popped in his eyes and his head pounded with a familiar feeling of oxygen loss. He was still as stone, trying to collect himself. For a moment, Harry swayed, face scrunching up, as if he were going to be sick. Suddenly, he pitched forward, choking into his cupped hands. There was a popping sound and, with a sheepish grin on his face, he looked up.

In his hand, fluttering with broken wings, was the snitch.

What in the hellish name…

“Well, that hurt like shit,” said Harry cheerfully. 

Harry grimaced, groaning in pain, clapping a hand over his face and swearing a string of colorful profanities. Nothing was out of place now. There was nothing wrong with the air around them. Tom could breathe perfectly. The only thing out of place was Harry Evans.

Because he shouldn’t be breathing.

What… What just happened?

At closer inspection, Tom could see nothing but the injuries made from the broomstick being shattered and embedded into the skin. Harry continued to move as if there were no other injuries, no breaks, no decimated bones, not even a cracked rib. Nothing. Tom watched him, shock vibrating through his core. Harry pulled his wand out from a pouch at his side and made a small motion with it, slowly drawing out one splinter at a time, wincing as he did so.

How did he survive that?

Tom’s hand snapped out, grabbing him by the chin. Harry gasped, trying to pull away from him. “The fuck—let go—”

“Hold still,” hissed Tom in parseltongue, harsh, piercing.

Harry stared at him, eyes narrowed, a touch of pink darkening his cheeks, but he allowed Tom to move his head from side to side. Tom inspected him, gentle, yet firm. The lightning bolt scar was back to its original state, scarred white against the tan skin, vivid in its contrast.

Tom released his chin, but took him by the wrist next, placing his wand over the forearm. Once again, Harry tried to pull away, but Tom tightened his grip, his fierce glare stopping him short.

Harry huffed. “What’re you doing now?”

“Removing the splinters,” said Tom shortly. His voice was rougher than usual. His eyes narrowed. “Unless you’d prefer them in your flesh?”

Harry gave him a weird look. “I can do it on my own.”

“I insist.”

He let Tom do it - not that Tom would’ve given him a choice either way. He was methodical with the splinters, refusing to let a single one remain. The wounds were sealed soon afterwards. Tom paused a beat at the end, staring at the immense and unnatural amount of blood staining Harry’s clothes.

He vanished the blood.

Harry stood up without trouble, brushing dirt off his trousers. In the distance, the nurse was sprinting across the field with Roland, who was rushing after her with his broom in hand. The color had long drained from Roland’s face and he appeared shaken.

“I heard a student crashed, quite violently,” said the nurse, gasping for breath. “How is he doing?”

“Forgive me,” said Tom, dropping into a smooth tone. “It was a false alarm. Harry here crashed and broke his broom, but he’s relatively unscathed. Nothing a handful of healing charms couldn’t fix.”

He met Roland’s eyes; he met the eyes of all the other Slytherins who were on the field. No one said a thing otherwise.

“Well,” said the nurse, exhaling with a huff, her body relaxing with relief. “Let me examine you.”

Harry drew away. “I’m fine, really I am.”

“I need to check you for a concussion, dear.”

“But I’m—”

“Harry.” It was sharp, like a whip. A couple of the other Slytherins flinched, but Harry’s eyes, that vibrant green color, snapped onto Tom. They narrowed. “Let her inspect you.”

There was a challenge in those eyes. Tom had the urge to scold him in parseltongue, but he wasn’t ready to reveal a second parselmouth in this school yet. Though… This was now something to consider - the pros and cons to a language where only Harry could hear him.

But he held back and hoped Harry had a reasonable head about him right now.

He did.

Harry was stiff as the nurse approached him, touching him and running diagnostic charms. After a moment, the nurse shook her head. “You’re perfectly fine, my dear,” she said brightly. “Whatever Mr. Riddle did, you were in good hands. You’re cleared to play some more. Just try to be more careful.”

“I will, thank you,” said Harry with a smile, pulling away from her.

Play some more?

Tom snorted. Not likely.

As the nurse left, Harry grinned and clapped his hands together, whirling around to the other players. He lifted the broken snitch into the air. “So, I caught the snitch, but can I get a new broom and have another go?” His smile widened. “I’m sure there’s more to this than just catching one snitch, yeah?”

Silence.

Everyone looked over at Tom, who narrowed his eyes. “Excuse me?”

“New broom.” Harry gestured to the shattered remains of the other broom. “Pretty sure this one isn’t going to fly again. Unless you can repair a broom…”

“Don’t be stupid,” said Tom, before he could stop himself. Simon opened his mouth, but clicked it shut. Tom ignored the other Slytherins. “What makes you think you’re getting back on another broom? Absolutely not.”

A strange light entered Harry’s eyes. They shifted and made contact with Tom’s gaze, the emerald glow growing dangerous. He took a step forward, chest rising with impossible breath, standing a foot away from Tom. His chin lifted. “What makes you think you’re going to stop me?” Harry asked, raising an eyebrow, voice low.

“You just crashed and nearly killed yourself,” hissed Tom. Nearly, no. You should be dead. Why aren’t you dead? “Are you insane?”

“No, I just miscalculated because these school brooms suck. It won’t happen again.” Harry brushed his trousers off. His gaze went hard. “And you’re not stopping me.”

Tom inhaled.

Eyes were on them, breaths held with bated anticipation. He could stop Harry. It wouldn’t be hard. A stunner and a look towards his Slytherins would stop this madness. But if he interfered like that, Harry would not be happy with him. Driving a wedge between them now wouldn’t be wise, not when he was just beginning to learn more about Harry.

“Very well,” said Tom, acquiescing.

“Thanks, because I really needed your blessing, Tom,” said Harry, sneering.

On second thought…

Before Tom could change his mind, Harry tossed him the broken snitch, and he caught it reflexively. Harry waved at him, smirking. With gritted teeth, Tom watched him stride away to get another broom. He kept his wand at the ready. Cushioning charms were going to be a must with this chaotic boy.

Why am I letting him do this again?

But… he pocketed the snitch.

“He’s all right?”

Tom turned to see Alphard and Quintus walking up to him. Both of them had expressions of surprise.

“Apparently.”

“But… how?” asked Quintus.

Yes, that’s the question, isn’t it?

“You didn’t see anything, did you?” asked Tom with a light raised eyebrow, trying to keep his tone benign. His heart thumped against his chest. He could still remember, still feel the magic that had tried to go for his throat. What was that?

“What do you mean?” said Quintus. “Aside from the crash?”

“Just… did you see or feel any… odd magic?”

Alphard frowned. “No, did you?”

“No.” Tom smiled grimly. “Must’ve been my imagination in the heat of the moment.”

Right?

The Quidditch field was in chaos now, thanks to Harry’s little… accident. Listen, he didn’t mean to crash and he had tried to soften the blow with a cushioning charm. Everyone was making a big deal out of it. What was a little crash, after all? It was like they’d never played Quidditch before.

Harry rubbed his chest, wincing at a pulse of sharp pain in his heart. It disappeared quickly.

The rest of the Slytherins were back in the stands, a little quieter now, though there were a number of hunched clusters of students, whispering to each other.

“He crashed!” shouted Orion, waving a hand wildly in Harry’s direction. “He shouldn’t be allowed to try again.”

Simon’s lips thinned. “Orion, enough. Tom has allowed it.” He folded his arms and eyed Harry. “Besides, if this were a real game, he’d have won it. Crashing doesn’t disqualify him from the game. It’s just dangerous.”

“One more try,” said Harry with a placating gesture. “I won’t crash this time.”

Roland glanced over at Simon, still pale. For a moment, Simon didn’t say anything. Tom was standing at the edge of the field, arms crossed in front of his chest with wand in hand, lips pressed together, with Alphard and Quintus at his side. Simon’s eyes narrowed.

“Crash and you’re disqualified.”

“Seriously, Harry,” said Roland, shaking his head, his grey eyes alight with worry. “Don’t do that again. I dunno if I could handle it—gave me a right start, you did.”

“It’s not against the rules,” said Simon. “But I can’t have you on the team if you’re going to risk your neck like that.”

“Got it.”

With a new broom in hand and Tom’s furious eyes trained on his back, Harry was in the air again. He inhaled, wrapping his fingers around the handle of the broom, willing it to listen to him. The sensitivity was slightly better on this broom. Harry savored the flight again, realizing it’d been nearly a year since last he’d flown like this.

A bludger shot after him; Harry barrel rolled out of the way, turning into a dive once more. Come on. Listen to me. You can do it! The broom responded, slowly getting better, and Harry flew towards the ground - where the trio of boys were watching intently.

Harry only had eyes for Tom.

He smirked.

“Hello, Tom!” shouted Harry, zooming past his stiff form in a rush of wind. He left behind echoes of Alphard’s barking laughter. With a laugh of his own, he was in the air again, returning to his search. This broom seemed to like him, thankfully. His search didn’t take long this time. There was a glimmer of gold dancing by one of the goal posts.

He shot after it.

The longer he flew, the more the broom and Harry worked together in harmony. Merlin, he’d missed flying like this. He was laughing, his voice disappearing into the wind. It’d been so long since he’d felt this euphoria that was flying. The snitch zipped in the air and the chase was on. Time didn’t exist. Nothing existed. Only wind and flight. The snitch zipped in a new direction, doubling back, and Harry snapped out, grabbing it tightly in his hand. The force of it threw him into an aerial barrel roll and it took him a moment to calm the broom down.

Cheers brought him back down from the high of flying. He smiled, waving with the snitch in his hand.

“You’re fast,” said Simon, flying up to him. He studied him for a moment. “And you fly without worrying about crashing, too.”

“That’s not a good quality,” whispered Roland, smiling lopsidedly.

“Not the worst thing I’ve done.” Harry shrugged. “I’ve hardly played a game of Quidditch without getting myself maimed or killed.”

“All right,” said Simon, hesitant. He sighed, shaking his head. “Let’s try again. But this time, all of you against each other. Do stay on your broom, Harry.”

Simon released the snitch five more times in the next hour. Harry caught them all. At the end of practice, Harry landed with the rest of the others, flushed with sweat, but delighted to have had some time in the air again.

He’d missed this.

With another whistle, Simon gathered everyone together. He looked at Harry. “You’re our new seeker,” he said. A touch of approval was in his features.

Orion folded his arms, scowling.

Harry beamed. He glanced back at the trio of boys. Tom was staring at him with calculating, yet narrowed eyes. Harry held out a hand towards them. “Alphard, I do believe you owe me ten galleons.”

“Worth it,” said Alphard with a grin.

The days started to settle into a routine. Classes were no different than they were before, so Harry, blessedly, knew most of the material. The only real pain in his arse were the long essays that Merrythought kept assigning him every week. She’d give him a look at the beginning of DADA and Harry would resolutely ignore her.

Batty woman.

Quidditch practice now took up his Saturday mornings. Simon booked the pitch from the unholy hour of five to eight o’clock. Harry was an early bird by nature, but five in the morning was pushing it for Quidditch. The obsession with the sport didn’t fade with the generations it seemed.

Harry was slowly finding friends among his dorm mates. It was hard not to, he had to admit, not with Alphard reminding Harry of Sirius in so many ways. Quintus was also easy to get along with, nothing like the caustic person that was Severus Snape. Quidditch practice quickly bonded Harry with Roland and Simon, since they were instant fans of his skills on the field. Sebastian and Marcus were still prickly as a cactus, but they were warming up to Harry’s presence in the group.

Tom… on the other hand…

Trying to understand what Tom was thinking was like trying to calm the raging sea on a stormy night. At times, Harry caught Tom staring at him, studying him with furrowed brows, as if he were a puzzle to be unraveled.

When he’d crashed… the way Tom had looked at him, had healed him, had touched him…

Harry grew warm.

What the hell.

That wasn’t the same Tom who had tried to curse him with the cruciatus curse to prove a point. It was such a dichotomy. Two different sides. Harry found himself wondering if there were other sides of Tom to discover, ones he’d never seen before.

He could still remember the ghost of Tom’s touch, his wand and magic removing the splinters from Harry’s skin. He hadn’t known that Tom could be gentle like that…

Ah, fuck.

The days slipped into weeks until there was only a week before Tom’s little club meeting. Harry had taken to studying a few hours nearly every day in the owlery, enjoying the solace that Kasper and the rest of the owls provided. But there was a lack of books and research material in the owlery, unfortunately, and Harry had a number of essays to work on.

To the library.

The librarian was an old woman whose head was buried in a large book. She barely gave him a glance before going right back to her reading. Harry slowly walked through the library, looking around, noticing one very different thing than when last he’d been here.

It was double in size.

Hermione would be salivating if she could see it. The library itself was expanded to a second level, where more very tall shelves of endless books were lined against the wall. Clusters of armchairs were everywhere, along with the usual rows of tables and chairs for studying.

A chill slid down Harry’s spine.

What had happened to the library in the past fifty years?

“Cousin Harry!”

Harry jumped; his head whipped around to see Monty waving him down in a secluded section of the library. To Harry’s surprise, Euphemia Malfoy was sitting next to him, studying one of her textbooks with her bottom lip curled beneath her teeth as she wrote on a piece of parchment.

“Cousin Harry, come over here!” There was a pause and Euphemia elbowed him slightly. “Oh—please!” he added.

As Harry approached them, Monty lit up. His smile appeared to nearly break his face. “Hi, Monty,” Harry said, unable to keep the fondness out of his tone. “How’re you doing?”

“Hiya, Harry,” chirped Monty. “I’m very glad to see you.”

“I’m glad to see you, too. Hi, Effie.”

“Only my friends may call me that, just so you know,” said Euphemia with her signature Malfoy sniff. She eyed him for a moment, before she nodded with airy approval. “So, you may call me Effie.”

“I’m honored,” said Harry, lips pinched together to avoid smiling. He had no way of knowing if he had by chance helped his grandparents become friends sooner than in the other timeline, but at least he hadn’t ruined anything for them.

“And don’t tell that troll!” snapped Euphemia.

“Which one?”

Euphemia giggled. “You know which one I meant—Abraxas!”

“I had to double check,” said Harry with a light laugh. “There are plenty of trolls in the Slytherin house and one can’t be too careful. So don’t you worry, I wouldn’t dare tell Abraxas a thing.”

There were more giggles. “Good,” Euphemia said with a nod. “Otherwise, he’d get all weird and huffy and he’d bother me.” She bit her lip again. “Well, he’d do more than bother me—he’d tattle to Mother and ruin everything. I should be allowed to make friends with whomever I wish. He’d try to stop me and I won’t have it. If he does anything, I’ll… I’ll… I’ll hex his head up a werewolf’s arse!” she declared.

“Are there spells for that?” asked Monty with interest. Euphemia shrugged. Both eleven year olds looked up at Harry expectantly.

“Uh…” Harry blinked. “Not that I’m aware of…”

Monty patted Euphemia on the forearm. “We’ll have to invent one so he’ll stop bothering you,” he said sagely.

“Not that this isn’t great and all, but…” Harry chuckled. “Why are you two hanging out anyway? I thought you didn’t like Gryffindors?”

Euphemia blushed and ducked her head.

“Well, after I told Effie she’s very pretty, she decided we could be friends,” said Monty in his usual matter of fact tone. “But I didn’t tell her she’s pretty so we could be friends,” he added quickly, as a dusting of pink flushed through Euphemia’s cheeks. “I only told her she’s pretty because she is. But I am very glad we’re friends now.”

Harry had a very difficult time keeping a straight face through Monty’s adorable ‘tirade’ about Euphemia’s prettiness. There was something so charming and refreshing about his unabashed honesty.

“You’re exaggerating,” whispered Euphemia. “But I appreciate it.” She tucked some of her near white blonde hair, which was more frizzy and curly than normal, behind her ear. “I didn’t ask my sister’s help today with my hair and it’s gone all bad on me. You don’t have to keep saying I’m pretty…”

“Why not?” asked Monty, befuddled. “And there’s nothing wrong with your hair today. It’s pretty.”

“But it can’t be!” cried Euphemia, horrified at him. “It’s not straightened or anything.”

“So? Doesn’t mean it isn’t pretty any more.

Euphemia sighed. “Would you say that all the time, no matter what?”

“Of course, because it’s always pretty.”

“That’s because it’s always done nicely!”

“Effie, you would be perfect however you made your hair,” said Monty, shaking his head. “I don’t understand why one way or another would change that.” Euphemia went bright red, but Monty didn’t notice. “If it’d make you feel better, I’ll make you something that can help your hair. Yeah?”

“Would you?” whispered Euphemia.

Monty nodded. “You tell me what you want and I’ll invent it. Potions can fix just about anything you want and if there isn’t one, you just make it up.” He glanced over at Harry expectedly. “You’ll help me, won’t you?”

“I’ll try, of course.”

Well, perhaps the essays could wait a day. Harry rested an elbow on the table, covering his chin and mouth with a hand, hiding his fond smile there.

Monty was quick to learn that Harry was no real help at all.

Tom sat in the common room in the evening with all of his dorm mates, minus one, with a book in hand. But the page hadn’t been turned for ten minutes now. His thoughts were on the complexity of a certain new Slytherin.

Harry… was something.

Wild, reckless, spirited, took to the air like a phoenix. At first, Harry had flown quite clunky. Tom had caught glimpses of the skill, but something seemed to bother Harry in the air.

And then he crashed.

But didn’t die.

Tom still wasn’t sure what to make of what had happened - wasn’t sure what to make of his reaction to it all either. When had fear for a life been something he felt? He barely knew the boy. There was so much to unpack in that moment, but no matter how many times he went over the memory in his head, he came no closer to an answer.

But…

Harry Evans was fascinating. 

Parselmouth. Stunning flier. Spitfire. Unfortunately, he was average in his spell work, but he could be trained. Harry was smart, that much Tom had seen. He never saw him struggle over homework, unlike some of the others in their year. Perhaps Harry’s strength was in the theory of spells, rather than the application?

A geode.

That was what Harry was. A geode, a hidden gem of raw worth. It was there, but unpolished. Harry would be magnificent with a bit of polishing, those rough edges chipped away, revealing a shiny gem within.

An emerald, perhaps…?

The entrance to the common room opened, breaking Tom of his thoughts, and Harry stepped inside. Tom motioned to him, gesturing towards the sofa he was sitting on. A few of the other boys had their heads down in their books, with Roland muttering under his breath about the unfairness that was his History of Magic essay.

“So, where were you?” asked Tom. He tried to keep his tone light, but a little bit of his intensity slipped through.

“Library.” Harry frowned. “Why?”

“Oh, nothing,” said Tom dismissively. He could feel the eyes of Alphard and Quintus on them. “Curiosity, you could say. I wouldn’t hear the end of it if you crashed on a broom again.”

Harry eyed him for a moment. “Well, you don’t have to keep tabs on me. I was going to study in the library, but lost track of time when Monty started talking to me. I kept him company for awhile.”

Tom stiffened. “Monty?”

“Yeah, that Gryffindor kid who won’t shut up. He’s cute, but harmless.” A fond smile rose on Harry’s face. “I think we’re friends now. He’s a nice kid.”

 A strange sensation writhed inside Tom’s stomach. It was sickening, nearly making him ill. He’d felt this way about something else before, during a time he’d rather forget. It’d been years and years ago; he’d been forced to watch other children being taken in by loving parents. Hopes were dashed every time when many couples briefly considered him, only to change their minds at the last minute.

But that time no longer existed to Tom - and it no longer mattered.

Tom gritted his teeth, but smiled. “How… sweet,” he purred, deadly.

The monster coiling in the pit of his stomach was green.

Chapter Text

The dawn of Sunday was going to prove Harry’s best and worst day.

Perhaps this wasn’t the smartest plan of his, Harry could admit to that. But, dammit, he had worked hard on this and he was proud of the results. Pranks weren’t his forte, even considering his heritage, but Harry was sure Sirius would be tickled pink about this one.

And Harry had a good reason, too.

All of the excuses.

Surely exposing Tom to some, ahem, stimulating material would give him a clue as to whether or not Tom could be seduced or wooed or romanced or whatever the hell Harry was supposed to do. It was the perfect way to see how Tom would react without being direct. Merlin forbid Harry be direct about… seducing or wooing or romancing or whatever the hell this was supposed to be.

‘Harry…’ The voice sounded a bit too much like the chiding voice of Hermione again. ‘Harry, it’s called dating.’

He could almost see her pinching the bridge of her nose in pure exhaustion.

Yeah, sure, whatever. It’s not like you’re here to help me figure this out, Hermione. Not like you have to actually like the bastard you’re attracted to—fuck—oh, shit, no, bad, very bad—stop thinking about that—ah, shit!

Dear Merlin, he was talking to the voice in his head now. He had officially lost his mind, hadn’t he? Was he going to turn out like Trelawney?

His inner eye was gonna go blind.

Harry had decided there was no better way to see how Tom would react than to write a spicy Gryffindor and Slytherin love letter - plus, it might even spark interhouse unity. Two birds, one stone. He was brilliant. No autographs at this time, thank you.

He’d done a pretty damn good job for a first attempt. He’d never written anything like this before and in such an old style on top of it, too. A couple of hours spent in the library and he’d figured out how they’d write in those days. His little piece started tame at first, but then it devolved rather spectacularly in as much debauchery his virgin arse could muster. He couldn’t believe he was doing this, but this was going to be the prank that would put the Marauders and the Weasley twins to shame.

They better be smiling down on him.

At breakfast, while Harry was calmly seated at the Slytherin table, the owl post brought an extra surprise with them. Owls dropped in front of every student, a folded piece of parchment in their beaks. Harry took his copy from Kasper, who had a twinkle of his own in his bright eyes. Curious hands accepted their mail one by one. There was a half a beat of silence.

And then the Great Hall erupted.

It was an uproar of sound. Everyone had their hands on a sheet of the writing. Harry had enchanted it so that anyone thirteen and below couldn’t read it. He figured the fourth years were old enough and had heard of enough about things… that it’d be fine. Merlin knows he had during his fourth year. Cedric, Fleur, and Krum had been on everyone’s minds that year, in more ways than one, and Harry had heard one too many colorful things about all three of them.

Sometimes about all three of them at the same time…

It was quite the awakening year.

The students were devouring the content immediately. The professors were no exception. Slughorn started reading his copy, eyes widening in shock, before his expression morphed into a contemplative one. He tucked the paper into his robes and went back to eating his breakfast as if nothing had happened. Merrythought was unabashedly reading it, making occasional nods of approval, while Fortinbras giggled like a schoolgirl over her shoulder. Dippet made an aghast sound, nearly falling out of his chair in horror, while Dumbledore was frozen in pure shock. Beery, the Herbology professor, a stout and short man, was rather stoic through his reading, while the young Grubbly-Plank squeaked, losing her copy in her embarrassment.

Trelawney cackled so loudly that it carried across the entire Great Hall. “Well, go on, read it,” she said, settling back in her chair and giving the professor at her side a sharp nod. “Loud enough so I can hear you, dear.”

“It’s-it’s-it’s—it’s not appropriate!” spluttered the young, female professor, Muggle Studies; she went bright red.

Trelawney didn’t appear pleased by the denial. “More's the pity.”

Marcus slammed his parchment sheet down. “This is rubbish!” he snapped. “What is this tosh?”

“Why can’t I see anything?” demanded Orion. A number of the other younger  years agreed, turning over their copies as well. Orion and Nott were trying to compare their copies, but it was blank for them. “Selena, anything for you?”

“No.” She shrugged, confused.

“Yaxley,” said Orion, calling to the nearest fourth year boy. He looked up and Harry recognized him as one of the Slytherin beaters. “Pay you five galleons if you tell us what’s on it.”

Yaxley glanced over Alphard, who shook his head sharply.

“Sorry, you’re on your own,” said Yaxley, in a thick Irish drawl. “I ain’t crossing your brother. ‘Sides this here—” He shook his head. “—not good for your young eyes.” He curled in on himself, eyes growing wider as he continued reading.

“You’re only five months older than me!”

“It’s like this was written by a keening thirteen year old girl in need,” said Sebastian, snorting, but his cheeks were slowly getting pinker by the moment. He didn’t stop reading either.

Wow, rude.

Tom stared at the paper, hands trembling, lips a white line. His jaw clenched tightly.

Harry sighed to himself. That’s not a good sign.

“This isn’t half bad,” murmured Quintus, impressed, a glint in his eyes. “I value the effort put into this. Not overtly poetic, but I do say it has a certain… charm.”

“Shall I be Godric?” asked Alphard with a purr.

Quintus shifted in his seat, his smile growing ever wider. His tongue traced against his own lips, before he slowly stepped out of the bench, away from the table. He ran the tips of his fingers against Alphard’s shoulder, his gesture filled with mischief and invitation. Alphard raised an eyebrow, turning around, resting his back against the table, and stared at him with a bemused expression.

“What’re you doing?”

Quintus extended a hand, a beckoning, entreating gesture, while he held a sheet of the ‘poetry’ in his other hand. His mischievous features lit up.

“Oh, Salazar!” His voice carried, dramatic. He threw his arms out wide.  For a moment, Alphard’s eyebrows bolted upwards into his fringe, before he smiled, fond and delighted. On Quintus cried, “Would that I, Godric, might touch but a strand of thy hair without fear for scorn! Trysts in the night quench no thirst of mine, quell no belly of hunger.”

The Great Hall went silent. Quintus held everyone’s attention - including the professors. Harry imploded, screaming internally in his head at top volume as Quintus recited his own written words. It was one thing to share this with everyone—it was a whole other cauldron of flobberworms to recite the damn thing out loud.

Fucking hell!

He wanted to die. Crawl into a hole and die. Shit. Would anyone notice if he melted into a puddle and hid beneath the table? Probably. Probably would. Shit, he wasn’t stopping either. Quintus wasn’t stopping! Maybe writing this little Godric and Salazar piece wasn’t his best idea? Maybe?

Harry darted a glance over at Tom; he had grown white.

But no one noticed Harry’s dilemma nor Tom’s fury. The sole focus was on Quintus and his performance. Alphard’s eyes gleamed. Quintus drew close, hovering a hand over his cheek. His voice rang ever loud and clear.

“Oh, that I would brush a hand against thine forevermore.” Quintus glanced at the paper, set it down onto the table, and clasped Alphard’s cheeks with both hands now. Alphard sat still, arms crossed in front of his chest, with his lips quirked upwards. “Your touch ignites the blaze of the morning sun within my soul. My aches burn anew when I catch but a glimpse of you.”

At some point, Dumbledore had scrambled to his feet, and was now striding towards them, lips so thin with displeasure, it reminded Harry of McGonagall. 

Quintus moved, placing his hands onto Alphard’s shoulders, almost on his lap now. Quintus’ voice dropped slightly, but was still clear.

“How I crave your touch - oh, that you would press lips against mine, drag teeth against mine throat, mark me as thine.”

Quintus drew back, grabbing the sheet again, holding out his hand once more, his smile wide and alight with sensual mischief. “Oh…” he purred, canting his hips in a slow, tantalizing swirl. “Oh, would that you drop all barriers, part thy curtains for me, and welcome me into thine chambers. Oh, how you’d scream—”

“Mr. Prince.”

Quintus turned around, fluidly dropping onto Alphard’s lap, legs crossing elegantly. He smiled up at Dumbledore with perfect innocence. Alphard snaked an arm around his waist, resting his chin against his shoulder.

“Yes, Professor? How might I help you?”

Dumbledore drew in a breath. “Mr. Prince,” he said, though he sounded a bit breathless himself. “Please refrain from reciting explicit material in the Great Hall.”

“Oh?” said Quintus lightly, tilting his head to the side. “Whatever do you mean? I don’t quite understand what… explicit material you’re talking about. I was merely reciting an epic love letter from one Godric Gryffindor to Salazar Slytherin himself.” He laughed, hand over his chest, breathless, all acting and everyone knew it. “Now isn’t that a grand tale - Gryffindor and Slytherin. I think it’s quite romantic. Who doesn’t adore star crossed lovers?”

“I’m sure you know this is just a prank,” said Dumbledore, shaking his head. “There’s no evidence this was written by Gryffindor - and it’s quite an explicit prank at that.”

“Oh? Was it? I’m afraid I’m far too innocent to understand your meaning. I didn’t finish it, after all.” His smile was a deadly mix of innocence and seduction. “But I suppose you did. Would you explain it, in detail, for my young, growing mind? Please, Professor?”

Dumbledore turned a shade darker. He inhaled. “Fifteen points from Slytherin, Mr. Prince. Do try to have some decorum.”

“Mmm.” Quintus merely smiled. “Of course, Professor. I always do.”

There was stillness in the air as Dumbledore strode away. A second later, the Great Hall burst into furious, hushed whispers.

“Well,” said Quintus brightly. “That was fun.” He glanced over his shoulder, shifting in Alphard’s lap; his tongue swiped over his mouth, his lower lip tucking beneath his teeth briefly. “Oh, love, having a problem?”

“Nothing you couldn’t solve,” whispered Alphard, his voice low.

Quintus laughed in pure delight.

“Merlin’s balls,” said Roland. He rubbed his bright red face, eyes peeking through spread fingers, before he nodded his head, as if he were considering something. “That was quite…”

“Yeah,” murmured Simon.

Tom stood up and strode out of the Great Hall, his dark eyes glinting with fury, lips pressed together. His strides were long and determined. Harry bolted to his feet, running after him. He’d been expecting a reaction, possibly a negative one, but this boiling rage that rippled beneath the surface was not it. It confused Harry.

“Tom!” cried Harry, catching up to him. His voice caused Tom to halt in the corridor. For a moment, Tom didn’t turn around. When he did, his expression was tight, yet impassive. “Are you all right?” he asked guardedly, tentatively taking a step closer to him, as if Tom were a rabid animal about to attack.

“Nine o’clock.”

“Sorry?”

Tom let out a huff. “Tonight. The meeting is tonight. Nine o’clock in the common room. You’re not to be late.”

“Right… Great.” There was a pause. “Are you all right?”

“Fine. Why?”

“It’s just… Well, you seem a bit angry.” Tom made a visible effort to draw in a steadying breath. “Did… you have an issue with…” Harry gestured towards the Great Hall, having no good words to put to the prank. “You know—”

“It’s atrocious!” snapped Tom, exploding suddenly. Harry blinked, shocked. “Salacious drivel meant to spend a phallus,” Tom raged on, “when such wasteful time and energy could be put to something else—something productive. It’s no wonder this school is overflowing with enfeebled minds!” His exhale was ragged, his shoulders trembling, his eyes lit with mixed emotions. “It’s an insult,” he said, his tone dropping like a stone. It was calmer now, yet harsh and sharp as a whip. “It’s obviously fake—there’s no way Slytherin would debase himself with Gryffindor. And the pestilence who wrote that will regret it.”

Okay, so never tell Tom that I’m the ‘pestilence’ who wrote that ‘salacious drivel.’ Got it.

Harry stared at Tom, watching the boy tremble with the suppressed fury, chest heaving as if he’d been running for hours. Then, the oddest, most startling realization came to his mind. Harry had just assumed—after all, most boys did according to Ron—Tom never—what in Merlin’s fucking name?

Before he could stop himself, before he had a thought for a second about what he was about to ask, Harry blurted out, “So, you don’t ever… you know…”

“Ever what?” hissed Tom.

Harry went red. “Uh…” The hell am I saying here? Burying my own arse, bloody hell. “You know.” He gestured helplessly. Tom stared; no answer. Fuck, he’s gonna make me say it. His gesturing became more wild and nervous. “Have a bit of a… bit of a…” His voice dropped to a whisper, face so hot it felt like he’d stuck it into the fireplace. “… bit of a wank…?”

Tom went pale, eyes wide with that all boiling fury.  

“Not that you have to—” rambled Harry in a rush and, oh, why the hell was he still talking about this! “Just sounded like—like you didn’t and—shit!”

He’d never seen anyone whip out their wand as fast Tom did; a vicious stinging hex slammed into his chest. The blow was so powerful, it knocked Harry off his feet, the wind expelling from his lungs. He skidded across the floor, wincing as the hard stone dug into his back.

“Fuck. Ow.”

“I am above such things—such human fallacies,” hissed Tom, advancing on him, wand shaking violently in his hands. “I am no less powerful than anyone else. Understood?”

Damn, that stinging hex killed. Geez, Tom was powerful.

Harry licked his lips, dazed and a bit confused. “What does that have anything to do with a wank?” He groaned, putting a hand over his chest, rubbing at the abused flesh. “Fuck, that hurt.” When Tom stared at him, some of his anger easing from his shoulders, Harry said, “Again, what does being more or less powerful have to do with a wank? What the fuck, Tom?”

“Most assume…” Tom’s chest heaved. His wand lowered. “Most have assumed in the past that… that if one didn’t engage in such things, then you’re inferior and worthy of scorn. I was correcting you of that notion.”

Wow.

A brush of pity rose within Harry’s heart. He’d been mocked for that, hadn’t he? How stupid and cruel. This did confirm a few things about Tom, but Harry wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do now. His purpose in coming to the past wasn’t just to save Tom, but for of them to be more than friends. They were to love each other and Harry had been led to believe it was supposed to be a romantic love.

Death had been rather clear about it.

‘True love. The greatest power, the most powerful magic that ever was. Show him love, one that could never be replaced. Be his everything. Be his friend. Be his family. Be his lover.’

Lover had… well, it brought certain images to mind.

Dammit.

So, if Tom didn’t… did that mean…

He wasn’t thinking straight. “Well, it works, right?”

Uh, oh. He pissed Tom off again. Harry swore loudly, trying to roll out of the way as another stinging hex blasted at him. It struck him in the upper back, right in the middle of his roll. Swearing up a storm beneath his breath, he pushed himself up on his elbows, watching Tom whirl away.

“Yes, it works, you imbecile!” snapped Tom. He strode down the corridor and turned the corner. His voice carried clear. “Nine o’clock and don’t be late!”

Left alone, Harry exhaled, head knocking against stone. He sighed again as he stared up at the ceiling, dragging his hands over his face and moaning deep through his lungs. This was going to be harder than he realized. Was he actually supposed to… to… oh, fucking hell, am I supposed to seduce Tom? What the actual hell, Death? Hang on, that’s not right! I’m not gonna do that shit. I didn’t ask for that—I just assumed—!

And it was almost as if he could hear Death, cackling with that raspy voice in his ears.

Think this is funny, do you? You absolute wanker. Fuck you, Death.

The common room was empty, save one, at eight thirty that night, as Harry stepped through the entrance. He’d spent most of the day in the owlery, slowly dying and unraveling inside. Not a minute hadn’t been spent mentally castrating himself for his mouth. Damn his mouth. Damn his Gryffindor impulsivity. Damn it all straight to hell and back. What was he thinking - asking Tom if he had erectile dysfunction. Geez. What the fuck!

He was going to hell.

Simple as that.

Tom was sitting in a plush armchair, long slender legs crossed, as he thumbed through a book. Never without a book, huh? Harry felt a brief emotion that seemed to borderline fondness at the scene. Until he saw her. He stiffened, watching the coiling thick muscles of a long snake.

Nagini.

He must’ve made a sound, because Tom glanced up. His smile was delicate and the book snapped shut in his hand.

“Harry, right on time,” said Tom softly. He gestured to the seat beside him, the movement elegant. “Come, I want you to sit beside me tonight.”

His breath hitched. A different Tom. Harry had seen hints of this Tom, the one who commanded the entire Slytherin house with a single word. He’d seen this Tom a handful of weeks ago, alone in the common room together, dodging cruciatus curses. Was this the truest side to Tom?

His thoughts went to earlier. He remembered the trembling, the vulnerability over sexuality, the lashing out before someone else could hurt him over said vulnerability.

All facets. All moving parts.

All puzzle pieces to the painting of Tom Riddle. 

“Come,” said Tom, his voice smooth, beckoning.

The armchair was certainly wide enough for the both of them, but they’d be nearly touching. Harry stared, not sure if he were ready for that, not after the shit he pulled earlier. Tentatively, Harry stepped forward, coming around the back of the armchair. He sat down on the edge of the seat at Tom’s side. His smile at Tom was tense.

Tom raised an eyebrow. “You don’t look comfortable, Harry, darling.”

No shit.

Harry scooted back slightly. He could feel the warmth of Tom’s body at his side. Tom gave him a smile. He gestured to Nagini, who was starting to coil around Harry’s ankles now. Harry swallowed.

“This is Nagini, my familiar,” said Tom softly.

Oh, good. It seemed that Tom decided to act as if nothing had happened earlier. Small mercies.

There was no denying it: Nagini was a beautiful snake. She was much smaller than Harry had last seen her in his timeline, curling around Voldemort’s feet, nearly twenty feet long and thicker than a plate in diameter. This Nagini was about ten feet long and her head was about half the size it would one day become. Her scales glittered, almost unnaturally, with a green and grey green pattern. Her eyes were yellow, bright with intelligence, and stared at Harry intently.

“Tom, if you don’t want me to fuck up and speak parseltongue in front of everyone, you might want to have her leave.”

Harry winced when he realized that, dammit, he’d already slipped into parseltongue without trying to - he really needed to learn how to control this.

This was already proving to be a trying night. Great.

Nagini lit up. “Another speaker! Well, color me surprised.”

Harry stiffened even more.

Her?

How’d he know Nagini was a female?

Harry was tense around Nagini, but it was different than Tom had seen others act around her, in a way he couldn’t pinpoint. It wasn’t that Harry didn’t seem to like her, but there was this odd wariness over her, as if he were waiting for her to strike him down at any moment.

“She won’t bite, you know.”

“I know.” Harry continued to eye her.

Tom sighed.

“Aren’t you an interesting one,” said Nagini, her body uncoiling and rising to face Harry. “What’s your name? Are you friends with my nestling?”

“Nestling?” said Harry, with a hint of glee. Tom’s glare couldn’t shred the joy.

“We grew up together.”

“Hm, yes, say things behind my back, why don’t you,” said Nagini, her head whipping a look over at Tom. “Not like I’d be offended.”

Tom’s second sigh was more exasperated. “I merely said we grew up together. Must you be in a mood yet again, Nagini?”

“Yes, I must. I’m cold. I’m tired of you know what.” Tom’s eyes widened in warning, but in Nagini fashion, she ignored him. “I don’t want to be here for these adorable nestling ruminations. And I’m hungry. So, whom may I eat?”

“No one!” protested Harry.

Nagini swiveled  her head towards him. “That was a joke, nestling.”

Harry sat back in his seat with relief. He frowned. “Why are you calling me nestling now?”

“You’re all nestlings. So young and stupid. Mere hatchings barely out of your eggshells.”

“She’s older by about five to ten years,” said Tom, shaking his head and pinching the bridge of his nose. “She’s always like this, acting… a bit superior. She’s quite cantankerous sometimes.”

“You’re saying something rude about me, aren’t you?”

“Yes, he is.”

“Don’t get her riled up,” snapped Tom. “She’ll be impossible.”

“I don’t know why you have a problem with her, Tom. I think she’s fantastic.”

Nagini’s tail pointed at Harry. “I like this one. He’s smart. He also smells like you and I full heartedly approve of whatever may come.”

Harry wheezed.

“Nagini…” said Tom, a dangerous lilt in his tone. “Of course you smell my scent on him. We live in the same dormitory.”

Nagini gave him a look, before there was a series of light hissing noises, her head tilted to the side as it bounced somewhat. Laughing. Daring to laugh. Tom felt heat rising in his chest.

“Right. If you say so.”

He couldn’t even scold her in private now.

“So, you say you can’t control your parseltongue, hm?” asked Nagini, drawing closer to Harry. To his credit, Harry didn’t flinch or draw away. She ducked her head beneath his hand, nuzzling him. A smile broke out on his face and he started rubbing Nagini beneath the chin. “Oh, yes, right there. Mmm…”

“Yeah, when I see a snake, I just start talking. I can’t even tell the difference.”

“My Tom can teach you.”

Harry blinked, while Tom stilled. “What?”

“Doesn’t that sound like an excellent idea? I think so. I’m excellent at coming up with brilliant ideas. The problem is no one likes to listen to them.” Nagini gave Tom a look. “This one here doesn’t like to listen. Ever. There’s never enough meat in my belly to deal with it.”

“Nagini,” hissed Tom, now a warning.

She only hissed her laughs in response, unintimidated.

But she did have a point. Teaching Harry how to control Parseltongue wasn’t the worst idea. If Harry could control it, then Tom wouldn’t have to worry about it slipping out accidentally.

His hand clenched into a fist.

Tom had been his own teacher. By necessity. Muggles never were a fan of things or people that were different. He’d learned how to control his ability very quickly. Very quickly. He could still hear their voices in his head. To this day, he knew verses upon verses of scripture, repeated over him, trying to banish the devil out of him.

Hadn’t worked, now had it?

“It’s a possibility,” said Tom carefully. He didn’t hate the idea. Not to mention, it’d give him an excuse to spend more time with Harry and discover more about him. “I wouldn’t object to giving you a few lessons.”

“I guess…”

Still in parseltongue. Of course. Lessons were going to be a necessity then.

“Nagini, do you mind terribly leaving Harry’s eyesight. Let’s see if that works.”

“Fine, I suppose I can…” said Nagini. She slithered away, curling beneath the sofa and disappearing. “You better give me something tasty for this. You know how I feel about a crowd of nestlings. Loud. Annoying.”

Tom didn’t reply to her, turning to look at Harry. “Now, how’s that?”

“Fine? I think? I hope…”

Tom chuckled. “Yes, you’re speaking English again.”

There was a sigh of relief.

Sitting this close to him, Tom couldn’t help but see the… imperfections in Harry’s face. By the look of them, it was doubtless that Harry had seen a lot of violence in his life. There were a multitude of scars on his face and Tom couldn’t help but stare at every one of them, wondering what their stories were and how they came to make their mark on Harry.

The biggest, and probably most impressive, was a strange lightning bolt scar that covered nearly half of Harry’s forehead on the right-hand side. Tom had seen glimpses of it multiple times so far, but as Harry raked a hand through his fringe with relief, Tom caught sight of it in its fullest. It certainly matched Harry’s wild nature, the lightning appearing as if it crackled in a storm across the night sky. There were multiple arms of the lighting and the scar cut through his eyebrow, too, the hair no longer growing where the lightning struck.

But that wasn’t the only scar on his face.

There were a number of general small nicks in his tan skin. They were ever so faint, barely noticeable if Tom weren’t studying him. But the most distinct were a couple of white lined scars on his cheek, one at his chin, some scratches at the bridge of his nose, and a cut beneath his lower lip. The one on his lip appeared to be the most recent.

Tom shifted in his seat; his knees pressed against Harry’s thigh. Harry sucked in his breath, eyes wide, as Tom idly reached towards his face. He drew away from him, yet Tom’s thumb dragged against Harry’s lower lip and over the scar. Those lips parted slightly in surprise.

“Where did you get this?” asked Tom softly, too curious.

Harry stared at him, frozen. Tom raised an eyebrow. Harry’s cheeks darkened, as did his eyes; his Adam’s apple contracted. Tom brushed his thumb over the scar once more, then dropped his hand; Harry’s chest expanded with breath finally.

“A fight,” whispered Harry, breathless. “Against the Dark Lord.”

That’s right… He’s mentioned that before.

“You fought against him, then?”

“Just in passing, to escape,” whispered Harry, dropping his gaze. His breath was short, as if he couldn’t get air.

“Your parents?” asked Tom with a tilt of his head. “Is that why you arrived late?”

Harry nodded.

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

“It’s fine,” choked Harry.

The clock struck nine o’clock.

The spell broke. “Ah, it’s time. Before they arrive, I know how… explosive you can be,” Tom said, raising an eyebrow. Harry threw an innocent gesture. “So, I’ll warn you. There is a little ceremony required to join. All new members do it.”

“What do I have to do?” asked Harry, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

“You’ll have to wait to find out.”

Those eyes narrowed further.

Tom didn’t explain. Alphard and Quintus were the first to enter, smiling with odd lights in their eyes when they caught sight of the two of them. They took their seats closest to Tom - well, single seat, that is. Quintus took to sitting on Alphard’s lap, his smile innocent as ever. The others of his inner circle, the rest of the boys in their dorm room, took their seats nearby.

One by one, the rest of Tom’s Knights entered the common room, while four of them brought their new recruits. Tonight, there was a total of five new recruits, including Harry. Each recruit sat next to the Knight who invited them. Each appeared a bit nervous.

“Welcome, my beloved Knights,” purred Tom, a swell of delight in his breast.

“My lord.”

Harry stiffened at his side; his hands curled into fists. Tom put a hand on Harry’s knee, giving him a look. His lip curled with amusement when Harry shied away from his touch. Tom let him. Those green eyes stared at him, a strange glimmer of light in them; it whirled with warring emotions.

What are you thinking? What’s wrong?

But Tom tore his gaze away, putting on an entreating smile to his Knights. However, before he could say anything, Harry piped up with a lengthy, “So…” His tone was bright, yet there was that same thick emotion that had appeared in his eyes. Tom didn’t understand its meaning. “What do we do here? Gobstones? Reading erotica?” Alphard snorted, while Tom gritted his teeth, trying to forget the awful exchange he’d had with Harry that morning. “I know!” he cried, rather dramatically. He paused, grinning. “Knitting.”

On second thought, perhaps Tom had been hasty in his invite.

His inner circle broke into varied sounds of amusement, with Alphard and Roland being the loudest of them. “See,” Alphard said, nodding to Harry. “I knew he’d be good for us.”

“I too want to know about these meetings,” said Belladonna Malfoy, her tone prim and proper. She eyed Tom speculatively. Abraxas sat nearby her, arms crossed, displeased by her presence. “Though I’m sure Evans’ suggestions are in jest… correct?”

“Ah, yes. He jests,” said Tom, his smile tightening. “Belladonna Malfoy, welcome.” She gave him a polite nod. “Welcome, Lilith Rowle.” He nodded at the redheaded young woman with shoulder length hair. “Magnolia Bulstrode.” The girl smiled tensely, her eyes dark, with her long black hair coming down her shoulders in waves. “Rowan Yaxley.” The boy grinned, bouncing in his seat slightly. He was a year older than his brother, Cormac, who was a fourth year beater.

Tom’s head dipped to the side; he smiled. 

“And…” It came out in another purr. “Welcome, Harry Evans.”

Harry lifted a nervous hand, waved, before dropping it, ever tense in his seat.

“The five of you have been invited to our group because we’ve seen your value,” whispered Tom. He received blushes from Rowle and Bulstrode. “We have a desire, a righteous one, to change our world. My hopes are that we will one day achieve great things.” His voice was painfully soft, barely above a whisper, and everyone leaned in closer just to hear him. “However, I won’t tell you any details. Not yet. I can’t, I’m afraid, not before a simple oath of loyalty.”

Harry was ramrod still. Stiff. Like an unbending tree. His breath was coming in short pulses in his chest. His knuckles were white; his jaw was set tight. Tom could admit that a lot of this was a bit much for a little school group who hoped for greatness, but he couldn’t risk anyone turning on him. He couldn’t let it happen again.

“You want a magical vow from us?” said Belladonna, anger bursting through her tone. She glanced at Abraxas, staring at him. “You’ve done this already?”

“It’s nothing like an unbreakable vow,” said Tom, putting up a hand to reassure her. “It’s but a simple oath. If you break it, you won’t be able to tell anyone what we spoke about here. It’s not a memory charm, per se, but… more like a confounding charm.”

Belladonna didn’t appear pleased by this.

“And if you don’t want to take the oath, then there’s the stairs,” said Tom, gesturing towards it. “I’ll not keep you here. But know that if you leave, you’ll not come back.”

Belladonna Malfoy nodded. She glanced over at Abraxas, before standing up. Gwendolyn grabbed her by the wrist, looking up at her.

“Don’t be foolish, Bella.”

“It’s my fifth year, Gwen,” said Belladonna with a shake of the head. She looked back at Tom. Her demeanor embodied the perfect little Malfoy heiress. “I’m sure this is a useful group, Mr. Riddle, but I have OWLs this year and I simply will not have the time to devote to extracurricular activities. Thank you for the invite, but I must decline.”

“Of course.”

She gave him a polite nod, before turning away. With her back turned, Tom lifted his wand and pointed it at her head.

“Obliviate.” 

Removing the memories about the invitation was simple and clean. He only took two memories away, the one where Gwendolyn invited her and the one here right now. Belladonna swayed on her feet.

“Best to get to bed, Miss Malfoy,” said Tom.

She glanced around the room, her eyes unseeing, before she gave an absent nod and walked back to her dorms.

“—the hell was that?” demanded Harry.

“I can’t have her knowing more about these,” said Tom, leaning back in his seat. Harry shifted, glaring at him. “The Slytherin house is aware we have meetings, but they don’t know why or what they’re really about. I also don’t want anyone knowing that we actively recruit. While many of the students suspect who attend, they don’t know all of them. I have secrets that I must protect.”

Harry’s lips thinned. The scar there was white against his skin.

“Do any of you reject my invitation?” asked Tom, glancing at the remaining members. There were shakes of the head. “Excellent. I’ll take your oaths of silence, then. On your knees.”

At first, the new recruits glanced between each other, obviously questioning if they wanted to do this, but with silent encouragement from the others, they slowly slipped from their seats and knelt on the floor. Tom had his wand lifted, the magic curling around the tip, when he glanced at Harry.

Harry stared at him.

“Harry?”

The light in those green eyes was ethereal. “I’m not getting on my knees, Tom.”

“Pardon?” Tom exhaled a soft laugh. “Of course, you are. You must.”

“No,” whispered Harry, his tone hard.

“I told you there would be a ceremony. It’s a magical ritual,” said Tom, frowning, confused by what brought this stubbornness on. “Just get on your knees. It’ll be over quickly.”

“I said no. I refuse.”

It was like speaking to the wall. There was no moving Harry nor convincing him, that much Tom could feel emanating from Harry’s entire body. But it didn’t make sense. Why was he fighting so much? It was simple. Get on your knees. Everyone else had done it without argument, so why couldn’t Harry do it, too?  Why was he rejecting this? What was the problem?

“It’s part of the spell, the initiation,” said Tom, trying to remain calm. “It’s part of the very magic.”

“Do I look like I give a shit?” snapped Harry. “I’m not getting on my knees!”

Tom pinched the bridge of his nose, irritation rising quickly. “Harry—”

“No.”

“On your knees,” hissed Tom.

“Hell, no!”

“Harry—”

Harry bolted to his feet with an aggravated huff. “Fuck this. Listen, Tom, I did not join this little—” He gestured wildly around the room. Some members looked affronted, while Alphard and Quintus had mildly amused expressions on their faces. “—club of yours—” and here Tom’s jaw clenched, “—just to be your little bitch.”

The air went frosty.

All amusement about the club comment disappeared. 

Harry’s smirk was tense, filled with an unquenchable flame.

“Well,” said Harry, tone flinty. “This has been fun, but if you’re going to be insulting by demanding that I get on my fucking knees, like a bitch, and kneel at your feet—well, you can just shove that shit right back up your arse. Fuck you.”

Before Tom could collect himself, could even react, Harry was out of the common room within seconds, the entrance slamming shut with an echoing bang.

Tom was shaking.

Silence.

Ice. Cold. Silence.

“I’ve changed my mind, Abraxas,” whispered Tom.

It rippled beneath his skin. The magic boiled. From the inside out, it writhed with his mounting rage. His magic coiled in the air around him, spreading out and flooding over everyone. Blood drained from every face within the room. The common room responded, the wooden snakes on the walls coming to life. They dropped to the floor, rolling around each other in a flurry.

No one was allowed to disrespect him in such a fashion.

Not even Harry Evans.

“He’s yours to educate,” said Tom quietly, slowly rising to his feet. His hands trembled; he clenched them into fists. A lamp exploded, glass shattering. Everyone flinched. “Nothing scarring or mutilating, but… it’s to be painful. When I intervene, you’re to defer to me immediately.”

With a wandless wave of the hand, Tom repaired the lamp. 

“Yes, my lord,” said Abraxas, a gleeful smile spreading through his face. “I am yours in whatever you wish. What do you want me to do to him?”

“Teach him an… unforgettable lesson.”

Harry, darling, you’re going to learn this lesson - one way or another. You should have taken that Crucio from me when you had the chance. It would have been a kind mercy.

A far kinder mercy.

He’d slept in the Room of Requirement that night.

The nerve. The audacity.

Harry knew he’d pissed off Tom, but he couldn’t help it. He had no right to be angry. Harry had tried to make his point, but he hadn’t taken the hint. Not his problem. He didn’t care if he insulted Tom in front of his little minions - should’ve thought of that before he asked Harry to get on his fucking knees. Kneel? No. No. Hell, no. Did Tom really think he was going to kneel at his feet like some dog? 

Voldemort’s Death Eaters had kneeled, had whimpered, had groveled at his bare feet - they’d been less than men, mere animals before their monstrous king. Kneeling before Tom was asking too much and Harry wasn’t going to do that. Not ever. Tom wasn’t supposed to be like Voldemort. He was supposed to be different.

But he’d seen it.

It’d been painful to sit there beside Tom, being reminded of future Death Eater meetings. Tom held the same power over his minions. It’d hurt. It had hurt so much to see Voldemort in Tom. Voldemort wasn’t supposed to be here. Only Tom.

Tom.

Harry pressed the palms of his hands into his eyes.

Those eyes burned.

His blood was boiling; his heart was broken. He didn’t go to breakfast. He made his way through the corridors, intent on spending the morning in the owlery. His stomach hurt with emotions and hunger, but he ignored it. He was in no mood to eat anything. He needed to be alone.

That little bastard!

He considered playing hooky for the rest of the day, but skipping Charms and Transfiguration probably wasn’t a smart idea, considering the teachers. He was tempted, though…

As Harry turned the corner down a long corridor, he stopped abruptly. Leaning against the wall, wand tapping against the palm of his hand, was Abraxas Malfoy. At his sides were Aaron Goyle and Neil Crabbe, as well as two other seventh years that Harry recognized from the Knight’s meeting. William Avery and Maximillian Mulciber.

Harry inhaled.

This wasn’t a friendly visit, was it?

“Evans,” said Abraxas, sneering. Five wands pointed at Harry. The five boys, all of them standing from four to seven inches taller than him, advanced on Harry. “We’ve got some things to discuss and I’m going to need…” There was a laugh. “A bit of your time.”

They corralled Harry against the wall, like wolves around their prey.

“I don’t have time,” said Harry shortly. “Shall I reschedule?”

“Oh, I’m afraid this is a mandatory discussion,” purred Abraxas. “I’ve been waiting for this day, I assure you. Class starts now. Welcome to your first lesson in pain.”

How… dramatic. Abraxas was such a Malfoy.

Five against one? Those weren’t good odds.

For them.

Chapter Text

This was necessary.

Tom leaned against the wall, right at the edge of the corner in the corridor, listening. Waiting. He hadn’t made himself known to his Knights, however. His wand was clutched in his left hand, his more dominant hand, held over his heart as he waited for Abraxas to do what he needed to do. He was there, just in case it got out of hand. Abraxas had been known to break his victims.

And Harry wasn’t to be broken.

He was to be tamed.

It wasn’t that he wanted this for Harry. Tom had hoped he would see things differently, see things his way - but time and time again, Harry proved to be so willful and belligerent. Constantly. Endlessly. And with such exhausting consistency, as well. Tom had plans for this boy, but he needed Harry to cooperate.

He would learn.

Harry needed to understand that such defiance wasn’t a comfortable way to live his life, not within the Slytherin house, not as one of Tom’s own. It would be a painful lesson, an unpleasant one, but it would be an eye opening experience. Harry would be punished and Abraxas would get over his frustrations about him. It was perfect. 

Tom would be there to gather him close, to wipe away his tears, to show him mercy. He would be his savior and Harry’s defiance would melt to yielding submission.

Carrot and stick.

He utilized both flawlessly.

“Please, you’re not a professor, so stop acting like a hotshot,” said Harry with a derisive snort, his voice carrying through the hallway. “I’m not in the mood, Malfoy. Get out of my way.”

“I’m afraid not. We have a message to deliver,” said Abraxas, a smirk in his tone. “You’ve had far too much freedom for a mudblood around here—”

“Oh, for the love of—I’m a halfblood, you blood obsessed arse—”

“—and,” continued Abraxas with an annoyed hiss. “It’s time you learned your place. We won’t have you insult our lord in such a manner.”

“I’m not gonna get on my fucking knees for him!” snapped Harry hotly. “I’ve made that very clear. It’s not my problem that the lot of you are so stupid that you can’t understand English—for fuck’s sake, get out of my way. I’m tired of your shit.”

Harry had such an elegant way with words. So coarse. So uncouth. Tom pursed his lips. Yet another thing he’d have to work on with Harry. Later, though.

“Our lord sent us to teach you a lesson and you’re not going anywhere until class is over.”

There was a long pause.

“Wait.” A pause. “Tom sent you?”

He had to strain his ears to hear Harry, hear the quiet, hollow surprise, the wounded echo with his voice. Betrayal. Tom’s chest expanded, a suck of air slipping in between his parted lips. Something hurt - what or why, he didn’t understand - and Tom grabbed at his robes, knuckles whitening as his fingers twisted through the fabric.

What was this pain?

“Of course he sent us,” said Abraxas, mocking. “We’re here on his orders. Did you think otherwise?” He laughed harshly. “Our lord is furious with you, so be a good little boy and take your medicine.”

“Tom sent you?”

“I just said that, Evans—you sure you’re not the one who can’t understand English?”

There was a pause.

“I see.”

It was even quieter. Such disappointment. 

That same pain laced through Tom once more.

“Fuck off, Malfoy,” said Harry, his tone hard. “You’re a disgusting disgrace to the Malfoy family name—” He scoffed. “On your knees for someone else? Pathetic.”

Oh, my darling Harry, that wasn’t smart.

“Crucio!”

Oh, dear. There would be screams now, though they’d be delicious lovely little screams. What a pity. The lesson would be a harsher one, a crueler one. He briefly wondered how Harry would scream. Was it high in pitch or low from the gut? Would he cry? How long would he last?

Wait…

There were no screams.

Did it miss? For Salazar’s sake, did you miss, Abraxas? Or was it not powerful enough? Tom huffed. The incompetence - he was surrounded by constant, endless incompetence, dear Morgana. It didn’t surprise him, though; few had the prowess for darker spells. He rolled his eyes. Did he have to do everything—Abraxas let out a squawk of surprise, his friends echoing the same, and then chaos erupted. Spell lights burst into life, illuminating the dim corridor with multi-colored flashes - red, blue, yellow, green - voices clashing with incantations and crude cursing.

Tom rounded the corner, wand lifted, to see a sight of exquisite beauty that he had not been expecting.

Harry was fighting.

Virulent.

Elegant like a panther in the night.

He stood his ground against the five seventh years, wand whipping spell after spell, deflecting one spell after another. There was no end to them. There was no flinching or cowering away. Spells smashed against a bright and powerful protego shield. The magic - Harry’s magic - rushed down the corridor, the flame lit torches flickering out, its intense energy flooding over Tom and filling him with such heat, such potency, and with such breathless awe at its sheer weight over him.

The rush of it!

It was power, true power, beyond anything Tom had ever felt before from another student. This—creature, what on earth—

 Curses were flying; two of them cut through Harry’s trousers, blood pooling from a wound. He didn’t even flinch. He didn’t even notice. The five seventh years tried to crowd around Harry, but they couldn’t. One versus five - Harry was advancing on them, forcing the group to fall back.

Who is this man?

And the way Harry moved.

He hadn’t danced like this in their DADA classes. He had fumbled, dodged clumsily, threw a handful of spells, before landing on his back. He had been sheepish with every fight, shrugging it off without even a shred of frustration at his lack of talent. Every class, never changing. Every class… had been the exact same. Every time.

He was throwing every fight?

Every single one of them?

But this—this was a thing of beauty, the way Harry weaved through spells, hunched slightly, bent at the knees, few spells making their mark on him. Tom had never seen anyone duel like this—fight like this. And his expression… Salazar, it was a sight. Harry’s jaw was set in a grim clench, his eyes bright with the light of his spells, a bead of sweat trickling down his temple. His spells were wordless for the most part, but he wielded his wand like a blade. It snapped and sliced, multiple colors bursting from the tip of his wand.

Harry Evans was far more than Tom had dreamed he could be.

A geode?

How laughable. This creature was the polished gem of a diamond.

But then a spell slipped through his defenses. “Imperio!” Abraxas roared. The sickly light slammed into Harry’s chest. He stopped, head bowed, chest heaving. Tom let out a breath, lightheaded, head pounding. He inhaled greedily. And that was that. Well, that had been illuminating. He had so many questions, so many thoughts, so many things to find out. He wouldn’t—couldn’t let Abraxas punish Harry now. No, Harry was too—

Harry’s head lifted; his eyes glittered.

“Is that really the best you can do?”

Tom reeled. What the hell!?

This threw the tide to Harry’s favor. The seventh years drew back, visibly shaken. Harry took advantage of this and struck without mercy; a flurry of stunners snapped out, each nailing their victim in the chest. The five boys had little composure to dodge and they each fell to the ground with a harsh landing.

He can throw the Imperius curse?!

A spell whizzed past Tom’s cheek. Hot. Burning. It drew blood. Tom lifted his thumb, brushing the blood away, inaudible chuckles expanding his lungs. He glanced up and met those eyes - those eyes that raged with a fiery light that echoed the eerie glow of the killing curse.

Gems of death.

“What the hell, really?” snarled Harry, glaring at him, striding towards Tom. He motioned backwards at the downed forms of the Knights. “You sicced your fucking seventh years on me?  You won’t even face me yourself? You’re a coward, Tom.”

He was breathless. Confused. Shaking. With pure excitement. Dizzy. Wanted to know more. See more. Who are you? What are you? “There is always a hierarchy in Slytherin,” Tom said in a low voice, heart racing, blood roaring in his ears. He ignored the coward comment—he could barely think. This never happened to him. He always had his mind about him, through every problem and through every circumstance. “You’ve ignored it too long. You can’t upset the balance. Plus, you made me look like a fool among my Knights. I can’t let you go unpunished for that. I needed you to understand that—understand that you must respect it.”

“I am not one of your Slytherins!” shouted Harry, cheeks dark. “I’m not one of them!”

“But you are,” said Tom quietly, puzzled, still unable to control the trembling that shook his body, mind, and soul. Why the rejection— “The day you were sorted and—”

“I will never just be one of your little Slytherins, Knights, minions or whatever the hell you call your friends!” shouted Harry, hand slicing through the air. “I am more than that!”

“More?” echoed Tom with a breathy laugh. What? What more could there be? Ally? Friend? Whatever did Harry mean by that? “I…” He frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“Fuck you!”

Harry whipped out a stunner, just as Tom cracked a powerful shield with a jerk of his wand.

And the duel began.

It was completely different now. Class had been a terrible, pathetic echo of Harry’s abilities, his range of pure power. Tom could see it in every flexing muscle, every step, and in every spell. Harry was a fighter, quick, battle worn - he’d seen things. What, Tom would give everything to know, to learn, to uncover every crevice of this boy’s soul - he wanted to know it all.

No one had ever been able to keep up with Tom. He’d always prided himself on his prowess as a dueler, as a wizard.

But Harry was not only keeping up, he was outdoing Tom.

And Tom couldn’t have that.

His movements put pressure on Harry, slowly closing the distance between them. Tom effectively blocked his attacks and the sweat was now dripping down Harry’s temples, his breathing a bit more labored. But his form was on point, never wavering even when his body slowly grew weaker.

When they were but a few feet away, Tom lashed out with a powerful final curse.

“Crucio!”

It struck home. With a pained cry, Harry toppled backwards, landing hard on his back. He didn’t scream. Tom lifted the spell quickly, holding it barely for a second. He stood over him, wand pointed at Harry’s chest; he waited a moment, catching his breath.

Harry glared up at him, eyes ever alight with flames.

“Is that the best you can do?” said Harry with a sneer. “I’ve had far worse than that.”

What? Wait… someone has used the cruciatus curse on him before?

Tom pointed his wand at Harry’s forehead. “I believe this duel is over,” he said; his voice came out in a rasp. “I’ve won.”

Harry laughed.

He laughed.

“Won?” said Harry; his next sound was a bark of dark amusement. “What makes you think you’ve won?”

“You’re a downed opponent, Harry, darling,” said Tom, his purr rough. His lips curled. “And you’re on your back, while I stand over you.”

Harry smirked. “Are you sure?”

And he lashed out.

A foot kicked Tom in the shin. Hard. Pain exploded through his very bone. The crack echoed down the corridor. Tom buckled and went down to the stone floor with a hoarse, “Bloody hell!” He landed onto his side, elbow smashing into the stone. He rolled onto his back, trying to sit up, gritting his teeth through the agonizing pain - something he hadn’t experienced in years. “Resorting to muggle tactics, how boorish—”

A fist punched Tom in the face and he slammed back down to the ground with a grunting cry.

For a moment, Tom didn’t move, sharp pain still ravaging his shin. Blood pooled into his mouth; his lip was split. Tom wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, shifting to look up at Harry, who was trembling as he glared down at Tom with cold eyes.

“You learn some things, you know,” said Harry in a soft, yet harsh whisper. “When fighting against the Dark Lord.”

“You’ve faced him often, then?” whispered Tom.

Harry didn’t answer.

“How fitting,” said Tom, pushing himself up into a sitting position. “The halfblood using muggle tactics to overcome the wizard.”

“Oh, shut up about blood,” snapped Harry. “Don’t bring that shit into this. It’s not like you’re a pureblood either. You sicced those seventh years on me because you’re angry over the fact that I don’t play by your rules. But you’ve known this. I’ve told you since the beginning that I don’t give a shit about your stupid Slytherin politics and hierarchy - and yet over and over again you keep trying to shove it down my throat.”

Harry took a step closer, standing over him like a predator.

Tom’s breath caught in his throat. He resisted the urge to crawl backwards.

“So, here’s your warning, cut this shit out. I’m not going to kneel. I’m not going to bend. And I am not gonna break. If the Dark Lord couldn’t break me, you sure as hell can’t. If you want something from me, you come to me as an equal.”

Break him?

An equal?

He had so many questions. Harry wasn’t going to answer anything directly, especially now, about his past. Tom would have to slowly extract those things. When he got overly angry or emotional, however, it would appear the control over his tongue loosened.

Interesting.

Instead, Tom gritted his teeth. “Why hide your abilities?”

“You underestimated me,” said Harry; he smirked. “And that’s what I wanted.  Being underestimated is a shield of protection. You’ve got to use everything you’ve got in fights or else you die.”

Die…

So, he’s been in life or death situations.

Tom frowned. Was he telling the truth about the Basilisk? But…

Harry turned away. He took a few steps, before glancing back. His lips quirked slightly. “Oh, and, not sure if you noticed, but… I guess you’re the one on the ground now. Does this mean you’ll be kneeling at my feet, then?”

He disappeared around the corner.

Tom didn’t understand why his face was so overheated all the way to the tips of his ears. There were so many things brewing inside his chest that he had no way of comprehending it all. He clenched his jaw. Tom stumbled to his feet, putting all his weight against the wall, silently hissing and wincing in pain. He threw a glare at the unconscious group, before he looked back down the corridor where Harry had left.

An equal… hm?

Well, Harry was the first that Tom had ever considered such a possibility.

He had struggled to get back to the Slytherin common room. He hadn’t bothered lifting the stunners on Abraxas and the others. He refused to look weak around them. Besides, they deserved it, so incompetent that Harry beat them, even though they outnumbered him - never mind the fact that they were older. When Tom arrived inside the common room, he sent Simon to rouse them if they weren’t awake by now. Roland, Marcus, and Sebastian didn’t notice anything as he walked by. With gritted teeth, Tom made his way up the dorm stairs, managing to appear in ‘fine’ condition, before he collapsed onto his back in bed, legs dangling off the edge. He stared up at the ceiling, mind in a whirl.

But, of course, Alphard and Quintus always knew when something was off. Within minutes, they were at his side, clucking over him like the hens that they were. Tom sat on the edge of his bed, a conjured ice pack on his shin, while Alphard was at his side, checking the rest of his injuries. Quintus knelt beside the bed, checking on Tom’s shin and ankle.

It didn’t take them long to drag some of the story out of Tom.

“Well, you really…” began Alphard, wiping the blood from Tom’s lips. “Epically,  monumentally, astronomically - and I mean this with the utmost respect - fucked up.”

Tom narrowed his eyes.

“Respectfully,” said Alphard, giving him a look that suggested otherwise. He shook his head. “Come on, Tom, what were you expecting to happen, honestly? You throw that twat Malfoy at him and you thought you’d get on his good side?” He rolled his eyes. “Honey, not vinegar.”

“This is not how you make friends, Tom,” said Quintus, his tone light, but with a hint of condescension. Damn these two. Alphard handed him the used, bloodied rag and Quintus gave him a fresh one, wet with cold water. Alphard applied it to the split lip. Tom gave a sharp intake of breath at the pain, but bore it without any other revelation of hurt.

“I wasn’t trying to make friends,” hissed Tom.

“Harry takes a delicate touch,” said Quintus softly. “He’s been here for a month and we can tell you don’t… dislike him. You’ve welcomed him among us rather quickly, in fact. Quite… unusual.”

“It took us eight months of consistent hard work to crack open your shell in our first year,” said Alphard with a huff. “Little Harry Evans gets it in a month without even trying?” He huffed again, more exaggerated now. “I’m jealous.”

“We know you have a thing for him—”

“Excuse me, a thing?”

Quintus put up his hands in surrender. “Not what I meant,” he said delicately. Tom glared at him, but he was undeterred. “But we’ve noticed you’re drawn to him.”

“He’s… interesting,” said Tom, lips thinned in annoyance. So many mysteries to unravel. “He’s different.”

And powerful.

Exquisitely so.

“Quite.” Quintus smiled. “Exactly, he’s different, interesting, a new shiny person to discover - we get it. And he’s not your… usual Slytherin. He’s more of a wild thing.”

“A wildcat who bared his teeth,” said Alphard, grinning, “and bit you.”

“Oddly… Harry has the least self-preservation I’ve ever seen in a Slytherin.” Quintus gave him a pointed look. “He must have other Slytherin qualities, then, to make up for that.”

Alphard stroked his chin briefly. “He’s hiding them, if so.”

That’s right… Harry had hidden his dueling skills and had done it so well that even Tom hadn’t seen it. Pride hadn’t mattered to Harry; he lost to the weakest of their classmates. That’s certainly a Slytherin thing to do. What else is he hiding?

“At any rate, do try to avoid this, yeah?” said Quintus, his tone ever light, even entreating now. “You wouldn’t want things to get worse between you, would you?” When he got no answer, Quintus smiled, benignly, and slapped Bruisewort Balm onto his skin right where Harry had kicked Tom in the shin. Tom would never admit that he had yelped. Never. He shot Quintus a glare while he rubbed the salve into the bruise, much more gently now, his expression innocent as ever. “Oh, dear. Too rough? Pardon me.” Tom glowered. Quintus’ expression softened and he sighed. “Really, Tom, you should make an effort to patch things up with Harry. If you don’t want to drive a wedge between you two, then you cannot let this fester.”

Tom didn’t answer yet again, frustrated, angry, and furious with himself for brooding over this. He gave the two of them a sharp nod. He wasn’t sure what he’d say when he faced Harry again, but he’d never been unable to soothe ruffled feathers before. A few gentle words, flash a smile or two, and Harry wouldn’t stay angry at him for long. That always seemed to work for Tom.

He’d get over it.

They always did.

But Harry never showed up for the rest of his Monday classes.

None of the professors seemed to know where he’d gone either. Any time a professor asked his whereabouts, Tom lied for him. “He’s a bit under the weather,” he would say, smiling ever smoothly. “He’s resting in our dorm room.”

And the teachers wouldn’t argue about it.

But the day continued and Harry didn’t show up for dinner, nor did he come back to the dorm room that night. Tom waited, watching, unable to sleep. It was only a number of hours after midnight that sleep claimed him.

And Harry wasn’t there when he woke.

“Where the hell is Harry Evans?” demanded Tom, the following morning, as he walked down the staircase into the Slytherin common room. Fury flared through his chest. The heads of his Slytherins whipped to look up at him. They all glanced between one another, before looking back at him, shaking their heads.

“He’ll turn up,” said Roland. He gestured with a wave. “He has to, it’s not like he left the castle. He probably slept in the owlery or something.”

“He’s always got owl feathers in his hair,” said Sebastian with a sniff. “Smells like a barn.”

Tom inhaled, trying to calm down. “Go to breakfast,” he said shortly. “I’ll check the owlery.”

He left the common room without looking back. Students cleared the way for his long, purposeful strides as he made his way to the owlery, up the long winding stairs. He stepped inside, listening to the hoots, screeches, and occasional barks of the owls. He looked around, but the owlery was empty of people. Near a corner, on a low hanging branch, sat a snowy white owl. Tom took a few steps towards it.

“You’re Harry’s owl, aren’t you?”

If a bird could glare, Tom was sure it was doing just so with its baleful yellow eyes.

“You wouldn’t happen to know where your owner is, would you?”

The owl screeched, flapping its long wings, almost as if it wanted to whack him over the head. Tom wasn’t a fan of birds, much preferring a companion like Nagini - even if she did have a sharp, unruly tongue. Harry’s owl seemed to be as ornery as its owner. Lovely.

“Would you take him a message, then? He’s missing.”

The snowy owl burst into the air in a powerful flutter of wings. It soared high, landing on one of the highest perches in the owlery. It screeched down at him, twisting its head and clicking its beak aggressively.

Tom sighed.

Harry wasn’t at breakfast.

He missed Potions.

He wasn’t at lunch either.

This feeling in his chest… He was concerned now. It wasn’t like the feeling he’d had when Tom had watched Harry crash into the ground on that damn broomstick - but it was just as unpleasant. It was the beginning of DADA class and Harry was nowhere to be seen. What was going on with him? Where did he go? Where was he hiding? Why was he hiding? Why couldn’t he face Tom head on, like he always had before? This was so unlike Harry. This didn’t make sense—Harry didn’t make a lick of sense.

Tom was brooding too much and he hated it.

Merrythought narrowed her eyes, just as the classroom doors closed. Displeasure and disappointment flushed through her features. Lips straight, she turned towards the rest of the class.

The doors open.

Harry stepped into the room, bedraggled, robes wrinkled, with bags beneath his eyes. His clothes were the same as they’d been on Monday, his trousers still ripped and bloodstained. He… He did not look all that well. Tom was sure the boy hadn’t eaten anything. Dammit, Harry. As Harry met his gaze, those eyes were tired, but the light there spoke of his strength.

And his fury.

Harry…

“Ah, Mr. Evans,” said Merrythought, a smile curling at her mouth. “I wasn’t sure if you’d come to my class. I’ve heard you’ve been under the weather.”

Harry barely acknowledged this. He took a step forward, wand gripped in his hand, and faced Tom. He pointed his wand straight at him, a challenge in his eyes.

“Oho…” purred Merrythought and there was a hint of pure glee in her tone. She pressed her hands together. “Oh, is it time? Tired of those essays, are we? Are we ready now, Mr. Evans?”

Harry gave her a short nod.

Her smile was that of a Cheshire cat. “Excellent.”

She turned around, wand snapping from her sleeve into her hand. She swirled it in the air and, as she activated the magic, the room began to shift and change at her command. The desks and chairs pushed to the edges of the room, transforming and melding into the wall. With another flick of her wand, a section of the room at the back lifted, creating a ledge with a handrail and stairs at either side of it.

“Everyone out of the way!” cried Merrythought, delight and utter excitement in her voice. “Up, up, up!” she added swiftly, taking the stairs two by two. She whirled around, a hand pressed at the rail, her eyes alight with that all disturbing glee. The students, though confused, followed after her, taking their spots behind the guardrail. Alphard and Quintus stood side by side, arms folded, gazes intense. The others of their dorm had no idea about Harry. Roland and Simon were talking to each other, while Marcus and Sebastian appeared bored.

“Professor?” asked one of the Gryffindors, a Weasley, if Tom wasn’t mistaken. “What’s going on? Riddle is going to wipe the floor with Evans. He hasn’t a chance.”

“Don’t be too sure of that, Mr. Weasley. Appearances are always deceiving.”

With another sharp flick of her wand, the room shifted once again. The once wooden classroom became rocky with stone terrain, boulders of massive size sprouting up around Tom and Harry. Mist flooded through the room and Tom had to refrain from rolling his eyes. Merrythought could be so dramatic.

Harry was immoveable. He stood before Tom, waiting.

“Students, watch carefully,” said Merrythought, her voice dropping somewhat. “You’re about to witness a fight between two different class of fighters. One, a well trained student, a prodigy one could say, perfect in his technique, execution, and form. The other, a survivalist. This one has seen things - things you sweet little dunderheads should hope you never see.” She grinned, alight with dark delight. “This isn’t a duel, children. This is a battle.”

“Evans? Really?” cried one of the Gryffindor girls. “He lost to me and I’m the worst in the class.”

“Just shut up and watch,” snapped Merrythought, but without much heat. “Learn from this. You should hope you never have to see a fight like this, let alone experience it first hand.” She gestured towards Harry and Tom. “Anything goes—just don’t kill each other. Loser is the first to lose consciousness.”

There was a chorus of squawks from the students, “What?!”

Merrythought sighed. “Fine,” she lamented. “Whoever concedes.” Her smile turned dark. “Though I suspect neither of them will.” 

Harry shed his outer robes, tossing them aside. He pulled at his tie, loosening it and pulling it off, letting it drop to the ground. He rolled his sleeves past his elbows, revealing tanned skin. White scars reflected against the light. Tom let out a low laugh.

“I know your secrets, Harry, darling,” said Tom, sliding a leg back and lifting his wand, assuming the proper form for beginning a duel. “You’re not going to surprise me today.”

Harry settled into an odd stance, knees bent, with his wand at the ready. “You sure about that, Tom?”

Tom gritted his teeth. “Quite.”

The second Merrythought shouted, “DUEL!” Harry whipped out a wordless bombarda, exploding the rock face next to Tom, sending debris and bits of stone into the air. Tom cursed under his breath, ducking out of the way, as he was pelted with pebbles. Dust choked the breath out of his lungs. The debris clouded the air, coating the mist.

Harry had disappeared.

A thrill ghosted up Tom’s spine. He heard it first before he saw the flash of red light. He ducked, dropping to a crouch; a second blast of red light exploded the ground right in front of him. Tom fell back just in time to narrowly avoid it, a shocked sound escaping his mouth. He rolled out of the way, scrambling to his feet to hide behind a boulder.

“Still think you know anything about me?” asked Harry, his voice echoing throughout the entire room. It didn’t reveal his location. A spell—

Tom blew out sharp, breathy exhales, the thrill now coursing through his veins. He smiled. Well, maybe Harry was an equal, after all. He had found one. An equal. Someone to match him. The soft, shocked laugh that broke through his composure shook him to his core.

Excitement filled his veins, liquid adrenaline fueling his body with strength.

Tom ripped his tie off, tearing off his outer robes as well as the coat jacket. He didn’t care where it fell. He shoved his sleeves as high as they’d go up his arms.

An equal.

“Finally taking me seriously now?”

“Yes,” whispered Tom.

He exploded forth. His wand whipped out like a lash, multiple spells jetting from it, the range of colors creating a rainbow within the classroom. Tom forgot everything and everyone. It was just him and Harry, who met his curses and hexes with equal force and equal power. Sparks shattered all around them. No spell yielded to the other. No curse slipped either’s defenses.

Tom had never used so much of his actual body in a duel like this. Harry was constantly on the move, his legwork an elegant and lithe dance among the spell lights. Tom was forced to match him, advancing on him as best as he could. But whatever distance he managed to close between them, Harry would surprise him with a different, wild tactic, the distance widening once more.

And Harry was lethal.

This Harry. Strange, wild, no tact, more chaotic than the weather in London - Harry Evans, average student, terrible Slytherin. He was lethal. He used spells that Tom had never seen before and he couldn’t help but wonder in delight about what they would do if they struck their target.

He wasn’t going to find out, though.

Not if he could help it.

Tom slapped a hand onto one of the nearest boulders, willing the magic to obey him, his mind flooded with transfiguration theory. The boulder shifted, answering his command, and the stone crackled, transforming into a long snake.

It charged after Harry.

Harry gritted his teeth, his wand snapping out with another spell. It glanced off the stone snake’s back.

“Shit,” growled Harry.

He ran and the snake launched after him. It caged him against a boulder, coiling in front of him, waiting for Tom’s final command. Tom strode closer, wand raised.

“Yield,” said Tom.

Harry laughed.

The snake lunged. Harry ducked and rolled forward, the stone snake crashing right into the boulder where Harry’s head had just been. On his back, Harry threw another bombarda at the boulder and the stone shattered around them both.

But this time, Tom was ready for it. 

He straddled Harry, knees clenched at his chest, and his wand digging into Harry’s throat, while his right hand trapped Harry’s left wrist. Tom gritted his teeth; the holly wand pressed at his sternum. Hard. A promise.

Indomitable dark brown eyes bored into ethereal green.

They both heaved for breath; debris clattered to the floor, dust slowly falling.

“Do you yield?” asked Tom. He pushed his wand in a little more. Harry narrowed his eyes, cheeks dark. Tom hunched closer to him, their noses barely an inch away. “Do you yield?” His demand was a harsh whisper, almost the hiss of parseltongue.

“Never.”

Tom stared down at him, feeling the rise and fall of Harry’s chest beneath him. He looked into those eyes, trying to understand this stubbornness and why it existed.

But there were no answers.

Only more questions.

However, he did glean one thing: Harry would lie there for a thousand years before he would yield, before he would give in to his opponent.

Fascinating.

“I yield,” said Tom and in a fluid movement, he extracted himself away from Harry and held out a hand towards him. For a moment, Harry didn’t move, until, slowly, he accepted Tom’s proffered hand and allowed himself to be pulled up. Harry let go immediately, drawing away from him, gaze low.

“You duel as well as ever,” said Tom, trying to be pleasant.

Harry grunted.

How to break through this barrier…

“So, about those parseltongue lessons,” said Tom, his tone light, though his voice was only for Harry to hear. The rest of their classmates were talking wildly among themselves, all of them having lost their minds by the duel - fully out of earshot. Their dorm mates were flabbergasted. “I was thinking we could start Saturday evening, hm? I’m sure we could find a classroom and—”

“I’m good, thanks.”

Tom bit the back of his lip briefly to stay calm. “It’s a talent that would go wasted if you—”

“Why the hell are you acting like everything is fine?” demanded Harry, his head snapping up. His gaze was hard. “I’m still pissed about yesterday.”

Oh, that was right. Quintus had said to patch things up.

“Let’s call a truce, hm?” said Tom, his smile smooth and delicate. When he didn’t answer, he continued, “You can’t stay mad at me forever, Harry, darling. Not for long.”

Harry looked at him. His smile didn’t reach his eyes. His exhale was tired and hurt. “Fuck you, Riddle.” And he whirled around, striding away.

“So, is that a no to the parseltongue lessons, then?” called Tom mildly.

Harry turned around, walking backwards, throwing up both of his hands into the air, proudly displaying two v-signs. He snapped his hands towards Tom for emphasis, before turning back around and walking away out of the classroom. The doors slammed shut ominously.

And the frustrated confusion roiled within.

Chapter Text

Bastard.

Fucking arsehole.

Fuck you, Tom, you son of a bitch. Fuck you - everything about you. Go to hell and burn for eternity there.

Harry fumed. The owls above made little noises of annoyance as he paced the floor of the owlery, his steps cracking leftover bones. Not even Kasper could calm him down. He was so furious with Tom. How could he act like nothing was wrong? How clueless could someone be? He thought Tom was more intelligent than this.

He paused, hands on his hips, chest heaving again and again. He put a hand over his heart. It hurt. Everything hurt. He understood his feelings better now and it just made everything that much worse. He hadn’t been in this much pain and turmoil since Sirius’ death. Why did it have to be Tom Riddle who was doing this to him?

It was just a fight.

Just a little fight.

Simple.

That was all.

Right?

He shouldn’t be making a big deal of this. Right? But no. Harry had to have some boundaries with this bastard. He didn’t come back here to be one of Tom’s baby Death Eaters.

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose. He rubbed his eyes; they were damp.

He hated feeling this way.

He’d slept in the Room of Requirement last night - well, for the past couple of nights. It hadn’t been better, but at least he’d been alone. The bedroom had reminded him too much of his own dormitory in the Gryffindor tower. Harry knew he couldn’t always hide. He couldn’t avoid all of the other boys forever and he couldn’t avoid Tom forever, either.

But, tonight after the fight in class, that didn’t stop him from hiding until one o’clock in the morning, well after curfew, to go back to the dormitory in the hopes that everyone would be asleep.

He was wrong.

The second Harry walked into the dorm room after one o’clock in the morning, he was accosted by all six boys.

Dammit.

“About time!” said Sebastian, exploding first from his spot on his bed. “I got questions. What the bloody hell was that?”

“And you expected us to be asleep after that show?” said Alphard with a smirk. He shook his head. “Absolutely not.”

Harry ignored them, walking to his bed and sitting down. He was starting to reconsider coming back to the dorms. He was about to pull his curtains shut, hell bent on ignoring them all, when Simon - of all the boys - whipped out his wand and pointed it at Harry.

“Don’t. We need to talk.”

Harry crossed his arms in front of his chest. “About what?” He refused to look at Tom, who was staring at him with those dark eyes. 

“Oh, I dunno,” said Roland with an over exaggerated shrug. “Maybe about how damn good you are at dueling?”

“Good? Good? Since when are you excellent at dueling?” demanded Marcus. “You’ve been an embarrassment since the beginning of class.”

Harry shrugged, half baiting them, half not caring.

“But not in other areas…” said Quintus idly. “From my understanding, you’ve excelled in everything else.”

“Excelled is a strong word,” said Harry. “I’m competent.”

“And that’s an understatement,” said Alphard, giving him a look. “Slughorn had nothing but praises for your skills in potions. Same with your charms work. Dumbledore has made no comments against you and that says a lot.”

“And yet…” murmured Tom, his voice slow and smooth as silk. Harry glanced over at him, but kept his gaze at the left of his chest. He wouldn’t meet his eyes. “You underperformed on purpose in Defense. Why?”

“I told you why.”

“You gave a little bit of an explanation,” said Tom, the darkness flaring in his eyes. “But not enough. I want more.”

He’s missing the point.

He was ignoring the real problem, the real issue. Harry sat there, staring at him, and the hurt just ached all the more. Tom didn’t see where he’d gone wrong. No, he was frustrated with Harry, for hiding his abilities in dueling. If Tom couldn’t see where he’d gone wrong here, how could they be anything more than just ‘friendly’ rivals?

Pain raced through Harry’s heart.

He stood up. His wand was in his hand. The other boys took a step back, eyes flitting over to Tom, silently seeking his command. Worry bloomed across Quintus and Alphard’s faces. Roland threw up his hands in surrender, while Marcus and Sebastian tensed. Simon gripped his wand harder.

Harry glared at Tom, who returned his gaze with glacial eyes.

“Want more, do you?” He let out a harsh laugh. “You underestimated me,” Harry whispered, his magic flaring out through the room. A warning. The other boys gasped in unison, breaths catching in their throats. Harry took a step closer, wand slowly rising. “And the funny thing is, you still do. Fine by me. Go ahead. Not my fault you’re slow at comprehending the simplest of concepts.” He stopped a foot away from Tom and his wand lifted, pointing a mere inch away from Tom’s chin. “I told you once before, but I’ll say it again since you conveniently keep ignoring it.”

The magic went heavy in the air. The gasps from the other boys turned more desperate. Tom gave little indication that it had now become a struggle to breathe; he continued to stare down at Harry with emotion whirling in his eyes, the expression filled with so much curious hunger and overwhelming desire to know and understand Harry more.

Fuck this guy.

“I will not kneel at your feet, Tom Riddle,” said Harry, his voice carrying through the room. “I will not bend. I will not break. If you think you can bully me, send your pathetic goons at me, and ignore what I’m saying, you have another thing coming. I told you: if you want something from me, you treat me like an equal.”

What would that be like? Would there ever be a time where they weren’t at each other’s throats, wanting nothing more than to tear each other apart? An equal? Was it possible? Being close to the other boys, even the annoying ones, seemed more in reach than having any sort of connection to Tom.

Harry couldn’t breathe either.

He gestured to the other boys. “You don’t treat them like equals. I’m not blind. I see it,” Harry said sharply, his voice a little hoarse. The other boys stiffened further, while Quintus glanced away, a flash of hurt slipping through the mask. Alphard’s fists clenched. “They’re your friends, but this whole Slytherin dynamic is utter bullocks. I don’t know why they let you do that to them. But it’s time you learn that I’m not like them. I’ve been through shit—a lot of it. I know how to survive. You thought you could overpower me, force me to bend, and you got a rude awakening.”

Tom was shaking; his lips were white, chest rising and falling in quick succession.

“You know what you remind me of?” whispered Harry. The tip of his holly wand touched the hollow of Tom’s chin. “You remind me of a child pitching a fit after being told no.”

Fury rushed into Tom’s eyes. A chill entered the air, along with Harry’s magic. The walls shifted in an all too familiar way. The wooden decorative snakes were answering Tom’s coiling magic, slowly twisting on the walls. Tom’s jaw clenched, his fists shaking at his sides.

Harry exhaled another laugh, more derisive now. “See? You’re still pitching a fit.” Tom gritted his teeth, while Harry leaned forward, wand dropping to his side; he hovered over Tom’s shoulder. Harry smirked and said, loud enough for the other boy to hear, “Besides, didn’t I get you on your knees?”

He pulled away, but not before he felt heat rush from Tom’s body. The magic of the room stopped cold, the snakes freezing in place. Harry turned away, walking back to his bed. He sat down and folded his arms, his magic slowly dissipating. The rest of the other boys took sharp gasps. Roland doubled over, heaving gulping breaths. Tom’s chest rose and fell with one deep breath.

“What the hell was that?” murmured Sebastian.

“I’m done,” said Harry, shaking his head and finally dropping his gaze. “You act like everything is fine after you tried to have me tortured by Malfoy and his buddies. Well—” Harry lifted a hand and flipped Tom off. “—fuck you, Tom, because you’re a right bastard.”

And with that, Harry rolled onto his bed and swiftly shut his curtains. He threw up warding spells immediately. He sat there on his knees, chest rising with a rush of adrenaline. He listened, waited, wand still gripped in his hand as he tensed for a fight.

But a fight didn’t come.

“His magic is something else, isn’t it?” said Simon.

“I don’t think Harry is pleased with you,” whispered Quintus.

“No shit,” muttered Roland.

“Go to bed,” snapped Tom.

There were a couple of rustles, as a few of the boys instantly obeyed. But Harry could tell that not all of them did.

“How are you going to fix this?” said Alphard, his voice low. “Harry is hurt and—”

“There is nothing to fix,” hissed Tom. “And I suggest you be silent or risk my displeasure.”

The silence was harsh.

“Or what?” said Quintus quietly. There was hurt in his tone, but there was also a hint of a challenge. “Would you turn on us? Punish us like the lowly servants we are, my lord?”

Harry swallowed, knuckles going white against his wand. If Tom did anything to hurt the other boys… There was going to be another fight and Harry would take Tom out with everything he had. He wasn’t going to let Tom torture Quintus or any of the others. No. He wasn’t going to stand for that kind of bullshit.

Is this how you treat your friends?

“Go to bed,” said Tom; it was a command, a warning, but now without a threat. The tension eased and there were the unmistakable sounds of the other boys going to their beds, some shutting the curtains.

Harry sat back on his heels, letting out a low, quiet sigh of relief. He lifted a silencing charm around his bed and flopped back against his pillow. He ran his hands over his face.

Dammit, Tom.

And there went the anonymity.

It’d been nice while it lasted. This was nothing new to Harry, but he had to admit it had been refreshing to not be noticed in the corridors, to not be stared at with a medley of emotions. At least he wasn’t the Boy-Who-Lived. No, instead he was the boy who was suddenly and magically good at dueling.

The rumors were wild.

That rumor mill was running on overtime in Hogwarts and as usual, Harry Potter - or in this case, Harry Evans - was at the center of it all.

Harry sighed to himself, pinching the bridge of his nose as he sat at the table the next morning. He refused to look at any of his dorm mates. Especially Tom. He couldn’t bear to look at him. Not without hexing him to hell and back. Not without pain in his chest. Not without wanting to run away again. Running. Hiding. That was all Harry seemed to be able to do lately. 

When did I become… this?

The rest of the group tried to talk to him, but there seemed to be a quiet consensus among them to not push Harry too hard. Occasionally, he saw Alphard or Quintus reel one of the other boys back in if they got too intense. That didn’t stop Roland that much, though. He tried to engage Harry with some Quidditch talk and even Simon talked more than he usually did, both trying to have casual conversations with Harry.

He ignored them.

Harry could even appreciate the effort that Sebastian and Marcus went to with their demands to talk to him. They avoided talking about the duel itself, but multiple times they tried to draw answers from Harry about the spells he used in the fight.

They, too, went ignored.

Quintus and Alphard were blessedly quiet, but Harry could feel their occasional gazes on him, studying him and trying to figure him out. 

All of these boys, their efforts weren’t disliked. Harry understood what they were doing. However. What Harry really wanted to do at this very moment was punch Tom’s lights out.

Why?

Because his fucking hand was on Harry’s forearm. 

“About those parseltongue lessons…” whispered Tom.

Harry didn’t answer.

That hand slipped to his wrist, long slender fingers curling around it. Harry gritted his teeth and clenched his fist as Tom swirled a finger against his skin. The hell are you trying to do here? Harry lowered his arm beneath the table, Tom’s hand never leaving his wrist. He put his hand on Tom’s thigh, resting it there lightly. Those dark eyes widened in surprise.

Harry pinched his thigh.

Hard.

Tom sucked in his breath, his hand withdrawing, and Harry took that opportunity to stand up from the table, leaving his breakfast behind. As he walked away, he heard Quintus hiss under his breath, “For Salazar’s sake, Tom, he needs to eat. Have you seen him? Stop aggravating him and give him some space.”

Harry left the Great Hall without looking back. He sought a dark corridor, before pulling out the cloak and throwing it over himself. Under its safety, Harry sighed. He stepped quietly through the hallway, seeking a more secluded area with plenty of darkness to shield him. Far away from the Great Hall, in a corridor less traveled, Harry leaned against a wall, sighing once more and letting out all of his pent up emotion with it.

He dropped his face into his hands. He slid downwards, the cloak still covering him, and sat down with his knees tucked against his chest.

Harry wasn’t sure what to do with his current feelings or even what to make of them. They were a storm, a whirl of emotion. When one cracked across his mind like a bolt of thunder, the flash so quick that he couldn’t quite grasp its meaning, another took its place. Each emotion blurred into the next. Anger? Bitterness? Hurt? Disappointment? Resignation?

They barely scratched the surface.

The emotion that surprised Harry the most was the disappointment. This was Tom Riddle. What had Harry been expecting, truly? Kneeling? Check. Send his cronies after him? Check. Of course, this was going to happen. This was Tom. Harry should’ve known this—should have expected it. Voldemort did it all the time. This was the essence of Tom.

So, why did it hurt so damn much?

Fear? Yes. Despair? Yes. Hopelessness? Too much.

Harry swallowed. He quickly rubbed the dampness beneath his eyes, sniffling once. A weight was heavy against his shoulders, bearing down on him; it was crushing.

Even if he hadn’t actively thought about it, he’d known this wasn’t going to be an easy task. So much depended on this. So many lives, the future overall, and Tom himself, even if he didn’t know it yet - they all depended on Harry.

Why was this harder and more painful than fighting a murderous dark lord? Why did this hurt far worse than a minute beneath the cruciatus curse? Why was trying to be friends, trying to care about Tom - why was this so much harder?! Why did it hurt so fucking much?!

It didn’t make sense.

None of this did. What was he doing? How was he supposed to get through this barrier between them? Harry wasn’t about to bend over and take shit - and Tom was denser than a doorknob. How the hell was this supposed to work?

I wish… someone I knew was here. I wish I had some help. A friend, some support - anything. Dad… Mum, what am I supposed to do? Be myself? I don’t know if that’s enough any more. Remus… Sirius… Hermione, what would you do? Would you do what he said, just to get closer? Ron, what would you do?

Would you just… Harry gritted his teeth. I know you wouldn’t tell me to, but I know you’d think it.

But I refuse to kill him, not Tom. I can’t…

Not him.

Harry didn’t bother trying to stop the tears now. Silently, in a darkened, quiet corridor, hidden beneath the safety of the cloak of death, Harry cried. His shoulders shook as he suppressed his voice. Alone. All alone. He didn’t have anyone who understood what was going on. Perhaps he could go to Quintus and Alphard for some advice… but they were loyal to Tom.

I don’t have anyone I can trust.

The disappointment was mixed with some feelings of betrayal. He wasn’t sure why, though. It wasn’t like he was friends with Tom. They’d barely reached a place of tolerating each other. He didn’t know what Tom was thinking most of the time or what he wanted from Harry.

In reality, Harry was closer to Roland and Simon through their Quidditch practices. Having anything like he’d had with Ron and Hermione with Tom, just that level of friendship and closeness, it seemed too impossible.

There were no adults to turn to, no friends he could confide in. The closest who knew the truth of his previous life was probably Trelawney, but there was no way in hell he was going to her. The last thing he needed was another prophecy on his hands. Besides… simply knowing about his past didn’t make her someone he felt safe or comfortable with in discussing his feelings.

Even Newt Scamander and by extension Tina, as kind and as open as they were, they couldn’t know the full extent of his problem. He couldn’t just go around telling people he was from the future. He’d get snatched up by Unspeakables.

It was exhausting, being all alone in his feelings. He wished he knew how to process them better. It felt as if they would drown him.

No one said it’d be this hard…

More tears slipped down his cheeks.

It took a little while for Harry to compose himself. The tears were hot on his cheeks. He wiped them away, drawing in deep breaths. He had to move forward and keep trying, but he needed a break. He wished he could be alone for a few days, avoid classes altogether, but he knew that would make things worse for himself in the long run.

He sighed. But Wednesdays meant Transfiguration and Herbology classes. Harry ran his hands over this face. He didn’t want to deal with anyone, but he especially didn’t want to deal with Dumbledore. He wasn’t sure if he could protect himself from an intrusion either, if Dumbledore became curious.

Ah, fuck it.

Harry conjured some parchment, quill, and ink. He wrote two notes saying he was still ill and sent them off to Dumbledore and Beery. He could’ve used Kasper, but for once he was too exhausted for the trek to the owlery tower. He’d have to make it up to the little owl, though he was pretty sure Kasper would rather do anything other than deliver letters.

He slowly got to his feet, still hidden beneath the invisibility cloak. He pulled out the map, checking it for a moment. The library was empty for the most part, since most of the students were in class now. He decided to go there and perhaps work on some assignments. 

Harry made his way to the library, but he stayed beneath the cloak, wanting to avoid attention. His stomach grumbled and he sighed to himself. He should go to the kitchens. But maybe he could call an elf for a little snack, instead. The house elves were a bit too attentive over him, so they probably would do it.

As Harry walked inside the library, the librarian blissfully unaware that he entered, he slipped off to a hidden corner and pulled the cloak off, putting it back inside the pouch at his hip.

“Uh… Minsby?”

With a soft crack, the old house elf looked up at him. She folded her arms, giving him a look. Uh, oh, was this a good idea?

“Master Evans be not feeding himself very well. Minsby isn’t happy with Master Evans. Not happy at all.”

Yeah, getting scolded by a very old house elf seemed par for the course now.

“It’s been a rough few days,” whispered Harry.

“Master Evans needs food!” snapped Minsby, stamping her foot, which caused her ears to flop around on her head. “I should report you to Master Headmaster and he’d set you straight. Detention or points or smacking - whichever gets Master Evans to eat food, Minsby is all for.”

Dear Merlin, this was one frightening little house elf.

“Lady Minsby,” said Harry gallantly, and the elf squeaked, grabbing her ears as her eyes went wide with a flood of tears. “If you bring me some food, I’ll eat it.”

“Would you really?” asked Minsby, eyes narrowing.

“Within reason.”

“Your reason be terrible!”

“Please?”

Minsby eyed him for a moment, before she snapped her fingers. A plate of beans on toast, some fruit, and a glass of pumpkin juice appeared on the table. 

Harry smiled at her. “Thank you.”

“If there be anything leftover, you’s be in trouble with me, understood, Master Evans?” said Minsby, wagging her long finger at him. “You’s wouldn’t like it if you maddened a house elf. We be knowing lots of tricks. We be here in this castle many, many years. Children be thinking they’s know better, but house elves be having ways of making naughty children obey. You’s been warned now.”

And with a final waggle of her finger, she disappeared with another soft crack.

Harry didn’t dare leave so much as a crumb on his plate.

When he was done, it disappeared on its own and in its place was a small chocolate frog. Harry smiled, knowing he had Minsby’s approval. He munched on the chocolate frog as he began one of his essays for his classes. Might as well, after all. He’d barely gotten through two paragraphs when a voice broke through his concentration.

“Hiya, cousin!”

Harry glanced up to see Monty beaming at him. The boy instantly frowned. “Have you been crying?” Monty asked, worry in his tone, his eyes wide. “Are you all right?”

A rush of panic flooded through Harry.

“No.”

“No, you’re not all right or, no, you haven’t been crying?” said Monty, his expression ever serious. “You’ve gotta be more clear, you know.”

Merlin, this child.

“No, I haven’t been crying and, yes, I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’d know, wouldn’t I?” asked Harry, hoping this would deflect him.

Monty considered this, before he nodded. “I suppose that makes sense, yeah.” Harry let out a sigh of secret relief as Monty plopped onto the seat next to him. For a moment, Monty just stared at Harry, little legs swinging back and forth since he was too short for the chair.

“Did you really fight a duel with Riddle?”

“Uh… yeah.”

“And you won?”

Harry shifted. “Yes.”

“Well,” said Monty with a sage nod. “I suppose statistically you had to be good at something and we already knew you weren’t good at potions.”

Ah, sweet Monty. Never change.

“Thanks…” Harry frowned. “I think.”

“Would you teach me?” asked Monty, his eyes bright with awe and excitement. He clapped his hands together in a prayer. “Please, please?”

“Teach you?” asked Harry, caught off guard. “Teach you what?”

“I’m, well, I’m not doing great in DADA,” said Monty, his cheeks darkening. He scratched his nose, gaze ducking beneath his fringe. “It’s just Professor Merrythought kind of scares me. I’m not sure if she’s being nice or if she wants to kill me.”

“Probably both,” said Harry, snorting.

“What?” asked Monty with a hint of fear.

“I’m kidding. She’s a good teacher. She is a little scary, but she’s dam—darn good at what she does.”

“You were about to say a bad word, weren’t you?”

Harry flushed. “Uh. Sorry, I know you’re just a kid.”

“Oh, I can hear them,” said Monty in a serious tone. “I just can’t say them.”

Harry put a hand on top of Monty’s mop of black curls, ruffling his hair. Monty let out a giggle, pretending to pull away, but not quite. He smiled.

“So, will you teach me?” asked Monty, looking up at him with puppy dog eyes. “Please?”

Harry looked at those eyes, something tugging at his heart. He had loved teaching those DA sessions in his fifth year. A part of him had been disappointed that DA had been no longer needed in their sixth year - not to mention, he hadn’t been in a good frame of mind to teach after Sirius’ death.

It wasn’t like things were all that better now, though.

But Harry couldn’t say no to Monty, not when those eyes were gazing up at him with hope. If it was just Monty… Then, it wouldn’t be so bad. A few lessons and that would probably satisfy the kid.

“All right,” said Harry with a sigh. I’ll give you some pointers.”

“Yay!” Monty leapt to his feet. “Yes, thank you, thank you—”

“It’s just you, though, all right” said Harry quickly. “Just you. No one else, got it?”

Monty nodded vigorously, black hair bouncing wildly. “Got it!”

Oh, Monty was such a cute little liar.

He shouldn’t have agreed to this. How did he let this happen? This was ridiculous. He should back out now, let it be a lesson to Monty.

Because it was not just Monty. It was not just Monty and Effie either. Somehow, before Harry had even picked a damn night for a lesson, the news that Harry Evans, the winner of an epic duel against Tom Riddle, was going to teach a bunch of first years had spread like wildfire.

How the hell do I get myself into these situations? Dammit. I should’ve told him no. How’d I fall to puppy eyes, of all things?

That was how Harry found himself outside on the grounds on Saturday evening after dinner with a bunch of first years staring up at him expectedly with wide, anxious eyes. The evening air was pleasant, not too cold, a gentle fall breeze blowing through the trees. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. It was perfect weather and the location he’d picked was secluded for the most part. He hadn’t wanted to give away the location of the Room of Requirement, not yet anyway.

He was surprised it was just first years, too. Somehow, they’d kept it amongst themselves. He nearly expected the entire school, by how much the rumors had spread. He had to hand it to these kids. They could keep a secret amongst their age. That was impressive.

Yet, there were a lot of them. Too many. Harry didn’t bother to count. He was afraid to count them. He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to decide what he wanted to do. The DA had been much smaller, plus there had been multiple age groups, most of them older. They had the ability to govern themselves without much guidance.

What the hell was he supposed to do with a bunch of kids? They were eleven years old! Children. Munchkins! How did the teachers handle this?

Well, guess I better start before they go feral on me.

Harry tapped his wand to his throat. “All right!” he called, his voice booming out to the group. Most of the kids jumped, eyes nearly popping out of their skulls. “Hey, Monty, didn’t I say just you?”

“Yes, I know!” cried Monty, bouncing on his heels. “But I didn’t listen.”

“No shit,” said Harry dryly.

And all the kids giggled.

Oops.

Perfect. Off to a great start. Wonderful. Just wonderful.

He paused for a moment, watching those young expectant faces of the eleven year olds. While there were a lot of Gryffindors, he could see there weren’t as many as there were from other houses. They watched him with a sense of wonder and hope.

They hopefully will never see a world with war.

If I could get my shit together with Tom, that is.

He sighed. Well, there was no avoiding this. He sure as hell wasn’t going to pretend that a war was never possible in this world. These children were innocent and pure, protected from the knowledge of death and war. He’d like to keep it that way, but he also wanted them to be able to protect themselves. 

A part of Harry knew that he was getting into something he probably shouldn’t start, but who the hell cared tonight? It was a great distraction from his own problems. What better way to ignore his lack of progress than to teach a bunch of kids some defense spells? He took his outer robes off and tossed them onto the ground.

“All right, you wanna learn some spells?” Harry grinned, his wand glowing with a ready light. He was rewarded with countless nods of small heads. “Well, let me show you.”

And so he did.

And he taught them on Monday night as well.

He didn’t know how it happened, but the eleven year olds somehow became a soothing balm to the pain he’d felt after Tom sent the seventh years after him. The first years were pretty cute and talkative if he let them get started. They weren’t as bad as he thought they’d be, but they were far from good, too. It wasn’t easy trying to wrangle fifty-plus kids - and that wasn’t even half of the first years in the school, but they listened to him. For whatever reason. Harry had no idea where his clout had come from with them, but he wasn’t going to argue it.

The week passed and Harry didn’t care that he had taught the first years three nights already. They were eager little kids and he was more than willing to throw himself to the task.

No, he wasn’t trying to forget his other task.

No, he wasn’t trying to ignore Tom.

No.

No, he wasn’t. There was plenty of time and he just needed a break. Even if it was the last week of October now. It didn’t matter. It was fine. This was all fine. All fine. Harry devoted his mind to thinking of what to teach the first years, barely caring about his classes. The first light snowfall wasn’t a warning of what was to come, not at all. There was time, plenty of time. Plenty.

Harry couldn’t face him.

It was constantly in the back of his mind. But he couldn’t do it. Get closer to Tom? How? Talk to him? How? Be nice and ignore shit? How? How the hell was he supposed to do that?

HOW!?

So, Harry ignored him with spectacular perfection. Tom, to his credit, wasn’t going down without a fight of his own. Harry had narrowly avoided him multiple times outside of classes. If Harry hadn’t had his cloak and the map, Tom would’ve found and caught him early on. Harry avoided the Great Hall again, taking his chances with the over-excitable house elves instead of dealing with any of the boys. He avoided the common room. 

But, every night, Tom waited up for him.

And, every night, it was the same, until tonight. As he always did, Harry came to the dorms at around two o’clock in the morning. Harry opened the door as quietly as he could. As usual, Tom was sitting on his bed, arms folded, as he watched the dorm door. Harry didn’t look at him as he entered.

“It’s late,” said Tom, nostrils flaring with annoyance.

“So it is.”

“I could give you detention.”

Harry tilted his head, finally looking over at Tom and narrowing his eyes. “You could… but you won’t.”

Tom’s lips pursed together. “There are rumors of you spending time with first years, especially that… Potter boy,” he said, nearly spitting out the ‘Potter’ name with the same amount of hatred that Draco Malfoy had always said it.

Harry didn’t realize how soul crushing that sound was until he heard it from Tom. 

Those dark eyes glared at him. “Is this true?”

For a moment, Harry couldn’t say anything. He just looked at this young man, stared at those eyes and wished Tom could understand how he felt. He should say something, really and truly explain that what Tom pulled was not okay, but… 

He couldn’t.

The exhaustion that Harry felt wasn’t just bone deep - it was soul deep. It penetrated and seeped through every section of his mind, heart, and soul. How am I supposed to break through this?

The weight of what was required of Harry was too much.

“Good night, Tom.”

“Harry—”

He crawled into bed, the hanging curtains shutting closed with wandless magic. Harry threw up warding and silencing spells around his bed. He rested his head against the pillow, sighing deeply. He could feel Tom’s anger through the protection of his curtains; the curling rage of his magic swirled within the room.

Maybe… Maybe Death was wrong… Maybe I was wrong.

Maybe I can’t do this.

It hurt.

Harry rolled over, curling his knees to his chest. Tears burned and he pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. Pain clenched his chest. The first years didn’t know what was going to happen. They had no idea what the future would hold if Harry failed. How many would die? Which one of those sweet wide eyed children would die in the first wizarding war? Which ones would survive, only to die in the second war?

And what of their unborn children and grandchildren?

How many of them would die?

All simply because Harry couldn’t get over his stupid arse. All because Harry couldn’t just be friends with Tom, get over himself, get over the attack on his person - get over the fucking kneeling like a bloody dog.

Of course. How simple and easy to love someone like that. Ever so easy. Death had promised him something more, hadn’t he? Maybe Harry was kidding himself. Maybe he’d been expecting too much. Or maybe… Maybe this was one more sacrifice on the endless list of sacrifices he’d had to make his whole life.

After all, Death hadn’t actually assured him that they’d have something, that Harry could have someone to love. Maybe… Maybe this was the true life sacrifice. Bend to Tom Riddle’s will, offer himself to Lord Voldemort - offer his mind, heart, body, and soul. Was this the true fulfillment of the prophecy?

‘Neither can live while the other survives.’

Harry fell asleep with tears burning his cheeks.

It was a restless night.

Chapter Text

He dreamed for the first time in a long while.

The night had been restless; too many times Harry had woken and fallen back asleep, barely conscious, yet aware that was sleeping and dreaming. His chest ached with all the whirling emotions he’d been feeling all of the time. Not even in the unconscious void was he free from them. A voice echoed in his dreams through the fog, as if trying to reach him. But the fog was too thick, the emotions too heavy. Whoever was trying to speak to him, their voice was taken into the wind.

Harry woke with his scar tingling.

The circles beneath his eyes were so dark, they were like bruises. As Harry slowly made his way to the kitchen, avoiding the other students, he absently rubbed his scar. The exhaustion had gotten worse overnight. He hadn’t bothered with his cloak today. He wasn’t going to hide - it took too much energy. He always had to be more aware of others in the corridors, so he wouldn’t cause a stir by bumping into one of them while invisible.

His mind was empty for once. His steps through the corridors were wooden beneath himself. For a moment, Harry paused, putting a hand against the wall and resting there. He rubbed his eyes with his other hand. If he didn’t have to worry about school, maybe he could process things better. Right now, the weight on his shoulders was too much to bear. He could… But, no…

But what if…

What if I left Hogwarts?

He could get a job at one of the shops in Hogsmeade, no doubt. It was close that he could see Tom often enough, especially since there were plenty of passages in and out of Hogwarts. But…

But it wasn’t like they were close now. If Harry left, wouldn’t that just be giving up? Tom wouldn’t care about him. Harry would be an afterthought, that weird Slytherin transfer that drove him crazy.

Tom wouldn’t remember me.

And I wouldn’t be able to stop him if he opened the Chamber of Secrets. If I left… I wouldn’t be near him.  

The oddest thing about that thought was… Why did that feel more painful?

An angry voice grabbed his attention; he flinched. “You! Evans! I got a bone to pick with you.” 

He froze, slowly turning around to see Merrythought striding towards him with an expression that would put the fear of god in even Voldemort himself. Fortinbras was trailing behind her, smiling softly, with a hint of amusement in her eyes.

“Yes, Professor? May I help you?” asked Harry, trying to act innocent.

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit—

“What the hell are you teaching my first years?” snapped Merrythought. “They’re no longer pissing themselves in front of me.”

“Galatea,” murmured Fortinbras. “Gentle…”

“This is gentle,” said Merrythought with a huff.

“Uh…” A bead of sweat trickled down Harry’s temple. “I just… the thing is…” Harry gulped as Merrythought narrowed her eyes even more at him. Harry’s confusion came out in a rush. “So, Monty begged me for pointers because he’s terrified of you - which I mean—” Harry gestured wildly, frantically at the woman with both hands, barely noticing the chuckle from Fortinbras. “—I get it - you’re scary as hell - and so I promised I’d help him, but then he couldn’t keep his mouth shut and now I’m teaching an army of kids and I dunno how the fuck that happened, but that’s the honest truth, I swear—”

“All right, shut up, I get it,” said Merrythought, grimacing, putting up a hand. 

Harry wheezed for breath.

“Awe, that’s kind of cute, isn’t it?” said Fortinbras, smiling. “It’s precious and sweet of you, Mr. Evans.”

“Sweet? I was hoping for another month of pissing firsties,” said Merrythought, her expression dark. “They usually get it by November, unless they’re a really stupid lot. Those batches of kids don’t get it until after Christmas.” She turned and muttered in Fortinbras’ ear, “Remember that one group?”

Fortinbras nodded, putting a hand over her mouth. “Of course.”

“Dumbest lot of dunderheads I’ve ever—”

“Galatea,” said Fortinbras, her tone lyrical, yet with a hint of warning. It was enough.

“You’re teaching them too much,” snapped Merrythought, whirling her attention back onto Harry and pointing a finger at him. He flinched back, eyes growing wide. “Don’t think I haven’t heard. It’s been a week now and you taught them four times already—don’t you give me that look, I’m not stupid, boy!” Harry shrank in on himself, unable to keep the guilt off his face. “Shocking as it may be, those first years have other subjects to study, plus they’re literal babies who need their sleep and downtime. Do you have any idea how much of a nightmare it is to teach sleep deprived eleven year olds?”

There was a pause. She glared at him. Harry quickly shook his head. “Uh, no—no, ma’am.”

“Well, you will.” Merrythought let out a huff. “If you keep stealing their sleep like this—and another thing,” she added hotly. “You look like hell, boy! You’re going to burn yourself out at this rate. Take a nap, for the love of Artemis.”

“It wasn’t hard…” said Harry softly, feeling oddly chastised. “They’re really easy to teach… it’s been nice, fun even—”

“Don’t start things at a pace you can’t keep,” said Merrythought, her tone ever harsh. Fortinbras put a hand on her forearm and Merrythought let out another huff, long and rough. Her tone became much softer now, until it peaked with her frustration yet again. “If you must continue this extra curricular, then only once a week. Saturday nights, only - or your studies will suffer—and for the love of Merlin’s saggy tits, eat a damn meal or I’m going to make you eat crisps through your nose.”

Did he still have his eyebrows? Her burning rage was enough to roast them right off his face.

“Yes, ma’am,” said Harry quickly. “Whatever you say.”

“You better.”

He couldn’t catch a break between Minsby, Merrythought, and the Slytherins. Dear Merlin, who next?

Merrythought turned away, taking long strides back down the corridor where she came. Fortinbras lagged briefly, giving Harry an encouraging smile.

“It’s kind of you to teach the first years,” said Fortinbras; she gave him a light pat on the shoulder. “Just take care of yourself, hm? You look a bit peaky. You can’t teach firsties or do much of anything else if a stiff breeze could bowl you over. Yeah?”

She waved goodbye and followed after her wife, matching her long strides with ease. As Harry watched them, trying to calm down the terror he’d felt for a minute there, he heard Fortinbras say something, yet he couldn’t make it out.

“Ophelia!” said Merrythought hotly, clearly aghast. “I do not like that brat!”

Fortinbras giggled. “Whatever you say, my love.”

Damn, those women are scary.

Harry exhaled a sigh of relief. He had barely stepped around the corner when a hand gripped his wrist, stopping him in his tracks. For fuck’s sake. Maybe not hiding beneath the cloak was a bad idea after all. There was only one person in the castle who would grab him like this. Harry inhaled audibly and slowly turned to glare at Tom.

“What?” demanded Harry. “The hell you grabbing me for? Get off me.”

Tom’s lips pursed together into a thin line. “You’ve still been skipping classes again, neglecting your place in the Slytherin house. I am tired of your—”

“Hang on, let me find a fuck to give,” drawled Harry with animated exaggeration, enjoying the look of irritation that flashed through Tom’s face. He pretended to glance around, making a go for his pouch, when he paused with fake dawning revelation. “Oh, wait… I never had one.”

“You’re impossible,” snapped Tom. “And you’re still spending all of your time with a bunch of first year children. This must stop. You can’t miss classes and—”

“I said stop touching me!” snapped Harry, trying to jerk out his grasp.

Tom’s face twisted, eyes widening with anger, jaw clenching in a grimace. He shoved Harry against the wall and caged him there, one hand still gripping Harry’s left wrist as he pinned it against the wall while the other dug into his right shoulder. Harry pressed his free hand against the stone, his fingers tense. They scraped against the wall; he resisted the urge to claw Tom’s face instead. Tom was a number of inches taller than him and he used his height to his advantage, bearing over Harry with his intense presence.

Caged like a wild animal.

Harry’s hand trembled against the urge to punch Tom in the face. His chest heaved deeply; it brushed against Tom. Harry glared at him, heart twisting and beating wildly with far too many emotions. He found himself wishing the chasm between them could be closed, completed, on multiple levels, but the hurt and the pain were too great.

Terrible, but great.

Once again, Harry pitied this boy - but mostly, he pitied himself.

“You’re acting like a child,” hissed Tom. It was too hot. “You are wasting your time and energy with those children and I don’t know why you insist on doing this, avoiding me, but—”

“Fuck you—it’s not a waste of time,” snarled Harry; his body pressed against the wall even more, as if it wanted nothing more than to become one with the stone. The blood roared in his ears. He needed space and he needed it now. “That’s your opinion. I actually like the first years. They’re cute and they’re actually nice to me - unlike you.”

“Is that what it takes to earn your attention?” said Tom, his eyes narrowing as he drew closer. Too close, dammit! “Niceties? How pathetic, how insignificant and how inefficacious—”

Wait, what?

Earn my attention…?

“I don’t need shit,” snapped Harry. “But, I dunno, have you at least tried to not be a fucking dick? Merlin, Tom, but you are dense—”

The snarl that reverberated through Tom’s throat sounded almost feral. Harry tensed, hand going to his wand; he gripped it tightly, waiting for retaliation.

“I have been exceedingly patient with you,” hissed Tom, but now in parseltongue. “I do not understand why you insist on being so ridiculous and stubborn. What is this madness?”

Oh…

He really doesn’t understand… does he?

“Do you not understand hurt feelings?” asked Harry softly. “I’ve been clear—I’ve told you multiple times, but you still don’t get it? I’m… hurt by what you did—what you tried to do—”

“You’re unhurt,” said Tom, though there was a hint of bemusement in his tone.  His grip on Harry softened. “You’re fine. Uninjured. I still don’t understand why you’re making this such a big issue.”

He doesn’t have any idea…

Tom, even now as a teenager before ruining his soul with horcrux magic, had no understanding, no concept of what emotional pain and hurt were. It was an earth shattering realization for Harry. How could Tom not understand something so basic? Had he never experienced it before?

Or… perhaps he has - he’s had to - but no one really taught him how to understand his own feelings.

It wasn’t like Harry had known anything when he’d been a neglected kid with the Dursleys. It had taken Hermione - and with just a little bit of help from Ron - to teach him how to recognize the meaning of what he felt. Even Luna had helped him process some of the grief of losing Sirius.

They had been vital in Harry’s growth as a person.

But Tom… Did no one help you?

Harry had no idea how to get this through Tom’s thick skull. Somehow, without forethought, Harry’s fingers wrapped around the back of Tom’s hand, the one that pinned him at the shoulder. There was a beat, a hot exhale of breath, the widening of eyes, and the furrowing of brows. Harry drew the hand to his heart and pressed it against his chest. His heart thumped wildly, beating stronger than before. “Here,” he whispered. Slender fingers flexed beneath Harry’s hold; Tom inhaled once. “It hurts here. Just because you can’t see the wound, doesn’t mean you didn’t inflict one.”

The silence felt longer than it truly was; an extended moment where Harry stared at Tom, willing, wishing, praying that he would understand. Harry had nothing left, no energy left to explain any further.

Please… Please understand me.

But he didn’t. 

And Harry’s scar tingled.

“You were hit in the chest with a spell?” demanded Tom in parseltongue. “When? Is this what has been affecting you?”

Tired loss echoed through Harry’s chest.

Are you… really this dense?

Dear Merlin, and I thought I was bad. If Ron had a teaspoon of emotional sense, then Tom doesn’t have a single grain’s worth. What the hell? How am I supposed to work with this? I can’t train Tom in feelings—I barely can figure this shit out on my own!

Harry’s body sagged with his exasperated sigh. “Tom,” he said, tired and done now. He pocketed his wand and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to rub the ache from his eyes. “You’re a smart guy. Figure it out.”

He tugged on the hand that held him by the wrist. Tom released him, taking a step back, and watching him with a furrowed brow. Harry didn’t look at him as he slipped away.

A sharp pain raced through his scar. Harry frowned, rubbing the multiple ridges on his forehead above his eye. He hissed; it was stinging more now.

Now what? Why is this happening? Am I feeling Tom’s emotions now? Merlin, I hope not. I don’t need more shit to deal with.

He should do better. He knew that. He should do more. He knew that, too. Yet, somehow, Harry wasn’t sure if he could even a single thing more. There was something inside of him that craved an endless amount of sleep, but instead he plowed forward with a crazed drive to do everything, anything that wasn’t to do with Tom.

Harry sighed.

I’m really failing at this, aren’t I?

It wasn’t getting better.

Everything was off. Everything was getting worse. Without fully realizing it, Harry was spiraling. He’d forgotten the days. Classes blended together. The month of October was coming to an end. The more time that passed away from that fateful meeting with Tom’s club and the attack soon after, the more Harry felt a growing isolation from everyone else.

He missed having true friends.

While he’d been a loner as a child with the Dursleys, Ron and Hermione had  opened his world to having a support system, something that he needed more than he’d ever realized. Experiencing the bonds of friendship or the comfort of a godfather, but then losing them suddenly, it illuminated the void left behind. Things were worsening for Harry and it was becoming glaringly stark to him.

He couldn’t seek Kasper’s company forever. While Merrythought had limited his only solace, Harry knew she was right. He wouldn’t have been able to keep the pace up he’d been setting with the first years. He’d never really felt the overwhelming urge to just sit and cry, but everything was hitting him so hard now.

Maybe things would be better if his fucking scar wasn’t acting up suddenly.

He couldn’t understand why it was even doing this now. Before, it’d always happen when Voldemort was near - like in his first year around Quirrell or when he’d been having a hard time during his fifth year. Damn, I was angry all the time, then. But it couldn’t be either of those things or it would have started happening sooner.

What the hell is going on?

He was making his way to the Slytherin common room in the evening during dinner in the hopes of avoiding the rush back to their dorms, when he stopped at the sound of multiple voices outside the entrance to the common room. Harry hid within a crevice of the walls, putting his finger to his lips when the occupants of a nearby painting looked at him with interest.

“I told you—we told you that you fucked up. Haven’t you noticed he’s getting worse?”

“He’s not eating anything. Simon said he figures that Harry maybe has lost a half a stone, possibly more, when he really shouldn’t be losing any more weight. I’m worried—”

“If he’d stop being stubborn, this wouldn’t be a problem.”

Harry peeked around the corner, seeing three boys standing there. Alphard had his arms crossed in front of his chest, brows furrowed, while Quintus stood at his side; he threw his hands into the air.

“You’re supposed to watch out for Slytherins,” snapped Quintus, arms dropping to his sides. “All of them, even when they’re stubborn.”

“I’ve tried,” said Tom in a low hiss. “But he refuses to speak with me properly and when I finally spoke to him today, he said his chest hurt. He said there was an unseen wound there. How am I supposed to help him with that?”

Wow…

There was a long pause as Alphard and Quintus stared at him, mouths slowly dropped in unison.

“Oh, Tom—he meant feelings…” said Quintus, shock and exasperation in his tone.

“Dear mother of Merlin, he actually spelled it out for you,” said Alphard in awe.

“What?”

“He actually said it,” whispered Quintus, glancing at Alphard for a moment. “He actually said it.”

“All right, well, saying you hurt his feelings sounds a bit weird,” said Alphard. He shook his head. “I’m sure he meant more than that. He’s pissed and hurt because of Abraxas, you sending him to, uh… ‘punish’ him.”

“But he wasn’t actually hurt in the end—”

Quintus and Alphard let out a unified cry of pained frustration.

“For the love of Merlin’s tight balls, Tom—”

“Emotional pain! Emotional hurt!”

“Emotions?” said Tom, nose wrinkling. “How droll.”

“Shockingly, some of us lowly beings experience them on a daily basis,” said Quintus dryly. He sighed. “Tom, I really think you need to apologize. That might ease some of the pain.”

Tom’s expression went cold. “I did nothing wrong.”

“That is wholly untrue.”

Something shifted within the group. Tom straightened, his gaze growing dark. Alphard unfolded his arms, his hands clenching into fists. Quintus shrank slightly, drawing only an inch away, but Harry could see how the power dynamic had changed around them.

Stop this, Tom.

“You are overstepping yourselves,” whispered Tom dangerously. “I’m warning you.”

“We’re speaking as your friends!” snapped Alphard. “Your friends! Remember us? Remember the ones who tried to befriend you the first year, but you ignored us constantly despite our best efforts. You arsehole—we’ve been with you since the beginning. We’re not acting like your subordinates right now.”

Quintus put a hand to his arm.

“You are and were always my subordinates!” shouted Tom, magic flooding the air.

Alphard and Quintus hissed air through their teeth.

“How dare you,” hissed Tom. “Know your place.”

Silence.

“Of course, my lord,” whispered Quintus. There was a pause. His back straightened, but his head dipped low. “After all, that’s all we’re good for, all we ever were. I suppose I should’ve realized we were never more than that to you, were we?”

“Quin,” whispered Alphard.

“Fine,” said Quintus, his tone clipped. “Fine. Fine.”

“Quintus—”

“I’ll be sure to remember my place. Have a good evening, Riddle.”

Quintus turned, took two long strides, before he broke into a run. He darted by Harry; his eyes were watery. Alphard was right behind him, calling his name, but not before he threw a, “You’re a bastard, Riddle.”

Harry stayed hidden; only Tom remained. For a moment, he watched Tom standing there, fists clenched at his sides. Then, suddenly, Tom whirled around towards the wall and slammed his fist right into the stone. There was a sharp cracking sound. Harry winced.

“Dammit!”

The curse was in parseltongue. Harry gasped in surprise and he threw his hands over his mouth. But Tom didn’t seem to notice. He stood there at the wall, fist still braced against the stone. He dropped his fist and Harry caught a glimpse of bloodied knuckles. Tom looked down at the back of his hand, shaking. With his other hand, he waved his wand over the wound without a word.

It healed completely, blood and torn flesh disappearing.

Tom drew in a deep breath, his face set with a fierce expression, and walked in the same direction as Quintus and Alphard. He walked past Harry, who held his breath, hoping the pounding of his heart and the roaring in his ear couldn’t be heard.

But Tom strode by without a word, without a hint of knowledge that he’d seen Harry. He disappeared around the corridor.

Harry could feel his heart pound in his chest, hear it in his ears.

Oh, Tom… Why can’t you understand? Why aren’t you learning?

They’re your friends and you threw that in their faces. What did you expect was going to happen?

It didn’t make sense.

But a new shift had occurred in their dorm. It was tense, too tense. Quintus had now joined Harry in the ‘ignoring Tom’ group. Alphard appeared torn between Tom and Quintus, but he still stuck by Quintus’ side, who was obviously deeply offended and was not about to bend either.

The other four boys remained quiet and stayed out of it, but every now and again they’d exchange a few looks before moving on.

But the energy had changed. Tension coiled around their group, like a cobra poised to strike. On top of their group going to hell, Harry was suddenly becoming aware of the date.

Halloween was on Saturday, mere days away.

Shit always goes down on Halloween. Something is gonna happen again. I just know it.

Shit. Shit. No, ugh.

Is it too much to ask for a peaceful Halloween?

Probably.

Harry sat at the breakfast table in the morning, for once, finally tired of dealing with the elves directly again. Their enthusiasm had to be taken in doses. For the past couple of weeks, Harry noticed that his pumpkin juice had begun to taste differently. He was pretty sure the old house elf was slipping him some kind of health potion. He appreciated it, though. This morning, somehow, they knew he was at the table this morning instead of coming to them, because Harry could, sure enough, taste something different about his pumpkin juice.

“Thank you,” whispered Harry.

A treacle tart appeared on his plate. Harry let out a quiet laugh and didn’t argue. Who was he to say no to his favorite anyway? As he tucked into it, other students straggled into the Great Hall. Six of the boys in their dorm were walking inside together and they paused as one when they caught sight of Harry, surprise widening their eyes. Tom wasn’t with them.

Roland recovered first and casually sat across him, smiling, though still a bit hesitant. “Morning, Harry,” he said. “Good to see you.”

Harry nodded, giving him a cordial smile. The other boys sat around him, leaving a space on his right open. They started chatting amongst themselves, but it was light. Harry could feel the space at his side, empty and waiting for Tom. He sighed. He should bail on this before Tom arrived and forced his presence on him. He really should…

He was about to leave, because fuck Tom, when Headmaster Dippet stood up and slowly made his way to the front of the staff table. He held up his hands and a hush fell over the hall. Harry sighed, sitting back down. A second later, Tom took a seat beside him. Of course. 

I should’ve left when I had the chance, dammit.

Harry ignored him.

“Students,” began Headmaster Dippet. “Those of you who take Care of Magical Creatures will notice that Professor Grubbly-Plank is absent from her place at the staff table. I’m afraid to report that until further notice, her classes have been canceled. A tragedy in her family has called Professor Grubbly-Plank home and she’ll be taking some time off.”

Whispers broke out among the students.

“I promise you we’ll find a replacement for you all, as well as a replacement for the Hufflepuff Head of House. Hufflepuffs, for now, go to your Prefects and other professors when you need help. It won’t be long, I’m sure. Well, that’s all, children. Carry on about your day.”

As Dippet sat down, the Great Hall broke into chattering.

Tom turned to Harry, mouth opening, but a cheerful voice spoke at their side. Harry caught a glimpse of irritation flashing through Tom’s face before he glanced towards the boy.

“Hiya, Harry!” chirped Monty. “What d’you think about Professor Grubbly-Plank? I don’t have Care of Magical Creatures yet, but I know you do, so this affects you. Are you all right? You’re not gonna get behind on your studies, right? Who do you think is gonna be your new teacher?”

“Monty!” cried Charlus, getting up from the Gryffindor table and coming to Monty’s side. He put his hands on his shoulders, readying to pull him away, but Monty resisted. “Come on, you can’t bother the other students—I’m so sorry.”

Some of the Slytherins sniffed in annoyance.

“Hey, I’m not bothering the other students. I’m talking to my friend Harry.” Monty suddenly got shy, glancing over at Harry, his chin tucking against his chest as he looked up at him. “We are friends… right?”

“Absolutely,” said Harry without hesitation.

“If you’re sure…” began Charlus. “My brother can be a little much, I know, but—” 

“Monty is my friend,” said Harry. “And he’s fine as he is.”

Monty beamed. “Yay!” he said brightly. “I’ve got another friend. Thanks, Harry. I’ll see you later. Good luck with the Professor change.”

And with that, Monty scampered off, with Charlus walking after him with a shake of the head. Harry couldn’t hold back the fond smile as he watched the boy run off. He wished more could see how precious and genuine he was. If the other kids his age gave him a chance, Monty would have more friends - there was no doubt in Harry’s mind.

A hand touched his wrist. He’s always doing this. He didn’t have to look to know it was Tom’s hand. Harry slowly turned his gaze towards him.

“What, Tom?” asked Harry. His voice was soft, tired.

Tom leaned in close; Harry held his breath, his heart thumping wildly against his chest. A whisper brushed against his ear, low, soft, and hot.

“That annoying child gets your praise, but I get your ire… Am I not good enough for you?”

Harry didn’t move at first. Tom drew back slightly - close enough for Harry to see the details of Tom’s skin. He stared at him, studied those dark eyes, and his heart ached. He grabbed Tom by his tie and jerked him forward. Those eyes widened and there was an audible hitch of breath; Harry whispered in his ear.

“No, Tom, you are not - not today, at least.”

Harry withdrew. He stood up and left the Great Hall; he didn’t look back. Tom   didn’t try to stop him.

As you are now, no. You can do better than this. I’ve seen some hints, here and there, the person you could be - who you could become. Tom, you have more potential than you realize. You’re wasting your time trying to dominate your friends.

Servants aren’t loyal.

True friends walk into war at your side. T rue friends camp inside a tent within the dead of winter, nearly starving to death. True friends would die with you.

He was tired of all this. What was he even doing any more? He paused in a corridor, not far from the Great Hall, and pinched the bridge of his nose. Tom wasn’t figuring out the problem, that much was becoming glaringly apparent. At this rate…

I’m going to have to explain feelings to Tom Riddle.

Explain feelings. Explain fucking feelings.

Dear Merlin, Hermione, was this how you felt with us? We couldn’t have been this dense, right? Surely not.

Somehow, Harry was pretty sure they’d been pretty damn dense. Maybe not ‘Tom Riddle’ levels of brick wall density. Harry groaned to himself. He was out of his depth here. If he was going to have to explain ‘feelings,’ how was he going to even approach Tom with this? How does one explain something so abstract to someone who hasn’t shown even a sign of understanding? Should he? Should he wait it out? Would they run out of time?

Or…

Was this all just a fruitless endeavor?

Fucking hell. He needed his mind to stop with the endless, swirling thoughts. For the love of Merlin, stop!

“Harry.”

“Damn you all to hell,” muttered Harry. Can’t you all catch a hint? Out of all the boys, he wasn’t expecting Marcus to be the one to chase him down. He turned to face him. “What?”

“Just a warning,” said Marcus, glancing around them briefly. His gaze returned to Harry. “You should stop all this. Tom isn’t someone you should cross. Bad things will happen if you continue to ignore him.”

Harry folded his arms and leaned against the wall. “Do I look like I care about what that arsehole wants? I’m not okay with what happened. He doesn’t get it and I’m not bending until he does.”

Marcus let out an exasperated sigh, running a hand through his black hair. “You don’t get it,” he hissed. “You’re playing with fire.”

“I always play with fire and I’m used to burns.”

“You’re so—you don’t understand.”

“I understand perfectly,” said Harry sharply. “He’s acting like a child. I get it.”

Marcus shook his head. “Tom will do something stupid. I’m warning you.”

Harry shifted his stance, unease rising within his stomach. That much he knew of Tom. It was an unsettling thought.

“Just… for the sake of the peace,” said Marcus and there was a hint of a plea in his tone. “Stop this. Move on from what Malfoy did - he won’t do something like that again. And… Kneel for him in the next meeting—”

No.

Harry bristled. “I will never kneel for that bastard and nothing you say will ever convince me to bend on that.”

“But—”

“No way in hell.”

Harry whirled away, fuming.

Fuck Tom.

And all the while, Harry grimaced, rubbing his forehead as his scar constantly tingled with stinging pain.

And then the dreaded day arrived.

Halloween.

Just the thought of it made Harry twitchy. Tense. Ready. Wait?! What was that? Oh. Just a bird. Okay, we’re good, fine, great - yup, yup. What was going to happen? Something always did, after all. His only peaceful Halloween had been his first one,  as a baby, before Voldemort blasted his parents on his second Halloween. Ah. To hide and avoid shit, keep the status quo, or watch for anything that could go down? Options, options…

Harry gritted his teeth.

No way in hell he wasn’t going to hide on a day where anything and everything could go wrong. He wasn’t a Gryffindor for nothing, after all. No hiding today. None. He should patrol the corridors.

Right.

And that was how he found himself making his way to the owlery, instead of going to the Great Hall for breakfast. It was fine. This wasn’t hiding. He was just double checking on Kasper. Nothing more, nothing less. Thoughts, would you shut the hell up?! He didn’t need any more thoughts yelling at him. Merlin, Harry was becoming annoyed with himself by this point.

Did that stop his stupid-arse actions?

Nope.

The owlery was quiet like it usually was in the morning, only the gentle murmurs of hoots and chirps. Harry looked around in the tall rafters, searching for the white feathers of Kasper, when he heard a little sniffle from a corner in the room. Harry frowned, turning towards the sound. Curled up into a ball with their head ducked was a small Gryffindor. Kasper was sitting on their shoulder, feathers puffed up. Those yellow eyes looked at Harry and Kasper let out a soft little bark.

Harry’s heart broke when the head popped up and he was looking into Monty’s tear filled eyes. A bruise was forming around one of his eyes and there was dried blood beneath his nose.

“Oh, Monty,” breathed Harry, dropping to his side and putting a hand beneath his chin. He gently turned the boy’s head from side to side, inspecting the damage. “Who did this to you?”

Monty shook his head. “No one.”

“That’s not true,” said Harry, brows furrowing. “You’re usually very honest.” And usually ‘in your face’ about it, too. What’s going on? “Who did this to you? You obviously didn’t do this to yourself.”

“No…” whispered Monty. “Of course not.”

Harry sighed. He knew better to push for answers from a kid. He understood how it was like. “Well, let’s get you to the hospital wing.” He made to help Monty up to his feet, when the boy jerked away, almost violently, shaking his head so much it jostled Kasper, who screeched in anger and annoyance.

“No!” cried Monty; his body hunched in on itself even more, his arms tightening around his knees. Kasper glared up at Harry as if to scold him for his stupidity. Harry threw the owl a look back, but he knelt down closer to Monty, putting his hands over his upper arms.

“Hey, hey,” murmured Harry. “It’s okay.”

“I don’t wanna go.”

“Okay, you don’t have to go.”

“I don’t?”

“No. But you can’t stay here all day. You’ll miss the feast if you do. Plus, we need to treat your injuries, all right?”

Monty swiped the back of his hand beneath his nose, smearing blood and snot along the back of it. “I suppose we could go to the tower—I mean Gryffindor Tower. Charlus keeps bruise balm sometimes.” Monty’s bottom lip wobbled. “But I don’t want him to know what happened.”

“He’s your brother. He’ll understand.”

“No, he won’t. He just asks loads of questions, so he can decide that it’s all my fault and I shouldn’t be me. It’s always my fault. He blames me for things others do to me. I don’t understand!”

Tears streamed down his face and Monty hid it in his arms. For a moment, Harry stayed there in silence, listening to him cry and feeling somewhat lost. He remembered Cho crying and how helpless he’d felt around her. In part, he was struggling with his own issues of that terrible night. Cho had been trying to cope in her own way, too, yet it’d come across as rude and selfish at the time to Harry. Good intentions, bad actions.

Hmm…

“I don’t think that’s what Charlus is really saying,” said Harry softly.

“But that’s what he says,” protested Monty.

“I know,” whispered Harry. “I know. But what he’s really saying is that he doesn’t know how to protect you. Because he feels helpless, he thinks that if you act like everyone else, it’ll fix everything and it’ll be easier on you.”

“Why doesn’t he just say that?”

Harry sighed. “Sometimes people say things, but mean other things.”

“But how am I supposed to understand that?” asked Monty, glancing up at Harry with confusion and despair in his eyes. “If people don’t say things like they mean, how am I supposed to figure anyone out? If people are saying things they don’t mean, then what are they saying? The opposite? Or just a little bit different?  Is there an answer key to this? Or is this a different language that no one taught me? I just want to understand.”

The boy cried more, ducking his head and collapsing against Harry’s chest. Harry wrapped his arms around him without hesitation. His mouth opened, breath drawing audibly, when it caught in his lungs. As he held Monty close, newfound realization dawned in his mind.

Monty needed someone to be direct with him, so he could better understand them. The way he interacted with the world was how he wanted - no, needed - to be interacted with in return.

Was Tom no different?

I’ve been doing this all the wrong way, haven’t I? I have to be direct and clear with Tom. Perhaps, there’s a better chance that he’ll learn.

A bit of hope rose inside Harry’s heart. Maybe… Maybe this wasn’t all hopeless.

“What am I gonna tell Charlus?” cried Monty.

Harry patted him on the back. “What do you want to tell him?”

“Nothing…”

“Then, tell him nothing.”

Monty sniffled and pulled out of Harry’s arms, looking up at him with shock in his eyes. “I can do that?” he whispered in awe.

“Yeah,” said Harry with a soft laugh. “If you don’t want to explain yourself, then you don’t have to and you can tell him that.”

“Okay.”

“And, Monty, you don’t have to be like everyone else,” said Harry, his tone turning serious. “You just need to find those who understand your differences and appreciate them. Like Effie. She’s your friend, isn’t she?”

“Yeah…”

“And I’m your friend, too, right?”

“Yeah,” said Monty, perking up slightly. He smiled.

“And you’ll find more friends, all right? Trust me.”

After all, those who fought trolls together stuck together. Ah, that’s right. Harry had to hold back the grimace as, once again, he was reminded that it was Halloween. “How about I walk you back to the tower and explain a little bit to Charlus, yeah?” he asked. “Will that help?”

Monty relaxed, sighing in relief. “Thanks, Harry,” he said softly. “I’d like that.”

Harry got to his feet and helped him up. Kasper barked softly, nibbling Monty’s ear affectionately before taking flight. He swooped around Harry’s head once , cuffing him with the edge of a wing, before settling on a high perch, screeching once. He got a number of complaining hoots from the other owls.

Harry and Monty walked out of the owlery together and began their way down. At the bottom, it was a few corridors to the ten flights of moving staircases to the Gryffindor Tower. Harry knew the way with perfect memory.

“You skip meals a lot,” said Monty; his voice was softer than normal. “Are you okay?”

For a moment, Harry didn’t respond. He let out a low sigh. “I will be.”

“Okay. Are you gonna come to the feast tonight?”

“Of course,” said Harry, ruffling his hair.

“Good. Mama says I shouldn’t eat many sweets, but I think she’d tell you to eat a lot of sweets.”

Harry laughed. “Tonight, I’ll do just that.”

So long as Halloween doesn’t bring me any shit.

Harry smiled as Monty slowly began to talk about potions. It took a few questions by Harry to get the boy going, but once he did, it was endless. Harry listened fondly, glad that he was thinking about something else other than who had hurt him.

They began their way up the many flights of stairs to the Gryffindor Tower. At the second flight, the staircase shifted, a loud creaking echoing through the tall ceiling area. Harry grabbed Monty by the back of his robes just in time to keep him from slipping.

“Watch it,” said Harry, pulling him back.

“Whoa—thanks, Harry!” said Monty, peering down the opening. “Magic is so cool.”

“Wait,” said Harry, quickly grabbing him once more while they were on the third staircase, narrowing avoiding the trick stair. “Watch for that one. Trick stair.”

“Oh…”

Monty grew silent as they walked up more flights. However, by the fifth flight, Monty halted suddenly. “Hey…” he began, eyeing Harry. “I haven’t told you where the Gryffindor Tower is, but you’re going in the right direction. Plus, you know how to be careful about the stairs and you even knew about the trick stair. How’d you know?”

Oh.

Dammit.

“Yes, Harry, how did you know?” said an all too familiar, smooth voice. He’s like a cockroach! Harry turned to see Tom standing at the bottom of their current flight of stairs, staring up at him with suspicion in his eyes. “I’m curious about this, too.”

“Following me, are you?” said Harry, narrowing his eyes.

“Oh, I know you. You’re Tom Riddle,” chirped Monty, smiling. “The boy Harry beat in a duel. I’m glad Harry did because that means he’s got a subject he’s extra good at.”

Tom gritted his teeth and pointedly ignored Monty. “I was merely curious,” he said lightly, even Harry could feel the tension in his words. He took a single step closer to them. “Especially why you’d be with a little first year Gryffindor. Scorning your own house and dorm mates for this… child.”

“Monty is my friend.”

“Mmm, yes,” murmured Tom. His gaze rested onto Monty; it was cold. Monty took a step back, bumping against the banister, all cheer slipping from his expression.

Harry flipped Tom off. “Fuck you. Leave him alone.”

“I’m on my last thread of patience,” whispered Tom.

“You know,” said Harry, his tone sharp as a whip. “It says a lot about you when I find the company of a kid more enjoyable than yours.”

Tom’s eyes widened, chest expanding in a deep inhale, his nostrils flaring with a furious intensity.

“Monty!” cried a new voice. “There you are!”

Harry glanced towards the sound. Two flights up, Charlus and a crowd of other Gryffindors stood by the familiar painting of the Fat Lady. There was a familiar rumbled within the staircases. With a jerk, the staircase Tom, Harry, and Monty were standing on moved.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

As Harry turned to dismiss Tom, flip him off, or just get rid of the bastard, something hot rushed by Harry. The hair on his neck stood up. When Harry looked down the stairs, Tom was gone. Pain sparked through Harry’s scar, as if the lightning itself had become charged with electricity. He hissed, putting a hand to his forehead, turning back to Monty.

But the boy was gone.

Time slowed for Harry.

He caught a glimpse of small trainers - Monty’s - over the edge—the edge of the stairwell. Screams. So many screams blending together in his ears. Monty’s first, then others at the top of the stairs. He saw Charlus’ horrified expression as he began racing down the stairs two at a time, wand out, panic in his eyes.

Harry was moving, body on its own now. His stomach slammed against the banister railing, the staircase halted its movement; Monty was falling several flights. When he landed on the brick below, he’d die instantly.

Harry didn’t think.

He lifted himself over the edge and dove after him.

“MONTY!”

Chapter Text

Magic flared out. 

It answered his call. His wand wasn’t even in his hand, but that didn’t stop him from trying. The adrenaline surged through Harry; he threw his hand out in front of himself and shouted, “Accio!”

The window of time was short, a handful of seconds before they hit the ground. Monty was screaming up ahead, falling head first. Did the spell work? It had to work. Harry didn’t hesitate. Once more.

The magic roared in his ears; it burned his blood.

“ACCIO!”

Monty jerked in the air and slammed into Harry’s outstretched arms. The boy clung to him, still screaming. Harry covered Monty’s head and shouted the featherlight charm. No time to cast anything else. He braced himself for impact—however, a familiar magic washed over them, instantly slowing their descent.

A second later, they hit the floor.

They bounced once, lightly; Harry landed on the brick floor onto his back, arms still wrapped around Monty’s head. His chest heaved once; he stared up towards the ceiling, heart thundering in his chest and in his ears. He swallowed once; his ears popped. Sound rushed into his senses - screams from other students, cries and tears of shock, voices melding and blending as one.

Monty’s head popped up, lifting off Harry’s chest. He looked at him with wide eyes. “Whoa, that was scary,” he gasped with reverence and wonder.

“Are you all right?” asked Harry, chest rising in a deep breath.

Monty nodded. “Yup, you caught me and saved me.”

“I did. Are you sure you’re all right?”

Those wild Potter curls were more windswept than usual. They bounced with Monty’s eager nod. “I’m fine! Let’s go again! Can we, can we?”

Harry let out a full body sigh of relief. His head fell back onto the brick with a thud. A handful of quick breaths filled his lungs, the fear and horror still present in his chest. He was okay. He was okay. Monty was fine, alive, perfectly well - no worse for wear. Better, even. Wanted to fall down again. Great. Perfect.

Perfect.

“Join the Quidditch team next year instead, yeah?” said Harry softly.

“Oh! I never thought of that. That’s a great idea. But still, can we go just once more? Please, Harry?” Monty rolled off him, crouched at his side. He looked down at him. “Hey, are you all right?”

No.

I am not all right.

That. Utter. BASTARD..

Harry didn’t answer him and sat up. He put a hand onto Monty’s head, gently ruffling his hair. The boy giggled.

What the hell is wrong with you, Tom?

The commotion of students drew Harry’s attention away from Monty. Up a number of flights of stairs, Charlus was racing down them far ahead of the crowds of other students, taking the steps two by two. He slipped once, grabbing the banister with a cry, just in time to catch himself from tumbling. It didn’t slow him down. Other Gryffindors piled after him, a never ending stream of red and black robes.

All passing a solitary boy in green and black.

Their gazes locked, dark brown versus evergreen.

His brows were furrowed, lips thinned to a tight line as Tom watched from above. His shoulders were drawn tight with tension. After a pause, Tom slipped his wand into his sleeve, whirled away from the side of the stairs, his robes billowing behind him, and disappeared into the crowd.

Rage.

Unadulterated rage poured through Harry’s entire being.

The creak of the staircases moving echoed against the walls; the pathway to the bottom was blocked once more. Charlus jumped over the banister to the bottom; he landed with a grunt, bolted to his feet, and raced to Monty’s side. Other prefects were holding back the crowd of students that were now trying to see what was going on. One prefect shouted for someone to find a teacher.

“Merlin, Monty, are you all right?” gasped Charlus, dropping to his knees, winded, sweating. “Are you hurt? Anything broken? I watched you fall and I-I—” His voice cracked, choked with emotion. He jerked Monty into a rough hug. 

Monty squirmed, trying to pull away, but Charlus’ grip tightened; he buried his face into the boy’s neck. Monty stilled. “Charlus?” he whispered. “Why are you shaking?”

“Thank Merlin, you’re all right,” said Charlus, his voice soft with anguished relief. A moment later, he pulled back; there were tears streaming down his cheeks, but he didn’t appear to notice. His focus was solely on Monty. He put his hands on Monty’s shoulders to look him over for injuries. He gasped when he finally got a good look at the boy’s face, placing a hand to his cheek. “Oh, no, you’re hurt! Did you hit your head, what—”

“Charlus, no—” Monty tried to escape the hand on his face. “I’m fine. You’re embarrassing me! And Harry caught and saved me. This—” Monty gestured to the black eye, mouth open for a brief moment, before he paused. His lower lip wobbled and he took a quick breath. “This, uh… this happened before I fell.”

“Wait, what?!”

Harry slowly got to his feet. His ears rang. His magic bristled beneath his skin, like an electrical current. His eyes were on the spot Tom had last been.

“I don’t wanna talk about it and I don’t have to if I don’t want to,” said Monty, lifting his nose in the air. He looked at Harry. “Can we go again? Can we, please? Just once? Please?”

Charlus sat back on his heels, letting out a sigh of exasperation. “Monty,” he breathed. “This wasn’t a game. You fell off the stairs—I told you to be careful! How many times have I told you to watch your step? You could have been seriously hurt—died, you almost died for Godric’s sake.”

“But I didn’t,” said Monty, brows wrinkling in confusion. “I’m fine. Harry was wicked cool and saved me. So, with Harry around, there’s nothing to worry about.” He glanced up. “Right, Harry?”

Harry tore his gaze away from the staircases. They’d begun moving again. “Right,” he said, not fully aware of what he was agreeing to.

Charlus groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers. “Fleamont Potter, you’re going to be the death of me…”

“Hey!”

Charlus pulled him into another hug. Monty wrinkled his nose, shoulders scrunched up to his ears, and waited for a few seconds before he began wiggling out of the hug. Charlus didn’t let him go. He looked up at Harry with gratitude and tears in his eyes. “Thank you,” he said softly, thick with emotion. “Thank you. If anything had happened… I don’t… I don’t know what I’d do.”

“It’s nothing—”

“It’s not nothing,” said Charlus. His grip on little Monty was still unyielding and the poor boy continued to try to squirm out of the hug. “You’re a Slytherin. I would expect some wild rescue from a Gryffindor, but you sacrificing your own safety, well… It means a lot.”

Harry didn’t say anything. His mind was distant. The magic made his skin sensitive, his robes chafing him as if hot coals were being dragged over his flesh. He was frozen in place, feet stuck to the floor. His mind was on an infinite loop, seeing Tom turning away again and again. Those dark eyes were branded in his memory.

“I know Monty calls you cousin,” whispered Charlus. “I can see the resemblance… but I don’t know if you’re really related to us and, well, I don’t care.” He shook his head and determination entered his eyes. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re family now. So, thank you, cousin. You’re one of us.”

Oh… family.

In the back of Harry’s mind, he was touched. His heart soared. This was his family - the family he’d always dreamed of having, so close within reach. The grandfather he’d never met. The great uncle he’d never met. He should stop, be with them, get to know them both even more. They’d never be grandfather and grandson, but they could still be a family.

But he couldn’t enjoy this moment. There was only one name that echoed in his mind, a name whirling furiously in the cloud of billowing emotion. 

Tom.

His heart felt broken, torn, split in half; it seemed to bleed within his chest. A memory pinged in the back of his mind and the voice of Death, sinister, coy, so filled with decay, rang with perfect clarity within Harry’s ears.

‘Could you ever love that? This wretched creature… Could you ever love this soul that took so much away from you?’

Love?

‘You must love Tom Riddle and he must love you.’

Where was love when there was only rage?

‘Be his everything. Be his friend. Be his family. Be his lover.’

His fists were shaking; he grabbed the sides of his trousers. What the hell. What the hell. How? What? How?! This was so hard. Dealing with Tom was difficult on astronomical proportions. This was… This was…

This quest… it might be impossible…

His scar burned.

“Now what’s this about your face?” said Charlus, grabbing Monty by the chin and inspecting his face. Harry looked down at them, mind a storm of terrible thoughts. “What happened? When did this happen? Who did this to you? Did you provoke them?”

Monty curled in on himself, dropping his gaze.

“Enough.”

Charlus looked up at Harry, confusion in his expression. “What’s wrong? Someone has been hurting him and I can’t—”

“He’ll tell you when he’s ready,” said Harry sharply. His breathing was unsteady. The magic grew heavy in the air around them, spreading outwards. His skin stung, as if his entire body had pins and needles. “It’s not his fault; he’s not responsible for arseholes.”

“But I wasn’t…”

Harry turned his gaze onto Monty. “If this happens again, you come to me,” he said, his tone dark. The magic grew thicker, coiling around Harry, unseen as an invisible mist. Charlus shifted with unease, his grip on Monty tightening. “They won’t do anything again once I’m through with them.”

“Oh. Uh, that’s probably not a good idea… As much as I like the sound of that, as Head Boy, I’m supposed to advise that we get a professor’s help in cases of bullying—”

Harry turned away.

“Thanks, Harry!” chirped Monty.

He didn’t look back. His magic was so raw within his body, to his very nerves, that Harry could sense him, Tom - he was watching them, waiting in the shadows. Why, though? Harry strode into a dark corridor, ignoring Charlus’ call of, “Hang on, wait, are you all right?”

Tom was moving. Harry pulled his wand out and silently cast lumos. This section of Hogwarts wasn’t quite within the dungeons, but it was difficult to access due to the staircases constantly moving. There were a handful of classrooms beneath the Gryffindor Tower, but they were unused in Harry’s time. It appeared that nothing had changed.

Harry lifted his wand, light flooding the old, dusty corridor. There was a flutter of black and green robes; they disappeared around the corner.

“Hold it right there, Tom.”

Leather boots clicked, not stopping at his call. Harry quickened his steps, keeping his wand high to light the way. He turned the corner to see Tom walking down another dark corridor with unlit torches, his boots clicking with a quick, sharp rhythm. There were no paintings on the walls and the statues were covered in age old dust and cobwebs.

“Tom.”

He kept walking.

“Tom Riddle, stop.”

Not even a hitch in his steps.

“Tom Marvolo Riddle, you stop walking away from me!” shouted Harry. “Right now!”

The figure halted abruptly. Slowly, he turned, dark eyes reflecting the light of Harry’s wand. They were wide with shock.

“Excuse me?” breathed Tom. “What did you just call me?” 

Harry broke into a run, fury pounding through every one of his strides. “I’ve got a bone to pick with you!”

Tom’s eyes hardened, narrowing. “And I you, it would seem.” He moved, smoothly, like a serpent, and disappeared into the nearest classroom.

“Get back here!” snapped Harry. “Don’t you fucking run away from me, you coward!”

He burst into the dimly lit classroom. He let out a low grunt as he smashed into a desk; he braced himself with his free hand, his fingers smearing through a thick layer of dust. He looked around the room, taking everything in, adrenaline heightening his senses. Light flickered to life and flooded the classroom, one row at a time. The ceiling was vaulted with chained wooden chandeliers, the torches protected in glass. The torches were lit with new flames, burning away the cobwebs.

The classroom was old, as if it hadn’t been used in decades. It appeared to be a mix between a Potions and a Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom. At the front of the classroom was a chalkboard with faded writing, ‘Welcome to the art of Alchemy.’ Dust coated everything, the desks and chairs, the floor, the shelves; cobwebs adorned every corner. There were enormous bookcases, all the way to the ceiling, holding countless old, torn up books. There were more bookshelves with thousands of the jars with a variety of contents and potion vials, all coated in layers of dust and cobwebs. Three large windows were mostly hidden with faded, limp drapes that had fraying rope hanging off them.

In the center of the ceiling was the largest chandelier of all and within its center was a skeleton of a small dragon, suspended on chains. Torchlight flickered, its bones glowing with firelight.

Harry whirled around just as the door slammed shut. Tom stood in front of it with a grim expression, his wand in his left hand, the tip glowing amber red.

“Coward?” whispered Tom. “You’re the one who always runs away.”

Their gazes locked.

Tom’s wand slowly traced over the edges of the doorway, magic swelling the air with the familiar pulse of locking and warding spells.

“I know what you did.”

Tom tilted his head. “Did?”

“Yes, did. Don’t act like you don’t know.”

“I don’t understand you,” murmured Tom. “You’re such a confusing creature.”

“You’ve got a lot of explaining to do,” hissed Harry.

“I do?” said Tom, his tone uncharacteristically soft. “I, who doesn’t know the odd little secrets that you do. I, who has lived within these walls for five years, yet I seem to have less knowledge of the castle than you.” His voice dropped even lower, softer. “I, who have never told anyone my middle name, yet you know it - you know my name. You always do seem to know something you shouldn’t, something that isn’t possible.”

“That’s what you’re focusing on here?” snapped Harry. He had no patience for Tom’s obliviousness today. Not after this. “I’m not playing games—”

“How?” said Tom; his voice was dangerous. “How do you know?”

Harry took two strides towards him, driven on the instinct to maim him, to punch him, to drive his fist through cartilage. His wand slipped back into his pocket. Tom’s wand pointed at him. Instead of throwing a punch, Harry grabbed him by the lapels of his suit robes and shoved him against the door. Their chests pressed against each other. A wand dug into Harry’s neck, painfully so, but he didn’t care - barely even noticed it. Tom glared down at him, chin lifted slightly, his lips curling with growing ire.

“Focus on the real problem here, you arsehole!” shouted Harry. “You almost killed Monty!”

“That’s a wild accusation, Harry, darling,” said Tom in a low, angry purr. The wand pressed deeper into Harry’s flesh. The tip burned. “How dare you—”

“I felt it,” hissed Harry. “Your magic. How could you do that?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” whispered Tom; dark, dangerous, like a predator ready to pounce. “Now unhand me. My patience with you is—”

“Your patience?” Harry scoffed. “Do you have any idea what you nearly did?”

“You’re going to have to be a little more specific.”

Harry’s chest heaved against Tom, deep, aggravated. “Stop acting so innocent! Monty—”

“You’re under the delusion that I am responsible for the boy’s poor footing?” asked Tom, cocking his head to the side. His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “The stairs were moving. Many a child has slipped before. No harm done.”

“Fuck you, no—you pushed Monty.”

“Any proof?” whispered Tom.

“No, but I know you.”

Tom laughed in mocking disbelief. “Know me?” It came out breathy, with the weight of a feather. “In two months? Not possible.” His eyes narrowed, lips curling. “And yet… somehow, you know personal details about me, like my name.”

Tom tried to push him away, but Harry grabbed his upper arms, his grip tight as a vice. His glare grew stronger. Tom gritted his teeth; they struggled against each other, trying to overpower the other. Tom shoved harder and Harry lost his balance, toppling backwards to the floor—but he dragged Tom down with him. They landed, hard. Harry groaned, the back of his head stinging.

Tom took the opportunity. He was on Harry in an instant, straddling his hips and caging one of Harry’s arms with a knee. One hand gripped Harry by the wrist, locking his arm above his head, while the other hand pressed a yew wand into the center of his throat. Tom loomed over him. Harry squirmed beneath him, rage pouring through his veins like fresh burning lava.

“Who are you?” whispered Tom. “I’ve never thought about someone this much before. You’re constantly on my mind and I can’t be rid of you. Have you cursed me?”

What…?

“That’s the only explanation,” said Tom, frustration and anger seeping into his tone. “You’ve put a hex or a curse on me. Release me from it now.”

“I haven’t put a spell on you, you idiot,” said Harry shortly. He squirmed again, trying to find a way to break free. “Stop trying to change the subject. You pushed Monty and for what reason?” Harry let out a low huff. “I don’t get you, Tom. That was a stupid move on your part and you don’t make stupid moves.”

Tom tilted his head, his gaze studying him intently. Harry tried to jerk out of his hold, but Tom’s grip tightened around his wrist with bruising strength. He leaned closer, hair falling over his forehead, a few inches from Harry’s face now.

“Perhaps…” said Tom slowly, as if coming to the realization himself. “I didn’t enjoy watching you get close to him. Why, I don’t know—”

How is he this stupid?!

Harry barked out a laugh. “I know why,” he snapped. “You’re jealous.” He couldn’t help but laugh more. “Of course. Of course, you were jealous - of a fucking eleven year old kid. A child.”

Tom’s chest heaved. Harry sneered.

“You’re pathetic, Tom.”

Magic burst from Harry, rushing over Tom in enormous waves. The force of the magic nearly tore Tom off, the power like a gust of wind, but he gritted his teeth, holding tightly onto him. However, it was just what Harry needed to break free. He twisted beneath him, throwing Tom off his hips. The hand on his wrist loosened and Harry shoved Tom away, scrambling to his feet and glaring down at him.

“You stay away from Monty. Understand?” snapped Harry. The hurt tore at his heart; his eyes burned. “You just stay the hell away from my family!”

Tom’s eyes widened. There was a long pause. “Your family?” he breathed. “I wasn’t under the impression that you were a Potter.”

It was only then that Harry realized what he’d said. Ah, shit. Harry inhaled. Shit.

“Oh, this is rich,” said Tom, gracefully getting to his feet. “So, it’s true. An illegitimate Potter. I’m not sure why I’m surprised. I should’ve known. Rumors are always based on a grain of truth. How delightful. It makes sense now.”

“Shut up, you bastard. This is serious—”

“Bastard? My parents were married,” said Tom with a sniff. He sneered. “Unlike yours, apparently.”

This—impossible—arsehole—!

“Well, at least my mother didn’t rape my father!” shouted Harry.

The blood drained from Tom’s face, his color pale as a ghost. His hand trembled; his knuckles grew white at the hilt of his wand. It lifted, pointing straight at Harry’s heart. Mouth slowly opening, his eyes wide, frozen, Tom stood there a moment, visibly trembling.

And then…

A curse shot from Tom’s wand.

Bricks exploded, right where Harry had once stood.

“Fuck.”

Tom was shaking. His hand ached from the intense grip on his wand hilt. He watched Harry get back to his feet, brushing pieces of brick out of his hair, his mind a hurricane of thought and emotion. The storm there was too powerful.

This boy—no, man - this man was dangerous.

Rage beyond anything Tom had ever felt before was flooding through every vein in his body. He was trembling with fury, but a calm settled over his wand hand, magic bursting from the end like a whip. Harry ducked behind a desk. Tom sent another blast; Harry’s wand snapped into his hand and, with a flick of the wrist, a protego shield bloomed to life. The blasting curse slammed against the shield. It didn’t even put a crack into it.

Harry kicked the desk, his wand snapping forward with the spell light of a bombarda. The desk exploded, shards of wood flying towards Tom. With a quick flick, the splinters halted, and with a second flick, they shot back towards Harry. The cloud of splintered wood instantly turned to sawdust, coating much of Harry’s robes.

Harry glared at him.

A shiver shot up Tom’s spine.

A panther? A diamond? Not even close. Something had been unleashed - a raging beast, a roaring dragon. Harry’s magic was intoxicating. A light…

And Tom had become a moth to the flame. 

“You can’t hurt others because you’re jealous of them!” shouted Harry.

Jealous?

How absurd. Harry was making this a bigger deal than it actually was - the Potter boy would’ve been fine. Children fell all the time going to the Gryffindor and Ravenclaw Towers, didn’t they?

“He would’ve been fine,” hissed Tom.

“How can you be this thick?!”

Spells lit up the room, missing their targets, smashing into desks and chairs. A stray blasting curse exploded a nearby hourglass, sending glass shards and sand into the air to coat the floor. Harry used his surroundings against Tom, hiding beneath desks, only to pop out to throw a curse at Tom with near perfect precision. With a roar, Tom sent a blasting curse at the desk; it exploded. Harry threw himself into a roll, ducking behind another desk.

This is all your fault!

For the first time, Tom had been out of control, impulsive, no foresight in his mind. But this chaotic force, this magnetic draw that was Harry Evans - he was destroying the foundation of everything Tom had built these past years.

Tom was losing himself.

He gripped his wand tighter. The desks and chairs were scattered across the classroom, torn and blown apart from their spells. Harry coughed from the dust that was thick in the air.

He had to break free, wrest himself away from the allure that was Harry Evans. Tom was out for blood now. He wanted to see this boy bleed. He wanted to see this boy cry, scream. He wanted to see him writhe at his feet, beg for mercy until his throat became hoarse with overuse. He wanted to see tears streaming down his cheek, blood decorating his lips.

At the end, would Tom give him mercy?

He didn’t know, but he wanted to find out.

“I am finished with your nonsense,” hissed Tom. I will make you submit. “You’ve made a mockery of the house of Slytherin for months, scorning your own, making company outside of the house. No respect for anyone. No respect for tradition of this school—”

“Oh, fuck you and your traditions!” snapped Harry. “I’m sick of them!”

“I will make you learn why I am the one who rules Slytherin.”

Harry rolled his eyes, wand flexing in his hand. “You can’t pitch a damn fit when someone doesn’t do what you want,” he said, sounding thoroughly exasperated. “You can’t shove a kid off the stairs because you’re mad or jealous! Why can’t you see that?”

Tom inhaled, the fury burning inside. “I will make you kneel,” he spat furiously, “and you will acknowledge me.”

Harry tilted his head to the side; the color of his eyes seemed ethereal. “You haven’t yet - tried multiple times, but failed. What makes this time any different?”

“I’ve been lenient with you—that’s all!”

“Have you? Or are you just not powerful enough?”

The spell burst from the tip of Tom’s wand like a whip. Harry deflected it with a quick protego. The dark gold light of the hex exploded into countless shards of glittering dust, beautiful, enthralling magic. That spell would’ve ruptured Harry’s stomach if it struck. His eyes seemed to glow through the light, emerald green a beacon within gold.

Why can’t I look away? Why can’t I ignore you?

“If you hadn’t done this to me,” whispered Tom, “this spell or curse, I wouldn’t make such rash choices.”

I never did before, not before you arrived.

“Oh, for the love of Merlin—Take responsibility for your own stupidity, dumbass!” shouted Harry. “You can’t do stupid shit like this any more. You can’t just hurt people when things don’t go your way. That’s what children do. I know you—you’re smarter than this.”

“You know me?” breathed Tom. He exhaled with a hiss. “You know nothing!” he shouted, wand whipping around him in an arcing motion.

The shattered pieces of the nearby desks began to collect into two long shapes, twisting and coiling with jagged edges. At the end, the head of a viper melded together, coming to life, hissing and spitting splinters of wood. Two wooden vipers charged after Harry, who cursed and darted into a run, sending a stream of blasting spells after them. The vipers were fast, dodging the spell fire.

Fire coursed through his veins. Tom exhaled slowly, focused on the magic. The fire of the torches in one of the small chandeliers flickered above them, the flames curling together, swirling around in the air into a sphere of fire. It plummeted to the ground in front of Tom.

“But you will know one thing by the end of this,” said Tom calmly, his voice low and dark. The flames condensed, coiling and roiling over each other with the familiar movement of a large snake knot. The group split into ten small snakes, all made of burning, flickering flames. “You will know why you should never have crossed me.”

The fire snakes charged.

“Shit.”

Harry was explosive, impulsive, and quick on his feet. But Tom had yet to see him think very many steps ahead of himself. He could run all he wanted to, but he would grow tired soon enough.

Behold, Harry Evans, the reason why I am the heir of Slytherin.

And not you.

A fire snake lunged; Harry dove behind a desk, which caught fire immediately. More snakes lunged for him; the desk exploded in a massive bombarda. Splintered wood sprayed out, scattering wide, striking the wall. Tom arched his wand again, gathering the spell to transfigure the wood into more vipers.

I don’t need a family name. I don’t need a family. I don’t need friends.

And I don’t need you.

A low boom echoed where Harry was hidden, shaking the floor beneath Tom’s feet. A gust of wind blew through the room, blasting over Tom, the windows rattling, the drapes billowing wildly. A crack of thunder, louder now, shook the room with more force. The air swirled above, clouds forming in the air, first white until darkening to storm grey. Tom sucked in his breath. Harry stood, wand gripped tightly in his hand, just as a fiery snake lunged for him.

The wizarding world will know me.

I will craft a new name, a better name.

Rain poured down from the cloud above Harry. The rain expanded outward; the fire snakes shrieked in pain, writhing as they sizzled out. A number of the torches in the chandeliers were doused with the rain, dimming the light of the classroom.

Their gazes locked.

A wooden viper lunged at Harry from behind.

The world will know…

I am Lord Voldemort!

It happened simultaneously; the scar on Harry’s forehead illuminated, like a striking blaze across the night sky. Alive. A lightning strike exploded behind Harry, obliterating the wooden viper.

His breath was stolen. The wind disappeared from Tom’s lungs.

“Is that all, then?” whispered Harry, the glow of his scar slowly fading back to normal. The second wooden viper leapt in the air, coming towards his right. There was a clap of thunder, just as a bolt of lightning cracked downwards and eviscerated the viper into dust.

That scar glowed beneath Harry’s skin, alive with a powerful force.

“Are you done?” asked Harry, soft, disgusted, and filled with disappointment. He shook his head, running a hand through his soaked hair. Water mixed with blood slipped down his temple. “You’re so blind. I don’t even know what to do any more…” It came out more of a whisper to himself. “What would it take to knock some sense into that fucked up head of yours?”

The rain stopped. The scar returned to normal. Harry quickly shed his outer robes; they dropped to the floor with a wet thud. With a swirl of his wand, Harry dried himself off. He glanced around briefly and smirked when he saw the shelves; he turned back to look at Tom.

“Well, then. My turn to teach you a lesson.” Harry whipped his wand upwards; a bunch of jars floated a number of inches off the shelves. “This is for trying to hurt Monty!”

He flicked his wand towards Tom; jars shot after him. Tom muttered a curse to himself, ducking as one narrowly missed smashing into his head. He threw up a protego; the jars shattered against the shield, their contents coating the floor. They struck his shield with such immense force, cracks in the magic began forming. A couple of more and the magic would end.

Tom broke into a run, just as his shield shattered. He threw up another one and the force of the jars pushed his shield backwards a pace; he smashed against a desk. Tom gritted his teeth.

“Come on, Tom, is that all you’ve got? A few snakes and that’s it?”

Tom dropped his shield, whipping out a number of cutting curses in quick succession. Harry darted to the side; one sliced through his trousers at his thigh. Jars zoomed towards Tom again. He dodged; pointed his wand at one and it exploded, a mixture of glass and its contents spraying his robes.

A pair of eyeballs landed at his feet, swiveling to look up at him.

The rank smell assaulted his senses, almost to the point of gagging. Tom shed his outer robes, flicking the viscous liquid from off his hands. He let out a disgusted huff, drying himself off. Harry smirked at him.

“Had enough?”

“Never,” whispered Tom.

Harry smiled, dark and stormy. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

Potion vials flew off the shelves, skyrocketing towards Tom. He blocked them with a shield; they shattered against it, the contents spraying broken desks and chairs. One of the desk combusted into a blast of rainbow glitter, while the remains of another desk and chair turned a blinding neon pink. A chair sprang to life, bouncing around like a newborn pup, and darted for Tom.

He blasted it apart with a bombarda.

The barrage of potion vials didn’t stop. Harry seemed to have an endless supply of ammo to throw at him. One combination of potions melted the debris of broken wood with the speed and potency of acid. Another combination of potions caused a pair of chairs to start giggling. The air was thick with potion fumes, making Tom’s eyes water and his lungs seize up. Desperately, Tom summoned the drapes, ripping them from their rods. With a circular motion, he caught a bunch of potion vials at once, the drapes rolling them up into a bundle.

There was a crack. A potion shattered, setting off a domino effect. There was a spark and the drapes caught on fire. Fumes of multiple colors seeped from the fiery bundle of drapes, potion liquid dripping to the floor. Tom released the levitation spell on it.

It didn’t drop. 

The air grew heavy, dense, almost to the point where Tom couldn’t breathe. Harry stopped throwing potions at him, eyes widening; he doubled over, gasping and wheezing for breath. Tom couldn’t stop from hunching over as well, putting a hand to his head. His lungs squeezed. The pressure built to an unbearable point; it felt as if his ears were going to pop.

The classroom itself seemed to warp towards the bundle of drapes. The chains that held the chandeliers creaked. A metal object flew past Tom. The drapes dropped to the floor, leaving behind a sphere of potion fumes that swirled towards opposite poles, the colors slowly intermixing into a deep, dark grey. The air rippled around it. Every metal object chained to the wall groaned, drawn to its magnetic force. It expanded quickly, eating every loose metal object within the room. The pressure built with it.

Alarm rang in the back of Tom’s mind. He threw up a shield, but the air warped around it, crushing it. It snapped a moment later. Sound and vision grew distorted in Tom’s head. He couldn’t think. It felt as if the very room was going to be torn apart, drawn into this odd sphere.

There was a tug at Tom’s belt buckle, his feet sliding against the floor towards the sphere. A couple of yards away, Harry flailed, cursing wildly, grabbing at a nearby suit of armor. His hand landed on the armored forearm. It broke away, spinning into the air. The magnetic field consumed it, shredding it apart. Harry lost his balance and fell backwards, sliding against the floor towards the sphere.

The chain links of the chandeliers were weakening; one of the smaller ones snapped and fell into the swirling sphere. Wood and metal cracked, reverberating deep sound throughout the room. There was an echo and everything went still, sound itself void and hollow.

The sphere instantly condensed.

The pressure exploded.

Boom. A cacophony of sound fused in a clash of chaos; the vibration was low with a deep rumble. The windows shattered, glass shards spraying outside. Distant screams could be heard. Pockets of wood caught ablaze with flames. Tom was thrown towards the front of the classroom; he crashed into the teacher’s desk, smashing it in half. Pain burst through his back. Tom couldn’t stop the cry of pain that escaped his lips. He coughed, panting and gasping for needed air; his lungs were on fire. Stars popped in his sight; a headache bloomed behind his eyes. There was a yell from Harry and a crash nearby.

Tom groaned, rolling to the side and crawling out of the rubble of wood. Glass cut into Tom’s knees. His head pounded. Sharp pain raced up and down his spine. He didn’t move for a moment, staying on the floor on all fours, trying to catch his breath.

This was insanity.

Tom didn’t care.

While the pain in his back was lessening, the pain in his right arm only intensified with the passing of time. Miraculously, his wand was still in his hand, safe. He held it tightly, as if it were anchoring him, and brushed his fingers over the spot that burned the most. It was slick with blood; the sleeve of his shirt had been ripped.

Wood groaned; there was a snapping crack and Tom looked up, eyes growing wide. Harry let out a yelp, narrowly ducking out of the way, while Tom had to throw himself into a roll. An enormous bookcase broke from the wall and came crashing down, books flying out during the fall. It landed on the destroyed teacher’s desk with a loud slam of shattering wood. Books scattered across the floor around them. Some landed in nearby patches of fire, burning quickly away. 

Harry was only a foot away from Tom. They shared a look, chests heaving in deep breaths. Blood dripped over Harry’s forehead, sliding down the bridge of his nose. His dress shirt was splattered with blood, splintered wood imbedded near his collarbone. Tom’s hand tightened on the hilt of his wand. He pointed it at Harry’s forehead; the holly wand pointed at Tom’s chest. They didn’t move; their gazes were unwavering. Outside, illegible voices were shouting and screaming.

Harry slowly lowered his wand, chest rising and falling once. Tom didn’t lower his wand, but he did allow his eyes to wander. The classroom was a disaster. A crazed laugh threatened to bubble out from his throat. Madness. This was the pinnacle of asininity. Books, valuable precious books of priceless knowledge were scattered everywhere on the floor. Some were soaked with liquid from the contents of the various broken jars and potion vials. Others were curling away with flames.

And then a title caught Tom’s eye. Out of all books to be within this room, a book he’d been searching for in the restricted section for years - it was right there, dropped at his side like a gift from the gods. His mouth fell open in pure shock.

‘Secrets of the Darkest Art.’

He reached for it.

“Incendio!”

The flames burst from Harry’s wand, consuming the book in a stream. Tom hissed, hand jerking back on reflex; the tips of his fingers were burned. The book caught fire with ease, the pages curling with blackened flames. Tom glared up at Harry, fury pouring through his veins with renewed, venomous strength. Harry caught his gaze, those green eyes wide with hidden terror.

A chill slid down Tom’s back.

Does he know… about them, too?

He couldn’t. He couldn’t. There was no way he knew the true significance of the book - that would be far too outlandish. Harry burned it just to spite him. His wand trembled in his grip; Tom pointed it at Harry, who jerked back, jaw clenched in a grim expression.

We might end up… killing each other.

Somehow, that didn’t scare Tom. Death, the most terrifying thing of all, wasn’t as frightening as it should be if it were by the hand of this powerful man.

But only if I drag you to Hell with me.

A curse burst from Tom’s wand; it slammed against Harry’s quick reflexes, a strong shield. A crack spidered through it. The force of the blast sent the pair of them skidding away from each other. Tom tore to his feet, multicolored spell lights brightening the room. Harry was on his feet just as fast, returning fire, red and gold spells blasting from Harry’s wand.

 There were no more thoughts. Just the magic. Just the rage. The mind was only a fog; nothing but instinct fueled Tom’s body. Harry reacted the same, weaving through the spells elegantly with the speed and skill he held on the Quidditch field. Magic responded to them on a deep, visceral level, answering their desires and emotions instantly. Words weren’t needed. The spells were dark and powerful. The fight between them was feral, brutal.

It was a bloody fight to the death.

But the magic could only last for so long. Magic of this magnitude drained even the most powerful of wizards and witches. It wasn’t to last forever.

Yet, they didn’t stop.

Tom wasn’t aware of what he was casting any more. Blasting curses, cutting curses, so many curses and hexes thrown at each other. Wood disintegrated into dust; books burned; glass coated the floor, crunching beneath their boots. Vicious and cruel. Deadly and powerful. Harry was no exception. Tom moved through the carnage of the classroom, avoiding the destroyed desks and the fires that burned among the piles of wood. Another bookcase tore from the wall and landed with a floor shaking crash. 

They didn’t even notice. 

Harry shot another spell; it blasted against a shield. A bombarda shattered it immediately. Tom slammed against the wall, gasping in pain. He dropped to his hands and knees, glass cutting into his flesh. He picked up his wand, the hilt now coated with his blood.

“Are you ready to admit you were wrong?” demanded Harry, winded, standing over him. Tom looked up to see the wand pointing at his face. “Admit you tried to hurt Monty, that you were wrong, and you won’t do something like that again.

At Tom’s feet lay discarded rope that once tied the drapes. Tom’s knuckles went white. His gaze hardened. Harry’s expression crumpled briefly; a light glowed at the end of the holly wand. Tom ducked; the bricks exploded over his head.

The rope sprang to life and darted out, snake-like. A section shot upwards, wrapping around Harry’s left wrist. He cursed, distracted; another section of rope wrapped around his right wrist. Tom threw more intent behind his magic and the rope grew stronger. Harry cried out and his wand slipped from his right hand, clattering to the floor. The rope curled around Harry, his legs, his arms, his waist - he fell backwards with another furious curse.

“Shit!”

The rope tightened around his arms and waist, sliding upwards around his neck. He glared up at Tom, mouth opening slightly in a gasp for breath. A single desire and those ropes could end Harry Evans right there. It could choke the life out of him with disgusting ease.

You’re a liability and a danger to my future.

“I will subjugate you, one way or another.”

And once I do… I’ll go back to who I was before you arrived, purified of your influence over me.

Harry thrashed on the floor, glaring up at Tom. His wand rolled, stopping at his right hip. “If you think for one second this changes anything... fuck you—” The ropes squeezed, cutting his words off. Harry broke into choking, wheezing coughs. 

He wasn’t going to yield. Bound and tied at the feet of his enemy, Harry Evans wasn’t going to yield to him. What gave him that power? His magic and abilities were good, but this strength - whatever it was - seemed far more powerful than all the magic in the world.

Why was it that Tom was the one who felt powerless and helpless when he was the one looking down on Harry?

“Why don’t you understand?” hissed Tom.

The ropes eased their hold.

“Oh, Tom…” It was said with such soft pity. There was a cough. “It’s you who doesn’t understand.”

Tom pointed his wand at Harry’s forehead. His mouth opened, a spell on his lips. There was a burst of magic from Harry, the ropes disintegrating. His hand scrambled at his hip, grabbing onto the hilt of his wand. Their wands aligned perfectly together, pointing at one another. At the same time, their voices echoed throughout the wrecked classroom.

“Crucio!”

“Expelliarmus!”

Dark, blood red lightning of the cruciatus spell slammed against the bright red lightning of the expelliarmus spell. A wave of magic exploded outwards, forcing distance between them. Harry jumped to his feet, trying to break away from the combined spells. The yew wand vibrated in Tom’s hand, threatening to be pulled from his grasp. Tom gritted his teeth, clapping his right hand over his left to secure his grip on the hilt.

A mournful song echoed faintly in the air.

Something in Tom’s chest chimed with the gentle tinkle of sound. His eyes burned with an odd feeling, unknown emotion emanating from his yew wand. Gold light formed at the center of their clashing spellfire. Streams of golden light shot out, arching over them, caging them in bars of glimmering light. The cage of golden magic expanded, reaching the ceiling. It smashed into the chandeliers above, setting the torches alight once more. It crackled over the hanging dragon skeleton, orange gold sparkles dancing along its bones. Like a fuse lighting dynamite, they rushed over the skeleton towards the skull, until the light burned bright.

There was a terrible sound, a buzzing, electrifying noise that made Tom cringe with pain. The magic glowed at the skull, settling inside the eye sockets. A low, deep vibration echoed through the room; the walls of the castle of Hogwarts trembled.

The skeleton came to life with a bellowing roar.

Chains rattled, metal cracking, as the skeleton roared in fury, trying to break free of its bonds. It thrashed against the large chandelier it was intertwined with, glass shattering into thousands of shards. They rained down on Tom and Harry, clattering to the floor.

Another mournful cry echoed through the room, louder than before. The sound of it tore something inside of Tom’s heart. Sweat trickled down his temples from the heat of the spells. His magic drained faster as the spells stayed interconnected.

In the center of the spell light, the sparks shattered, bursting into the air. There was a screech, loud and powerful, and the sparks formed into the shape of a large bird, wings flaring out. Light sprayed around them with the flap of powerful, fiery wings. Tom jerked back, recognizing it. A phoenix. Over the sizzling crackles of the spells, Tom heard Harry speak in a soft voice.

“Fawkes?”

The phoenix echoed a terrible, heart wrenching cry.

‘Why do you fight?’ it seemed to say.

The phoenix crowed once more. The spells instantly died between them. The phoenix flew high into the air, its wings creating a gust of wind; it blasted over them. It screeched, almost like a bellow of anger and disappointment at their actions. Tom’s wand burned in his hands and he felt the same emotions, not his own - angry, furious, disappointed with him. He hissed through his teeth, trying to hold onto his wand through the burn. It grew too much and the wand slipped from his fingers, clattering to the floor. There was another clatter; Harry’s wand had dropped as well.

The phoenix’s voice echoed through the room, now sounding satisfied. It flared out, disappearing. The magic died around them, leaving only the animated skeleton above. It continued to thrash wildly, pulling at its chains.

Tom dropped to his knees, exhausted. Harry was in no better condition; he was still standing, but he was swaying, staring down at Tom with mixed emotions whirling in his eyes. Tears streamed down his cheeks.

Why… are you crying?

The anger and pain was too much for Tom to comprehend any more. He didn’t even know why he’d been so furious with Harry. Why were they fighting again? Harry took a step towards him. And another. Tom looked up as he stood over him. Harry wiped his brow with the back of his hand, glaring at him through angry tears. There were more now. Harry’s bottom lip trembled. He drew back.

And smashed a fist into Tom’s cheek.

Tom went down; he cried out in pain as glass dug into his back. His head slammed against the floor. Glass crunched beneath his body, sliding effortlessly into every part of his exposed flesh. Harry was over him, on him, straddling him at the chest, and lifting another fist for another punch. His glasses were coated in dust, the glass cracked. Tom jerked beneath his weight, scrambling for purchase. He grabbed Harry’s arms. A punch slammed into his cheek; pain exploded in Tom’s face; his eyes watered, tears mixing with blood. He was briefly blinded by pain.

Stop.

Just stop already.

The pain in his fragile, mortal body was nothing compared to the pain that echoed through every fiber of his being. The song of the phoenix seemed to sing through his veins. Agony shook his soul. Everything was wrong, terribly wrong, and he didn’t know why nor had the words to explain it.

This must be what being under the cruciatus curse felt like.

Another punch slammed into Tom. With a roar, anger rising with renewed strength above all the other unknown emotions, Tom shoved Harry from off his chest. Harry landed next to him with a grunt of pain. Tom straddled him next, fist drawn back for a punch. His lungs seized and Tom broke into a series of hacking coughs, wheezing for breath. He doubled over, forehead pressed against the bloodied chest beneath him.

Make it stop.

Tom rolled off Harry and onto his knees, glass shredding the last of his trousers. It dug into his hands. He was covered in blood. He couldn’t stop coughing and wheezing; he squeezed his eyes shut. He felt Harry move at his side; glass crunched and there was a sharp gasp of pain.

He was to his breaking point. When had anyone ever pushed him to this point?

His nerves were on fire. His body was in such pain. His eyes burned. Emotion. Emotion. What was all this? He wanted to tear his hair out, wanting to tear his own heart out - make it stop.

Stop, please.

A hand touched his back, lightly rubbing it. Tom couldn’t comprehend its meaning. When his body calmed, he looked up. Harry was knelt at his side, glasses pulled off his face. Those eyes were starker than ever in their color. Harry dragged himself to his feet, groaning softly. He looked down at Tom for a moment, before he bent over and put a hand beneath his arm. With Harry’s help, Tom slowly got to his feet, swaying briefly. He wanted to lie back down.

“Why?” asked Tom, his voice hoarse.

“Why, what?” said Harry with a labored exhale.

Tom stared at the boy, exhausted, agony still burning through his entire being. He didn’t understand; the magic of that phoenix had done something to him. What, he couldn’t put words to it. It felt like a crack, a fissure had been split open within his heart. The dragon roared above them, chains rattling. The bricks cracked at the root of the chains, stone dropping to the floor and smashing into pieces.

“Why don’t I hate you?” breathed Tom.

Those vibrant green eyes widened.

Above the pain that pulsed in his chest, above the throbbing pain of the flesh, an odd, unfamiliar feeling rose within Tom’s body and soul. There was a loud crack; a torch landed on the floor beside them, glass shattering out. They didn’t notice.

Why do I regret everything?

All of this… what led to this… Why?

He stared at Harry, unsure of what to make of the twisting, writhing feeling in the pit of his stomach. He wanted to throw up.

What is this feeling?

A brick landed nearby, shattering into chunks. A frustrated roar echoed above them.

He wanted all of this to go away. He didn’t know how to fix any of this. It was probably too late now. His anger at the beginning of the fight seemed so trivial, so stupid to Tom now. He didn’t want this.

What do I want…?

I want him to not be angry with me. I want… I want him to laugh again.

I care… about what he thinks—

A terrible, ominous crack shook the room. Tons of bricks slammed down around them seconds later. Tom glanced up, just in time to see the dragon spread its skeletal wings with a triumphant roar of delight above them; magic rippled out from it and its chains broke into hundreds of links of metal. The wings tore through its prison, the large chandelier, ripping through the chains that held it to the ceiling. The skeleton took flight.

A beat.

Barely a second.

The chandelier fell, shards of glass raining down like droplets of death.

The adrenaline within Tom seemed to slow down time. He caught Harry’s gaze. Tom moved. Hands outstretched, they slammed into Harry’s chest. He was falling backwards. Those eyes widened with shock and fear, tears glistening in them. The scar glowed.

Harry landed on the glass covered floor, a number of feet away. His head whipped up, mouth open in horror; his hand reached for Tom.

Oh… I might actuall—

Chapter Text

‘Why do you fight?’

The requiem song of Fawkes still echoed pleas within Harry’s mind; that mournful call of scolding vibrated through every particle of his body and soul. It tore his heart apart, mercilessly broke it into thousands of pieces. Fawkes’ disappointment had been more painful than all the glass shards embedded in his skin.

‘I expect better of you.’

Oh, these tears burned with the everlasting flames of a phoenix.

The chandelier crashed. Harry screamed. The crash of wood, metal, and glass shook the room, debris exploding all around from the impact. Dust and smoke rushed over Harry. He coughed, trying to get to his feet again. He lost his footing, falling onto his back with a hard thud. Glass crunched. Harry cried out. He gritted his teeth.

Tears streamed down his cheeks, unrelenting.

Harry forced himself back up, determined. “Lumos!”

But no light came. No magic answered him. The tears were hot against his skin, painful and tender, as if they were claws gouging out tracks within his flesh. They refused to stop.

“Tom!” shouted Harry. “Tom!”

He pushed through the enormous chandelier rubble, trying to find a sign of either Tom or their wands. He was so exhausted now. Everything hurt - ached to his very bones. Every part of his body hurt and ached and throbbed and stung with terrible pain - even his scar burned. He wanted to shrivel up into a ball of shame. He choked out a sob; this wasn’t how he wanted it to go. What the hell was wrong with them? So stupid. Crazy. Madness. Harry was; Tom was - everything, all of it, every last breath of it, so stupid of them.

Tom was an idiot for being jealous.

Harry was an idiot for running away.

What if he’s…

No. He couldn’t think like that.

“Tom, where are you? Tom.”

But there was no answer.

Fire crackled all around Harry, slowly spreading. The skeletal dragon took a perch on top of a smaller chandelier that still hung from the ceiling, its weight causing it to swing dangerously. It started nibbling on its bony wings, as if it were cleaning feathers. Its glowing eyes watched him. Harry tore into the fallen chandelier, lifting sections of broken wood and tossing them aside. He struggled with the weight, his muscles straining and screaming at him to lie down and never get up. Wand. Magic. Have to save him. He needed to find their wands, too. He lifted a piece of the chandelier, uncovering white painted with red.

“Tom!”

Harry dropped to his knees. Tom was unmoving beneath a beam. Harry let out a soft scream of pained, exhausted rage.

“Don’t you fucking die on me, you bastard,” said Harry; it came out more of a choked sob than an insult. “Not after all this. You can’t—you can’t.”

His fingers were bloodied, splintered wood digging into his skin. Harry didn’t care. With a final heave, Harry managed to get the last of the wood from off Tom. He grabbed him by the ankles and dragged him a few paces away from the rubble, his tears never ending. But the last of his strength gave out and Harry collapsed to the floor. He doubled over Tom’s chest, gasping for breath. When he could, Harry held still, listening and waiting.

Tom was still breathing, though only just - his breaths were shallow and raspy.

“Please,” gasped Harry. His head whipped around, desperate. “Our wands—where’s a wand? Lumos!”

Nothing.

“Please!” cried Harry, gasping and sobbing through awful, ugly tears. He tried to wipe his face with his sleeve, but he only smeared the blood. He could barely think through the haze of pain and sorrow and regret - he wanted to scream. So, he did. He let out another scream, one of pain, rage, and lament. “Please! Let me use magic once more!”

The magic steadily refused his call.

Remorse filled his soul. His scar burned. He should’ve confronted Tom sooner. He shouldn’t have run away so much. What kind of Gryffindor had he become, running away so much? He should’ve faced it all head on. He’d faced Voldemort so many times. He’d walked to his very death. Why had he been hiding from Tom Riddle?

Was it all over now?

Had he failed the task that Death had given him?

Harry bowed his head. “I’m so sorry. Please. I don’t want him to die. I don’t.”

A little spark flared to life in his chest. Harry whipped his head up and whispered, “Lumos.” A nearby wand lit up, while another one lit up a number of paces away. Harry grabbed the closest one. For a second, he felt the familiar burn of disappointment from Fawkes, but the wand itself felt different in his hand.

It’s Tom’s wand…

“Please work for me,” whispered Harry. He held the wand to his chest, over his heart. “Fawkes, listen to me, please, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for this to happen. I didn’t—I swear. So, please… please work for me.” He let out a shuddering sob, wiping his eyes as best as he could. The dust only made his eyes burn more. He pointed the wand at Tom’s chest. “Episkey.”

In the back of Harry’s mind, far behind the storm of pain and emotions, a raspy voice echoed from the void.

‘Oh, Master…’

‘Why do you not call for me? Am I not your bridge between worlds?’

Tom’s chest cracked.

There was a bubbling, choking sound. Tom jerked awake, his eyes popping open in agony. He choked again, blood painting his lips. Harry quickly rolled him onto his side where Tom coughed up more blood. A moment later, he was taking gasping, wheezing breaths, sounding like death itself. Blood in the lungs. Can’t be good. Would episkey work for something like broken ribs and punctured lungs? He didn’t know. Harry didn’t know any real healing spells, just some basic first aid after his travels with Ron and Hermione. Come on, I have to try. He’d destroyed an entire classroom with magic. He could do some simple healing, right?

Tom coughed up more blood.

Simple. Right.

“Come on, Tom, it’s going to be okay,” murmured Harry, shaking. He kept a hand braced against Tom’s side to secure him there. He pointed the yew wand at Tom’s chest, focusing on his magic. He wanted Tom to heal. Heal. Please, heal. For a moment, the yew wand seemed a bit stubborn. The magic that the yew wand drew from Harry felt much different than what magic felt like with the holly wand. While the magic felt like a polar opposite, there was something familiar to it. He’d been so lonely and homesick the past two months and, for the first time, he felt at home.

Tom… is my home?

The tip of the yew wand glowed a soft, pastel green. A second later, blood sprayed the floor as Tom coughed again. Those frightening, rattling sounds in his lungs settled down into more of a common cough than a watery grave. His breathing grew calmer. Tom flopped backwards onto his back. His eyes were glassy as he met Harry’s gaze, a grimace furrowing his bloodied brow.

Thank you, thank you.

“What… happened?”

“It fell on you,” whispered Harry. “And I thought you—”

He broke off, unable to say it out loud.

“Ah.” Recognition bloomed in Tom’s eyes. “Ah, yes…” He let out a few more coughs. “I remember now… I… I should be dead now, shouldn’t I?”

“N-no, but if you stayed there… Would’ve been bad…”

“You saved me, then,” said Tom softly. “Why?”

Harry blinked. “Wait, you’re the one who pushed me out of the way. Of course, I was going to save you.”

“Is that the only reason?”

Harry sucked in his breath, drawing back as if burned.

“No.”

It was soft, sibilant of parseltongue.

“I would’ve let my enemy die,” whispered Tom.

“You’re not my enemy,” breathed Harry. “You never were.”

It was tenuous, this understanding between them. A thread so fragile, so easily broken with the right pressure had forged a connection between them.

A red thread of fate.

Harry wanted to hide, but there was nowhere to go. He couldn’t escape those dark eyes as they stared at him, their glassiness fading. He couldn’t even hide his face; his hands were in terrible pain from landing on shards of glass, not to mention the splinters. He refused to look at them. Everything was a mess. A right mess. His eyes were burning with renewed strength.

“You’re crying.”

“Oh.” Harry tried to rub the tears away with a sleeve. It was a fruitless endeavor. “I… It’s just…” His chest shuddered. He didn’t have the words. He didn’t even think Tom would understand him. Fawkes had torn his heart apart with such raw brutality that the rest of his emotions were frayed beyond stability. “It’s nothing, really…”

Tom’s head tilted slightly; his brows furrowed. He stared at Harry with innocent bemusement. His hand lifted and the tips of his fingers brushed against Harry’s cheek. His touch smeared through blood, tears, and dust, forging something beneath Harry’s skin with a scalding power. “That’s right,” he whispered. “You were crying before… I’d wondered why…”

Tom tried to push himself up. He paused, grimacing. Harry didn’t ask; he helped Tom to a sitting position. Tom looked around the classroom, taking it all in for a few moments. The classroom doors shook once; there was a mingle of loud voices outside. The dragon growled with annoyance.

“What a mess.”

That startled a laugh out of Harry. “Yeah, we did some… good work in here.”

Tom snorted. “Good, hm?”

Harry had so much to say and no words to say them. How could he make Tom understand? He couldn’t hide any more. He couldn’t run away. He couldn’t avoid Tom any longer. Never again.

The classroom door shook violently, as if something was trying to break them down.

“Ah, I believe this is yours?” said Tom, picking up the discarded holly wand. Just as his fingertips touched the hilt, he sucked in his breath, eyes widening. He looked over at him. “It feels… familiar.”

“Uh, yeah,” said Harry, scratching his nose. He handed Tom his wand. “Yours, too.”

“Thank you,” said Tom softly. They exchanged wands, their fingers brushing against each other briefly. Tom sighed in relief and looked down at his wand with a touch of longing in his eyes. “You were holding it… You healed me with my wand? You could use it?”

“Oh, uh, yeah—”

The door to the classroom finally burst open. The sound startled the dragon into roaring again. It bellowed furiously at the newcomers, swooping back into the air. A cacophony of voices spilled into the room as Merrythought and Fortinbras  stumbled inside. Fortinbras gasped, covering her mouth with her hands. Merrythought looked around the entire classroom, horror in her eyes. She opened her mouth, clicked it shut, before opening it once more. Her chest heaved. 

“What in Merlin’s balls is going on here?” shouted Merrythought.

Fortinbras squeaked, while Merrythought let out a string of profanities as the dragon dove for them, narrowly missing them as they ducked out of the way.

Harry must’ve been influencing Tom Riddle for ill if the first word to slip through his composure was anything to go by.

“Shit.”

It was over.

Tom glanced around the classroom, a touch of ashamed horror rising in his chest. It was in tatters, the entire room. Even with magic, it would take a massive amount of work to clean it up. It wouldn’t repair the damage to the books and ingredients, however. Those were lost to the fight and the fires. What if the school required recompense for the losses? He’d never be able to pay it off and he would be damned before he went to any of his Knights for something so crass as money.

Especially not for something so ridiculous as duel damage.

It’s over. This is the end, isn’t it?

There would be no recovering from this. One foolish action and one colossal fight effectively destroyed all of his plans. He’d been so fastidious, down to even the minutest detail.

All was lost. 

His chest ached and not just from being nearly crushed to death by a damn chandelier. It was growing tighter. Something happened to his lungs, hadn’t it? It was getting hard to breathe, too. Was he shaking now? His head hurt, like it was being squeezed from the inside. Sound warbled. A gasp hitched in his throat. Why aren’t I breathing? I need to breathe.

Not breathing - that was what happened to people who died.

Whatever had power over Tom now, it held him in a crushing vice. Whatever this was, it raced through his veins with poisonous potency. His mind was a cage and emotion his captor; panic and fear, they held him fast with an all powerful grip, in such a way that Tom had never before experienced in his entire life. Visceral. Primal. A beast cleaved to his lungs with foreboding strength.

“Tom?”

Oh. It was Harry.

Can’t… breathe.

“Oh, no—okay, Tom, listen to me.” His voice dropped to a whisper, yet it cut through Tom with clarity, rising above the scolding teachers and the raging dragon. It was a light in the darkness, the calming beacon from a lighthouse - Tom clung to it, to Harry’s voice. “It’s okay, just focus on breathing. Focus on your breath. Inhale deeply, exhale. Come on, Tom, breathe.”

A voice ranted nearby, another consoling; a dragon bellowed.

But Tom focused on Harry, inhaling in tandem with him, before exhaling slowly. Harry sat at his side, looking at him intently, showing him how to breathe again. Anchored, Tom kept breathing as if he were a newborn foal taking its first steps. The beast that had held onto his lungs calmed. Breath filled his chest and sound returned to his ears.

“Evans, are you listening to me!?”

“He was having a panic attack,” snapped Harry. “I’m sorry, I was a little busy trying to make sure he was okay!”

“Excuse me?”

“Galatea, please.”

There was a bellowing roar from the dragon as it flew around the room, its wings clattering with the sounds of bone against bone.

“How did you animate a skeleton?” demanded Merrythought. “What the hell were you doing in here?”

“Dueling,” said Tom quickly. Harry looked at him and Tom hoped he had the good sense to lie with him. “Just a friendly duel.”

Though, the way Merrythought narrowed her eyes at him made it clear she didn’t believe him.

“Yeah, and we got a little carried away. We’re sorry—”

Merrythought squatted down in front of them, eyes still narrowed. She roughly grabbed them both by the chin, turning their heads from side to side. Her sharp gaze studied Tom longer. “You were dueling outside of my classroom?” she whispered furiously. Her fingers dug into Tom’s cheeks; he winced and Harry hissed softly. “And then you have the audacity to lie about it to my face? You have steel balls, boys. Do not lie to me. You were fighting with each other, weren’t you? I’ve heard the rumors.”

“We weren’t—”

Harry’s protests were cut off when Merrythought squeezed their faces again. “I suggest you rethink your lie,” she snapped. Harry fell silent and didn’t say anything more. 

Being powerless was something Tom swore he’d never become. Though a student, he’d maintained his power here at Hogwarts, avoiding trouble, and building a reputation in Slytherin. But he’d always known that Merrythought was never to be crossed, just like Dumbledore.

A friendly duel gone wrong could be forgiven. A duel to the death, however, would not be. That perfect record he had worked tirelessly to maintain was now shattered. He’d never even lost a point for his house, let alone gotten a detention. If Dumbledore caught even a light breeze of this…

He’d advocate for Tom’s expulsion.

They were going to expel him for this. Expel. Banish him from his true home. They were going to send him back to that accursed orphanage. They would snap his wand. There would be no going back from this.

They would take magic away from him.

Merrythought huffed, releasing their faces. “This is the most asinine display I’ve ever had the displeasure of witnessing in my many decades as a teacher here. The windows are busted, glass everywhere outside—and do you have any idea what you’ve destroyed in here? This was a valuable classroom.” Merrythought exhaled another aggravated huff. “Even if it was obsolete…”

“Scolding them will have to wait,” said Fortinbras softly, coming to stand at her side. She put a hand on Merrythought’s shoulder and gestured to Harry and Tom. “They don’t look well.”

“No, they don’t. Fine pair, they are.” Merrythought lifted to her feet, putting a hand beneath Tom’s underarm. “Right, then. Get up. We’re going to the infirmary.”

“Professor Merrythought,” said a tentative voice at the door. There was a crowd of students trying to get a look at the classroom, while a number of prefects from different houses tried to push them along.

“What?”

“Professor Dumbledore said to send them to the Headmaster’s office first. Professor Slughorn will arrive there shortly.”

“They need the infirmary,” snapped Merrythought, glaring at the boy.

The Gryffindor prefect squeaked. “I’m just repeating what Professor Dumbledore said, ma’am.”

“Fine. Fine.” It came out clipped with annoyance. “Fine. Let’s go, then.”

“What about the room, Galatea?”

“Ward it shut.” Merrythought grabbed both of the boys by the underarms and began to march them out of the classroom, careful to avoid all fallen debris that blocked their path. “And don’t let that damn dragon out. The room will be cleaned later.” She lightly shook both Harry and Tom, giving them both another scathing look. “You stupid, foolish boys,” she whispered harshly.

Tom’s face burned.

Merrythought never loosened her grip on the pair of them. Tom had never been so humiliated in his entire life. Students paused in the hallways, looking at them, and bursting into furious whispers. The rumors would be spread through the entire castle before the Halloween Feast in the evening. There would be no escape.

Tom ducked his head as low as he could, not looking ahead, trying to hide his face. His heart thumped in his chest when a flash of panic rushed through him once more. What if someone saw his prefect badge?

Oh, god.

His fears only lasted a moment when he remembered he’d taken his outer robes off during the fight. It wasn’t much to console his mind, but the fear of someone recognizing him as a prefect abated slightly.

He could do nothing but be marched through the corridors. He kept his head ducked and turned. His gaze blurred. The panic that had gripped him so tightly was rising to the surface once more. He barely noticed Merrythought pausing a moment; he didn’t catch the password; and he didn’t notice the gargoyle rising into the staircase.

As they approached the door of the Headmaster’s office, Tom barely caught the words spoken by Dippet, “Look, I don’t like you. I really don’t like you at all and you know why. You’re only here on Albus’ recommendation. But…” There was a deep annoyed exhale of breath. “You’re my last resort. I need you to cover her classes until she’s able to come back. The second she’s back, you’re out of here. Is this acceptable?”

“Perfectly,” said an unfamiliar voice, his tone slightly clipped.

“Wonderful. Thank you, Armando. That settles it, then.”

Tom stopped walking abruptly.

No…

“Be it on your head if something goes wrong, Albus.”

Oh, no…

Dumbledore was in the office.

Merrythought released her hold on him, while a different hand touched Tom on the shoulder. He was faintly aware of Harry quietly calling him by name.

Dumbledore was here.

It’s all…

Over.

Merrythought burst into the room with the elegance of a raging hippogriff, with Harry and Tom trailing after her. “You wanted them in the Headmaster’s office, right, Albus?” she snapped, without even pausing for politeness. Her eyes were like bonfires, her jaw clenched and her brows furrowed so tightly together, they nearly touched. Her smile was deadlier than a viper’s bite. “Well, here they are. Sorry, they might get some blood on your floor, but you’re okay with that, right?”

Dumbledore met Tom’s eyes. The look in those blue eyes was the final nail in the coffin for Tom. Victory.

You bastard.

“Good lord!” gasped a voice. A moment later, a man with greying, light brown hair bolted to their sides. Something about him was familiar… Tom sucked in his breath, not prepared for the way this stranger began to touch his chin to examine his wounds. The man clicked his tongue, before moving onto Harry. He paused, eyes widening with horror. “Harry Evans, is that you?”

Harry let out a sheepish laugh. “Uh, maybe?”

“Why aren’t these two in the hospital wing? How are you two even standing?”

“Because Albus demanded that I bring them here first,” said Merrythought with a smile that promised pain and agony. At that, the man who’d been fussing over them turned to deliver a sharp glare of his own towards Dumbledore. “Who am I to argue with the illustrious Albus Dumbledore, hm?”

“Galatea, my dear, I didn’t know they were this injured or else—”

“I am not your dear!”

Dumbledore’s mouth clicked shut. Between Merrythought and this other man, if looks could kill, Dumbledore would be dead.

The man pulled out his wand and lightly waved it over Tom’s head. A scroll materialized in the air, unfurling, and words began to fill the parchment with black ink. “What happened?” he asked. He did the same for Harry, before tucking his wand in between his teeth and took both scrolls into his hands. His eyes widened. He gave them both a hard look.

Merrythought huffed. For a moment, she looked between Dumbledore and Tom. She appeared to be debating something with herself, before she said, “It would appear that it might’ve started out as a friendly duel.”

The man holding the scrolls lifted an eyebrow. “Friendly?”

“Turned not so friendly, all right?”

“Dueling outside of class is a suspendable offense,” said Dumbledore sternly. “But I’ve never seen two boys look so battle worn as you do. Trying to kill each other? That’s worthy of expulsion, perhaps even Azkaban since you’re both nearly of age.”

“Albus!” cried Merrythought and the man in unison.

“You suggest expelling them, do you?” said Dippet, running a hand over his long beard, expression calculating. “Mm.”

Suspension. Expulsion. Azkaban.

He would have to leave Hogwarts. He’d have to go back to London. He’d have to go back to that horrible place. Use of magic would be banned, forbidden. His power would be stripped from him. He’d have to have an explanation for the matron. The children would be insufferable. It’d be summer vacation all over again, but a thousandfold worse. And when he became of age, he’d be thrust into the world during the dead of winter and be forced to live as a lowly muggle.

Azkaban? Nothing was worse than that horrid orphanage.

Tom was shaking, but he didn’t realize it.

“You boys have anything to say for yourselves?”

Never to you. Never, ever to you.

“Expulsion? Really?” said Fortinbras with worry in her tone. “That’s a bit extreme.”

“I agree, Albus.” The man rolled up the parchment scrolls and turned to him, his brows furrowed. His voice was cool with an undertone of betrayal. “You’d really ask for their expulsion?”

“Well—”

“Don’t you dare—don’t even think about it,” snapped Merrythought. “Suspend them? Hell, no. Even with magic, that classroom is going to be impossible to clean up and I much rather these two idiots—” She gestured at Tom and Harry, a gleam in her eyes. “—clean up their mess. Suspension is letting them off easy. I want them to suffer.”

“Suffering is still a bit extreme, Galatea, love—”

“I want them to suffer!”

“Ah, yes, well… Thank you for the suggestion, but perhaps you two ladies have done your part, hm?” said Dippet, smiling with a touch of condescension. “We’ll take it from here—”

Merrythought hissed.

Fortinbras’s expression was glacial.

The man let out a gasp, eyes widening at Dippet.

“Fucking Gryffindors!” exploded Merrythought. “I’m sick of this bias of yours, Albus—no, don’t give me that shocked, innocent look. You’ve had it out for Riddle since he walked through those doors looking like a drowned rat. Merlin knows why, because I sure don’t.”

Tom flushed a deep heat in his cheeks. He felt Harry’s curious eyes on him. He refused to meet his gaze.

“I beg your pardon—I’m a Slytherin—”

“You’re a Gryffindor, too, my dear girl—”

“Fucking men, then! Don’t test me,” hissed Merrythought. She whirled away, marching towards the door. “Ophelia, let’s leave these men to their business, shall we?”

“Of course,” whispered Fortinbras. As Merrythought nearly kicked open the door as she seethed out of the office, Fortinbras glanced at the unfamiliar man and gave him a friendly smile. “Don’t mind Galatea. She doesn’t mean you, of course. Pleasure to see you again, Newt Scamander, though I wish it were under better circumstances.”

“No, I quite agree with her, actually.” The man pursed his lips as he crossed his arms over his chest; his expression softened. “It would appear we’re now colleagues.”

“We must catch up over afternoon tea sometime, then, you and your wife, yes?”

“I look forward to it.”

Fortinbras smiled at him with a warm nod. “Excellent.” She looked at Dumbledore with a soft, sad glimmer in her eyes. “I must say, Albus… I am a bit disappointed in you,” she said, her tone somewhat gentle, but it held the chastising bite of a mother. “I sincerely hope you reconsider your stance on expelling the boys. I would hope that you see them as they are. Children.” She glanced over at Tom and Harry with a pointed look. “Foolish children, ones that have made mistakes, but children nonetheless.”

“Foolish children grow into foolish adults,” said Dumbledore softly. “And those adults can do terrible things if they’re not stopped when they’re young.”

Oh, that burned in his gut, like molten lava. Tom glared at the man with all of the enmity that he held for him. How dare Dumbledore.

Fortinbras slowly turned her head back to look at him. Her lips thinned with displeasure. “Perhaps,” she began, her tone now sharp and cutting as a steel blade, “you seek signs of ill will in hearts where there is none to be found.” There was a pregnant pause. “Perhaps, you do this because once before… you missed signs in another.”

There was a harsh intake of breath.

“Foolish children to foolish adults - it would seem you speak from experience, hm?” Fortinbras gave him a curt smile. “Well, then. Galatea and I shan’t be attending the… Halloween Feast this evening. It’s been much too exciting of a day. I wish you a Good Samhain.”

Fortinbras elegantly turned away and walked out of the office. She almost bumped into Slughorn, but she gracefully nodded to him and disappeared.

“Dear me, dear me, what’s this? What’s going on?” asked Slughorn with his usual blustering air. “You’d not believe what the students are saying. Something about about a magical accident? A dragon attacked the castle? Two students killing each other—oh! Tom, Harry, great Merlin, you both look terrible. Have you been hurt?”

“They have and I think they need medical attention,” said Scamander, his expression growing more pinched with a mixture of annoyance and concern. “Immediately.”

“There’s still the discussion of what we’re to do with them,” said Dumbledore. “It would be best to take care of that now, especially with such a violent fight—”

“It’s my fault,” said Harry abruptly. Tom’s head snapped over to him; those powerful emerald eyes met his and their light turned dark with regret. The gaze was powerful amongst the cuts and scratches on his skin, and the dried blood mixed with sweat splattered on his face, and the visible tracks where his tears had forged their pain. It struck a cord within Tom. Harry looked back at Dumbledore. “It’s all my fault. Please. I said something I shouldn’t have. It was awful and hurtful and it set the whole fight off. Punish me, not Tom, please.”

What?

Scamander raised an eyebrow.

“It takes two to fight, Mr. Evans,” said Dumbledore in firm disapproval. “Armando, I really do think a suspension, perhaps even expulsion, is in order—”

“Nonsense,” said Dippet. “Mr. Riddle has an impeccable record. He’s never shown any inclination towards violence with his fellow classmates. I don’t even recall him ever getting a detention. No, this would be his first offense. Same for Mr. Evans. A fight between boys is common. Nothing that, oh… say, two weeks of detention and a good, smart caning won’t fix.”

The blood drained from Tom’s face.

“But Headmaster—”

“And one hundred points each from Slytherin,” said Dippet, continuing on swiftly. Slughorn let out a whimper at this. “Really, Albus, you’re always the one begging for mercy on behalf of the students. I’m surprised at you.”

Tom couldn’t breathe. Something about the air was thick all around him. Memories of his childhood flashed in his mind - a woman grabbing him by the arm and a belt snapping across his backside. The children always scattered. Run. Don’t get caught. Tom tried to take a breath, but only stars blinked wildly in his sight.

A hand brushed against the back of his, tentative at first, until it completely encased it. Tom jerked, but the hold didn’t let go. His head snapped up; he met Harry’s gaze, concern and understanding found there. He seemed to ask if Tom were all right. Harry lightly squeezed his hand. Tom swallowed. He dropped his head, pulling his hand away.

He could still feel the ghost of Harry’s touch.

“A previous impeccable record doesn’t mean they’re innocent,” protested Dumbledore. “For things to get this bad between them, they’re obviously troubled. They need a mentor, someone to give them the personal attention they need - especially since neither of them have proper parents to guide them. Now, I’d be more than willing to mentor Evans—”

Dippet waved Dumbledore off. “No, that’s out of the question for you, Albus. You have too much on your plate as it is. However, I agree with you. These boys could use a mentor…” Dippet gave Scamander a hard look. “And I think there’s no better candidate than someone who can teach them the consequences of what happens when you make trouble”

Scamander’s smile was stiff as wood.

“Isn’t that right, Newt?” said Dippet, resting his elbows on his desk and pressing the tips of his fingers together. “You’re the perfect example and mentor to teach these boys what happens to students who cause such trouble for others. I’m putting them under your responsibility. While Mr. Riddle has been a model student for the past five years, I know little about Mr. Evans and so far I’m not impressed with him. He’s not a troublemaker, but he’s missed quite a number of classes. I expect you to make sure they behave perfectly for the rest of the year or I’ll hold you personally responsible for their actions.”

“Hey, that’s not fair to Newt!” snapped Harry.

“Harry, come now, be polite to the Headmaster,” said Slughorn. He let out a little nervous laugh and put a hand to Harry’s shoulder, but Harry shrugged him off, lightly bumping Tom in the process.

Scamander’s expression was blank as he blinked a number of times. He opened his mouth to answer, before closing it. He took a deep breath and his face softened. He lifted his chin. “Of course, Headmaster,” he said. “I would be glad to mentor the boys.”

“Tom, what do you have to say for yourself?” asked Dumbledore in a stern tone. “You’ve been quiet during all of this. Do you think your punishment is just?”

“Yes,” said Tom with a rasp. He winced at the hoarseness in his throat; his mouth was dry. He drew in a deep breath, desperately trying to pull himself together. Put on the perfect student mask. Put it on. “I am merely so appalled by my own behavior and actions that I could scarcely bring myself to speak. The punishment is-is—” His breath hitched. “—quite lenient. You have my gratitude.”

Dumbledore didn’t look pleased.

“It’s settled, then. Best to get the punishment out of the way, hm?” Dippet pulled out his wand and pointed it towards a cabinet where a handful of canes hung in a glass case. Tom’s next breath was deep and shaky. The glass case opened and one of the canes flew out, flying into the air.

Scamander blinked.

Tom’s heart pounded in his ears, like a roaring beat of a drum. He could already anticipate the bite of its sting, how the crack of its sound would proceed the rush of said pain.

He’d much rather endure a few seconds of the cruciatus curse.

“That will not be necessary,” said Scamander, his tone sharp. “You will not cane them.”

What?

Dippet raised an eyebrow. “Pardon? That’s not up to you, Scamander. Their punishment has already been decided. You have no authority here to dictate whether a caning is or isn’t necessary.”

“Did you not just assign me as their mentor?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“Then, I’m in exactly the position of authority to override said decision,” said Scamander, head still lifted. “They’re in no condition for a caning. Have either of you noticed the amount of glass in their skin? There’s more blood than skin on them. They look like they’ve been wrestling a nundu cub into a bath.”

“True, but you overstep—”

“As their mentor, if I’m to guide them to better behavior, then you will need to relinquish full power over them to me. If you refuse, well, then, I must wonder if you’re trying to set them up for failure in the future.” Dumbledore gaped. Dippet’s eyes widened, mouth dropping. Scamander put up his hands in a placating manner, head dipping slightly. “But surely not—after all, a good headmaster would want the best for their students and would never do such a thing.”

The silence was so thick, it could be sliced with a butter knife.

Just… who is this man?

Newt Scamander? He’d barely heard of the man outside their Care of Magical Creatures textbook. This man didn’t know them at all and yet he was advocating for them so fiercely. How odd… A pleasant change from the disapproving air that Dumbledore always had for Tom.

Nothing more, though.

No adult was worthy of his trust.

“My, my…” murmured Dippet, giving him a calculating look. “You’ve certainly changed since last I saw you.”

“I am no longer a schoolboy, Headmaster,” said Scamander. “And I haven’t been for quite some time now. I would prefer not to be treated as such.”

“Of course. Well, you’ve championed for them quite enough. Very well. I shall defer to you when it comes to Mr. Riddle and Mr. Evans.” Dippet looked over at Slughorn. “Horace, I’ll expect the same from you, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course, Headmaster…”

“I’ll let you handle their punishment, Newt,” said Dippet, waving his wand lightly. The cane floated within reach to Scamander, hovering there innocently. “Take that with you. After they’ve had their injuries healed, you may return the cane later once you’re done with them.”

More humiliation. Tom couldn’t stand it. His power would be in shambles once the Slytherin house caught wind that he’d been caned. They would know. Tom Riddle, heir of Slytherin, master of the Slytherin house, caned like a mere miscreant. But he could brave the strikes - he’d done it before at the orphanage; he could do it here.

He was trembling again.

“You misunderstand me,” said Scamander with an unflinching tone, eyes narrowed. His hand snapped up, his magic throwing the cane back into its case, the door swinging shut with a loud snap. “That will not be necessary. I refuse to use any object with the purpose of inflicting pain and fear on a student.”

Dippet glowered at him. “But—”

“I’ve made my stance clear on this—this is ridiculous.” The last of his words came out more of a mutter to himself as he shook his head. “And besides, based on personal experience, I can tell you right now that corporal punishment will not do a damn thing to improve their behavior and you know it.”

Harry let out a belabored exhale of relief. Tom remained impassive, but he was equally relieved by this stranger’s insistence over them. He looked at Scamander, studying him, looking at the way the man held himself in a room of powerful wizards. Scamander wasn’t intimidated by them, not even by Albus Dumbledore himself.

You are something different, Scamander.

I wonder what.

Scamander took a steadying breath, putting a hand to his forehead. “If that is all, then I’ll be escorting my new charges to the hospital wing, where they should have been in the first place.”

And with that, Newt Scamander put a surprisingly gentle hand onto Harry and Tom’s shoulders - far opposite of what his tone had been towards the other men - and guided them out of the Headmaster’s office.

The door shut with resounding finality.

Chapter Text

Caning.

Headmaster Dippet had been hell bent on caning them.

He’d taken out an actual cane with the full intent of beating the shit out of them. Harry was still reeling at that. What the fuck. Yes, let’s beat the students covered in blood and glass. Brilliant. That certainly wouldn’t cause us more permanent damage. Not at all.

Was he blind or just a bastard?

The hat would’ve tossed Harry’s arse back to Gryffindor if those damn professors had tried to cane Tom - being lightheaded with blood loss and magical exhaustion wouldn’t have stopped Harry Potter from throwing down with Albus Dumbledore himself. Fifth year would’ve had nothing on what Harry would’ve done to the Headmaster’s office. Gonna try to throw them in Azkaban? Not without a legitimate reason, they weren’t.

Thank Merlin for Newt’s appearance.

Harry kept forgetting that caning was a thing in this age. It wasn’t until he watched the creaky old Headmaster Dippet summon a cane of multiple canes from a special case that Harry realized that they were dead serious about it. Fucking hell, Harry was pretty sure a few of them were decorated!

If it hadn’t been for Newt, Harry would’ve done something impulsive and violent. He couldn’t believe how callous Headmaster Dippet had been. He didn’t care if the man was over six hundred years old - dear Merlin, that was old - that gave the man no excuse for being a shitty Headmaster. If Harry hadn’t already wanted to become the Headmaster himself, it would’ve solidified his resolve. Hogwarts was an absolute disaster of a school. The Wizarding World really was going to the dogs. No wonder this world would give rise to not just one, but two dark lords within the same century. This couldn’t be allowed to continue.

However, the whole interaction did give him some insight into Tom.

Tom…

He’d gone pale at the suggestion of a caning - translucent as a ghost. Harry had watched him tremble where he stood. Tom Riddle, who had an entire chandelier crash on his head, was afraid of a caning. He had trembled at the suggestion. Harry never thought he’d see such a vulnerable moment from Tom Riddle.

But why?

Harry did recall Tom saying that a few seconds underneath the cruciatus curse was better, even kinder, than being caned and suffering for days afterwards. Humiliation, he’d said. Tom had thought he’d been showing kindness by not reporting fights within Slytherin to their teachers and taking their discipline into his own hands.

But that didn’t explain the fear nor the blood draining from his face.

The orphanage…

Being sent to the orphanage was something Uncle Vernon had threatened Harry with many times. It wasn’t until Harry had seen a film on the telly about orphans that he’d taken the threat seriously. He’d been terrified by the thought of having to live in such a cruel place - since surely it had to be worse than the Dursleys.

Harry knew better now. Both were shit.

It was the first time Harry really saw Tom. Perhaps, it was the exhaustion. Perhaps, it was the twisted connection they’d shared after nearly killing each other. Whatever it was, Tom had become readable to Harry. He could see beyond the visage of the villain, Tom Riddle.

Tom was just a boy.

Harry felt a bit ridiculous with himself. Without realizing it, he’d seen Tom Riddle as a quest to save the world, not as a person struggling with basic needs and feelings. He was a boy like all the others, one who once made choices to cope with his place in the world. Unfortunately, those choices weren’t good, leading to the rise of Lord Voldemort and to his own destruction.

A single grain of sand could tip the scale.

Harry wanted to be more than a grain of sand.

Could he push through all the barriers, through all the bullshit, through the Slytherin dance, and find Tom? He’d got a glimpse of him, a flicker of vulnerability. Friend… Tom really needed a friend, one that he couldn’t push away. No matter what. Could he be that? He had to be that—he wanted to be that. But… it was exhausting trying to be the savior all the time. Harry was always the hero of someone else’s story.

He was so tired. His heart was too broken. Fawkes was displeased with him. But he couldn’t give up; Harry knew this. Yet, he was torn between grasping the frayed threads of his hope and letting go.

Even though Harry walked beside Tom, the divide between them felt like it was pushing them further apart. Was his scar hurting because of Tom’s emotions? Was he angry? Hurt? Merlin, Harry needed answers and direction from someone who understood the insanity that was his life.

But there wasn’t anyone, now was there?

A low sigh from Newt broke Harry out of his thoughts. He hadn’t noticed that they’d walked for a few minutes in silence. Newt stopped in a corridor, glancing around. It was empty of students. “Are you both all right?” he asked as he turned back to them, concern in his expression. “Really and truly? How much pain are you both in? I’ve never seen so much blood on a child before—”

“I’m not a child,” hissed Tom.

Harry’s eyebrows bolted into his fringe. Tom, losing his composure with teachers? That was new.

Tom shifted with unease, but he didn’t back down. He stared at the man with hard, unflinching eyes and Newt met his gaze with a similar intensity. Blood coated Tom’s lips and nose; his left eye was beginning to swell, the flesh beneath it starting to turn color.

“How old are you?” asked Newt softly.

Tom bristled. “I’m nearly of age.”

Newt turned his head slightly, warm hazel eyes meeting Harry. “And you?”

Uh…

Damn. How old was he anyway? He hadn’t really thought about it. When Harry had entered the forest, intending to die, it’d been three months before his birthday. However, when Harry arrived in this time, two days before the start of the school year, four months had effectively been skipped. Was he eighteen or seventeen?

Well, better just stick to my usual birthday.

“I’m seventeen,” said Harry. The look Tom gave him was priceless. Harry lifted his eyebrows in a light smirk. “I turn eighteen in July.” 

Eat it up - I’m older than you.

“Sixteen and seventeen, then,” said Newt, saying each number slowly, as if he were weighing them. He nodded once. “Right. Children. So, you’re both children.”

Tom let out a hiss while Harry shrugged in agreement.

There was another sigh. “You’re both injured and probably experiencing blood loss. I’ll ignore your disrespect for now, but do remember that I’m on your side,” Newt said, his tone gentle, but firm. “Come on now. Best get you both to the hospital wing before you keel over.”

Tom didn’t move.

What little color Tom had in his face drained further. His eyes glanced up and down the corridor; his chest rose in a quick breath.

“Uh… Could we go somewhere more private?” asked Harry. Tom blinked and, for a brief moment, their eyes met. “I’d rather no one see us,” he said, gesturing to Tom and himself. “We’re Slytherins, you see, and…”

“But you need the full medical care of the hospital wing—”

“Please, Newt?” whispered Harry. “Please?”

Newt softened. He rubbed his face with a hand. “You’ll cooperate?”

“Cross my heart, sir.”

Newt let out a chuckle at that; he looked expectantly at Tom. After a moment, Harry nudged him with an elbow, received a glare for it, before Tom nodded sharply.

“Well, my new office is closer…” Newt eyed them, his lips thinned as if he were trying not to smile. Harry put on an exaggerated innocent expression with full puppy eyes. Newt sighed again. “Very well, against my better judgment.”

“If you’re any good at healing people as you are hippogriffs, I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

“Come on, then,” said Newt, his smile growing fonder now. “My office is this way. We’ll get you fixed up in there.”

“Thank you, thank you—”

“Don’t thank me yet. I intend to get a better explanation of what on earth happened with you two.”

They walked in silence now, reaching the office rather quickly. Tom ducked his head to avoid the stares of those they passed in the corridors, as if he were trying to hide from them. The intense whispering was a sure sign that the rumors of their fight had spread all through Hogwarts by now.

The epic fight between Tom Riddle and Harry Evans was going to be the talk of the school for the next month, at least.

It took about ten minutes before they arrived at Grubbly-Plank’s old office. Newt opened it and stepped inside. The room was a decent size, with a large desk and a high back chair positioned in front of the door. Two other chairs, smaller in size, were set to the righthand side. To the left, the room opened out to a cozy sitting room. A sofa and an armchair sat near a crackling fireplace. There was a closed door that led to the personal quarters.

“Take a seat on the sofa there. You’re both swaying on your feet.”

Harry fidgeted. “I probably shouldn’t…”

“What?” asked Newt; his tone sounded a bit strangled.

“I fell on some glass. I… dunno if I should…”

“Right.” Newt pressed his lips together. “All right. Not a worry; I’ll get you patched up. First, remove the glass and clean the wound, then… Oh—” Newt reached towards his side for something that wasn’t there. He paused, his brows furrowing. “Oh, bother… Right. I didn’t bring it with me,” he muttered under his breath. He sighed, looking at them both. “I suppose I’ll have to make a trip to the hospital wing. Are you sure you two don’t want to come to the hospital wing with me? They have nice, soft, wonderful beds.”

Harry snorted, rolling his eyes. “They’re not comfortable.”

Tom raised an eyebrow.

“Very well. I’ll be right back. Don’t move. Just… rest and try not to fight with each other any more. I won’t be long.”

He left the room, leaving Harry and Tom standing side by side. Tom glanced away from him; he brushed at his robes. He hissed softly, stopping, and a number of shards of glass fell to the floor. He didn’t move.

The silence was more painful than the glass in his knees.

Harry sighed. “We need to talk,” he whispered.

“About?”

He didn’t look at him. Harry ran a hand through his hair, wincing as he felt scabs of congealed blood break from his scalp. “Please, Tom,” he said, exhaustion in his tone. “I don’t have the energy for games.”

Tom still didn’t face him; he crossed his arms. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Isn’t there?”

Tom’s arms tightened around his chest.

“We can’t do this again,” said Harry softly. “We can’t get to this point again.”

“We’d have avoided this if you’d been respectful and just kneeled like you were supposed to in your initiation to the Knights.”

Harry inhaled, trying to remain calm. “I already told you: I will not kneel.”

“You were insulting,” said Tom, his voice a wounded whisper. “And you snubbed my authority. The balance of power in Slytherin is fragile—you have no idea. Any sign of weakness and they’re on you like sharks at the first sign of blood in the water. And you threatened that balance of power.”

Harry sighed, ragged and hoarse. “First of all, no. I wasn’t trying to be insulting. Second of all, you treated me like shit and I wasn’t gonna have it. Respect goes both ways, you know.”

His scar burned hotter.

“You should’ve gone along with it and taken your concerns to me afterwards.”

“I’m not some servant!”

“It’s not like that—You shouldn’t have fought me on it in front of the others.”

“And you shouldn’t have pushed Monty in retaliation!” snapped Harry.

Tom inhaled sharply, chest rising in a deep protest when he stopped, breaking Harry’s gaze. “That,” he said with a low hiss. “That…” But he trailed off, his arms flexing in their grip. His jaw clenched.

They stood there, backs slightly turned to each other, both with their arms crossed in front of their chests. Tight. Closed off. The silence burned. Harry glanced over his shoulder at Tom, staring at that impenetrable form. It was like a wall, a barrier, a fortress he couldn’t breach.

After all of this… and I still can’t get through to him? Is this all fruitless? Have I sacrificed everything and everyone in vain? Have I failed? Can I not save Tom Riddle from himself?

His heart shattered.

The scar burned fiery hot, a blaze flickering to life. Harry cried out, clutching his scar as the old wound tore open. Blood pooled down his forehead.

‘You are the most ridiculous, aggravating…’

“Harry?” said Tom, turning around.

‘Such an emotional child…’

A voice echoed in his head, one all too familiar. 

‘You always have been…’

Harry was falling; Tom rushed to him, grabbing him before he met the floor. His name was a murmur on Tom’s lips, sound muffled in his ears; white fog overtook his vision. The glimmer of fear in Tom’s eyes was the last thing Harry saw.

The agony in his heart was dampened; the pain was only a dull throb. Harry opened his eyes; he slowly sat up, glancing around. A sea of white surrounded him. Am I dead again? The stress had killed him. Poetic. A terrible stillness hung in the air around him.

“Finally,” muttered a voice. Harry whirled around towards the sound, his mouth dropping at the sight. A man in black suit robes - a man whom Harry could never forget - stood next to a plain, circular table and two wooden chairs. “About time I got your attention.”

It was Tom, yet not… Tom.

This was a man in his late fifties. He was greying, yet still held his good looks. Tom Riddle would age rather well. Except… This man had red piercing eyes. His skin was gaunt, stretched tight over his skull. His skin was pale, nearly bloodless, and his veins were black beneath it. Dark magic had weaved through not only his soul, but his very flesh.

Voldemort stood in the mist.

“You—” gasped Harry. “Why are you here?”

“Sit down.”

“I thought—how—what the fuck—shit—I can’t—”

“Harry, calm down and sit,” snapped Voldemort, exasperated. “I give you my word. I will not harm you.”

Harry felt a little hysterical, hearing Voldemort use his first name so calmly. He wanted to laugh and scream, preferably at the same time. “Why should I believe you!”

Voldemort pinched the bridge of his nose. “Use that brain of yours - where do you think you are? I look nothing like my risen self from your fourth year, yet I’m nothing like the innocent school boy you know now. How could an encounter between us occur?”

“Innocent, my arse—”

“Harry.”

He huffed and took a moment to calm down. Harry glanced around, but the fog clouded anything beyond a few meters away. He’d been in Newt’s office a moment ago with Tom; he couldn’t have left Hogwarts. Which meant… 

“This is in my mind?”

“Ten points to Gryffindor,” drawled Voldemort.

Harry narrowed his eyes. “You’re not a professor and last I checked, I’m in Slytherin.”

“Just sit down,” said Voldemort, gesturing to the table. He shook his head. “Salazar, you’re terrible.”

Harry sat, but grudgingly. “What’re you doing in my mind?” he demanded. “You’re not supposed to exist any more. How’d you get here?”

“I never left.”

Horror flooded through Harry. “You’re the…” His appearance made sense now. “You’re my scar—the horcrux.”

“Yes.”

“I thought it was dormant. I thought—”

“Thoughts, assumptions, beliefs - none of these are the measuring stick for truth.” Voldemort waved a hand, long fingers curling over the surface of the table. A tea set with cups materialized. “Tea?”

Harry nodded, numb. The hysteria threatened to bubble up inside of him once again. Voldemort was offering him tea. Harry watched, snared in a trance as Voldemort poured the tea with an elegance that only he could have. He handed a cup to Harry and set the kettle aside. He inhaled slowly, seeming to savor the aroma. Voldemort took a slow sip. Harry did the same, just to do something, to keep himself from losing his composure.

Oh.

The tea was sweet. 

“I’ve always been awake and sentient inside your mind, but without power,” said Voldemort softly, gazing into his cup. “I’ve been merely a silent observer of your life. Such is the life of a weakened horcrux, especially one that wasn’t created with intention.”

Dear Merlin, this wasn’t getting better.

“How—”

“This situation is unique,” said Voldemort, shifting in his seat. Discomfort twisted his features. “Normally, I have no power to communicate with you in anyway, including your dreams, but somehow your distress brought me forward and gave me power - or permission. I’m unsure. You needed assistance…”

“And my mind thought you were the best candidate?” asked Harry incredulously. His hands clenched around the cup. “Brilliant! So fucking brilliant.”

“It’s not—” Voldemort let out an exasperated sigh. “It’s because your distress was connected to Tom Riddle. Do you have any idea how erratic it’s been in your mind lately? All over Tom Riddle?”

Harry flushed furiously.

“That explains nothing!” snapped Harry, slamming his cup down; the table rattled. “I’ve been—” He used air quotes aggressively. “—distressed about him—about you—before!”

“I said the situation was unique due t-to your-your—” Voldemort struggled, actually struggled, for words. “—your quest with Tom Riddle.” Embarrassment was clearly on his face now, adding blatant color to his pale skin. “Your mind called out to me and somehow I was allowed to communicate with you. So, I came.”

Harry leaned back in his chair, staring at the man as he tried to understand. “My quest? I don’t—Oh…” Blood roared in his ears; heat flooded into his cheeks. Harry dropped his face in his hands. “This isn’t happening.”

“I’m here to give you insight into Riddle’s thinking - my thinking.” There was a pause. “Nothing more,” Voldemort added sharply.

“This can’t be happening.”

“Your last thoughts before passing out were a plea for help, direction, and understanding about all of this. There is no one else who could help you in this. Who else understands your past better than I? You don’t have to explain what’s going on. I already know. I’ve witnessed it all. The history, the magnitude of your sacrifice - I understand the stakes and what you’ve given up.”

“You don’t know shit!” shouted Harry, his head whipping up to glare at the man. “How dare you! What do you know about me, huh? You can’t know anything about me. You can’t.”

Voldemort didn’t rise to anger. Silence lifted between them for a moment. When Voldemort next spoke, it was a soft whisper.

“I live in your mind, Harry. I know your intimate feelings for the people you… the people you love. I’ve watched you since our union that fateful night. I know your trials and struggles. I see why you were the prophesied child. How you have withstood the conflict in your life sets you apart from others, including myself.”

No.

No, he didn’t want to hear such nice things from this man - not from him, not the one who had been the catalyst for what had set Harry ‘apart from others.’ He didn’t want to hear this from the man who had murdered his parents.

“You are… without doubt… the most powerful person to ever walk the earth. The title of the ‘greatest wizard of our time’ belongs to you, not Albus Dumbledore.”

Harry couldn’t look at him. It had been said with such reverence - said by Voldemort himself. Why did he, of all people, have to say that with such sincerity?

“You were raised by terrible people—”

“And whose fault was that?” hissed Harry.

Voldemort continued without acknowledging him. “—yet, you chose to react with compassion. I, too, was raised by terrible people, yet I chose to react with vengeance. That, Harry, is the difference between you and I.”

Harry’s throat clogged with emotion.

“You are the stronger man,” said Voldemort, his tone gentle. “There is only power and those too weak to seek it. However… I understand better what power - true power - is in its entirety.”

Harry slowly lifted his head and met those blood red eyes.

“I was weak.”

Harry clenched his fists together, hiding them beneath the table at his lap. He looked down, unable to look at those remorseful eyes; he took a deep breath.

“He doesn’t understand.”

“What?” whispered Harry.

“Riddle. Your Tom,” said Voldemort with such alien softness. Harry swallowed. “He doesn’t understand what patience is, true patience. He doesn’t understand the concept of forgiveness nor its necessity in human relationships. He only knows vengeance and restitution. No one taught him what it means to forgive nor what it means to seek it out. He knows emotions, but he doesn’t understand what they truly mean.”

“Not at all?”

Voldemort shook his head. “I only understand these things by watching you. You’ve taught me that forgiveness is more than a triviality, more than meaningless words. However, it took me years to learn this as a silent observer. That boy will never understand, not unless someone teaches him.”

Harry sighed.

“Think about it. While you are a naturally kind child, you still had friends and mentors who guided you. You craved affection and found it, which gave you something to protect. Riddle only has himself and refuses to look at others as potential friends over allies. He trusts no one but himself because that is all he has ever known. You must teach him. Because who else will?”

“But how?” whispered Harry. “I try, but it’s like talking to a brick wall.”

“I know,” said Voldemort with a hint of regret. “Just be direct and clear in your language with him. Tell him exactly what he needs to know - again and again until he understands your directness. Don’t give up on him. You are succeeding more than you realize. He is too used to Slytherin subtlety and power plays, where words hold double meanings. Interpret them wrong and respect is lost, never to be regained. He’s always looking for the angle hidden in between the lines. Make it clear there is no ulterior motive in your words.”

Oh…

Like Monty.

I have to be more like Monty.  

The worry and the pain and the distress that had so consumed Harry faded away. Clarity filled his mind and understanding. The fog that had been so dense and oppressive lifted around them, a blue sky materializing above. 

“Yes.” A light smile graced Voldemort’s lips. He took a sip of tea. “Riddle might be a prodigy in his intellectual studies, but he’ll need multiple lessons in emotional, social, and—” Voldemort’s voice dropped to a low whisper. “—romantic relationships.”

Harry met his gaze once more; his cheeks warmed.

“Be patient with me,” murmured Voldemort.

As his form faded away to mist, his smile was gentle, even wistful.

‘And, Harry? Thank you.’

He’d just collapsed for no reason.

None whatsoever.

Tom had caught him on the way down, wincing in pain as his own strength failed to hold the both of them up. His knees landed hard on the stone floor. He swallowed back the cry of pain as the glass dug further into his flesh. The scar on Harry’s forehead changed color again, the skin tearing apart at the center of the scar. Tom watched it, fascinated. He pushed Harry’s fringe up to get a better look, noting other small scars - cuts from old wounds - that were so faded, he’d never noticed them before. Tom watched as shadow and light rippled beneath the surface of the scarred flesh.

What is this?

Harry’s eyes flittered wildly beneath his closed lids, as if he were dreaming. The scar on his forehead was alive, pulsing with a life and magic of its own. It had done this before, during their fight, but also when Harry crashed on his broom.

Whatever had occurred after Harry had crashed, it’d been malevolent in nature, different than what was happening now. Magic had spread out, seeking to destroy everything in its path.

Tom tried to wake him, but nothing worked. No spell, no calling his name - nothing. Instead, Tom held Harry in his arms, watching, waiting, trying to ignore the worry that churned in his gut.

 Tom’s brows furrowed as he studied the magic. A curse scar? It had to be—of course, it was a curse scar. Harry had been cursed by something at some point in his life, probably when facing the Dark Lord. Supposedly.

A cursed scar could do anything and be anything. It could activate at any point in someone’s life, depending on the parameters that triggered the curse. The effects and possibilities of such dark magic were vast and endless. Tom had studied enough dark magic to know that it could range from removing simple things, like taste or sense of smell to infertility to a slow death sentence. The allure to dark magic was the fact that possibilities had no limit. Tom had studied many aspects and paths of dark magic, being the model student that he was.

But he’d never seen anything like this.

Harry stirred, his eyes slowly opening. Relief poured through Tom.

“Thank Salazar, you’re awake,” whispered Tom. It was there again; fear. Harry kept scaring him in ways that he hadn’t realized possible. “Not even enervate was waking you. Are you all right?”

“I think so…” murmured Harry, putting a hand to his forehead. Blood smeared against his skin. He slowly sat up. “I guess I passed out?”

“Your scar…”

Harry stiffened.

“How’d you get it?” asked Tom.

“I was attacked.”

“It’s dark magic,” said Tom, brushing a hand over the scar again, his fingers tracing the lightning from the eyebrow to the forehead. Harry’s eyes grew wide. His fringe was soft against Tom’s fingers. “Are you sure it isn’t killing you?”

“What?” Harry laughed. “No, it’s not killing me.”

“But—”

“It’s fine, Tom. Seriously. I’m fine. It’s not hurting me—”

“You don’t understand the danger!” snapped Tom. “It’s dark magic and it could be doing anything to you. It could be—”

It could be fatal.

Tom gripped him by the wrist, tight and immoveable. Fatal. What if— Tom froze. Harry’s face wrinkled, lips twisting, as his shoulders bunched up towards his ears. There was a swirling mixture of fear and defiance in those green eyes.

Secrets. This boy had so many secrets.

The Tom of an hour or two ago would’ve torn it out of him. He’d have wanted answers—demanded them. Dark magic was his expertise. It wasn’t for the faint of heart. It wasn’t light and beauty. Dark magic was the cruelty of the mind, the shadows of the soul, and the underbelly of humanity.

It had no mercy.

Letting Dark magic lay dormant was asking for future trouble, leaving one’s life in the hands of Fate. It could one day, without warning, kill Harry.

And Tom found that he did not want Harry to die. 

He let go of Harry’s wrist, drawing his hand back. Harry slowly uncurled, the light in his gaze now curious. Tom glanced away.

“If you say it’s safe…” whispered Tom, despite his misgivings. “Very well, then.”

“I dunno about safe,” muttered Harry. There was a gentle chuckle. “But it’s not hurting me. I swear. Just… trust me on this one, all right?”

Tom made a low hum in his throat. A silence fell between them.

“I’m still mad at you about Monty—furious, even.”

“Are you?”

The silence beat on.

“No,” whispered Harry. “I’m just very tired.”

Tom nodded. The air between them seemed unbearably close for him, even though it was no closer than the two of them sitting side by side at the breakfast table. He felt the urge to do something. Be active. Kneeling in silence was growing more uncomfortable by the second and Tom wasn’t sure why. With his free hand, he touched Harry by the chin, lightly turning his face towards him. Harry stared, eyes wide as saucers.

The magic answered him. With a whispered spell, the dried blood vanished from Harry’s face. He could see the damage clearly. There were a number of cuts on his face, including some glass wedged against his temple. Fresh blood quickly pooled from the cuts, a stream of blood slipping down Harry’s forehead, over the bridge of his nose, and down the inner section of his cheek.

“Damn,” said Tom eloquently. “I shouldn’t have… I made it worse.” He clicked his tongue, trying to think through his own haze of pain. He pointed his wand to one of the deep cuts on Harry’s chin and whispered, “Episkey.” The wound resealed itself and, once more, Tom vanished the blood.

“You’re worse off than me, you don’t—”

But Harry stopped as Tom didn’t acknowledge his protests. He was too focused on trying to help Harry, do something for him. He had the urge to fix something, to fix this.

Apologize to him.

He’d much rather spend meticulous hours healing Harry than make a fool of himself. Apologies were a display of weakness. Weaknesses were exploitable and Tom would be damned if he allowed that. Harry would understand, right? Right?

But he knew better. He knew Harry better. Quintus had told him, warned him, to apologize for hurting Harry. Not apologizing was what had led them to this point - this point of blood, of violence, of near death. How foolish. Harry was special and Tom had risked it all in a fit of… Well, quite frankly, the truest of truths, Tom Riddle had been jealous of that eleven year old boy. Harry had instantly become… something with that child. There’d been a familiarity between them, one that Tom knew existed among his dorm mates.

It didn’t exist for Tom, though. His shoulders ached. 

“I’m sorry,” Harry blurted out suddenly.

Tom blinked. “What?”

“I said something I shouldn’t have to you,” said Harry, enunciating each word carefully. Why, Tom wasn’t sure. He wasn’t slow. “I hurt you, didn’t I?”

Tom swallowed. He remained silent. 

“What I said about your parents, I’m so sorry,” said Harry. His shuddering exhale came out with a stream of words spoken as quickly as he could, all in a single breath. “I was angry with you, and we were fighting, and you just weren’t getting why I’ve been so angry and frustrated with you, and so I wanted to hurt you in return for hurting Monty. But—” He gulped for a breath. “But… I’m sorry. My motives don’t justify my actions nor my words. So…” Harry nodded, pinching his lips together and shifting awkwardly. “I’m sorry. Do you, uh… do you forgive me?”

Forgive?

He’s apologizing…

To me?

But that didn’t feel quite right. Tom didn’t say anything. Words failed him. He should’ve been the one to say it first, not Harry. The more time he spent with this boy, the more confused he got. Harry was constantly surprising him, constantly throwing everything he ever knew off kilter. If it were anyone else, Tom would hate it - despise that person and do whatever it took to tear them down, make them grovel at his feet.

And yet…

If it were Harry, the surprise and mystery didn’t seem as awful.

“I…” Tom’s thoughts whirled “I—Yes—I… Yes, I forgive you.”

Was this what Harry had wanted from me? Gilded, meaningless words that anyone with a half a mind can sprout? They’re worthless.

Weren’t they?

But Harry had said them with sincerity and there was something comforting about the directness of his words. There was little to perceive and analyze within them. They were honest to a point. Refreshing, coming from a Slytherin.

“Thank you,” said Harry. He inhaled. “And, Tom, I forgive you.”

Tom hadn’t realized how tense he’d been until he sagged slightly. The tension in his shoulders loosened. Oh… He let out a ragged breath; words were unlocked. “I… see. Thank you. I’ve been meaning to…” There was a pause. “I apologize for overstepping with you.”

He looked away.

“And with the Potter boy,” whispered Tom. “That was a mistake. One I have no intention of making again.”

He found truth there.

“Okay.”

Why was he overcome with the urge to grab Harry’s hand?

“I’m… sorry,” said Tom softly, his hands clenched at his thighs.

“Okay,” whispered Harry. “Okay. I forgive you.”

“I’m sorry,” breathed Tom, a lightness lifting his heart at those words. Weakness? It was like a burden had been removed from his shoulders now. Two words and they didn’t seem as meaningless as he’d once thought them to be. Two words and they weren’t gilded with artifice. Tom looked into those green eyes. “I mean it.”

And he did.

Harry smiled, brightening like a ray of sunshine. Tom never realized how much those simple words were worth - how valuable they were.

“This means the slate is clean,” said Harry. “This calls for a truce, I think.”

“Agreed,” said Tom with an amicable nod. Harry responded in kind; but then he leaned forward. Warmth ghosted against Tom’s skin; goosebumps rose on his arms.

“But don’t ever do this again,” whispered Harry in his ear, his tone firm. “Don’t try to hurt Monty. Don’t test me. Don’t push me. I’m my own man. If you cross those lines again, I won’t be so forgiving.”

He pulled away. 

“Understood,” whispered Tom.

Harry held out a hand. “Friends, then?”

Tom hesitated briefly; he took the proffered hand and they squeezed together. Warm. “Allies.”

A flash of annoyance crossed Harry’s face. “No. Friends.”

“That’s what I meant—”

“Friends are not allies, you prat. Friends are more than allies.”

More?

Harry mentioned that before. He said he was more… Did that mean… He’d already considered us ‘friends’ by then?

“Okay,” said Tom. Their hands tightened briefly. “Okay, friends.”

Friends…

And Harry beamed.

The door burst open. “Sorry for the delay—” Scamander stopped, his gaze dropped to the floor where Harry and Tom sat. “What’re you doing on the floor? Did something happen? Are you all right?”

Tom remembered, rather belatedly, that he was still holding onto Harry’s hand.

They bolted apart simultaneously.

“He collapsed,” said Tom, a strange sound to his voice. “He’s lucid, so…”

“Oh, dear—” Scamander dropped to his knees with ease, putting a hand to Harry’s chin. “Better check your head, too.”

Tom was in a daze as Scamander checked on Harry’s vitals. The rising emotion within him was something Tom rarely felt. Thrill. It was a little shiver, one that tingled up and down his spine. Friends. They were friends now, Harry and Tom. Not allies. Not classmates. Not dorm mates. Not one of his Knights or his elite.

Harry was his friend.

You’re a strange little creature, Harry Evans.

A thrilling one.

Chapter Text

If his first day at Hogwarts as a new professor and Head of House was an omen of things to come, then Newt Scamander wasn’t emotionally prepared for this job. He’d forgotten how awful Hogwarts could be sometimes. His time here as a student hadn’t been pleasant due to his awkward nature, plus being a magical creature advocate had always caused him problems - not that he’d ever stop, of course.

Wonderful to see Dippet was still about as pleasant as a troll.

When Newt hadn’t received a reply from Harry, he’d assumed that the boy was busy with school. Harry couldn’t have been much older than sixteen - or at least that was what he had assumed - and Newt understood how boys were at that age. Easily distracted.

He hadn’t imagined Harry would be in this kind of trouble.

It had looked as if those boys had splattered each other with buckets of blood. Though the black fabric of their trousers had hidden it, Newt could smell it on them from paces away. The little rips and tears in their trousers and dress shirts  had given him glimpses of even more blood. The fight had been a violent one, to a frightening degree. He just hoped they wouldn’t go at each other in his absence.

The diagnostic scrolls revealed a lot about the fight.

And about their past experiences.

But Newt would make sure this information wouldn’t go to any of the other teachers, Albus included. He couldn’t, not after how Albus treated the boys. It put a bitter taste in his mouth. Thankfully, it’d been too chaotic in that office for any of them to ask to see the scrolls.

Newt sighed to himself. He was always taking wild, broken creatures beneath his wing. He just didn’t think he’d ever take in a pair of human boys. They really needed the hospital wing, but he had enough healing knowledge and abilities to get them patched up. There were potions and salves to prevent scarring. He had to take care of the visible wounds first.

The invisible ones would take longer to heal.

A voice calling his name cut through his thoughts. He stopped, looking up in surprise. He kept his face neutral when he saw the one man he was slowly losing respect for - Albus Dumbledore.

“Albus,” said Newt with a nod. This isn’t going to be a quick encounter, is it? Never is. “I… Hello, uh—”

“Ah, Newt,” said Albus brightly, stopping in front of him and blocking his path. “Just the man I was hoping to catch on the way to the hospital wing.” He paused for a moment, frowning when he only found Newt. “Where are the boys?”

“My office. What is it?” said Newt, trying to mask how thoroughly exhausted he was now - and he hadn’t even healed the boys yet. “And I really don’t have much time for a chat…”

“I understand. I won’t be more than a moment.” Albus gave Newt his warm smile, one that had consistently enticed and bent him to his will too many times before. Newt braced himself. “I find myself just a bit concerned over Mr. Evans and Mr. Riddle. Do you have plans for their detention yet?”

Newt blew out his held breath. “Albus, that is not on my mind right now,” he said. “They need healing first—”

“I know you won’t cane them and I’m certainly not suggesting you do so, either. You know I’ve never liked Armando’s approach with students on that matter and I barely convinced him to stop using those awful whips in the last decade—”

Albus, for the love of Gaia herself, get to the point.

“—but I digress… If you don’t mind, I have some suggestions for you since I’ve had more experience with those boys. They’ve been rather defiant with me—”

“That’s what everyone said about me,” snapped Newt, before he could stop himself. Defiant. Weird. Freak. Mooncalf. His mouth slammed shut. His lips thinned at the silencing charm that Albus threw around them. “I understand you mean well,” he said evenly. “You were the one to advocate for me… I will forever be grateful for that.”

But you’ve changed. How can you be so dismissive of them?

It was clear to Newt that those boys needed some loving care from an adult. In the few exchanges with Harry, his pain and struggles had caused Newt’s soul to ache. The diagnostic scrolls had revealed what they had endured in their childhood.

Life hadn’t been kind to them.

“Of course, Newt. I always knew your heart was in the right place.”

Oh…

With crystal, cruel clarity, Newt saw Albus Dumbledore - and how did it hurt. He’d looked up to this man for years, decades - even when he knew Albus was, in some ways, gently manipulating Newt to do what he wanted. It had been done with a genuine need for help and Newt never wanted to deny someone.

Albus was infallible in his kindness, a beacon of justice and light.

At least, to the rest of the Wizarding World.

In his call for help, Newt had been there for him. While he was first and foremost a Magizoologist, he was also a wizard. Getting involved in the fight against Grindelwald was always a matter of when, not if.

But that was in the past.

Newt saw through the light and into the shadows. It hurt knowing what Albus was, loving the man as he did; he saw someone who felt they needed to use manipulation to gain what they needed and wanted, never imagining they could be wrong. But Albus was blind. Was he always this blind to Slytherins or had it grown over time? When had this bias towards Slytherins began? Dippet was a Slytherin and Albus got along with him just fine.

Why are you targeting these boys? It doesn’t make a lick of sense to me.

They were just… boys - boys who had been afraid at the prospect of being expelled. Riddle’s reaction had been more visceral than Harry’s reaction, as if the world was coming to its end. Harry had been nervous, regretful over it all, but his entire focus had been on comforting Riddle. He hadn’t seemed worried. He’d even stepped in and tried to take all of the blame for their fight with no fear in his eyes, only fierce loyalty - it had broken Newt’s heart with tender familiarity.

And, Merlin, the reaction to Dippet’s suggestion of caning… Riddle had gone white. Caning the boys and in their current condition - the nerve! How barbaric!

Tina was going to get an earful tonight over a late nightcap.

“Thank you,” said Newt softly. “You always defended me. No matter how many detentions I got or how often I was caned—” He broke off, heart in his throat, unable to rid himself of the image of Riddle’s trembling form, his pale and bloodied face, and the glossy fear in those dark eyes. “Not even when I was expelled, you always saw my true nature.” Newt let out a breathy chuckle. “Even now, somehow you believe I’m the best person to be a teacher here. Headmaster Dippet doesn’t believe I can and I’m right there with him.”

Albus smiled fondly at him. “Newt, you have always been able to do and see things that… Well, that I haven’t been able, not quite with the same sincerity as you do.”

“You flatter me,” said Newt, pursing his lips together briefly. “But even so, I don’t understand why you can’t see the good inside those two boys. You could see past all of my wild imperfections, yet you can’t with them? Why? They’re just children.”

Albus flinched. “That’s not true,” he protested. “I do see their potential, particularly Mr. Evans’ potential for great good—”

“That’s wonderful. Was that all, Albus?” asked Newt, completely at the end of his rope. Albus wasn’t listening. The man had a vendetta against Riddle; Newt could tell and he was done with it - wasn’t having it any more. One hundred percent done. “I have two boys to patch up—they’re covered in blood and glass, if you hadn’t noticed. I haven’t a clue how they went from friendly bickering to trying to bloody kill each other in the span of two months.”

“And that’s why I’m—”

Newt’s face darkened into a disapproving glare at Albus. “You’re a little late to be interfering with them now. It should not have escalated to this point and I’ll be damned if I let it go any further.”

Albus crumpled.

Newt was going strong now. “Meanwhile, you’re trying to butt into this now, when you clearly don’t like Riddle. Expulsion? From you?” he demanded with betrayal bleeding through his tone. “You, of all people? And you have the lack of heart to suggest Azkaban? I can’t—really, Albus? How could you?”

Albus looked every much the part of a child being scolded by their parent. “Newt… I wasn’t—”

“On top of it all - somehow, yet again - I’ve allowed you to convince me to do something that I’m not qualified for, working for a man who never wanted me to set foot within this castle again and—I’m tired.”

Albus remained blessedly quiet at that. Newt put a hand to his forehead, taking a moment for himself. He looked up with firmness.

“I will be going into my office,” said Newt calmly, his tone giving no room for argument. “I will heal them. I will reprimand them for their foolishness. I will feed them—lord knows they need it - and then, I shall send them to their dorms where they are grounded for the rest of the day until I have the mind to deal with them tomorrow.”

Newt drew in a deep breath and Albus was smart enough to not interrupt. Newt’s tone spiked.

“And then, I shall be going home, to my wife, for the rest of the night, where I will sleep in my own bed to prepare for a new job that has become even more stressful than I’d bargained for—and, no, I won’t be at the Halloween Feast.”

Newt let out a low, heavy breath, ducking his head and covering his face with a tired hand. He’d gotten more heated than he’d meant to and he hated that. But, Merlin, this man was frustrating!

“I’m… truly sorry…” whispered Albus. His voice was soft and genuine. “I never meant to put you under so much pressure.”

He put a hand onto Newt’s shoulder and Newt glanced through his fringe. Albus gazed at him with deep regret, sorrowed sincerity in his eyes. There was some comfort in seeing that, reminding Newt that this man truly wanted goodness.

Humans were flawed creatures. Albus Dumbledore was no different. He had love in his heart, despite the blinded bias. Newt hoped that he would see things differently and, in the very least, try to see the good in Harry and Riddle. Albus had been a father figure to Newt when he was young. He had wisdom to offer the boys, no doubt there.

“I am sorry for putting so much stress on you. I know you don’t believe you’re the right man for the job, but… isn’t it that very humility that makes you exactly the right man?”

Newt breathed out a chuckle. “Flattery again, Albus.”

“Is it flattery if I mean it?”

“Thank you,” whispered Newt. “Forgive my sharpness. It’s been a… very long day.”

“Get some rest,” said Albus, his smile small. “I’m sorry for pulling you away. I’ll leave you to it and… I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Newt nodded. “Tomorrow, then.”

“Goodnight.” Albus turned away and began to walk down the corridor. Newt was still trying to gather himself, remember what he was supposed to be doing, when Albus’ voice drew his attention once more. “And Newt?” As Newt turned to look at him, Albus’ smile twisted in pain. “Forgive me…”

He didn’t give Newt the time to answer, walking away and disappearing down a corridor.

Newt stood there, trying to process it all. His chest heaved once. Right. Supplies—I need supplies. Calm. Need to be calm. Children were no different than creatures: they could tell if someone was upset, but they couldn’t differentiate general frustration about something else from disappointment in the child and their actions. Being agitated wasn’t going to do those boys a bit of good.

Whatever was going on with Albus would have to wait. Healing those wild pups was his priority - they really did feel like a pair of cruppies. 

And at any rate, worrying just means you suffer twice.

A wry smile formed on his lips.

Perhaps, one day, I’ll take my own advice.

It was a quick walk to the hospital wing and back. The mediwitch, a young woman Newt faintly remembered being in Ravenclaw, was more than happy to give him some basic supplies, like burn heal, bruise balm, blood replenishers, and scar prevention potions. He’d even managed to convince her to give him two painkiller potions.

“But give them very little, understand?” said Healer Magnolia in warning. “It’s potent and I don’t need two young addicted wizards on my hands.”

“I will only give them some if it’s absolutely necessary,” said Newt reassuringly. “I swear it.”

“Good.”

He’d been gone for only fifteen to twenty minutes, but he still walked quickly through the castle, anxious to get back to them.

He burst through the office door. “Sorry for the delay—” He stopped, his gaze drawn to the scene on the floor where Harry and Riddle sat. Panic surged inside Newt. “What’re you doing on the floor? Did something happen? Are you all right?”

His eyes locked onto their hands, which were clasped together. Well, that’s odd. The boys bolted apart, as if they’d been burned. Harry turned his head away, cheeks flushing dark, while Riddle opened his mouth, an odd light in his eyes.

“He collapsed,” said Riddle, breathless concern to his voice. “He’s lucid, so…”

“Oh, dear—” Newt dropped to his knees, putting a hand to Harry’s chin, checking his pupils first. “Better check your head, too.” He barely got the chance to confirm that Harry’s pupil dilation was normal before the boy was tugging away from him.

“Harry, please hold still, I need to—”

“I’m fine—check on Tom first,” said Harry, trying to pull away. “Please, I’m fine. I think he had some broken ribs or punctured lungs or something—”

“What?” breathed Newt in horror, glancing over at Riddle. That hadn’t been on the diagnostic scroll. It had listed blunt force trauma, but broken ribs puncturing his lungs hadn’t been on the list of current issues. Newt ran a hand through his fringe, tugging on it. Right. Heal first. Chastise later. “I think we can safely rule that out,” he said, shaking his head. “If that were the case, Mr. Riddle would be wheezing and coughing up blood.”

“He was coughing up blood, a lot of it, before I healed him.”

“He was—wait, before you what?”

Newt wasn’t going to make it home tonight. Not if the coronary he was about to have had anything to say about that. His head was starting to hurt.

“That’s highly advanced healing spell work,” said Newt in awe. “Who trained you in such healing?”

And why would you need it?

Harry shook his head. “No one, I just…” Harry met Riddle’s eyes before he dipped his chin. He shrugged. His voice wavered somewhat as he continued, “I just didn’t want him to—I just wanted—He was coughing up so much blood, I didn’t want him to-to die.”

A mixture of feelings raced through Newt. They whirled inside his chest, squeezing his heart. He put a hand onto Harry’s knee, patting it lightly.

“You saved his life, then,” whispered Newt. “All right, I will heal him first if you let me double check to see if you have a concussion. Can you do that for me?”

Harry nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Newt winced. “Just Newt outside of class, if you don’t mind. Same to you, Mr. Riddle,” he said, taking Harry’s chin once more. He lifted his wand, newly lit with a lumos, and watched for Harry’s pupils to change. Relieved, Newt didn’t see any sign of a concussion.

“Only if you call him Tom.” 

Riddle rolled his eyes. “Harry.”

“Only if Mr. Riddle is comfortable with that,” said Newt, giving Harry a look. It slipped off his back like water off a kelpie’s back. Cheeky boy. Newt looked at Riddle. “Although, if I’m assigned as a mentor to you both, I think a degree of familiarity is in order.”

There was a pause; then, a whisper. “You can call me Tom, sir.”

“Call me Newt, then.” He lifted the light once more. “Harry, can you follow the movement of my wand with your eyes? Don’t move your head—that’s it.”

Harry obeyed him without argument. His eye movement was good, too. Definitely no concussion, then. His little fainting spell might’ve been from an adrenaline crash or perhaps even blood loss. Newt couldn’t help but notice that Harry was also underweight.

Another thing to note.

Tom wasn’t exactly filled out either. He wasn’t underweight, but he did seem a bit too slender, even willowy for his build and height. Newt noted some long term signs of malnutrition. If that was taken care of, Tom probably could grow a few more inches - could even be taller than Newt. 

“Right, then. You next, Tom.” Newt turned to the boy, hand taking him lightly by the chin. He noticed the slight jerk backwards that Tom tried to smother; he held still, like a statue, as Newt checked his eyes. All clear here as well. “Thank you. Right then, up you get, take a seat. We’ll have you patched up in no time.”

Newt rolled back off his knees, fluidly getting to his feet. He felt them crack—Mercy Lewis, I’m getting old. As the boys got off the floor, he gave them a look.

“And once we’re done, we can have a chat. Hm?”

Harry let out a nervous, sheepish laugh. Tom gave him a sharp nod of acknowledgement. Such opposites, these two.

Newt glanced around the office. There was enough room for two twin beds and a screen for privacy… probably. I can make it work. Newt flicked his wand, the magic swirling at his command.

“Step back a bit,” said Newt.

Two twin beds popped into existence in the room, sheets spreading over the mattresses. Two pillows flopped at the head of the beds. There was barely enough room to walk around them, but it would do. A fabric curtain unfurled at the ceiling until it reached the floor; it fluttered in between the beds, offering some privacy.

“Wow,” murmured Harry, eyes bright. “I love magic.”

Newt smiled, pleased. “All right, up you get. I’ll keep this private between you.”

“Thank you,” said Tom, his tone curt.

Harry hopped up onto his bed, legs swinging with nervous energy. Tom sat on the edge of his bed, hands clasped tightly in his lap. 

Right, then… “Who first?”

“Harry—”

“Tom—”

The boys’ voices echoed at the same time. Newt lifted an eyebrow. “Hey now, I’m not that scary,” he said lightly.

“Heal Harry first. He’s more injured than I am.”

“A chandelier didn’t fall on my head. Heal Tom. Don’t listen to him.”

A chandelier?

Good lord.

“Tom it is,” said Newt, striding to the boy’s side. He lifted a silencing charm around them. Tom scowled and opened his mouth to protest, but Newt overrode him with a gentle, “Let me, please.” Tom’s mouth clicked shut. The tension in his shoulders visibly lessened. He dropped his gaze, chest rising in a deep breath. He remained quiet. “Do you need a painkiller?”

Tom shook his head.

He was so different than Harry. Tom reminded Newt of an abused hippogriff - proud, silent, grudgingly accepting of aid when needed. Newt let out a low sigh.

I know how Harry lost his parents, but what about Tom? What happened to his parents?

Newt conjured some plain robes for Tom to wear after his healing. He took a deep breath, surveying the damage to the boy’s trousers and robes. He lifted his wand slightly. “May I?” he asked gently.

Tom slowly gave his consent.

Newt vanished his trousers and dress shirt, leaving him only in his underpants. Tom refused to make eye contact now, pale cheeks growing pink. His jaw clenched; his hands tightened in their grip, knuckles white.

Bloody hell.

Bruises, cuts, splinters, glass, burns, blood - so much blood. Thoughts failed him. He started at the boy’s knees; congealed blood coated his skin, glass glinting through torn flesh. Newt went to work, dropping to his own knees. A wordless cushioning charm saved them from the hard stone floor. Tension coiled around Tom, but after a few minutes, his muscles relaxed and his breathing grew even. Occasionally, he flinched with a near inaudible hiss of pain as Newt removed a particular difficult piece of glass. Once the last of the glass was removed, he stitched the flesh back together with magic and vanished the blood.

That was just the boy’s knees.

“Lie on your stomach, please,” whispered Newt.

Tom obeyed.

Thank Merlin he didn’t find any wounds on the boy’s backside. Newt didn’t think that would’ve gone well… There wasn’t a lot of glass embedded in his lower back; however, he had a lot in his upper shoulders and the back of his head. Newt continued his ministrations, removing all foreign objects, healing the cuts, and vanishing the blood. It was tedious, slow work, but Tom didn’t make a single complaint.

Were they rolling around on shattered glass?

It was hard not to notice the old belt marks on the boy’s lower back. Some marks were about a decade old, other marks younger than that. Just from analyzing the scars, it seemed that the beatings stopped at around age nine or so. There was also a faded burn scar that was in the center of Tom’s back that spread out into smaller scars. It had the pattern of scalding water being poured onto his back. 

Newt’s heart broke.

He cast another diagnostic charm, parchment materializing as it recorded data on Tom’s internal state. His lips pursed together. He missed a lot since it’d been so chaotic in the Headmaster’s office. Tom’s lungs had been punctured recently and his internal organs had been crushed. Something had fallen on him. Harry said a chandelier. Tom shouldn’t have been able to walk to the office. By all counts…

He should be dead.

But all that damage had been healed.

That’s some powerful magic for a sixth year…

“You may sit up.”

He waited as Tom did so, who still didn’t look up at him. His cheeks were flushed with embarrassment. Newt took a seat next to him, ignoring how Tom stiffened. He lightly put a hand to the boy’s chin, encouraging him to tilt his head up. Tom gave in. Dark brown eyes met Newt’s gaze, hard, but glassy with pain.

“Almost done,” whispered Newt.

Tom nodded.

“You’re probably suffering from some long term malnourishment,” said Newt softly, working on the cuts on Tom’s face. “A daily nutrient potion or a diet with more fruit and veg - specifically more veg - will help you heal.”

He could feel it: the magic that rolled off Tom. It was intense, dark, and powerful. Touched a pressure point, I see.

“Calm down,” murmured Newt. The boy’s chest heaved deeply. “That’s it.”

“I’m fine, professor,” said Tom in a sharp whisper.

“Yes, you are.”

He had questions for this boy, but it would’ve been like poking a sleeping Hungarian Horntail. It was going to take consistency to earn the trust of this one. 

“Just add more fruit and veg to what you’re already eating and you’ll be fine.” Newt patted him on the shoulder. He stood up and pulled out some potion vials from his robes. “I’ll need you to drink these, two blood replenishers and a scar prevention,” he said, handing the three vials over to Tom. Without argument or grimace, Tom popped open the cork and downed each one. Impressive. He handed the vials back to Newt. “Right. And these are for you to apply onto yourself, burn heal for the burns on your arms and bruise balm. I thought you’d rather apply them yourself.”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Work on that while I take care of Harry. When you’re done, you can get dressed.”

Tom’s wooden, “Yes, sir,” made Newt wince, but he didn’t correct him. He left him there and walked around the sheet to Harry’s bed. Newt reversed the silencing spell. 

Harry’s head popped up immediately. “Is Tom okay?” he asked.

“Yes, he’s mostly healed now. He’s taking care of the bruises and burns on his own now.”

Harry sagged in relief. “Good.”

For a pair of boys who had dueled violently, they sure were concerned about each other. I suppose that’s a good thing. Newt took a step closer to Harry, looking him over for a moment. Merlin, this boy had a lot more damage on his body. How have you been standing? How had Newt not noticed Harry’s hands until now? His fingers had splinters embedded in the flesh. The amount of pain those alone were causing…

“Do you need a painkiller?” asked Newt.

Harry blinked. “No, I’m okay.”

“Are you sure?”

There was a tilt of messy black hair. “Yes?”

High pain tolerance. Right. Right. Newt inhaled, his stomach twisted in his knots. I could use a stomach soother at this rate. An unnaturally high pain tolerance. Okay. That’s concerning.

“I need to vanish your clothes. May I?”

“Oh, yeah, you can. But you’re not gonna, uh…”

“You’ll have your modesty.”

“Oh, good.”

Newt vanished his clothes. Harry let out a little squeak of surprise when he realized he was left in his underpants. It would’ve been funny… But Newt closed his eyes, pained. It wasn’t that he could see the boy’s ribs, but if he lost another pound or two, they’d be visible. He didn’t look emaciated, at least - but Newt knew these signs. He’d seen it before in creatures. Starving ones.

“You’re underweight,” said Newt softly. “You need to gain maybe about a stone. I know that might seem like a lot, but it’ll put you in a safer range.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Harry, running a hand through his fringe. “There’s just been… a lot to deal with lately.”

“Are you… Are you trying to be this underweight?”

“What? No, I just haven’t had much of an appetite. It’s hard to eat sometimes.”

Newt nodded, relieved. “Some nutrient potions will be in order.”

“I’m already taking one every day. I have an old elf who loves to fuss over me.”

“Let me guess… Minsby?”

Harry blinked. “How’d you know?”

“She fussed over me, too,” said Newt with a soft smile. “I’ll have to pay her a visit and thank her.”

If Minsby had been giving Harry nutrient potions for a few months, then that meant Harry arrived at Hogwarts underweight. Now that he looked at the boy, had he lost weight since they’d last met?

They aren’t watching these boys…

Nothing had changed in the past three decades.

It was a wound, one that throbbed deep within his soul. This wasn’t the place  where he wanted to be, but maybe he needed to be here. He had to keep an eye out for these boys, but also an entire Hufflepuff house. The weight of the responsibility was heavy on his shoulders. He’d have to be away from home for days on end, only seeing Tina over the weekend…

He shoved his thoughts and feelings aside.

Newt began his healing of Harry. There was a lot more glass to remove and wounds to heal. Harry was stoic through it all, never once giving an indication of being in pain. It was another long, tedious process.

Harry had a lot of old scars - far more than normal. Newt could recognize a number of the sources to a few of them, too. The most alarming one of all was the basilisk fang puncture. It had to be—there was no other explanation for it, but how in all that was magical in the world could that have happened? There was only one cure to basilisk venom: phoenix tears. With such a rare, expensive ingredient and the one minute it took for the venom to kill a victim, obtaining and administering the antidote in such a narrow window of time was next to impossible.

If Harry had been poisoned, he shouldn’t be here. He’d be dead. 

There was also a snake bite. Easy to catch. Where was he encountering these creatures? There was an oval burn scar that was at the center of his collarbone. The lightning bolt scar was the most curious of them all. There was something alive about it, quite similar to the bolt pattern of real lightning in a thunderstorm. The strike coated much of his left forehead and cut a line through his eyebrow where hair didn’t grow. It stopped right above his eye.

But then…

Newt’s grip on Harry’s left wrist shook. There was a seven centimeter long slash in the boy’s forearm. The wound had been deep, made with a thick, jagged knife. It was only a few years old, but judging how the scar had healed, it hadn’t been taken care of very well after the fact.

Oh, no. Please, no. I don’t know… if I can do this.

If this was what he thought it was, then Newt was not qualified - no matter how much he wanted to help and be there for Harry. Self harm? A possible attempt to take his own life? Both of those options took a highly trained healer. Newt knew how to care for creatures, knew how understand them, but not people - and certainly not broken, traumatized children. How could he even begin to help this child when Newt himself had faced war and death and personal tragedy and didn’t know how—His breath caught, stolen; his heart raced; stars twinkled—

“A dark wizard did that to me,” whispered Harry.

Pop. Newt could hear the breath fill his lungs; the rush of panic and adrenaline made his muscles ache, as if he’d ran a marathon. He swallowed, mentally shaking himself. He was still trembling, but he steadied himself by meeting the boy’s eyes. Harry looked up at him with a sad smile.

“He stole my blood.”

I need to get a grip on myself.

“A dark ritual, then?” murmured Newt, cringing at the lack of strength in his tone. Need to be strong for the boy. “Wait, wait—someone has your blood?” he said with an alarmed gasp. How did it get worse? “Do they still have it? Dear Merlin, that’s very dangerous—so many terrible, dark things can be done with human blood and—”

“He’s dead,” whispered Harry. “It’s okay. He doesn’t have my blood any more. The ritual, it, uh… It backfired.”

“Oh.” Newt’s breathing settled down; the overwhelming emotions faded, but the ache in his muscles remained. “Okay, thank the gods. All right, then… Let me continue…”

A dark wizard getting his hands on a child’s blood for some unknown dark ritual was an improvement over what Newt had thought been the wound, but just barely. The weight of his responsibility was heavy on his shoulders - and it wasn’t getting lighter.

The scar on the back of Harry’s right hand was even more disturbing.

‘I must not tell lies.’

Newt brushed his thumb over the scar tissue. It was faded with time, but easy to see. It had been inflicted by some kind of magical quill, but Newt wasn’t aware of a dark object like that. Was this Harry’s handwriting? If not, who would dare carve such a thing into a child? Another thing to note. Wonderful.

His eyes met Harry’s briefly; the boy’s lips thinned. “Potions won’t fix that,” Harry whispered.

Newt’s hand flexed. He nodded slowly. “I know.”

He was dying to ask about it, but the look in Harry’s eyes told him that today wasn’t the day. Newt would have to wait, perhaps when more trust had been built between them.

“Lie on your stomach, please.”

“Uh… right.” Harry’s face flushed with a darker color. “I definitely sat in some glass…”

“I’ll be as quick as possible,” said Newt.

A few minutes later, Newt was done with the glass, wounds, and blood on the boy. He couldn’t help but notice the abundance of scars on his back - all from a belt. There was something more wild and cruel to these marks, compared to Tom’s scars. He kept the healing quick as possible, to avoid embarrassing the boy for long, but also to give his own heart a rest. He couldn’t take much more of this, seeing so much harm caused on a child. Once done, Harry sat up, a little more pep in his movements now. He smiled up at Newt.

“Thanks.”

Newt nodded and conjured another set of plain robes. He pulled out two vials and handed it all to Harry. “Of course. Here are some robes to wear on your way back to your dorm. Next, I need you to drink these, please. They’re a blood replenisher and scar prevention.”

Harry took the two potions, his nose wrinkling at them. He uncorked the scar prevention potion, stiffing once, before he drank it down. “Ugh,” he groaned. “I hate potions.” He quickly downed the blood replenisher with an even more exaggerated grimace. “Ugh, gross. That’s disgusting. Why can’t they come up with tastier potions?”

Somehow, it comforted Newt that the boy wasn’t stoic through the taste, too.

“Potions are finicky like that, I’m afraid.”

Harry huffed.

“I also have a burn heal and a bruise balm for you to apply in private.” Newt handed him two small containers. “Please don’t forget to apply them. You’re going to have a lot of bruising soon, I’m sure.”

“Thanks, Newt,” said Harry, taking them. “I’m grateful. Thanks for letting us be here instead of the hospital wing.”

Newt patted him on the shoulder. “I understand. Up you get.”

Harry hopped off the bed and got dressed. Newt checked on Tom, who was already dressed and standing up. Newt vanished the temporary beds and the room was bare once again. He wrinkled his nose at the room. He was going to have to spruce up the place. It was so empty. He could add some shelves by his desk, possibly add some room expansion spells, maybe some plants, lots of them - Pickett would like that…

Wait. Focus.

“Now then…” Newt steeled himself. He gestured to the sofa. “Sit down. It’s time we had a little talk.”

The two boys sat on the sofa, side by side, rather close together - to Newt’s confusion. Tom didn’t meet his eyes, while Harry waited patiently, albeit with a sheepish , expectant expression on his face.

Oh. Right.

He had to scold them.

Damn.

Newt rubbed his eyes for a moment, buying some time. He wasn’t sure how he was supposed to go about this. Newt wasn’t used to this. One didn’t correct creatures - although, Teddy the niffler was the exception to that. Little bugger. Curb their tendencies into something else, yes. Distract them, yes. But children required correction. Newt and Tina weren’t parents - not for the lack of trying, though.

I can do this.

Newt took a deep breath and straightened his posture.

“I don’t know what led you two to the fight, but letting disagreements fester to the point of exploding in a fit of rage is not proper behavior.” Newt paused. He didn’t get a reaction out of either of them. He put his hands onto his hips. “You’re worse than a pair of kneazles and crups. You’re nearly of age, boys. You should know better than this. Working through your differences before it escalates is the sign of an adult, but all I see are two little boys fighting like primary children.”

Ah. That got a reaction. Tom’s cheeks flushed with a heated pink, his jaw clenching in frustration. Harry ducked his head, shame in his expression.

Newt’s tone softened. “I’m not suggesting you have to like each other or get along all of the time,” he said. “But you both have the ability to control yourselves and behave like proper young gentlemen.”

“We’re sorry,” whispered Harry.

Tom nodded stiffly. “We’ve seen the error of our ways and have set aside our differences.”

Harry threw him a wounded look and elbowed him in the ribs. Tom let out an annoyed hiss, pulling away with a sharp glare. Harry grinned. “I think you mean we’re friends now. Right?”

Tom blinked, mouth opening. There was a short pause. “Yes… Yes, we are.”

They weren’t friends before? Nearly killing each other and now they’re friends? Why am I not surprised? Such boys…

“I’m glad you’ve worked it all out now. Do try to avoid this in the future, please?”

The boys both nodded.

“Good. Now, as for your punishments…” And now the pair looked exactly their age, all ashamed and apprehensive. How adorable. “You’re grounded.”

Harry blinked.

“What?” demanded Tom.

“For now,” said Newt, trying to remain firm about this. “It’s been a long day anyway and you both need a lot of rest. I know it’s a disappointment to miss the Halloween Feast, but I’m sure you know this is a mild punishment compared to what was being discussed…” Harry nodded, while the only sign that Tom gave in response was the whitening of his knuckles. “I’ll escort you to the Slytherin common room and to your dorm room. You may not leave it until I fetch you tomorrow morning for a detention. I expect you to obey this without supervision or else I’ll be very disappointed in you both.”

“Yes, of course. We’ll obey,” said Harry in sincerity. “Right, Tom?”

The boy sighed. “Of course,” Tom said, his tone indicating that he wasn’t pleased about this. “It’s the least we deserve,” he added.

That was… forced. It’s like he’s trying to manage me. It’d be insulting if it weren’t so cute. Standard Slytherin tactic.

“All right, then. The house elves will deliver your supper tonight and your breakfast in the morning. I know you’ve said you’ve made up, but I suggest you take the time to really make sure everything is out and in the past with you two.”

Harry and Tom exchanged a look, but neither of them said anything.

It was too easy. Newt was missing something here. Did these two really just try to kill each other? The energy between them was too calm. He studied them for a long moment, silent. Harry shifted under his gaze, fidgety and nervous. Tom was ramrod still, unwavering.

Well… I might not ever get the answers I want about their fight. But as long as it doesn’t happen again, I won’t pry.

“I’ll escort you back to your common room, then,” said Newt, motioning to the door with his head. “Off we go now.”

That nightcap with Tina was going to be an extra large one.

Chapter Text

Humiliation after humiliation.

His reputation was in shambles now. The tightrope of the political and power dynamics had been unbalanced by this single act; every member of the Slytherin house - and many Ravenclaws - would scramble to fill the void. Tom wasn’t delusional: his placement would be challenged repeatedly during the next month. He’d been revered because of his proficiency and power. If opinion shifted, Tom could lose it all.

Would the loyalty of his Knights be tested?

Even Harry would be a target, especially if the rumors of their duel favored him. Ravenclaws, Hufflepuffs, and potentially a few Gryffindors might approach him. Purebloods knew how to garner favors in these times and if Harry was viewed as a potential power to get behind, they’d do so in a heartbeat.

Everything Tom had fought for over the course of five years had been destroyed in a matter of hours.

But as he walked beside Harry and Scamander, his steps somewhat slow, listening to the murmur of their voices as they chatted, he didn’t feel as hopeless as he should have.

‘Friends are not allies, you prat.’

Harry’s voice played in a loop in his mind and, every time, it sent that thrill up his spine. He’d spurned Alphard and Quintus’ declarations of friendship. Why didn’t he do the same to Harry? Those two had been loyal at Tom’s side for years and… Tom clenched his fists, unnoticed by Harry and Scamander.

I insulted their loyalty. I spat on it.

What have I been doing? How have I forgotten my goals for the future? I have plans and designs for my Knights. I know better than to alienate them.

Tom’s head lifted, his eyes drawn to the back of Harry, whose head was turned to Scamander. There was a contented smile on his lips, a brightness to those green eyes.

‘Friends are more than allies.’

Harry’s smile bloomed in his memory.

If a friend was more than an ally, did that mean he’d gained something more than Harry’s loyalty?

“Tom, what’s your favorite subject?” asked Scamander.

Tom looked up, realizing he’d been hanging back. He straightened and said, “Ancient Runes.”

“That’s a difficult subject,” said Scamander, impressed. “Were you drawn to learning a different language or to the ritual side of the magic?”

“Ritual side, Professor,” said Tom.

Scamander winced. “Newt, please.”

Tom hummed under his breath. An awkward air lifted between the three of them and Harry quickly interjected with his favorite subject, Defense. The conversation turned to that and Tom couldn’t help but tune them out, sinking back deep once more into his thoughts.

No matter how many times Scamander corrected him, Tom would never address the man with such familiarity. It was a ridiculous request. It was best to maintain a proper distance between student and teacher, even if the man was labeled as his mentor - Scamander would never be his mentor in the true meaning of the word.

Never.

Slughorn had tried to worm his way into Tom’s good graces, as he did with many other intelligent or powerful students. Tom tolerated all attempts on a surface level. Slughorn was never to be trusted.

His thoughts whirled in his mind, giving him no peace as they walked towards the dungeons and the entrance to the Slytherin common room. After ten minutes, they turned a corner and the entrance was visible. Unfortunately, they weren’t alone now.

Dammit.

Quintus was pacing in front of the stone entrance, while Alphard tried to stop him. “I’m sure it’s all an exaggeration. They can’t have—”

“Stop trying to console me—the bloody dragon—”

“Quintus, we’ll find out soon. You just have to be patient.”

“Fuck my patience!”

A step echoed through the corridor. Quintus’ head whipped up at the sound and his eyes widened when he caught sight of them. He broke into a run. Alphard let out a sigh of relief and followed after him. Quintus reached Tom and Harry a moment later, throwing an arm each around their necks and jerking them into a tight hug. Harry and Tom’s shoulders knocked against each other; Tom sucked in his breath.

“Geez, Quintus, you’re going to break my neck,” said Harry, but he let out a soft laugh. He patted him on the back. “We’re alive.”

“The rumors!” breathed Quintus. “Salazar, the rumors.”

Tom stiffened. “Rumors are always exaggerated.”

Quintus pulled back, dark brows furrowed tightly together. “I’ve seen it!” he snapped. Alphard put a hand onto his shoulder, but he didn’t notice.  Neither of them seemed to notice Scamander either. “The dragon—how in Salazar’s name did you two animate that? No one can reverse it and no one can get it to listen to them. I think it’s perched on the roof of the Gryffindor Tower right now.”

“Oops?” said Harry sheepishly.

Quintus huffed. “That’s all you have to say?”

“I say scaring Gryffindors isn’t the worst thing they could’ve done,” said Alphard with a grin, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “The rumors about what happened are a little more wild and… concerning.”

Quintus’ eyes briefly met Tom’s gaze; his lips thinned and he hunched over slightly, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “Glad to see you’re fine…”

Tom opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He just nodded.

Quintus’ lips thinned further. “Nothing to say?”

“No.”

“Right,” breathed Quintus. His chest heaved; his expression darkened. He whirled around and marched away.

Alphard started with a confused jolt, gesturing back at him. “Hang on—Quin, where are you going? I thought—”

“I am going to the feast!”

“But it’s too early—”

“Alphard!”

Alphard sighed; he pinched the bridge of his nose. His smile at Tom was soft and sad. “Glad you’re okay. Quintus was beside himself with worry. Just… give him some time.” And with that, he went after Quintus.

The silence stabbed at Tom’s chest.

“Your friends?” asked Scamander.

Tom refused to meet his eyes.

“Yeah," said Harry. “We’ve just had some… disagreements.”

“Ah,” said Scamander with an understanding nod. Tom burned with hatred for it. “They seem like good friends. Better to talk it out now than later or it’ll just get worse.”

Harry nodded, a pensive expression on his face.

“Come on, then,” said Scamander, patting them both lightly on the back and pushing them towards the entrance. “Almost home for you two.” Harry opened his mouth to say the password, but Scamander beat him to it with, “Open, please.”

And it did.

The man smiled beneath his fringe, eyes bright, at both of their surprised expressions. “Professors have access to all common rooms, even without a password.” He winked at them.

It only took a single step into the Slytherin common room to set Tom on high alert, the magic crawling over his skin like maggots. Eyes were on them; the air was tense. A silence fell over the room. His magic, though drained, responded. It activated the room, the wooden snakes coming to life.

A warning.

“How fascinating,” murmured Scamander, drawn to the nearest carving on the wall. “I’ve never seen them do that before.”

“You’ve been here before?” asked Harry.

“Oh, yes. I was friends with Leta Lestrange before… well, we drifted apart. She snuck me inside here often.”

Such idle, asinine chitchat when there was a bigger problem on their hands.

A couple of the seventh year Slytherins were grouped together, talking in low tones. Tom’s eyes narrowed. Sinistra and Pettigrew were among them, as well as other muggleborns and a couple of halfbloods. But the leads of the group, Tom could instantly identify: Archibald Nott and Jed Yaxley. They stopped and their collective gaze fell upon Tom. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. Archibald smirked.

Multiple things happened simultaneously.

Three curses flew towards them in an outright challenge for power. Nagini appeared from the banister above, launching herself in front of Tom and Harry. She rose high, her fangs barred and leaking venom, and hissed, “Hatchings or not, touch him and I’ll tear you to shreds!” Harry’s magic flared to life at Tom’s side, exploding at the feet of the group of Slytherins in a burst of light and pop of sound in harmless warning. The group flinched. And, lastly, Scamander threw up a protego, blocking a stray spell that had slipped through.

But the spell Tom had tried to cast failed.

Tom lifted an eyebrow at the group, his gaze dark and his lips thinned. His stance held an air of cool calm, contrasting the rapid pounding in his chest and the anxiety that raced through his veins. He gripped his wand tightly, refusing to tremble. Nagini coiled to his side, lifting her head to his hand. He stroked her head as she rubbed against him, his eyes never leaving Archibald Nott. That smug smirk never left his lips.

It’s fine; I’m fine.

I’m just magically drained and exhausted. The duel took a lot of magic, plus wounds and injuries, meaning my magic is drained. I need time to recover. That’s all.

With some rest, my magic will be back to normal.

“Really now,” said Scamander with a affronted huff. “Causing trouble the moment we step inside. I haven’t made a mistake and walked into Gryffindor Tower, have I?”

The magic in the air calmed. Nearly every Slytherin in the common room made a sound of protest or insult. Harry let out a low laugh. The tension broke and Tom’s grip on his wand lessened.

“My hand slipped, forgive me,” said Archibald softly, approaching them with slow steps. His eyes were a clear, innocent blue; a facade. Nagini bristled beneath Tom’s touch, but he soothed her. “My mistake. You’re not someone we know, sir. Who are you?”

“I’m Professor Newt Scamander, the Care of Magical Creatures and Hufflepuff Head of House replacement.”

A few of the Slytherins in Archibald’s group shifted with unease.

“I see,” said Archibald, his eyes trained on Tom. His tone was slick with oil. “Pleasure to meet you, Professor. I’m Archibald Nott, heir to the Nott family.”

“Mr. Nott, does your hand ‘slip’ often?”

Archibald stilled. “Pardon?”