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Chapter Text

Tom Riddle possessed the special talent of unearthing secrets. It came down to charming the right source, which was straightforward at Hogwarts. Professors, ghosts, and even portraits — (almost) none of them was immune to his flattery.

Today was a stroke of good luck. He had intended to visit Professor Slughorn to coax details on the Triwizard Tournament, only to hear the voices of Professors McGonagall and Dumbledore through the office door.

"...the prophecy, Albus?"

Tom snapped to attention at the word prophecy. Divination might be a scorned field and Trelawney a laughingstock among students, but he knew the power that could be unleashed with True Sight. Dynasties had risen and fallen based on their reactions to Seers.

He pulled out an Extendable Ear, freshly confiscated from the Weasley twins, and cast a Disillusionment Charm on himself.

“It’s an old one, of course,” came Dumbledore’s voice, “but it’s been top of mind, what with the prominence of the Triwizard Tournament and the presence of Durmstrang. You will recall Igor’s reputation for recruitment.”

Tom frowned. How did Dumbledore — 

“But surely you cannot think…” Slughorn was full of indignation.

“The Dark Lord born of the House of Serpents at the year’s close…” McGonagall must be reciting something. Tom tensed. “Well, if you insist on crediting Sybill, which I still hesitate to do, I suppose it does fit. I’ve certainly heard the rumors.”

Could they —?

“Come now, those details are vague enough that they can fit many wizards.”

“The House of Serpents narrows the field quite significantly.”

“There may be descendants other than the Gaunts.”

Tom’s heart leaped, certain now that they were talking about him.

“And I do hate to say this, but we cannot deny that he has a certain predilection for the Dark Arts and has displayed certain...behaviors.”

“He’s just a student, Albus,” Slughorn said, “and a prefect, at that. Commanding respect from other Slytherins doesn’t mean he will be a Dark Lord.”

“Let’s see what else Sybill has to say, shall we?” McGonagall cut in, clearly trying to diffuse an argument. “Will suffer defeat at the hands of the one born to enemies at the close of July… This is supposedly referring to one of my students?”

Tom’s mouth twisted. Defeated? By a fellow student?

“This is my current belief, yes,” Dumbledore said. “Born at the close of July could refer to either Mr. Potter or Mr. Longbottom, though there is no history of enmity between the Gaunts and the Longbottoms.”

“By the power that he knows not…”

Having finished reading, McGonagall was momentarily silent. Tom could almost picture her pursed lips.

“To be quite frank, Albus, I side with Horace on this. This prophecy is extremely vague, and while I don’t like to speak ill of colleagues, Sybill has done little over the years to convince me that she truly has the Sight.”

Dumbledore’s voice was grave. “I understand your reservations. While I may view Sybill’s gifts differently, I hardly want to believe that two of our students are destined to face each other in such a fashion.”

“Why come to us at all?” Slughorn said. “So many years after the prophecy is made?”

“An old man’s caution, perhaps. I don’t ask either of you to act against your student, but I do ask that you keep a close eye on them, especially during a school year that will naturally be more dangerous due to the tournament.”

“We certainly plan to, prophecy or not.” Now McGonagall also sounded indignant. “I assure you that Mr. Potter will be in good hands.”

“I have already been keeping a close eye on Mr. Riddle, given his potential for greatness,” Slughorn said, somewhat pointedly.

“Excellent, excellent!” Tom could practically see Dumbledore’s annoyingly cheerful face. “Well, this conversation has been most productive, but I must be getting on, as I’m due to meet Madam Bones. Horace, Minerva, I do apologize for my intrusion. Have a great afternoon.”

While McGonagall and Slughorn murmured their goodbyes, Tom retracted the Extendable Ear and retreated down the hallway, almost knocking into a humming suit of armor in his haste.

With some luck, the professors would never suspect that anyone was here.

The professors exchanged meaningful looks as the Fat Friar floated away, mumbling something about a disembodied ear.

“Someone was eavesdropping outside,” McGonagall repeated, regarding the hallway with narrowed eyes. “They must've heard our conversation.”

“Even if they did, our conversation was perfectly harmless,” Slughorn said, shaking his head, “and I’ll bet that it was Peeves and not a student. He has been rather upset with me since last week’s Potions mishap with the third-years. In my defense, I had no idea he was in the supply cupboard.”

McGonagall crossed her arms, frowning.

“Come now, Minerva, you have always been too paranoid. Some crystallized pineapples, yes?”

As McGonagall grudgingly took a proffered treat, she gave her other colleague a beseeching glance.

Albus Dumbledore only hummed, blue eyes bright.

Tom had planned to go to the library to continue some research. Instead, his feet led him back to the Slytherin dungeons.

The common room was fairly deserted thanks to the unusually warm October weather. The few remaining students knew better than to disturb him when he wore his pensive expression, giving him the space needed to digest his new knowledge.

He sank into one of the couches facing the fireplace, his mind racing. What an interesting prophecy.

The first part was an elation. In fact, it was downright offensive that Slughorn refused to believe that it referred to him. Of course he was the Dark Lord from the House of Serpents. Even before discovering his own heritage, he had been researching the exploits of powerful dark wizards, from Morgan le Fay from Arthurian times to Gellert Grindelwald in the 1940s. He was going to avoid their mistakes and surpass them. Receiving the confirmation that he would succeed was gratifying.

The second part, however, was both insulting and concerning. Defeated by a Potter? There was only one Potter currently in attendance at Hogwarts, a Harry Potter in fourth year, and he was laughably average.

Since the start of his Hogwarts career, Tom had been keeping a catalogue of wizards whose competencies would one day earn them a place in his army. There were Rachele and Rigel Lestrange, who were more well-versed in the Dark Arts than he was, thanks to their parents’ training. There was Cedric Diggory, his biggest rival for Head Boy next year thanks to his charisma and connections. And then there were a handful of students who excelled in specific subjects, though none of them could rival Tom in his breadth of knowledge.

Harry Potter was not even on his radar. Until now.

Somehow, he would defeat Tom with some power unknown to him. What could Potter know that Tom didn’t?

Tom stared into the dancing green flames and drummed his fingers on the armrest of the couch. He could feed Potter to the basilisk before the kid could even become a threat. He had been meaning to test out the creature on the Muggle-born and blood traitor population for some time, but the timing had never been opportune.

Then again...that was the tricky thing about prophecies, wasn’t it? The wording was always purposefully vague. Many people, wizards and Muggles alike, would take them too literally and try to subvert the outcomes, only to realize that in doing so, they actually fulfilled the conditions. Greek wizards had written many treatises on this phenomenon.

In this instance, if he destroyed Potter now, the prophecy could simply morph so that it no longer referred to Harry Potter. The power that he knows not would remain a threat and refer to someone else. As a result, Tom might create a more dangerous adversary down the line.

No, Tom was too smart for that.

No, he would outsmart the prophecy by figuring out Potter’s special power, master it for himself, and then eliminate him. That way, he would also be able to prevent the rise of any future adversary with the same power.

“Tom?” Rachele, returning to the dungeons, had spotted and joined him, her heavy-lidded eyes adoring as they sought his. “I thought you would be at the library. How was your conversation with Slughorn?”

He smiled at her and her face lit up. Most Slytherins, including Rachele herself, had the impression that they were dating, an impression that Tom was content to indulge. It never hurt to have a well-connected pure-blood witch in his corner, as long as it didn’t require too much of his time.

“He was busy, so I’ll have to visit another day.” He paused. “Tell me, do you know much about Harry Potter?”

“Potter?” She wrinkled her nose. “He’s in Draco’s year, isn’t he? I don’t know much about him except that he's good at annoying my cousin and Mother hates his godfather. Why do you ask?”

“Just happened to overhear a conversation between a few professors talking about potential prefects for next year.” He leaned towards her a little, not close enough to touch, but enough to give the impression of intimacy. “We will be responsible for training them, and I know your intelligence network is second to none, Rachele.”

Second to none was stretching the truth a tad. Her blood supremacy limited the reach of her network. Nevertheless...

She ran a hand through her long dark hair, blushing. “I wouldn’t have expected Potter to be considered for prefect. As far as I know, there isn’t anything remarkable about him, except he’s hopeless at Potions. Remember the antidote fiasco last year? Rumor was, Slughorn only passed him and Longbottom because he didn’t want to embarrass their families.” She fluttered her lashes. “If you want, I could ask the Gryffindor prefects.”

Tom patted her couch cushion. “That won’t be necessary.”

Rachele’s response was consistent with his own impression of Potter, whose one bright academic spot was his affinity for Defense Against Dark Arts. Otherwise, he was average or barely above average in most classes and atrocious at Potions.

No, Harry Potter was not special, if not even Rachele knew — 

“Oh, he’s on the Quidditch team, if that means anything,” she said. “Draco sulks after every match with the Gryffindors, so he must be halfway decent. But, if you ask me, Aunt Cissy shouldn’t have exaggerated Draco’s flying abilities for so long.”

That was it. Quidditch. The power that he knows not must be Quidditch.

Tom curled his lip in distaste, both at the thought of being someday defeated by Quidditch (how would that even work?) and of having to master Quidditch to prevent his defeat. He always figured that once he was a Dark Lord, he would learn to fly without assistance. More intimidating that way to minions and enemies alike. But perhaps it wouldn't be such a bad idea to have Quidditch up his sleeves as a backup.

Possibilities ran through Tom’s head. He could ask Madam Hooch for private lessons; he could ask anyone on the Slytherin Quidditch team; he could — 

His lips curved as a strange and brilliant idea shone upon him.

Wouldn’t it be poetic justice for Potter himself to teach Tom Quidditch? Yes, the more he thought about the idea, the more he appreciated his own genius. Tom was going to learn Quidditch from his future nemesis.

“Is everything all right, Tom?” Rachele was watching him closely.

“Perfectly,” Tom said, rewarding her with a light pat on her shoulder that sent her preening. “You’ve been most helpful.”

Before she could recover and cost him more energy, he stood to retire to the dorm. He had a plan to perfect.

Tom carefully observed Harry Potter over the next few days, but isolating him turned out to be more difficult. They didn’t share any classes and Potter was usually inseparable from his best friends or a cluster of Weasleys in his free time.

In a brief lapse of judgment, Tom considered asking some of his minions to kidnap Potter, before he realized they were either too extreme (like Rachele) or too incompetent (like Gregory Goyle).

He needn’t have worried, because the answer came the night of the Halloween feast. The Goblet of Fire had already selected Fleur Delacour and Viktor Krum as the champions for Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, respectively. Now everyone waited with bated breath for the name of the Hogwarts champion.

The blue-white flames of the Goblet of Fire turned red one last time. A slip of paper flew into Professor Dumbledore’s hands. Without hearing his announcement, Tom had already read the answer in those piercing blue eyes.

“Tom Marvolo Riddle!”

The Slytherin table erupted into cheers as Tom stood up. Once he had reached the front of the Great Hall, he swept his gaze around the room, soaking up the admiration and envy. His eyes fell on the Gryffindor table, where Potter was politely clapping with the rest of his housemates.

I’m coming for you.

Now secrecy was entirely unnecessary. After all, he was a popular prefect and now the Hogwarts Triwizard Champion. There was nothing incriminating about approaching a fellow student for help on the tournament, was there?

Saturday brought more sunshine, though Tom wasn’t initially in the mood to appreciate it. The rare letter from his father tended to have that effect. He tore it up after skimming, uninterested in an insincerely offered olive branch from his father and Cecilia.

The afternoon turned out to be more pleasant. After a productive research session in the Restricted Section, Tom went for a walk around the lake with Andrei Sokolov, a Durmstrang student who sometimes took meals with the Slytherins, with whom Tom had lost no opportunity nurturing an acquaintance.

Like almost all Durmstrang students, Andrei was pure-blood and claimed Russian nobility ancestry to boot. However, Tom was less interested in his bloodline than the possibility of getting access to the Durmstrang library, a portion of which had been brought along for the tournament. Surely, given their reputation for dark magic, their library would have more resources on soul magic.

They were nearing the part of the lake where the ship was docked when they heard the loud whoops. That successfully distracted Andrei from a rather dull monologue on the relative incompetence of the British Ministry of Magic.

“Who is making that racket?” he asked.

Tom had a good inkling. Sure enough, Potter was flying with the Weasleys. Shouting and laughing, they tossed a Quaffle back and forth, drawing attention from the Durmstrang students sunbathing on deck. A group of girls from Beauxbatons passed by, some of them scandalized and others intrigued.

Recognizing an opportunity, Tom said, “I should better go take care of this before they disturb our esteemed visitors. I’d love to continue our conversation another time.”

“Of course,” Andrei said, not realizing he was being dismissed. “I’m most curious to learn about your Department of Mysteries.”

After Andrei had returned to his ship, Tom headed towards the Quidditch pitch, where a heated game was still underway. Instead of approaching the Gryffindors immediately, he bided his time until they had finished and started their way back to the castle. All of them had windblown hair and flushed, happy faces. Potter was walking with the two youngest Weasley on either side, laughing at something that the girl was saying while the boy had his arm slung around his shoulder. The twins appeared to be in the middle of an argument about Quidditch tactics. Because of course they would be.

Tom straightened his robes and smiled as he stepped forward to ruin their afternoon.

The atmosphere changed immediately. Laughter faded from Potter’s face, replaced by puzzlement. The twins growled and moved in front of him and their younger siblings.

One of them — Tom never bothered to distinguish between them — glared. “What do you want, Riddle?”

Tom threw him an indifferent look. There was no love lost between him and the twins. They had lost many points at his hands, and in turn, he had little patience or appreciation for pure-bloods who wasted their potential on trivial pursuits. He also wasn’t about to forgive their fifth-year jelly prank anytime soon.

He kept a pleasant smile on his face. “I’d like to speak with Potter.”

Ron Weasley stepped closer to Potter, shielding his friend with his lanky frame, while his sister crossed her arms. Nevertheless, they were markedly less antagonistic than their brothers. Careful to cultivate his candidacy for Head Boy, Tom had always avoided overt House bias, as Rachele and the other Slytherin prefects were wont to show.

“Why do you need to talk to Harry?” Ginny said with suspicion.

“I’d like to speak to Potter,” Tom repeated, focusing his attention on Potter. “In private, please.”

Ron and Ginny exchanged glances. Fred-or-George shook his head. “No, you can talk to Harry here.”

Tom, feeling the first twinges of impatience, narrowed his eyes. By this point, Rachele would be threatening them with House points and detention, but he had appearances to maintain.

Potter came to his rescue. “Hey, everyone, it’s fine,” he said, tugging on Ron’s sleeve. “We’re in broad daylight. What can he do?”

“He’s friends with Malfoy,” Fred-or-George said.

“He’s dating Malfoy’s crazy cousin, that should tell you a lot,” George-or-Fred added.

“We’ll wait for you,” Ron said.

“It would be a shame,” Tom said conversationally, “if everyone were to lose House points over such an innocuous request.”

Predictably, the others protested.

“We weren’t doing anything wrong!” Ginny said hotly.

“No? High Inquisitor Umbridge might say that you were flying outside the confines of the Quidditch pitch, disturbing our guests. I certainly spotted some raised eyebrows during my patrol.”

“You and Umbridge!”

“How dare you?”

So predictable, the whole lot of them. Tuning out their voices, Tom watched Potter’s reaction.

Potter was calm, almost insultingly so. "I will be fine,” he said, patting Ron’s arm until his friend’s shoulders relaxed. “Go on, I’ll catch up with you at dinner. Can one of you take my Firebolt with you?”

Ron looked torn. “Are you sure?”

“You can’t trust Riddle!”

When Potter nodded firmly, the Weasleys reluctantly took his broomstick and started back towards the castle. Every so often, they would turn to make sure that Tom hadn’t done anything, only to turn back around when Potter waved back.

Once they were finally out of sight, Tom shook his head in amusement. “Are they that afraid of me?”

Potter shrugged. “I think everyone is a little afraid of you after you showed off your Parseltongue in Hagrid’s class last year. Boomslang, was it?”

Well, the fear was probably legitimate. Patricia Stimpson would certainly never be the same around snakes again.

“But you’re not afraid.”

“I reserve my judgement,” Potter said, brushing aside his sweaty fringe with the back of his hand. The lightning bolt shaped scar was stark red against his pale skin. “Anyway, why did you need to talk to me?”

Tom cut straight to the chase. “I want you to teach me Quidditch.”

"You want me to teach you Quidditch," he said, dumbfounded, before suspicion bloomed on his face. “Did Malfoy put you up to this?”

“Not at all,” Tom said calmly. “I merely want to represent Hogwarts in the best light and believe that Quidditch may be of help in the Triwizard Tournament.”

“There’s Quidditch in the tournament?”

Tom opted for an enigmatic smile instead of an actual response. Potter scowled.

“Ask Madam Hooch —”

“Her methods are too inflexible. I prefer learning from a fellow student so we can customize the lessons.”

“Then Warrington —”

“I want you.”

“But...why?”

“Because you’re the best flier at Hogwarts.” Tom had prepared for this. “The youngest Seeker in a century, if I remember correctly.”

The targeted flattery worked on Potter, who flushed in pleasure despite his confusion and suspicion. “Oh, um, thanks.”

“So,” Tom said, knowing victory was close at hand. “Do you want to help me win the Triwizard Cup for Hogwarts?”

Potter hesitated, chewing his bottom lip. But Tom knew exactly how to clinch his triumph.

“In exchange,” he said, “I will make you a deal. For as long as you help me, I'll always take points off Draco when the two of you get into your...skirmishes.”

He was playing dirty, but the end justified the means. Not to mention, he was hitting two Snidgets with one Bludger. It never hurt to take the boastful Draco Malfoy down a few notches.

Potter’s eyes lit up, yet still took longer to respond than anticipated. “Include my friends Ron and Hermione, and all fourth-year Slytherins, and we have a deal.”

“Weasley and Granger? All fourth-year Slytherins?” Tom hadn’t actually expected Potter to negotiate.

“Well of course,” Potter said. “Otherwise, Malfoy would get around our deal by asking Crabbe and Goyle to make trouble, or Malfoy would attack my friends instead. I have to close the more obvious loopholes to protect my best interests.”

“Your best interests,” Tom repeated, studying him.

“And yours. You are too honorable to propose an intentionally unfair deal, right?”

Mischief shone in those green eyes, as if Potter was testing whether Tom would rise to the bait.

“Are you sure you aren’t a Slytherin?”

He had the cheek to grin. “The Sorting Hat offered.”

Tom blew out a breath. “I’ll throw in Weasley, Granger, Crabbe, and Goyle, but only until the First Task is over,” he countered, refusing to allow a Gryffindor to have the last word.

“Deal,” Potter said readily, extending his hand.

Tom stared at it for a moment before he accepted and shook it, intrigued despite himself. This was going to be an interesting year.

Chapter Text

There was silence from Riddle for a few days, long enough that Harry questioned whether he had imagined the whole exchange — he could’ve been delirious from heatstroke — or Riddle had changed his mind.

Not that he was disappointed. Not in the least.

A curious thing happened on Tuesday before breakfast. It started with the latest release of Martin Miggs, the Mad Muggle, which Ron had stayed up all night marathon-reading. As a result, he was groggy, cranky, and barely walking in a straight line.

“Honestly, Ron,” Hermione said. “On a school night.”

“I waited ten years for this issue! And I didn’t stay up that late.”

“He stayed up until at least 4am,” Harry supplied. He’d been surprised to see his friend still awake during his early morning bathroom visit.

“I’m completely fine!” Ron insisted, just as he collided with Malfoy outside the Great Hall.

Harry and Hermione each seized one of Ron’s arms as he stumbled back. Malfoy brushed his sleeves and glared.

“Watch where you’re going, you idiotic Weasel,” he said. “I don’t need your germs on my new robes.”

“All the money in the world can’t make you look less like a ferret,” Ron retorted.

Malfoy’s face darkened at the reminder of a third-year spell gone wrong. “At least it’s good to have money and class. You’re such an embarrassment to Hogwarts. Have you seen yourself in the mirror? What are you wearing, rags from your Grandmother Cedrella? Beauxbatons and Durmstrang probably think we take welfare students.”

“Ron!” Hermione hissed in warning, but he had already drawn his wand.

At that moment, Riddle rounded the corner, flanked by Cassius Warrington and Kenneth Towler. His eyes assessed the situation with cold precision: Malfoy and Ron holding each other at wand point, Crabbe and Goyle hulking behind Malfoy, and Harry and Hermione trying to pull Ron off. Behind them, a growing crowd watched with curiosity.

“Oh good, Tom, you’re here,” said Pansy Parkinson, relieved by the appearance of a Slytherin prefect. “Weasley here —”

“Five points from Slytherin,” said Riddle, fingering his newly polished prefect badge. “Draco, please put your wand away.”

Malfoy’s mouth dropped open. “What — but —”

“And Vincent, that sneer is truly unseemly in our collegiate environment. Another five points from Slytherin.”

Crabbe blinked and touched his face.

“Gregory —”

Goyle, who had started towards Ron, hastily stepped back.

“Good,” Riddle said. “Now let us all enjoy breakfast in peace. We don’t want to embarrass Hogwarts, do we?”

With that, he strode past the group, making brief eye contact with Harry, who caught the faintest twitch of amusement at his lips.

Silence hung in the air as Gryffindors and Slytherins alike digested the turn of events and retrieved dropped jaws. Then Daphne Greengrass burst into laughter and winked at Harry before she dragged Pansy away. Malfoy’s face turned the color of Ron’s hair. With a huff, he stalked off, Crabbe and Goyle hurrying to keep up with him.

Ron sported a creepily wide grin. “Did you see the look on Malfoy’s face?” he crowed.

“Well!” Hermione glanced at Harry. “I didn’t think Riddle was going to uphold his end of the bargain.”

“Me neither,” Harry said. “I didn’t expect him to actually take points off Malfoy.”

“I asked, did you see —”

“Yes, Ron, we all did,” Hermione said, rolling her eyes. “Now please, can we go to breakfast before we’re late to History.”

Ron glowed with contentment the rest of the day and would snicker at odd intervals, particularly in presence of Slytherins. He was even spotted wearing a Support Tom Riddle badge at dinnertime.

Riddle’s summon — because it would be worded like a summon — came with the owl post on Friday morning. You will show up at the Quidditch pitch this evening at 7pm, read the note in neat cursive.

As a result, Harry spent part of the afternoon planning out the sequence of lessons. His inspiration came from a combination of his own Quidditch practices, a well-thumbed copy of Quidditch Through the Ages, and the syllabus that a helpful third-year had shared from Madam Hooch’s Flying class.

Some simple agility drills to start, and if Riddle did well, maybe some rolling and diving practice. He’d also love to test out a couple of patterns from the recent Quidditch World Cup, though he would have to simplify them for Riddle. Oh, and maybe they could use the Quidditch hoops for basic turn practice, especially if Riddle wanted to try Chasing.

Crumpled up parchments littered the floor around Harry’s chair.

“You’re really taking this seriously,” Ron said, sparing a moment from his chess match with Seamus, whose brows were furrowed in concentration. “Maybe too seriously.”

“Why are you trying so hard, anyway?” Dean said. “It’s a pretty low-effort deal on Riddle’s end.”

“Well, it’s kind of fun, planning a lesson,” Harry admitted. “Besides, it’s good practice, if I make Quidditch Captain someday.”

The Weasley twins huffed from their shared couch.

“You will be, if not next year, then definitely the next,” Fred said. “But don’t you think learning Quidditch is suspicious?”

“Did he really take points off Slytherin?”

“He did, just ask Ron,” Harry said, and right on cue, Ron broke into a maniacal grin. “And I dunno, maybe one of the Tasks is Quidditch related.”

“I bet he’s helping the Slytherin Quidditch team steal all of our secrets,” George said darkly.

“Of course that’s why. It’s such a Slytherin move, can’t win fairly, try to win by cheating.”

“We don’t even have Quidditch this year.” Hermione had joined the conversation.

“They can be gathering intelligence for next year!”

The twins then launched into a laundry list of the Slytherin Quidditch team’s past misdemeanors. Eyes glazed over, Hermione waited patiently until George had finally finished ranting about Marcus Flint (“He definitely bribed Madam Hooch into calling our foul!”).

“I’m not saying they don’t cheat,” she said. “I’m saying —”

“You’re just biased because you think Riddle is smart,” Ron interrupted, with more than a trace of jealousy.

“Excuse me, I merely think Harry did the right thing to put Hogwarts ahead of House pride.”

“Do you even care about Harry’s safety?”

Harry rubbed the lightning bolt scar on his forehead. Even though Morfin Gaunt had scarred him as a baby, his friends were causing his current headache. He was tired of rehashing the same discussion. Everyone was clearly overreacting. Riddle was a Slytherin but he knew better than to hurt a fellow student.

Not in a traceable manner, anyway, his inner Sirius helpfully added.

“I will be fine,” he said.

“You’re too naï —”

“Ron, I’ve been waiting for your move,” Seamus said. “Can we stop with Slytherins and Quidditch for one afternoon?”

“Fine!” Ron slammed a rook down, eliciting a protest from the dazed chess piece. “See, you left your queen wide open by moving your bishop three moves ago. You see how my rook has been waiting this whole time? I’m going to checkmate you in two turns.”

Seamus groaned, Hermione settled back into her Ancient Runes textbook, and the twins started discussing Oliver Wood’s new position at Puddlemore United.

Harry laughed and returned to his diagrams.

6:50pm found Harry fidgeting at the broomshed by the Quidditch pitch, Firebolt in one hand and lesson plan in the other. He spotted a few Slytherins in the otherwise empty Quidditch stands and wondered whether they planned to monitor his interactions with Riddle. Then again, a few flaming red heads similarly populated the Gryffindor section.

Minutes passed. Suppose Riddle didn’t show, Harry fretted. Supposed this really was a prank cooked up by Malfoy — 

Riddle arrived on time, loping across the Quidditch pitch with a Nimbus 2001.

“You have a broom?” said Harry, who had expected to borrow a school broom.

“Lucian’s,” replied Riddle with a shrug.

Oh right, Lucian Bole, Slytherin Beater. Harry grimaced, remembering Malfoy’s father buying everyone on the Slytherin Quidditch team a Nimbus 2001 in second year.

Riddle noticed the parchment in Harry’s hands. “You actually prepared a lesson plan,” he said slowly, in a way that sounded like both an insult and a compliment.

Blood rushed to Harry’s face. “I wouldn’t want to waste your time,” he muttered, hurriedly stuffing it into his pocket when Riddle kept staring at it. “I assume you still remember the basics from Flying class?” He received an eye roll. “Right. Let’s do a few laps around the pitch to warm up then. Do you want to lead the way?”

The distaste on Riddle’s face was so evident that Harry would’ve laughed if he didn’t feel so self-conscious. Everyone knew that Tom Riddle wouldn’t normally be caught dead on a broomstick. Honestly, the witches (and wizards) of Hogwarts owed Harry big time.

When they first took to the air, Harry watched nervously to make sure Riddle wouldn’t fall off and accuse him of foul play. Fortunately, he proved to be a decent flier who handled the Nimbus well. Harry’s shoulders loosened and he allowed himself to grin as he nudged his Firebolt to keep pace with Riddle. Flying never failed to thrill him. The wind rushing by, the weightlessness, the freedom…

The other boy’s face remained expressionless.

As they finished their fourth lap, Riddle turned the broom to intercept Harry. “I’m sufficiently warmed up. What comes next?”

“Oh, okay.” Harry grabbed his wand and drew a few patterns in shimmering silver smoke. “Agility drills,” he explained, to Riddle’s raised eyebrows. “The idea is to fly as fast as you can without breaking pattern. Let me show you.”

He nudged his Firebolt into a quick acceleration, smoothly completing the serpentine pattern around the goal posts. He’d practiced this so many times as a new Seeker that he probably could do it with his eyes closed.

Riddle was studying him with narrowed eyes as he returned.

“Do you want to try?” he asked timidly. Maybe this was a stupid idea after all. Maybe Riddle was regretting asking him for lessons.

To his relief, Riddle nodded.

After Riddle had mastered the serpentine pattern, Harry tried increasingly difficult patterns. Some of them were ones he learned from Oliver Wood, like stacked figure 8s. Others were ones that he’d always wanted to try out, like pyramids. Still others were random patterns that came to mind, including one that looked like Ginny’s Pygmy Puff.

Riddle was a surprisingly good sport and didn’t complain even when Harry occasionally struggled to set up a proper pattern. He really wasn’t a bad flier either. While his speed would be below average for a Quidditch player, he had remarkable control and precision. Harry could see him as a good Keeper or Chaser if he ever became interested.

By the end of the half-hour, Riddle’s breathing had become labored, so Harry suggested a break. The two of them alighted onto the pitch to sit on the grass, still wet from an earlier drizzle.

For once, Riddle did not resemble a well-groomed Witches Weekly model. His cheeks were flushed from the exertion and his hair stuck to his sweaty forehead in matted strands. Harry had never seen him look so disheveled, and yet, the look wasn’t unbecoming.

As if he could read Harry’s mind, Riddle fixed his hair with a quick flick of his wand. Swallowing nervously, Harry tore his eyes away, feeling like he’d witnessed something that he shouldn’t have.

“That was pretty good,” he said. “That last pattern especially — our reserve Chaser probably couldn’t have done it much better.”

“I’d prefer not being coddled.”

“No really, you aren’t bad at all,” Harry insisted. “You’re very controlled and precise. Only thing is…”

Riddle tilted his head.

“Well...you’re so...stiff.”

And intense, Harry wanted to add, as if you are trying to break down flying like an Arithmancy equation.

Riddle seemed unsurprised by the assessment. “I always found flying on a broomstick uncomfortable.”

“You didn’t grow up flying?” Harry had imagined that Riddle grew up with flying lessons from private instructors, like Malfoy and many of the Slytherins.

“No.”

“I guess you were too busy reading up on spell creations or something,” Harry said, amusing himself with the image of young Riddle surrounded by huge tomes.

Riddle was silent for a few beats too long. “I grew up with my paternal grandparents.”

The implication took a moment to sink in. “But I thought —”

Harry stopped himself, quieted by Riddle’s closed expression. Given his outspoken disregard for Muggles and Muggle-borns, and rumors of his Slytherin heritage, he’d always assumed that Riddle was as pure-blooded as they came. Then again, it had occurred to him that Riddle wasn’t a common wizarding surname and certainly did not number among the Sacred 28.

Did the other Slytherins know? Some of them must. He imagined Riddle’s first few years at Hogwarts, before he established his authority over his Housemates. Something — not quite pity and not quite sadness — tugged uncomfortably at him and twisted in his gut. Were you lonely? he almost asked.

Instead, he said, “I wish I got to know my paternal grandparents. They died of dragonpox before I was born.”

Riddle stared back at him, unimpressed. Unwilling to give up, Harry tried another topic.

“Thanks for the other day, you know, with Ron and Malfoy. Ron even wore one of your support badges for the rest of the day.”

Although Riddle’s face remained impassive, he snorted, diffusing some of the tension. “I keep my word.”

The sun was starting to set, lending a chill to the wind. Harry pulled his robes more tightly around him. “Should we do another half-hour?” he said. “We can work on some diving drills.”

“Yes, let’s —” Riddle, who had started rising to his feet, stopped. He was squinting into the distance, and when Harry followed his gaze, he noticed a student in Durmstrang uniform heading towards the lake. “Actually, would you mind if we cut short our lesson today and reprise another time? I have something to attend to.”

“Er, okay.” Harry didn’t mind, since he could use his newfound thirty minutes to do some solo flying.

Riddle dusted off his robes, smoothed his hair, and nodded at him. “Thank you, that was...enjoyable,” he said. “I look forward to our next lesson.”

He headed off without waiting for Harry’s response. 

I look forward to our next lesson. The not-quite-praise carried Harry for the rest of the night.

At breakfast, the previous evening felt like a fever dream. Had he and Riddle actually flown together?

Turned out everything had been real, because Fred and George had monitored the entire lesson (“Greengrass and Lestrange actually got into an argument over whether Riddle was better than Krum!”), and Colin Creevey had taken more than a few pictures (“Can you get Riddle’s autograph for me?”), which Ginny promptly confiscated.

“Otherwise Romilda Vane will steal and sell them to Witches Weekly,” she explained, and Harry shuddered before thanking her.

Riddle scheduled their next lesson for Sunday afternoon, where they worked on diving.

Harry started them off on short spiral sequences and noted immediately that Riddle was much less comfortable diving. Even during shallow dives, he would pull up too soon, unwilling to even flirt with the possibility of hitting the ground at moderate speed. That disappointed Harry, after the potential Riddle had shown earlier in the week.

“Are you sure that you want to work on Seeking?”

They were again taking a break on the Quidditch pitch. Harry sat with his arms around his legs, and Riddle sat with his long legs languidly stretched.

Riddle glanced over. “Explain.”

“Seeking is all about sharp dives,” Harry said. “If you don’t enjoy that, we could work on Chasing or Keeping instead.”

Riddle considered his suggestion. “I don’t expect to learn the Wronski Feint,” he said, “but I would like to master the basics of Seeking at the very least.”

“What’s the basics of Seeking exactly?”

“You tell me.” Riddle’s smile was a little crooked. “You’re the expert.”

Harry had no choice but to play along. “Okay, we can try some basic Seeking drills —” he added air quotes “— but you will need to change your broom grip.”

Looking suspicious, Riddle picked up the Nimbus. “This is what Madam Hooch teaches all the first years,” he said, demonstrating.

“I know,” Harry said. “The one that Madam Hooch teaches is good for general flying, because you can use both hands to stabilize the broom. But with Seeking you want to be able to free up your hand on short notice. Can I — er —”

As he reached forward, Riddle gave him a startled look, but did not resist. His hands were surprisingly warm and soft as Harry gently shifted them, nudging thumbs and forefingers to new locations.

“There, see? This way you can steer the broom even if you fly one-handed, so it wouldn’t veer off-course.”

“Thank you.”

Riddle’s gaze was fixed directly at Harry rather than his hands or the Nimbus, and Harry jerked his own hands away as if burned. Heat traveled up his neck. He hadn’t thought too much about touching Riddle. The Quidditch team fixed each other’s technique this way all the time, and over the summer, he’d helped Ginny practice Chasing and Seeking the same way. Casual touches were supposed to be normal. Casual touches weren’t supposed to flutter his stomach.

Then again, this was Tom Riddle. In hindsight, touching him was as good of an idea as poking a hippogriff (unless your name was Rubeus Hagrid).

He cleared his throat. “Should we go and give Seeking a try?”

As he got to his feet and retrieved his Firebolt, he was still keenly aware of Riddle’s eyes.

Harry kept their first Seeking lesson simple, borrowing from his very drill with Oliver Wood: tossing a packet of golf balls for Riddle to retrieve. While Riddle was hesitant to fly one-handed and still avoided sharp dives, he had good hand-eye coordination, so he caught the golf balls easily.

“You really would be a great Keeper,” Harry said, impressed, as they wrapped up the lesson.

“The new grip does help,” Riddle acknowledged and gave Harry a rare, unsarcastic smile.

In their second Seeking lesson, Harry tested out his own invention, a practice Snitch created from a Muggle baseball charmed to fly in predetermined trajectories. He’d been quite proud when he’d finally perfected those locomotive charms under Percy’s tutelage.

They hovered in the air next to the hoops while Harry bounced the practice Snitch in his hand.

“Ready?” he said, and at Riddle's nod, he tossed it.

Harry held his breath. The Snitch flew to the left before changing direction abruptly to fly towards one of the goal posts in a very basic feint. Riddle initially mispredicted the Snitch’s trajectory, allowing it to escape, but succeeded after two fake outs.

He improved in his subsequent attempts. By the end of their lesson, Riddle was able to capture the Snitch within minutes of release, still below average for a Seeker, but very respectable for a beginner. Harry wasn’t sure whether it was because Riddle learned to anticipate the Snitch or simply memorized the set number of patterns.

Riddle landed and twirled the practice Snitch lazily on his forefinger.

“Great work!” Harry said, genuinely pleased by his improvement whether he’d relied on memory or instinct. “When we held tryouts for our reserve Seeker, a lot of them struggled.”

“Perhaps, but I wouldn’t have caught any of them if you were actually playing against me."

Harry chewed the inside of his cheek, unsure how to respond. They would never face each other in a real Quidditch game, so why did Riddle sound almost offended by his compliment?

Night had fallen, an inky canvas sprayed with twinkling stars that reminded Harry of warm summer nights in Godric’s Hollow, stargazing and learning the constellations with Dad and his best friends. His eyes automatically sought his godfather’s namesake.

“Sirius, the dog star,” Riddle said, and Harry turned in surprise. “Most of the Blacks are named after celestial bodies, or so I’ve been told.”

“Yeah. Stuffy pure-blood tradition, apparently.”

Riddle’s eyes remained raised to the sky. “Proper names contain power beyond imagination.”

That was true, Dad and Sirius had both mentioned that certain wizarding families visited Name Seers for their unborn children, believing that names could dictate destinies. Harry, however, had always been perfectly happy being a boring Harry than trying to live up to some fancy ancient name.

Part of him suspected that Tom was much less content with his own boring name.

They walked back to the castle in contemplative silence. At the entrance, Riddle started to say something when someone interrupted.

It was the same Durmstrang student from last week.

“Andrei,” Riddle said. He didn’t introduce Harry.

Andrei handed him a folded piece of parchment, nodded at Harry, and without a word headed back towards the Durmstrang ship.

“What’s that?” Harry asked, as Riddle tucked it into his pocket.

“I lent Andrei my Potions homework, and he’s returning it.”

As reasonable as his answer sounded, Harry knew without a doubt that he was lying. But there was no point pushing further.

The lessons settled into a comfortable rhythm. Harry was building a nice arsenal of drills as a side effect. Oliver Wood would be proud of him. Next year, he could hopefully get the new captain to adopt some.

“How are those lessons going?” Hermione asked, catching Harry in the common room after a particularly intense lesson.

“Different from what I expected.”

Outside of Flying class, Harry had never flown with someone who hated flying and Quidditch so much, yet still gritted his teeth through the torture to earn glory for Hogwarts. He admired that type of tenacity. If he had the option of, say, quitting Potions without disappointing Mum, he wouldn’t think twice.

That probably explained why Riddle was a far more accomplished wizard.

“Well, you seem to be enjoying it,” she remarked, studying his flushed cheeks.

“I reckon so."

Watching Riddle improve at a steady pace gave him a sense of accomplishment matched only by catching Snitches. He was starting to look forward to those lessons.

Harry would soon wonder whether he’d jinxed himself with optimism.

Towards the end of their fifth lesson, Riddle insisted that they did the newest Seeking drill together.

Harry blinked. “As in, race you to the Snitch?”

“Indeed. Otherwise you’re just indulging me.”

But that’s exactly what I’m doing, Harry thought, but bit back the remark. As if hearing it anyway, Tom tilted his head in a slight challenge.

“I want to see how I’d fare in a more realistic situation.”

With a sigh, Harry agreed and added an auto-release charm to the practice Snitch so that it didn’t rely on him to toss it. The Snitch cheerfully took off with both Harry and Riddle streaking after it. Harry stole a glance at the other boy as they closed in on the Snitch; he'd never seen him so focused, and then so frustrated when Harry caught the Snitch first.

They tried this exercise multiple times. Unsurprisingly, he beat Riddle in every attempt. He’d been outflying Dad and Sirius since he was eight, and despite his poor natural eyesight, he had a knack for predicting Snitch trajectories.

Riddle wore a frown as they landed on the ground. Harry recognized that look, which indicated he was in problem solving mode. This time, Harry was the problem, and Riddle's problems tended not to have the best fates.

He waited nervously while Riddle came to a conclusion.

“Let me try your Firebolt.”

“What?” He automatically clutched the broom more closely.

“I want to quantify the impact of equipment on our performance.”

Harry gaped. Was Riddle even speaking English?

Riddle rolled his eyes. “I wanted to see if you beat me to the Snitch only because your broom is faster.”

An offensive but admittedly reasonable theory to attribute Harry’s better flying to his superior broomstick. Nevertheless he hesitated, biting his lip. His Firebolt was one of his most treasured belongings, his thirteenth birthday present from Sirius, and he had only polished it that morning.

“I’m not stealing it,” Riddle said.

He held Harry’s eyes steadily, an effective demonstration of his powers of persuasion. Harry relented with a sigh.

"All right, but be careful."

He declined Bole’s Nimbus, not wanting any excuse to get on a Slytherin Beater’s bad side, and opted for a Cleansweep from the broomshed.

While Harry’s muscles did work harder to steer the uncalibrated Cleansweep and the acceleration lacked the smoothness of the Firebolt, the disparity in broom quality only partially made up for the disparity in their Quidditch skills. The race was closer, yes, but Harry still comfortably beat Riddle to the Snitch every time.

Which was a relief. He would probably have an existential crisis about his dreams of playing Quidditch professionally if the Firebolt accounted for his Quidditch triumphs. It also didn’t hurt to be superior to Riddle at one thing.

Riddle was frowning again as he disembarked from the Firebolt and handed it back. His dark eyes fixed upon Harry, who felt a chill down his spine. He had a bad feeling about this. Sure enough...

“Can we try something else?”

Harry barely held back his groan. He was getting tired and starting to fantasize about dinner. Neville had insider info that the house-elves were serving shepherd’s pie and banana trifle tonight.

“Something else?”

Riddle ignored his disgruntled tone. “This time, I will toss the Snitch and you have to catch it.”

“How does that help you?”

“I learn by example.”

His answer held a dangerous undertone and left little room for disagreement, even though Harry thought it was a ridiculous idea.

“Last exercise, then,” he said, and when Riddle nodded, he handed over his practice Snitch.

Riddle turned it over in his hand, a smile playing at the corner of his lips. Harry could tell, by the slight distortion in the air around the Snitch, that he was studying and altering the charms.

“Nice bit of charms work there,” Riddle said without looking up. “Don’t worry, I’ll return the Snitch to you in one piece.”

Harry wasn’t reassured.

They took position near the goal hoops. When Harry signaled readiness, Riddle tossed the Snitch. Making a judgment on its likely trajectory, Harry nudged his Firebolt forward and was closing in when, unexpectedly, the Snitch took off in a wild direction so quickly that he almost jolted.

What was that? He glanced at Riddle and caught the self-satisfied smirk. Of course.

Riddle had increased the complexity of Harry’s original charms, doubling the speed of the Snitch and completely randomizing its movement.

All thoughts of shepherd’s pie forgotten, Harry rose to the challenge. This could be fun. Yes, the Snitch made sharp turns, but his eyes were sharper thanks to years of flying. Even if he didn’t correctly anticipate the Snitch’s movements, he could adjust his own position quickly enough to keep up and eventually overtake it.

He smiled and angled his broomstick. If this is the game you want to play, Riddle...

Closer, closer, the Snitch was near enough that he could reach out a hand — 

A faint gleam of magic, and then the Snitch shifted direction one last time to start hurtling towards the grass at an ever-increasing velocity.

Harry caught Riddle stashing his wand. Their eyes met for a brief instant, long enough for him to recognize the intensity in Riddle’s dark eyes. A final gauntlet thrown. Catching an unpredictable Snitch was still well within the competency of most experienced Seekers, but Riddle had done more. He had charmed the Snitch to fly dangerously.

Harry had only one answer.

He dove after the Snitch.

In the back of his mind, Harry acknowledged that he was doing something even more reckless than normal. Famous Seekers had injured themselves pulling stunts like this. Someone on the French team almost permanently paralyzed herself a few years back in a failed feint. But Riddle had issued a challenge, not dissimilar to Malfoy and the Remembrall his first year, and Harry never shied away from good challenges.

As he chased the Snitch toward the ground, he shoved away the doubt swirling in his mind, doubt that sounded strangely like Riddle’s baritone voice — 

You’re going to fall off your broom

— everything was flying by too quickly — 

You’re going to lose control

— his Firebolt was starting to buck beneath him — 

You’re going to break your neck

— stretching out his hand, fingers splayed, the grass was so close —

You’re going to — 

— catch the Snitch at the very last second.

Harry tilted the broom and avoided smashing into the ground just in time. He gave himself a moment to collect himself before he landed, heart racing. Once he had checked that he was indeed still in one piece, he grinned and brandished the Snitch at Riddle, who landed a few seconds later, staring at him almost with a look of admiration.

“Nice try, but no sweat,” Harry said, unable to stop himself from taunting just a tad.

“Potter —” Riddle began, when someone interrupted.

“That vos quite a dive!”

Harry’s eyes widened as Viktor Krum and Cedric Diggory approached them, each with a broomstick slung over his shoulder.

His idol had just spoken to him.

After his mind had managed to recover from the shock, he squeaked, “Really?”

"That was a Wronski Feint, wasn’t it?" Diggory said with interest.

“It vos, and it vos a quite good one,” Krum said generously. “The only thing vos that you made your move in the beginning too obvious. In a real game, you vont to trick the other Seeker for longer before you reach for the Snitch.”

“I’m not very good at it yet,” Harry said shyly. “I watched you do it at the World Cup this summer. That was amazing. I wish I could fly like that.”

Krum smiled at him. “I can show you, if you vont? Cedric and I vonted to do some flying anyway before dinner.”

“Oh, if you wouldn’t mind —” Harry looked to Diggory, who beamed.

“I wouldn’t mind at all. Harry and I are old rivals,” he told Krum. “He wouldn’t want me to monopolize all of your secrets. Isn’t that right?”

Harry took a few seconds too long to find his voice. Both Krum and Diggory were paying attention to him. They wanted to fly with him.

“Wow, oh yeah, I mean that would be —”

Suddenly he remembered why he was playing Quidditch in the first place. He glanced over at Riddle, who had watched the entire exchange with an inscrutable expression.

“Go on,” he said, correctly interpreting Harry’s hesitation. “That was our last exercise, as we agreed upon.”

All of Harry’s animosity towards Riddle’s Snitch stunt evaporated.

“Thanks!” he said, before hopping back on his Firebolt to join Krum and Diggory.

In his euphoria, all of his prior fatigue and food fantasies disappeared and time flew by. It wasn’t until the three of them paused for a brief break that Harry realized that Riddle hadn’t left the Quidditch pitch.

He was sitting in the stands, face upturned, almost as if he was watching them. Watching him.

No, that’s ridiculous, Harry thought. Why would he watch me? Maybe Riddle really was a spy for the Slytherin Quidditch team after all and wanted to learn all of their Seeker secrets. He should probably tell his teammates later.

But first, he wanted to hear more about Krum’s adventures with a stray leprechaun during the last European Cup.

Tom watched Potter fly with Krum and Diggory. He wasn't the most skilled or powerful flyer, but he had natural grace and agility that allowed him to keep up with and on occasion surpass the more experienced Seekers.

The lack of self-preservation also helped. Tom would be lying to deny he was impressed with Potter’s improbable dive. He had charmed the Snitch into a near-fatal dive on purpose and expected Potter to embarrass himself by losing the Snitch. He hadn’t expected Potter to follow through and impress Viktor Krum in the process.

Admiration didn’t matter, of course. A true Dark Lord would never be so easily deterred. However, he was starting to think that those flying lessons were quite unnecessary. Once he was the Dark Lord, he would take over the Ministry of Magic. Then he could simply ban the production of broomsticks and the practice of Quidditch altogether. Problem solved.

Thus Quidditch was probably not his downfall.

Which meant he needed to master something else, something else that Potter was good at.

As he watched Potter try and almost succeed in subverting Krum’s Wronski Feint attempts, he wondered.

What comes next?

Chapter Text

Harry had an exhilarating afternoon with Krum and Diggory. As fun as it was to fly with the Gryffindor team, the Weasleys, or even Riddle, nothing stoked his competitive fire as much as flying against two accomplished Seekers.

As a bonus, they were both so kind and helpful. They taught him new drills (“Trust me, this pattern will improve your speed!”) and shared tips (“This is how you fake out the opposing Seeker without incurring a foul!”).

By the end, Harry earned first name basis and received a standing invitation to their practices. (He said yes immediately; Cedric was still a Quidditch rival, at the end of the day, and he wasn’t about to relinquish any advantage.) Viktor even joined him for dinner at the Gryffindor table, to the delight of many Quidditch fans (and Hermione, to Ron’s chagrin), which doubled Harry’s social capital with his housemates.

If Harry never believed in karma before, he definitely did now.

On the other hand, Riddle did not schedule any more Quidditch lessons.

For a few uncomfortable days, Harry wondered whether he’d done something wrong. Should he have declined Viktor and Cedric’s offer to join them? But Riddle had given permission. And he remained cordial towards Harry, so he couldn’t be mad.

(Could he?)

Harry eventually caved and asked his friends, “Do you think I offended Riddle?”

“Course not. He’s still taking points off Malfoy and his friends,” said Ron, who was making the best use of his dwindling grace period. He was currently testing out new product ideas on Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle on the twins’ behalf. Just the other day, the three of them had been spotted doing rather complicated ballet steps in the Great Hall, to the amusement of students and even some professors.

“It’s not just about the deal, you know.”

Hermione reassured him with sounder logic. “I’m sure you didn’t offend him. You were perfectly helpful and professional. He’s probably busy preparing for the First Task next week.”

“But I thought Quidditch is for the First Task.”

“Maybe he’s preparing other things. As long as he’s keeping Malfoy in check, isn’t it a good thing that you don’t have to spend your evenings flying with him?”

“Hermione’s right. Stop obsessing over this,” Ron said. “C’mon, I only have a week of power over Malfoy and the goons left. Help me think up some new pranks.”

He tossed over one of Fred and George’s catalogues and, with a sigh, Harry started browsing.

Flying with Viktor and Cedric was going well. To Harry’s secret delight, Cho Chang sometimes joined them. Even though he had outgrown his crush, he still basked in her sincere appreciation of his particularly impressive dives or catches.

One night, he returned to the common room with such exhilaration that even hearing of Umbridge’s latest Educational Decree (“All student organizations are subject to review by the High Inquisitor to assure proper decorum in front of foreign dignitaries”) couldn’t dampen his mood.

“You had a close call though,” remarked Fred. “Malfoy was complaining to Umbridge about your Seeker games.”

“He tried to get her to outlaw your practices because it was a distraction to the tournament,” added George.

“What?” Harry was indignant. “He’s just jealous because none of us wants to invite him.”

“Don’t worry,” George said, “Slughorn and McGonagall pointed out that your practices are good for inter-school and inter-house relations, which is exactly what the Ministry is trying to foster with the Triwizard Tournament.”

“Umbridge had to tone down her decree after that,” Fred finished, smirking.

Harry sank down onto a comfy chair in full contentment. Yes, karma absolutely existed. This was his reward for being nice to Riddle, and what a reward it was.

The first Hogsmeade trip fell on the weekend before the First Task. The late autumn air was crisp and carried a hint of homemade fruit pies. Carved pumpkins and animated bats from Halloween decorated the stoops of many cottages and storefronts.

Per their usual tradition, Harry, Ron, and Hermione headed first to Honeydukes. They bumped into Malfoy, who scowled and wide-stepped around them. Crabbe and Goyle followed, toting brimming shopping bags.

Ron waved after them merrily.

After greeting Mr. and Mrs. Flume, Harry went to check out the newest homemade fudge flavors, while Ron and Hermione debated over the merits of Ice Mice versus Mice Pops, a debate that deteriorated rapidly, as debates between them were wont to do.

Harry’s reasonable compromise — “Let’s buy both!” — went unheeded, so he retreated to the windows, where he caught Riddle passing by with Rachele and Rigel Lestrange. While the Lestrange siblings appeared engrossed in their conversation, Riddle paused briefly in front of Honeydukes and turned his head slightly, but gave no indication that he noticed Harry.

Which was just as well; Riddle didn’t need to see Harry with his mouth full of fudge samples.

Half an hour later, peace had been achieved between Ron and Hermione. They left Honeydukes with bundles of purchase, including both Ice Mice and Mice Pops, and headed towards the Three Broomsticks.

“Isn’t that Riddle with Karkaroff?”

Hermione was right. The Lestrange siblings were gone. Instead, Riddle was in deep conversation with Igor Karkaroff as they headed in the direction of the post office. Once again, he gave no sign that he noticed Harry.

That reminded him of the Durmstrang student whom Riddle appeared to have befriended. What would Riddle and Karkaroff talk about? Harry started to ask Ron and Hermione, only to be distracted when Ron shouted, “Charlie!”

Harry and Hermione exchanged a startled look. Through the open door of the pub, they spotted Ron’s older brother, who worked and lived in Romania, drinking mulled mead with Hagrid. Both of them waved.

“I didn’t realize that you were in town!” Ron said, rushing over to his brother with a hug. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“I wanted my visit to be a surprise,” Charlie said, matching his younger brother’s wide grin. “Plus, I’m here on a secret mission.”

He winked at Hagrid, who gestured towards Harry and Hermione to join them.

Once seated and having put in orders for three Butterbeers, Harry asked with interest, “Secret mission? For what?”

Hagrid scratched his beard. “What do yeh think?”

Hermione’s eyes lit up. “Does it have something to do with the First Task?”

Hagrid winked.

“Tell us what it is!” Ron said.

“We shouldn’t,” Charlie said, although his eyes twinkled.

“I’m your brother, and Harry and Hermione are basically family. Come on.”

Harry gave Charlie and Hagrid his best attempt at puppy eyes.

Charlie chuckled. After Madam Rosmerta had delivered their Butterbeers, he constructed a privacy bubble around them.

“Only if you promise to keep it under wraps,” he said. “We technically aren’t supposed to reveal anything to students.”

“We promise,” Ron said. “Now tell us!”

Charlie nodded at Hagrid, who beamed. “Dragons!”

Harry almost dropped his tankard. In their first year, Hagrid had briefly fostered a baby dragon he’d found on and rescued from the black market. Before Dumbledore finally convinced Hagrid to send little Norbert to Charlie’s dragon reserve, Hagrid had invited Harry and his friends to visit. That had been his one exposure to dragons, and once was more than enough. He still had a charred hole in his favorite jumper that magic couldn’t fully repair.

“That’s extremely dangerous!” Hermione said. “I thought they were changing this year’s tournament to be safer.”

“Are they really?” Charlie sounded skeptical. “From what I’ve heard, all Umbridge and Bagman did was to add an age line so only sixth-years and above could participate.”

“Quidditch is not going to help Riddle,” Harry said, his stomach twisting. “Any broomstick would be burnt to cinders!”

Ron peered at him. “Are you actually worried about him?”

“No!”

“Riddle, that’s the Hogwarts champion, right?” When Ron nodded, Charlie patted Harry on the shoulder. “You don’t need to worry —”

“I’m not worried —”

“Harry here has been helping Riddle prepare for the First Task,” Ron explained to Charlie and Hagrid.

“All the champions already know what’s coming. Karkaroff and Maxime even tried to bribe information on dragon counters from me.” At that, Charlie gave Hagrid a sharp look, and Hagrid started chugging his mead. “Even Slughorn tried to set up an appointment between one of my keepers and Riddle. He’ll be fine.”

“I’m not worried,” Harry repeated stubbornly, but only Hermione deigned to respond by patting his arm.

However, the knot in his stomach did loosen. Shortly after, the twins and Ginny showed up, which prompted another round of Butterbeers and an order of Madam Rosmerta’s signature apple tart. He enjoyed the rest of the afternoon catching up on Romania, laughing over Norbert’s latest antics, and teasing Hagrid about Madame Maxime.

Rachele noticed Potter first. “He’s watching you,” she remarked.

“Who?”

“Potter. Inside Honeydukes.”

Tom stiffened. “Is he, now,” he said, careful not to turn around. He saw no gain in greeting him, and furthermore, his mind was on his upcoming appointment with Igor Karkaroff. Andrei had arranged the meeting and he needed to impress the headmaster.

“Are you friends?” Rigel said. “Draco told me that you’ve been siding with Potter and Weasley lately.”

“And you are spending a lot of time together.”

Tom smiled at the Lestranges. “I merely wanted Slytherin to be seen in the best light given the importance of this year,” he said. “Do I seem like someone who would favor Gryffindors over Slytherins?”

Neither sibling was subtle enough to understand the importance of keeping enemies close. If Grindelwald had done a better job of that, maybe he wouldn’t have lost to Dumbledore.

Rachele was satisfied. “I figured as much. He’s like a little puppy, isn’t he? A bit of attention, and he thinks you’re best friends.”

“He has his uses,” Tom replied, annoyed by her dismissiveness.

He passed by Potter and his friends again en route to Hogsmeade Post Office, this time in the company of Karkaroff. He glanced away, pretending to be absorbed in his conversation.

“Andrei spoke highly of you,” Karkaroff said, carefully adjusting the collar of his fur-lined cloak. “He said that you are well-versed in the Dark Arts, despite the difficulty of obtaining a proper education at Hogwarts.”

Tom nodded, schooling his expression into one of demureness. “With all due respect, I find Professor Dumbledore’s attitude towards the Dark Arts to be narrow-minded.” He smiled at Karkaroff. “I would find my education deficient without more exposure to the Dark Arts, especially given my...heritage.”

“Your heritage.” Karkaroff’s sharp eyes gleamed with interest.

“I’ve always felt a much closer affinity to my House. Blood creates a powerful bond, you see.”

“I do see,” Karkaroff said slowly, before returning Tom’s smile.

He had a very different smile from Potter. Whereas Potter’s smile was warm and sunny, if occasionally mocking, his smile was cold and slimy.

Tom much preferred the former.

“How are your preparations for the First Task coming along?” Karkaroff said. He’d led them to a more deserted part of the village, far from the prying eyes of other students and professors.

“Given the information available, quite well.”

Tom didn’t bother to ask how Krum was preparing.

“I don’t expect anything less from Hogwarts’s finest.” Tom found himself staring more than he should at Karkaroff’s yellow teeth. “I’ll be looking forward to your performance, Mr. Riddle.”

Their eyes met, a challenge issued and accepted.

The day of the First Task arrived. All throughout breakfast, well-wishers dropped by the Slytherin table. Tom made the appropriate responses when necessary — “Yes, your good luck charm is much appreciated, Astoria” and “Of course, Professor Slughorn, I’ll make our house proud” — but his mind was elsewhere. He had little use for meaningless and boring gestures.

Potter showed up towards the end of breakfast. Braving Draco’s glare (silenced with a side-eye from Tom) and Rachele’s snarl (soothed with a careless hand on her sleeve), he walked up to Tom. “Good luck out there!”

Tom almost gave him another perfunctory response. Then he noticed Potter was chewing his bottom lip and twisting his hands, as if he knew something he shouldn’t. He lightly brushed Potter’s mind with Legilimency. Dragons. A broomstick on fire. A heavy blanket of concern.

Somehow Potter found out about the First Task and was worried about him. Pure and simple worry, rather than expectation, admiration, or malicious glee.

How sentimental, and yet, how...sweet.

“Much appreciated,” he said.

Potter’s face lit up — Tom’s own face twitched as he fought between a sneer and a smile — and somehow it was Potter’s expression he envisioned and Potter’s words in his ears as he entered the tent.

Tension was high. Fleur Delacour stood with Madame Maxime, looking the most fidgety he’d ever seen her, while Krum paced back and forth, looking grumpier than he’d looked when Bulgaria lost the World Cup. Karkaroff glanced away from his champion to briefly meet Tom’s eyes. They exchanged an imperceptible nod.

When Tom turned away, he found himself meeting Dumbledore’s calculating gaze. He stared back steadily until Dumbledore looked away.

Dolores Umbridge was the only person who seemed to be actively enjoying herself. She looked up from a gilded hand mirror, in which she’d been preening and admiring her new magenta robes, and tilted her head at Ludo Bagman.

“Hem hem.”

Jumping to his feet, Bagman started to brief everyone on the First Task. Tom tuned out most of what he was saying. He had prepared well. Dragons were fearsome, true, but all dragons had exploitable weaknesses. He learned a useful amount both from books and from chatting up the more junior dragon-keepers over the past week.

The Chinese Fireballs were known for their distinctive fireballs, but they lacked control and precision. The Welsh Greens were strong fliers, but their wings were more delicate than those of other breeds. And the Swedish Short-Snouts had extremely hot and powerful flames, but the short snouts also meant that they could not sustain their fire attacks for long.

Bagman wrapped up the briefing and passed around a bag with three mini dragon replicas. Delacour went first and selected a Common Welsh Green. Krum followed and selected a Chinese Fireball. A Swedish Short-Snout, then, Tom thought, but kept his expression neutral as he studied his own dragon replica.

“Looks like you’ll be going first, Mr. Riddle.”

Tom didn’t mind going first. He would set an unsurpassable bar with his performance.

He made eye contact with the other champions, teasing their strategies from their weakly guarded minds. Delacour was thinking about lullabies, so a Sleep Charm. Krum was thinking about eyes, so something like a Conjunctivitis Curse.

Both good choices, and effective if executed well. Yet both disappointingly conventional.

“Whenever you’re ready, Mr. Riddle.”

The task had begun. Tom stepped into the enclosure.

The air was heavy with the smell of sulfur and an oppressive heat. His dragon awaited him, crouched protectively over her eggs, among which a golden one nestled. Upon noticing him, the Swedish Short-Snout roared. Even having done his research, the sight of the dragon momentarily rendered him breathless. The fierce eyes, the blue scales, the flames from her snouts. Glorious.

If the Slytherin line weren’t known for snakes, Tom would be tempted to someday cultivate a dragon as his familiar.

In face of such raw, wild power, Tom did entertain a moment of doubt, a moment where he wondered whether he’d prepared enough, whether he would find death instead of glory.

That moment passed and Tom drew his yew wand, the magic thrumming beneath his fingers.

"Serpensortia!" he said calmly, in Parseltongue.

The snake that burst from his wand loomed over the audience, growing in size until it matched and then exceeded that of the dragon. It opened its mouth, bared its fangs, and hissed.

Lightheaded from the rush of power, Tom studied his handiwork with satisfaction. It was no exaggeration to say that he was the only living wizard capable of this magic, a gift from his ancestors. Spells for summoning and manipulating snakes had been created by and for the Slytherin family. Even though those spells had become mainstream, an unfortunate side effect of democratizing magic, his ancestors had included failsafes to ensure that only true heirs could unlock their full potential.

Yes, conjuring a snake of this scale from nothingness was dark magic, very dark magic. The Hogwarts professors, especially Dumbledore, might be scandalized, but Tom would be done with them in another year, and they wouldn’t dream of expelling him with his high standing at the school. The Board of Governors also wouldn’t issue any disciplinary action with Rodolphus Lestrange as their head.

The whole point was to display his mastery over dark magic, dark magic entwined with his heritage no less. If this didn’t impress Igor Karkaroff, well, the old fool wasn’t worthy of his attention. 

“Defeat the dragon, my serpent,” he hissed.

The conjured snake snapped its jaws at the dragon. Baited, the dragon growled, shifted her weight to her hind legs, and flapped her wings in preparation for flight. In answer to another hiss from the snake, she took off.

She did not, however, manage much progress before the snake coiled its length around her hind legs.

Perfect, exactly where he wanted them.

“Egorgio!” he shouted, and his snake grew to the size of a fully grown Basilisk.

As the atmosphere trembled with the strength of his magic, Tom closed his eyes briefly to soak up the fear and admiration that swept through the audience. This was what he was born for, a king revered on his battlefield. If only he could showcase Salazar Slytherin’s Basilisk to fight the dragon; that would’ve been truly epic.

Unable to support her own weight and the weight of the snake, the Swedish Short-Snout slammed to the ground. The resulting thrashing and random bursts of dragonfire drew gasps from the crowd. Much as she tried, however, she could not throw off the conjured serpent. And, as Tom predicted, she couldn’t sustain her fire attacks for long and resorted to snorting smoke.

Tom set up a preventive Shield Charm over himself and cast again. “Serpensortia!” 

This time, his intonation was different, so that instead of a giant snake, he summoned a long, thin snake whose tail remained connected to the end of his wand. A snake lasso, Grandfather Thomas would call it. Salazar Slytherin would be proud of his creativity.

A little nudge of magic, and the snake lasso had coiled itself around the golden egg. Another jerk of his wand, and the egg sailed through the air towards Tom, dropping neatly in his arms.

The mother dragon roared in agony at the theft of her egg. Dismissing the lasso, Tom raised the egg above his hand.

“And Tom Riddle has the golden egg, without breaking a sweat!”

The dragon-keepers flooded the field to subdue the dragon. Once Tom was certain that he would be safe, he ended the Shield Charm and dissipated the snake with one snap of his fingers.

As the crowd roared in approval, one other thought occurred to Tom: Potter should be quite impressed.

Harry was impressed.

He had seen the spell before. It was, after all, the spell Morfin had used to inflict the lightning bolt scar, but he’d always thought that it summoned a regularly sized snake. Not the giant behemoth that Riddle created and further enlarged. Nor the snake lasso.

“Blimey,” Ron said, succinctly summing up how Harry was feeling.

“He’s like a prince slaying a dragon!” Lavender Brown said, clasping her hands in front of her chest. Parvati Patil nodded fervently beside her.

Fred and George snorted — “Riddle did nothing to the dragon!” — but their booing was drowned out in the roar of applause. Harry privately agreed with Lavender. That display of magic was breathtaking. The control, the ambition, it was everything that embodied magic in Harry’s mind. Exactly how he’d always imagined a prince to be, when Mum used to read him those Muggle fairy tales.

His heart beat faster.

“That’s impressive,” Hermione said, eyes round, “but it’s very dark magic. I wonder how the judges are going to react.”

Through his Omnioculars, Harry peered at the judges, who consisted of the heads of schools, Bagman, and Umbridge. Tom waited nearby, head raised and back straight.

The judges raised their wands. Ludo Bagman gave a ten. Umbridge, Dumbledore, and Madame Maxime all gave nines, although Harry caught Dumbledore’s frown as he did so.

Finally, it was Karkaroff’s turn. Riddle seemed to be watching him with particular intensity. Harry had heard that Karkaroff could be biased and clenched his hands into fists. Please reward Riddle properly.

Karkaroff gave an eight. Harry let out a breath. The Hogwarts audience screamed and clapped.

“That’s a pretty good showing,” Ron said. “Definitely keeps the pressure on for Delacour and Krum.”

The crowd settled and the First Task continued.

Delacour came next. She tried to put the dragon into a bewitched sleep, which worked aside from a snore setting her skirt on fire. Her solution was elegant though too tame following Riddle’s ostentatious display.

In contrast, Viktor brought the First Task to an exciting finish. Somehow, he conjured a broomstick. Instead of trying to goad the dragon into leaving her nest, like Riddle’s snake, Viktor flew directly at the Chinese Fireball. The crowd gasped.

“What is he doing?” Hermione said, clutching Harry’s arm tightly. “He’s going to get burned to a crisp!”

“Conniveo!” Viktor shouted, and a jet of light hit the dragon in the face.

She screamed in pain and started clawing at her eyes, giving Viktor the opportunity to dive under her thrashing limbs and retrieve the golden egg. He barely made it out of the nest before the mother dragon collapsed into her nest, crushing some of her real eggs.

Harry winced, sad for the baby dragons who would never be born.

“Where did that broomstick come from?” he asked, while they waited for Viktor’s scores. Below, the judges seemed to be debating the origin and the merit of using an external prop.

“Who cares?” Hermione’s eyes were shining and she finally loosened her hold on Harry’s arm. “That was so impressive! And look, now Krum and Riddle are tied for first place.”

“Maybe Riddle was actually onto something with all the Quidditch training,” Ron said, throwing a disgruntled look at Hermione.

Harry focused on massaging some feeling back into his arm as he followed his friends back to the castle. What a relief that everyone survived the First Task with no injuries. And yet, the stakes were so high already. If dragons were the First Task, what would be the Second Task?

And would Riddle come to him for more help?

Tom wasn’t surprised to find that he was in first place. He was displeased, however, that he and Viktor Krum tied for first place.

The Slytherins held a celebration in the common room that evening. Even Slughorn made an appearance to slip the older students bottles of Firewhiskey, fully aware that the younger population would also be inebriated by night’s end.

“First place, Tom, well done,” he said, seeking Tom out to clap him on the back. “Keep it up and we’ll have a Hogwarts champion for sure.”

“I will do my best to make Hogwarts proud,” Tom said, a practiced line after many interviews.

Praise continued to pour in as the party wore on.

“You were amazing!” Rachele gushed. “I’ve never seen magic like that, not even in Mother and Father’s library.”

“You didn’t have to move at all!” Agnes Yaxley said, starry-eyed.

“Parseltongue seems quite handy,” Lucian said.

Tom plastered on a gracious smile, though internally he bemoaned the loss of a productive evening.

Draco Malfoy was the sole dissenter in the sea of sycophantic praise.

“That was pretty cool, Riddle, but you know what the ironic thing is?” He glanced around the room in a pathetic show of superiority.

“What?” Rachele snarled, narrowing her eyes at her cousin.

“Apparently Krum got the idea for the broom from you,” Malfoy said. “Because Potter was teaching you Quidditch. If he hadn’t been flying, he wouldn’t have impressed Bagman as much, and he wouldn’t have matched you in points.”

An uneasy hush fell over the Slytherins within earshot. Any sane person could tell that Krum’s placement was a sore point. Tom was tempted to hex the smirk off Draco's face. Perhaps he would convince Rachele to do it later. A little spat between cousins was par for the course in the inbred Slytherin dungeons. Perhaps he should also extend Weasley’s grace period.

Daphne cocked her head. “I heard from Durmstrang’s Tatiana that there was a whole debate over whether Krum’s performance should count because of the broomstick,” she said, “and the judges eventually decided that if Tom’s snake counted, then Krum’s broomstick counted as well.”

“What are you trying to say?” Rachele said, her voice deadly.

Daphne shrugged. “Just passing along intel,” she said, and the glint in her eyes reminded Tom of Potter.

It was too bad that the Greengrasses had valuable ties to the Gringotts goblins. Tom would have to leave Daphne to Rachele rather than deal with her directly.

“What’s the Second Task going to be?” Lucian asked, changing the subject. “What’s the clue inside the golden egg?”

Tom glanced at the egg, currently being examined by Agnes and Adrian Pucey.

“Go on,” he said carelessly.

A screech, rather reminiscent of a banshee, filled the common room. Even Tom had to cover his ears until Adrian wrestled the egg closed.

“What was that?”

“A banshee?”

“One of Mother’s favorite books sounds like that when it’s opened by a non-Black,” Rigel said. “And then it would try to suck out your soul. Maybe you’ll have to defeat an enchanted book?”

Tom cocked his head and studied the egg. No, a banshee would be much too obvious, and only Rigel could think up something like an enchanted sentient book of dark magic for a Second Task. Well, Rigel or Hagrid.

But there was time to figure that out.

Now that he had the time, he needed to return to his original puzzle: Harry Potter and the power that he knew not.

Actually, the egg gave him a great idea for his next task for Potter.

Three good things happened to Tom in the week following the First Task.

The first came in the form of an owl from Igor Karkaroff. The messenger was a nondescript school owl and the message was charmed so only Tom could read it. My library is at your disposal — IK. He tucked the note away with a smile.

The second came in the form of an invitation to tea from Dolores Umbridge. Her tea was overly sugared and prone to containing traces of Veritaserum, so when she wasn’t looking, he wandlessly Vanished it.

“That was quite a performance, Mr. Riddle. The minister is very, very impressed.” She leaned closer. “The minister and I believe that you may have a great future at the Ministry. There are certain...changes that require the assistance of bright young minds like yours.”

Her eyes bulged. Foolish woman, laying out all her secrets for him to read. And yet, her plans for undermining Dumbledore’s authority and subjugating Muggle-borns were intriguing. A Dark Lord always functioned better with the government under his thumb.

Tom smiled and leaned in. “Do tell me more.”

The third occurred when Tom ran into Potter at the library. The sight of that messy mop of hair lightened his mood after the Umbridge visit.

“I’m sure you’ve heard this many times, but congratulations,” Potter said. “That was really impressive magic out there.”

Really impressive magic. Tom’s eyes flicked to Potter’s scar. “Thank you.”

“I heard from Viktor that the clue for the Second Task is in the golden egg. Have you been working out the clue?”

Tom shrugged. “Well, I have to be careful not to share anything with you, knowing how close you are to my competition.”

He enjoyed the way Potter’s cheeks puffed in annoyance. “I wouldn’t give your secrets away.”

“What about Krum’s flying, then?”

Potter scratched his head. “I didn’t expect that. I still hold that using a broomstick against dragonfire is a terrible idea.”

This was as good an opening as any to broach a different topic. “Now that I’m preparing for the Second Task, I’ll need your help again.”

“So you do know what it is.”

As a matter of fact, Tom hadn’t figured it out yet, but he could keep up the façade.

“I have an inkling of what it could be and what I need to do to prepare.” He glanced around. “Walk with me.”

He didn’t bother asking whether Potter had finished his work at the library. Given his natural curiosity, he would follow, and follow he did.

They wound their way through the meandering corridors and moving staircases, arriving on the seventh floor, in front of the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy. Tom had discovered this secret of Hogwarts in his second year and, as far as he knew, remained one of the few privy to its existence. Normally he would feel possessive over the Room of Requirement, but he could and would exchange it for bigger things.

“I’m going to show you a secret room at Hogwarts,” he said, “but you have to promise that you won’t share it with anyone. Not even Weasley and Granger.”

“I don’t see a secret room,” Potter said, glancing away from Barnabas the Barmy’s poor attempts to teach the trolls ballet. “Why do we even need one?”

“A classroom would draw too much attention.”

“For what?”

Tom didn’t answer. Focusing on what he needed, he walked past the would-be entrance three times. Potter’s mouth dropped open when the door appeared.

He smirked. “It’s called the Room of Requirement. Coming?”

The room had done well. They walked into a large round chamber filled with fall cushions on a parquet floor. A small library stood in the far corner, protected by a transparent curtain, while wardrobes filled the other three corners. Tom could guess what would be inside.

He handed Potter the golden egg. “You were curious about the clue to the Second Task. Open it, then.”

He cast a Muffling Charm on himself right as Potter carefully opened the egg. As expected, Potter winced at the wailing and quickly shut it.

“What was that?”

“You see,” Tom said, adopting a mournful tone, “It’s entirely possible that I’ll have to face a dangerous creature in the Second Task. This is why I need your help.”

Harry was still turning the egg over in his hand, as if it would help him solve the puzzle. “Of course,” he said without hesitation. “How can I help?”

Tom twirled his wand. Potter’s eyes were so earnest and sympathetic. The irises were a clear green, flecked with hazel. His thick eyelashes curled naturally, casting shadows on his pale skin under the candlelight.

For a moment, Tom’s breathing quickened and he hesitated.

It doesn’t have to be this way.

He shoved the thought aside. Now wasn’t the time for sentimentalities; now was his opportunity to understand how Potter earned his reputation in Merrythought’s Defense classes.

Tom smiled at Potter. “Dueling.”

Chapter Text

December brought the first flurry of the season, too many end-of-term essays, and the Yule Ball. The last was the worst, in Harry’s opinion, because it transformed normally rational Hogwarts students into bundles of giggles and nerves.

Unfortunately, Hermione numbered among the victims, especially after Professor McGonagall’s speech on upholding the honors of the Gryffindor House through proper decorum.

“There will be dancing at the ball, and most of us don’t have any experience,” Hermione said later that day. They had been studying in the library, except she had finished her homework early and was in a chatty mood. “And we mustn’t embarrass ourselves in front of the other schools.”

We could just not dance, Ron mouthed to Harry, who stifled a laugh.

“Anyway,” Hermione said, ignoring her friends, “I was talking to Padma and Lisa from Ravenclaw about self-organizing some dance lessons. Lisa’s mom is a ballroom instructor so she grew up dancing and can teach us the basics.”

She waited, absently tapping on the newly finished star chart in front of her. Harry and Ron exchanged a grimace.

“I can’t think of anything I’d like to do less,” Ron said, accidentally smudging the last line of his Potions essay in horror. “No, thank you.”

“I figured you would say that,” Hermione said, cleaning up the smudge with a well-placed Scourgify. “Harry, what about you? So far most of the interested students are girls and you are the perfect height for partnering.”

Harry would rather rewrite his Transfigurations essay than risk Dad and Sirius catching wind of him dancing a romantic waltz with a female classmate. He tried and failed to look apologetic.

“Sorry, Hermione.”

She leaned over the table. “Don’t you want to dance well? Don’t you want to make a good impression?”

“A good impression on who exactly? I’m not a champion. Nobody is going to be watching me.”

Hermione sighed, disappointed though unsurprised by her friends’ lack of enthusiasm. “Well, let me know if either of you change your mind.”

“We won’t,” Harry promised, while Ron nodded fervently.

Hermione was not done with the subject of the Yule Ball. “Have you both found dates to the ball?”

Harry groaned. That was the other dreadful thing about the Yule Ball, as if dancing wasn’t bad enough. Dates were a new league, a system of subtleties far more complicated than magic. He was exasperated with the whole affair.

The color of Ron’s face was starting to mirror that of his hair. “I haven’t given it much thought,” he said, in a way that indicated that he very much had.

“Really?” Hermione’s eyebrows rose. “I could’ve sworn —”

“I haven’t,” Ron insisted, though his blush worsened.

Frowning, Hermione turned to Harry. “What about you?”

“No one yet.” He wasn’t going to mention that he’d already been turned down by both Cho Chang and Katie Bell. Very kindly turned down (“If you’d asked me a day earlier,” Katie had even lamented), but turned down nonetheless. Why were witches so difficult to figure out? “Maybe Ginny or Luna, since third-years can’t go otherwise.”

“That’s a nice idea,” Hermione said. “Ginny already has a date, but I’m sure Luna would be delighted to go with you.”

Ron leaned forward slightly. “Maybe we can go together, Hermione,” he said, and then coughed. “Er, you know what I mean. You, me, Harry, and Harry’s date.”

Harry choked. Smooth, mate.

Now Hermione’s face was turning pink. “Oh, I didn’t realize… Um, I...said yes to someone already.”

Two quills clattered onto the table.

“Who?” Ron demanded, half-rising.

Hermione played with the hem of her robes, avoiding their eyes.

“Come on,” Harry urged. “You brought this up, and we told you about our not-dates.”

She sighed. “Don’t laugh, okay?”

Harry thought Ron was more likely to combust in jealousy than burst into laughter. “We won’t, promise,” he said, elbowing Ron, who refused to respond.

Her face twitched, caught between embarrassment and pleasure. “It’s...it’s Viktor Krum.”

That elicited two very different reactions.

“How could you?” Ron cried, jumping to his feet. “Krum? This — this is a betrayal of Hogwarts!”

“Viktor?” Harry cried, almost knocking over an ink bottle. “I thought he was interested in Cedric.”

“Excuse me?” It was hard to tell which response enraged her more.

“Krum is the Durmstrang champion, or have you forgotten?” Ron said. “Has he been asking you to help him prepare?”

“What — no!” Hermione glared. “And even if he asks, why wouldn’t I be able to help? Harry is helping a Slytherin.”

“Riddle goes to Hogwarts. Harry is still doing it for our school!”

“Don’t bring me into this,” Harry muttered.

“Need I remind you that Krum cheated on the First Task?”

“He did not cheat, the judges ruled that it was perfectly okay.”

Harry sighed. “Please stop, Pince is looking at us —”

“I’m not done with you.” Hermione whirled on him. “Did you say that Krum should’ve asked Cedric Diggory instead of me?”

Harry edged a little closer to Ron, clearly the safer alliance. “They are always playing Quidditch together and seem to really like each other.”

And they looked good together, in Harry’s humble opinion, but if he said that out loud he would never live it down.

“You were playing Quidditch with Riddle. Is he taking you to the ball?”

If Hermione didn’t look so murderous, Harry would’ve laughed hysterically. “That’s completely different and you know it.”

“You are both ridiculous,” Hermione huffed, sweeping her books and papers into her bag. “I regret bringing any of this up. See you at dinner.”

Chastened, Harry and Ron watched her stomp out of the library. Then Ron broke the silence.

“Diggory, really?” he said. “Projecting much?”

“I asked Cho and Katie, not Cedric.”

“Well, why not Diggory? He is a fine specimen, according to Lavender."

Harry yanked Ron's arm. “Can we just go to dinner and forget all of this?”

This ball really was cursed, Harry thought, dragging a sniggering Ron out of the library. Why did he have to bring up Cedric? Once the twins caught wind of this conversation, and knowing Ron they very much might, the teasing would never stop.

Besides, Harry preferred dark hair, although he kept that to himself.

Tom’s appreciation of Rachele Lestrange increased significantly with the announcement of the Yule Ball.

He’d always been aware of his popularity with the female population at Hogwarts. In fact, he capitalized upon it; his dorm mates all knew how much time he spent perfecting his appearance every morning. The Yule Ball and his champion status, however, magnified it such that over the past week, he had been approached by students from across houses and schools, asking whether he would be interested in attending the ball together.

While some of his fellow Slytherins envied the attention, Tom found the attention annoying. How dare these nobodies presume that he would be interested, when they’d never had prior interaction?

Rachele was the perfect solution. After he’d officially asked her to be his date, other students stopped approaching him and some even took to avoiding him. That probably had something to do with the two Hufflepuff girls that she hexed into the hospital wing. Unbecoming behavior for a prefect, yes, but Tom turned a blind eye.

As the date of the Yule Ball neared, he wondered about Potter’s date. With the workload intensifying before the holidays, they hadn’t practiced dueling in a while. Thus he hadn’t had a chance to ask.

Probably Granger or Weasley’s little sister, Tom decided. Irrelevant either way.

The curiosity gnawed at him.

Late Thursday evening, Tom headed up to the Owlery to borrow a school owl for his newest correspondence with Karkaroff. The Durmstrang library had produced fascinating readings.

He stopped at the top of the steps. Potter was standing by the window to send his snowy owl off with a letter. Once she had flown off, he kept his eyes skyward, elbows on the windowsill, seemingly deep in thought.

Tom studied Potter’s silhouette. The boy reminded him of an owl, with his round expressive eyes, innocent expression, and that tousled head always turning in all directions, studying the world around him as if he found everything wondrous.

(Tom had been like this once. Was his own sense of wonder yet another casualty in the pursuit of superiority?)

One of the school owls hooted. Potter turned, noticing him.

“Oh, hey,” he said, offering a small smile. “Borrowing an owl?”

“Yes,” Tom said, orienting the books he was carrying so Potter couldn’t read the titles. “I’m sending a letter to my family.”

Though Potter’s brows furrowed and lips pursed, he didn’t challenge Tom’s statement. “Right.”

“Excited for the holidays?” 

“I’ll be glad once the Yule Ball is over. I don’t know about your house but most of mine have gone mental. I’ve never heard so much giggling and griping over something so silly.”

“Slytherin is not any different,” Tom said. “I had to dock ten points from two fifth-years who got into a duel because they were fighting over the same date.”

He grimaced. “So the whole school’s absolutely bonkers.”

“Indeed.” Tom picked up a random owl and stroked its head. “Who are you taking to the ball?”

“That’s another thing I find frustrating about this whole ball business. Why does everyone care who’s taking whom? Why must I have a date if I’m not even a champion?”

Tom raised his eyebrows. “It was a simple question. Do try not to take out your teenage insecurities on me.”

“Right, sorry.” Potter reddened and raked his hair. “It’s just been too much drama with my housemates. Um, I’m taking my friend Luna.”

“Luna?”

“Yeah, Luna Lovegood. She’s a third year Ravenclaw, so you probably don’t know her.”

“Loony Lovegood,” Tom said slowly, remembering conversations between the Ravenclaw prefects. Kooky but lovable and harmless, was Cho Chang’s verdict.

“She’s not loony,” Potter said, frowning. “Don’t call her that, or she’ll set those wrackspurts on you.”

Tom blinked. Wrackspurts? What — actually, he didn’t want to know.

“What about you?” Potter said. “Let me guess, Lestrange.” When Tom nodded, he made a face. “Well, that should be fun.”

“Rachele has her charms.”

Potter snorted, having no doubt heard many stories to the contrary.

“Well, I'd better be getting back before curfew,” he said, grabbing his bag from the floor. “Good night, To — Riddle.”

Tom caught Potter's near slip. “Good night.”

He didn’t mind.

The week before Christmas, Harry received a note to go to the headmaster’s office. It wasn’t a place that he often visited, for better or for worse.

Using the Marauder’s Map, he navigated to the gargoyle, who stepped aside in response to gingerbread loaf. The oak doors opened to reveal Dumbledore grooming his phoenix.

“Ah Mr. Potter!” he said, setting down the fancy brush and returning to his desk. “Thank you for coming. Sherbet lemons?”

“Er, thank you, sir.” Harry took one and sat down with some trepidation.

The conversation started with Dumbledore asking after Harry’s classes and his family. He was fond of Mum and Dad, since he had appointed them Head Boy and Head Girl, and later attended their wedding.

After Harry assured Dumbledore that his father was (mostly) staying out of trouble and his mother’s Potions parlor was flourishing, the headmaster leaned back in his chair.

“You’ve been spending quite some time with Mr. Riddle.”

His tone was neutral, but something about the question made Harry tense. He’d always sensed that Dumbledore was the only professor at Hogwarts who didn’t adore Tom Riddle. In fact, his sentiment might be quite the opposite.

“Yes, sir. He asked me to help him prepare for the Triwizard Tournament and I agreed.”

“How are you helping him, if I may ask?”

“Nothing impressive,” Harry said truthfully. “A bit of Quidditch before the First Task, and now we sometimes have practice duels against dummies and targets.”

“I see.”

Dumbledore leaned back on his chair and clasped his hands. In the ensuing silence, Harry glanced nervously around the room, skimming past the glass instruments atop spindly tables to rest on Fawkes, who fluttered his tail feathers.

“Is everything all right, sir?”

“Quite all right, Mr. Potter. I think it’s very kind of you to take the time to help Mr. Riddle, given your families’ histories.”

“That all happened a long time ago,” Harry said, recalling Dad's explanation of the feud between the Gaunts and the Potters. Their ancestors were brothers who had invented powerful magical artifacts, raising questions of rightful inheritance that resulted in centuries of disagreement and hurt feelings.

“Indeed, though I understand that the feud has also personally affected you.”

“Oh, you mean my scar.” Harry touched it self-consciously. He’d been one year old at the time, so he remembered nothing of the Halloween altercation that resulted in him being caught in the crossfire of a duel between Morfin and Dad. “I wouldn’t hold that against Riddle. He’s not his uncle.”

“Perhaps not. But I do wonder…” Dumbledore’s voice trailed off, changing his mind mid-sentence. “How would you describe the nature of your interactions?”

“They are...” Confusing, even flattering, but neither felt like the right adjective, not in front of Dumbledore. Harry decided upon, “They aren’t uncomfortable.”

Dumbledore was still scrutinizing him. “Well, do let me know if that changes.”

“I will, sir.”

They exchanged some more pleasantries. Harry accepted another sherbet lemon and agreed to pass along Dumbledore’s regards to Mum and Dad. Then he was gently dismissed, sent away with the oddest feeling that he’d passed an exam he hadn’t realized he was taking.

The day of the Yule Ball had arrived.

To avoid squeezing into the same bathroom with the other sixth-year boys, Tom got ready and headed down early to the common room. He was confident in his appearance. His dress robes had been tailor-made over the summer in black fabric embroidered with Slytherin green.

While he waited for Rachele, he flipped through the latest book on soul magic he borrowed from the Durmstrang library. He still hadn’t found what he wanted to learn about Horcruxes and, to be honest, all the dark magic theory was starting to blend together. Always some sort of sacrifice, a dangerous artifact or two, and then complicated runes or incantations.

He set aside the book with a sigh.

The common room had begun to fill up. Rachele appeared, resplendent in pastel pink dress robes, though the color clashed horribly with both her personality and Tom’s color scheme.

“Are you ready?” she said, coming over.

Tom glanced down at the hand clutching his arm and wondered whether he’d made a Very Big Mistake.

They joined the huge crowd of students who had assembled outside the Great Hall. Despite the constraint of Rachele’s possessive grip, Tom glanced around. The other two champions stood at the head of their respective school processions. Viktor Krum was chatting with someone who looked remarkably like Granger, while Fleur Delacour was having a one-sided conversation with Roger Davies, who was paying more attention to her chest than her face.

He scanned the crowd for a cluster of redheads, knowing he’d find Potter at the center. Sure enough, there he was, accompanied by a pale-eyed girl in sunflower yellow dress robes who must be Lovegood. His bottle green robes accentuated the color of his eyes. Yes, quite presentable.

“Tom. Pay attention.” Rachele’s manicured nails dug into his arm. “It’s eight o’clock. We’re starting.”

The oak doors swung open. The Yule Ball had begun.

Per tradition, the champions and their dates led the process into the Great Hall, which had been transformed into a Scandinavian fairyland featured from Muggle holiday cards. Enchanted icicles float in the air, shimmering frost covered the walls, and snow-covered pine trees abound, decked out in colorful tinsel. Even the floor was now composed of light blue glaciers inlaid with intricate snowflake designs.

Dumbledore and for some reason Umbridge delivered remarks in celebration of Yule, food was served (the house-elves had outdone themselves), and the dance floor opened to much anticipation.

Tom soaked up the attention during the opening dance. Since childhood, Grandmother Mary had instructed him in ballroom dancing, one of the few things that translated perfectly between Muggle and wizarding cultures. Together with Rachele, who had similarly been coached in dancing growing up, they made a striking couple on the dance floor.

Twenty minutes of dancing later, however, his patience was running low. Much as he enjoyed dancing, he had intended other uses for the night, such as strengthening his connections with the more high-bred Durmstrang students, or learning more about Eastern European Ministry politics from Karkaroff, or even getting Umbridge and Bagman to introduce him to Ministry officials.

Rachele, however, wasn’t satisfied with one dance, or three, or five. She basked in the limelight as the date of the Hogwarts champion. Annoyance reared its head. Normally, Tom liked Rachele for her brashness and penchant for dark magic, which set her apart from the generally spineless Hogwarts population. But, born with a silver spoon, she saw the world as her possession, created to attend to her fancies.

Tom was not anyone’s possession.

He kept his pleasant mask in place while he considered his options. Rigel and Daphne passed, Rigel looking besotted and Daphne looking bored. No. Kenneth and his Gryffindor date swayed a few feet away, taking turns stepping on each other’s feet. Definitely no. Then Tom caught sight of Cassius, lingering on the periphery of the dance floor while his Hufflepuff date fetched drinks. Cassius was watching Rachele with a look that could only be described as pining. Perfect.

Seizing the opportunity, he navigated himself and Rachele until he was close enough to cast a nonverbal Imperius Curse on Cassius. He was careful to moderate the strength of the curse so that instead of overwriting the other boy’s free will, he leveraged his ill-concealed crush.

Using the Imperius this way shouldn’t be considered illegal. Tom was actually doing both of them a favor.

Cassius blinked as the spell took effect. “Tom,” he said, approaching him and Rachele. His hesitancy struck a curious contrast with his hulking frame. “Would you mind if I have the next dance with Rachele?”

Rachele glanced at Tom, who smiled and leaned closer.

“Cassius has been watching you for a while,” he said, breath ghosting her ear, “and I know he’s a fine dancer. I will come back for you later.”

The flattery combined with the false promise worked. Turning pink, Rachele accepted Cassius’s arm, and the two of them disappeared into the crowd of dancing couples just as the jilted Hufflepuff returned with two goblets of pumpkin juice.

Tom considered appeasing her ego, but recognized her as just a Muggle-born. Not worth the bother. Instead, he gave her an apologetic shrug before he headed towards the Durmstrang tables.

On his way, he passed by Potter and his loony date. Both were laughing hysterically as Lovegood led them both into a ridiculous dance that completely clashed with the music, barely avoiding the surrounding couples trying to enjoy their romantic waltz. There was absolutely nothing graceful about what they were doing. Lovegood at least had some sense of rhythm; Potter appeared to have two left feet.

Tom wrinkled his nose. Clearly, the power that he knows not wasn’t dancing.

Nevertheless, as he watched the grin on Potter’s face, Tom couldn’t deny the charm of his innocence and nonchalance. Potter was secure enough in himself to be silly in front of strangers.

He turned away.

Ballroom music had given way to hard rock by the time Tom finished a productive round of introductions with a few Durmstrang seventh-years and exchanged brief words with Igor Karkaroff. He eyed the now-chaotic dance floor, making sure that Rachele was still well-occupied.

She was, as a matter of fact. Tom had newfound respect for Cassius, who’d managed to keep her engaged and, by all appearances, content.

Tom was considering a refill of pumpkin juice when he caught sight of Potter, who sat alone, kept company by empty plates instead of his friends. However, he seemed in good spirits as he wolfed down a large slice of treacle tart. Tom approached, noting that Potter kept his eyes on Chang and Diggory, faces so close they might as well be snogging.

“Pining?” Potter almost jumped out of his seat. With amusement, Tom jerked his head in the direction of the couple. “Which one?”

Potter's eyes snapped back. “Yes, I definitely was,” he said, mouth full. A few crumbs sprayed and landed on Tom’s robes. “And it’s both. I do like gawking at good Seekers.”

“Is that so?” Ignoring the jab and flicking off the crumbs, Tom took a seat beside him. “Where’s your date?”

“She's off to exorcise some nargles.”

“Nar — what?”

“Nargles,” Potter said patiently. “They tend to infest mistletoes and cause imbalance to the energy.”

Tom rolled his eyes. He should’ve known better than to ask. “And your friends?”

“Either dancing or snogging their partners, I don’t want to know which. And the twins are probably adding their special touches to drinks, so I wouldn’t touch the pumpkin juice if I were you.”

Potter finished his tart and set down the plate. Tom eyed his lips, glistening with traces of treacle, and hummed.

“How’d you lose your date? She was all over you but she’s been dancing with Warrington for a while.”

So Potter had been paying attention. Tom’s annoyance with Rachele faded at the sight of his teasing grin.

“Well, Cassius has always harbored affection for her. I chose to be the better man.”

“How generous of you. I’m sure it’s not because she’s been overbearing.”

“I know how to handle her.”

Potter rolled his eyes. “Yes, I know you have your way with terrifying witches.”

“You want to get some fresh air?” Tom said, before he could stop himself. He wanted to get away from the stuffiness of the Great Hall and, for some reason, he wanted Potter’s companionship.

He held his breath as Potter first glanced back at his plate, probably contemplating a second helping of treacle tart, and then scanned the room, presumably looking for Lovegood or his friends.

“Sure,” Potter said, and Tom exhaled. “Let’s do that.”

They passed through the entrance to the lawn, which had been transformed into a lavish display that combined the worst of Muggle and wizarding traditions: thousands of fairies dancing on rose bushes to carols sung by Christmas elves, while Father Christmas and his reindeer beamed in the background.

And of course, couples were blatantly snogging all over the lawn. Tom even recognized a few fellow prefects. How embarrassing; he might enjoy docking points later.

“It’s amazing, isn’t it?” Potter said, admiring the Christmas display. “There’s always a competition in Godric’s Hollow to see who has the most elaborate decorations. Old Mr. Tilbury always wins, but this is another level.”

“Sure.” Tom found this all a waste of time.

As they started towards the lake, they crossed paths with Draco and Pansy, who’d emerged from behind a rosebush, both looking disheveled.

“Hey, Malfoy,” Potter said, and laughed when Draco grimaced and quickly dragged Pansy out of sight. “How rude, I was only trying to be friendly. What would Aunt Cissy say? Aren’t you going to take points, Riddle?”

“You’re abusing your powers,” Tom said, mouth twitching.

Potter shrugged, unrepentant. “You proposed the deal, not me.”

Tom cleared his throat. “Speaking of powers...what powers would you like to have if you were a Dark Lord?”

Potter stopped walking. “A Dark Lord?” he repeated. “You mean, like Grindelwald?”

“Well there have been many Dark Lords in history, but yes, Grindelwald is the most recent example in Europe.”

“None. I’d be a terrible Dark Lord.”

Tom stared. “Why do you say that?”

“Can you imagine a Dark Lord named Harry Potter?” Potter grinned. “It just doesn’t have the same ring as Gellert Grindelwald, does it? I mean, Dark Lord Grindelwald screams evil and scary. Dark Lord Harry Potter, not so much.”

“A name has no bearing on the effectiveness of a Dark Lord.”

“Proper names contain power beyond imagination, someone once told me.” An evil glint had appeared in Harry’s eyes. “Tom Riddle is also a terrible Dark Lord name, by the way, so you should consider a different vocation.”

Tom chose not to mention that he had long picked out his Dark Lord name. He simply wasn’t ready to unveil Lord Voldemort yet. Come to think of it, what would be a good Dark Lord anagram for Harry Potter? Throat Pryer? Harpy Retort?

...all right, some names didn’t lend themselves to impressive anagrams.

“What does a Dark Lord do anyway? Sit around and cook up evil plots?”

“That’s an extremely restricted interpretation,” Tom said. “A Dark Lord is someone who sees inefficiencies in an established system and achieves greatness through nonorthodox means.”

“Sounds like a lot of fancy words to attribute a noble intention to an evil overlord.”

“I’m serious.” Tom was overcome by the urge to justify himself. “Our government is highly inefficient, corrupt, and bureaucratic. The wizards and witches in charge don’t earn their positions through their abilities. They earn their positions because they are better at playing the game.”

“What game?”

“The game of politics. Look at Fudge and Umbridge.” Tom glanced around, just to make sure they weren't within earshot of anyone who could jeopardize his future. “They are average in their magical abilities, but they know whose palms to grease, and they know how to get the approval of the masses who are easily convinced by smoke and mirrors.”

Understanding dawned on Potter’s face. “My dad said that we’re reviving the Triwizard Tournament only because Fudge is up for reelection soon and needs the popularity boost.”

“Exactly, and you may have heard the rumors that Umbridge became involved with the tournament to spy on Dumbledore.”

Potter’s face wrinkled in distaste.

“So you see, politics can be extremely murky and officials abuse power for their own agenda. Even if you ignore the corruption, there has been a lack of progressive policies from the Ministry of Magic for at least the past five decades.” In his fervor, Tom couldn’t help leaning closer, reveling in Potter’s undivided attention. “A powerful wizard who circumvents the system can change that.”

“By circumventing the rules.”

“No, by inventing better rules.”

“But then you’re talking about a tyrant,” Potter said after some consideration. He shook his head. “And they don’t come to good ends. Grindelwald is locked up in his own prison all by himself. There are better career choices.”

“Only because he failed. A successful Dark Lord wouldn’t be locked up. He would be powerful and revered.”

“Even if that’s true, I still think it’s not worth it. It sounds pretty stressful. I would be watching over my back all the time, scared that someone would usurp my power.”

Tom swallowed; Potter’s words were uncomfortably insightful.

“Why are we talking about Dark Lords, anyway? Does this have anything to do with Karkaroff?”

Tom tore his gaze from Potter’s solemn face. None of your business, he almost said, but instead he said, “That’s a funny connection to make.”

Potter wasn’t easily deterred. “You shouldn’t spend so much time with him. My godfather says that he’s a slimy git.”

“How so?”

“He’s the one who made Durmstrang open to pure-bloods only. There are rumors that he came to Britain to preach blood supremacy to the Ministry because he thinks Hogwarts should do the same.”

“Don’t you?”

“Of course not! The appeal of Hogwarts is that it treats everyone equally.”

“Is that really true?” Tom betrayed some bitterness. “Everyone looks to the Slytherin house as the house of slimy gits and blood supremacists. In that sense, I should spend lots of time with Karkaroff.”

“Not everyone,” Potter said. “I don’t believe that Slytherins are evil. Maybe...misunderstood.”

Tom scoffed. “How would you know? You don’t have any Slytherin friends.”

“I dislike Malfoy because he’s a spoiled, mean brat, not because he’s a Slytherin.” Potter sobered. “Mum’s best friend growing up was a Slytherin. He was a pretty bitter person but came around eventually. They run a Potions business together now.” He paused. “And you are a Slytherin and I — I don’t think you’re a bad person.”

Tom could’ve — should’ve — laughed. He said quietly, “You don’t?”

“No, I don’t, because you aren’t a bad person. You could do something bigger and better than becoming a dark wizard. Like...like the headmaster of Hogwarts, like Dumbledore.”

Tom shook his head. He had no interest in becoming the next Dumbledore, so bound by the rules that the old man forgot how to push the boundaries of what was possible.

“Or I dunno, become the first person to be Muggle Prime Minister and Minister for Magic.” Potter bit his lip. “I haven’t thought this through. But the point is, you’re the brightest student at Hogwarts. You’re better than Karkaroff. You’re better than Grindelwald.”

Something pleasant settled in Tom’s stomach in response to the compliment. He’d been praised plenty of times, by students and professors alike, but Potter’s words had such sincerity. It was a validation he didn’t realize he still craved.

“My question on Dark Lords was purely rhetorical,” he said, more gently now. “What I want to do after Hogwarts is to take over teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts after Merrythought retires. That is, if Dumbledore doesn’t find a permanent professor next year.”

Potter’s face brightened. “That’s great! I hope you get the job.”

They had strayed from the main path. The Black Lake rippled gently under the fading moon, singing a mysterious melody that reminded Tom of the clue to the upcoming Second Task.

And while you’re searching ponder this…

He turned to Potter and his breath caught. A few fairies from the Christmas display had stowed away on Potter’s head. Illuminated by their light, Potter looked fae-like and delicate. Tom was overcome by the urge to touch these messy black curls, these pink cheeks.

He reached out. Potter watched his hand, but stood still. “Is everything all right?”

Tom’s hand froze. He cleared his throat, but fortunately or unfortunately, he was saved by a very familiar, very annoying voice.

“Tom Riddle. There you are.” Rachele marched over and grabbed his arm. “Draco told me you headed this way.” She tossed Potter a side-eye. “What are you doing wandering around, Potter?”

“Same reason you and Riddle are, I imagine,” he replied with a shrug.

She wrinkled her nose. “Ten points from Gryffindor for distracting a prefect on duty. Run along now."

Potter turned to Tom, expecting him to step in, but Tom only stared back. Between Rachele's goodwill and Potter's approval, there could only be one choice. Potter needed to understand — no, why should Tom care whether he understood or not?

I don’t think you’re a bad person.

Unfortunately, Rachele also noticed Potter’s beseeching look.

“Teaching Tom a few Quidditch moves doesn’t mean you’re suddenly friends,” she said coldly. “Did you think he actually enjoys your company?”

Potter recoiled as if hexed. His green eyes shimmered with hurt. Tom clenched his jaw, barely managing to remain silent.

“Fine,” he spat, after one last look at Tom. “Good night, Riddle. Good night, Lestrange.”

He stomped towards the castle without a backward glance. Tom watched, dimly aware of a lump in his throat.

“That wasn’t necessary.” An edge had slipped into his voice. “He’s harmless.”

“He needs to learn sooner or later.” She gave him a shrewd look. “Unless you actually do enjoy spending time with him.”

We have taken what you would sorely miss.

Potter had disappeared into the darkness. Tom shoved his hands into pockets. “You know perfectly well that I prefer to be alone.”

“What were you doing together, then?”

A few answers came to him, none of them acceptable. “Nargles,” Tom said eventually. “It was the nargles.”

On New Year’s Eve, Tom sat reading at the breakfast table, appreciating the respite from the usual chatter.

A familiar snowy owl swooped down to unceremoniously dump a package by his plate, grabbed two of his bacon, and took off.

Tom stared down at the brightly wrapped package, Potter’s betrayed face still vivid in mind. He poked at it with a fork. It didn’t look dangerous and Potter didn't seem the type to hold a grudge.

He unwrapped it to find a box of homemade toffee, along with a short note.

Mum makes the best toffee. Happy birthday and New Year. HP.

Those toffees were much too sweet, but something about the taste — those warm and comforting flavors of nutmeg and ginger — brought back childhood memories long repressed; memories of sneaking gingerbread cookies out of the kitchen, making snow angels in the garden, and reading Mother Goose under a blanket fort.

He would finish the entire box by the time the holidays were over.

Chapter Text

The holidays passed in a whirl of Mum’s cooking, snowball fights in the garden, and nighttime chats with Ron through their two-way mirrors.

Despite the comfort of Godric’s Hollow, hurt bubbled up whenever Harry replayed his encounter with Riddle and Lestrange at Black Lake. While he hadn’t expected Riddle to chastise Lestrange, he’d wanted some indication that Riddle cared. But he’d remained silent.

Did you think he actually enjoys your company?

Rachele Lestrange knew how to be cruel with words, but Harry would be naive to pretend her words weren’t rooted in truth.

The night before returning to Hogwarts for the spring term, Peter lent a sympathetic ear. When Harry finished recounting, Peter patted him on the shoulder.

“It has nothing to do with you, Harry,” he said. “Sometimes, it’s easier to be cowardly. I’ve been there, and I’m supposed to be a Gryffindor. If your Tom Riddle doesn’t learn, then he’s not your friend and worth your time.”

Peter’s wisdom helped. So did adding special touches to Riddle’s birthday toffee when Mum wasn’t paying attention to the stove.

Nevertheless, Harry couldn’t completely hide his sullenness during their next meeting in the Room of Requirement.

Riddle noticed straightaway. “You’re annoyed that I didn’t defend you from Rachele.”

Harry leaned against the row of rubber dummies and shrugged. “It’s fine, I shouldn’t have expected you to. Our deal only covers Malfoy now, and besides, she’s your girlfriend —”

“She’s not my girlfriend.”

“Does she know that?” Harry was gratified when Riddle scowled. “Anyway,” he said, shoving aside the lingering resentment, “it’s fine, we don’t need to talk about it.”

“Well.” Riddle glanced away. “Thank you for the present and please thank your mother for me as well.”

“I will.” Harry paused. “You didn’t think they were overly sweet?”

When Riddle gave him a suspicious look, he blinked innocently back. Riddle narrowed his eyes.

“How did you know it was my birthday?”

“I’m part of your secret fan club. Didn’t you know?” Harry couldn’t keep a straight face, especially not after Riddle quirked an eyebrow. “No, actually, I spent years listening to the Slytherins my year agonizing over your presents. It’s amusing how worked up everyone gets.”

“You’re exaggerating.”

“Nope,” Harry said, grinning. “For example, I know Malfoy sends you monogrammed cufflinks from Twilfitt and Tattings every year. I also know two years ago, Tracey Davis got you a limited edition set of Potions scales because you made some offhand comment at a Slug Party. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen you use either present.”

“Most presents are unnecessary and not useful.”

“I can hear Malfoy’s heart breaking already.”

Riddle rolled his eyes. “If you’re done needling me about presents, perhaps we could move on to dueling.”

Harry sighed and pushed himself off the dummies. “Yes, we can practice dueling, but we’ve already established that you’re a way better duellist than I am.”

And it was true. Riddle, with more powerful spells at his disposal, destroyed three times as many static targets every time, though Harry’s better aim somewhat evened the scores for moving targets. Truth be told, he didn’t understand why Riddle would practice dueling with him instead of with a sixth- or seventh-year. While he might be Merrythought’s best fourth-year student, he couldn’t conceivably outperform someone who had two years of education (and who knew how many library books and practices) over him.

If anything, he was learning more from observing Riddle. The way he flicked his wand, the way he could keep multiple targets in sight at one time, or even the way he could nonverbally cast spells in quick succession. Watching Riddle duel gave him the same exhilaration as watching Viktor pull a Wronski Feint.

“We’ll try something different today.” Riddle crossed his arms, considering. “No dummies or flying targets.”

His wand slid into his hand and, with a flick, Banished both the dummies and flying dartboards to the wardrobes. Harry shifted. Trying Something Different Riddle was a dangerous Riddle.

“You’ll duel me instead.”

“What?” Harry stared in horror. He’d heard rumors about Riddle’s practice duels with the Lestrange siblings. It didn’t take a Ravenclaw to know that the Dark Arts featured prominently in his arsenal. “You would obliterate me.”

Riddle’s eyes gleamed as he stalked closer, prompting Harry to retreat a few steps. “So little confidence in your own abilities? I wouldn’t use any illegal spells and we wouldn’t duel to incapacitation.” He leaned in so that their noses were inches away. “I want to see what you’re capable of.”

Harry bit his lip; he never liked to walk away from a challenge.

In his mind, he reviewed all the spells that might give him a sliver of a chance against Riddle. The list was very short, but existent, which was what mattered. He wasn’t going to win by force. Well, he wasn’t going to win at all, but he was going to do his best to catch Riddle off-guard. He would wipe that smirk off Riddle’s face and teach him not to underestimate Harry Potter.

“All right. Let’s duel.”

They each walked to the end of the dueling platform and bowed. Riddle gestured with his non-wand hand, conceding the first move to Harry.

Harry took a deep breath. “Impedimenta!”

As expected, Riddle easily sidestepped the jinx. Twisting his yew wand in sharp zigzags, he conjured a ring of knives, a spell that was surely on the edge of legality.

The knives were fast, but Harry’s Shield Charm was faster. He stared as the knives impaled themselves on his shield — he could hear the dull thuds, see the tips almost piercing through — before they disappeared into glimmering mist.

He’d known that Riddle was a strong duelist, but manipulating magic into physical matter was something he doubted most professors had mastered.

“Wingardium leviosa!” he shouted, but he directed the spell at a nearby fall cushion rather than Riddle.

Riddle frowned as he tried to work out Harry’s strategy.

“Incendio!” he returned, consuming the cushion with conjured flames.

Good. That was only meant to be a distraction. Harry took the moment to reorient himself in the room. With a Seeker’s eyes, he estimated the distance between him and Riddle, and the distances between them and the four walls.

Then he started casting jinxes, weak ones he’d picked up from mock dueling the twins — a Cracker Jinx here, a Jelly-Legs Jinx there — all of which Riddle dodged or deflected. But Harry never intended for his jinxes to make contact. Instead, he intended to use his speed of casting to prevent Riddle from going on the outright offensive. In addition, whenever possible, he directed the jinxes to Riddle’s left side, which Riddle had given away as his non-dominant side during past practices.

A Tickling Charm narrowly missed Riddle, causing him to almost stumble. Harry seized the extra millisecond of opportunity.

“Glacius Duo!”

The temperature plunged as a burst of blue light hurtled towards Riddle, who huffed in annoyance. He jerked his wand, redirecting the Freezing Charm from himself to the floor. Ice spread outwards from the point of impact. Frost climbed up the walls and spread over the nearby fall cushions.

“Really, if you want to use this spell, you should use its strongest form,” he said. “Glacius Tria!”

His spell was indeed much stronger and Harry barely shielded himself in time. Even so, ice formed around his shoes, pinning him in place. Now the floor was completely covered in ice, resembling the skating rink he’d once visited with Mum. His teeth chattered; it was cold. Riddle stalked closer, smiling as he sensed his imminent victory.

Riddle’s proximity was exactly what Harry needed. 

“Expecto Patronum!” he shouted, focusing on the memory of catching Riddle’s enchanted Snitch.

A giant, silver penguin — the largest that Harry had ever produced, Remus would be so proud — burst from the end of his wand. Before Riddle could react, the penguin glided across the ice, hopped into the air, and rammed into him.

The combination of the impact and the slipperiness of the ice knocked Riddle off his feet. He fell on top of a frozen cushion, dazed.

Even though the duel had yet to conclude, Harry doubled over laughing. The expression on Riddle’s face alone was worth the loss of his secret weapon, which no longer had the element of surprise.

Riddle wasn’t incapacitated for long. He deflected Harry’s Disarming Spell and started rising to his feet, wand raised. Harry shrank back and hastily threw up a Shield Charm. He didn’t fancy being on the receiving end of Riddle’s ire.

However, instead of firing back a counter, Riddle signaled the end of the duel and Vanished the ice. Harry’s penguin waddled back to him and received a pat on the head before being dismissed. Riddle stared at the silver mist it left behind.

“That was quite an original strategy, Potter.”

“Thanks,” Harry said, deciding that he’d won in spirit, even if Riddle would never concede.

“You can produce a corporeal Patronus. Most N.E.W.T.-level students can’t manage that.”

Including me, Harry heard.

“I spent a long time practicing with one of my dad’s best friends,” he said. “I’m terrified of dementors.”

“More so than the average wizard?”

“Definitely, and it’s all because of this bedtime story that my godfather told me.” Harry shuddered at the memory. “A little girl went into the woods and an army of dementors appeared to suck her soul out. Then she became one of the dementors herself and loved to feast on children’s souls. And apparently this all happened in Godric’s Hollow, and her favorite color was green so she targeted children with green eyes. I had nightmares for weeks.”

“That’s a children’s story?”

“My godfather is Mrs. Lestrange’s cousin.”

Riddle’s mouth twitched. “That...does explain a lot.”

“Yeah. Sirius isn’t allowed to tell me bedtime stories anymore.”

“But why a penguin as your Patronus?” Riddle’s tone was half-teasing, half-thoughtful. “Will that really protect you against dementors?”

Harry crossed his arms. How dare Riddle question his Patronus?

“I like penguins. They are resourceful and clever. They could live in extremely hot or extremely cold climates, and they could fly underwater! And, in case you don’t recall, my penguin had no problem taking you down.”

“Fair enough.” Riddle’s mouth twitched again. “Well, I’m impressed, Potter. Imagine what you can accomplish if you actually apply yourself.”

Harry shuffled his feet, his cheeks heating. Mum and Dad always said the same thing, but they were his parents, they were supposed to think he could fly his Firebolt to the moon if he wanted to. But coming from Riddle...

“Thanks. I think.”

Riddle tapped his wand against his palm. “Can you teach me how to produce a Patronus?”

Harry stilled. The Patronus Charm was special to him, something that defined him as much as his Quidditch victories. A month ago, he would’ve agreed straightaway. Now…

Teaching Tom a few Quidditch moves doesn’t mean you’re suddenly friends.

“Listen,” said Riddle, correctly interpreting his hesitation. Uncharacteristically, he was biting his lip. “About what Rachele said…”

Harry shook his head, uninterested in an insincere explanation. “I already said that it’s fine, and we have a deal.” Riddle’s mouth opened again, but he cut him off. “Yes, I’ll teach you. But don’t blame me if you end up with a penguin as well.”

Riddle studied his face, as if ascertaining whether he was joking. “I’m absolutely certain my Patronus will not be a penguin,” he said, and his tone was so warm that Harry couldn’t help thawing.

“Maybe it will be even fluffier. Like a bunny. Ooh, or a baby sheep.”

He scoffed. “It will be a snake. I am the Heir of Slytherin, after all.”

“Shall we bet?”

Riddle was still studying his face, searching for something that he must’ve eventually found.

“Yes. Let’s.”

The evening before the Second Task, Harry was summoned to Professor McGonagall’s office.

Hermione, looking equally puzzled, was already there.

“Mr. Potter, Ms. Granger, I imagine you are both curious why you are here,” McGonagall said, pinching the bridge of her nose. “As it turns out, both of you will participate in the Second Task.”

Harry and Hermione exchanged a look of horror. “But professor,” Hermione said, “that’s tomorrow and we are completely unprepared. Why didn’t you tell us sooner?”

“Allow me to explain. As part of the Second Task, the champions will need to retrieve hostages from the bottom of Black Lake.” She paused. “You are two of the three hostages.”

“Did you say the bottom of the lake?”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Potter. We will put you both under enchanted sleep so you can remain safely underwater for an hour.”

“But it’s underwater.”

McGonagall frowned and peered over her glasses. “Is this a problem?”

Hermione put an arm around Harry. “His father threw him into the local swimming pool when he was two to teach him how to swim,” she explained. “It didn’t work and he’s been afraid of the water ever since.”

McGonagall sighed. “That does sound like something that James Potter would do. Unfortunately, Mr. Potter, I cannot change the rules. I can, however, assure you that you will not need to swim, nor will you wake until you are rescued.”

Hermione was pacified. While Harry was not, he could tell he’d lost the fight.

“Which champion?” he asked, resigned.

It could be Fleur (wouldn’t that be something, he would be the envy of the school, or at the very least his dormmates) or it could be Viktor (they could talk about Quidditch while waiting) because surely it couldn’t be — 

“Mr. Riddle,” Professor McGonagall said, staring at Harry as if he were dense. “And Mr. Krum for Ms. Granger.”

Harry had to hold his chair so he wouldn’t fall out. Hermione glanced at him in concern, although she was blushing from the pleasure of being Viktor’s hostage.

“You seem rather surprised, Mr. Potter.” The corners of McGonagall’s mouth quirked suspiciously, amused by a joke unknown to Harry and Hermione. “I was under the impression that you and Mr. Riddle are on good terms.”

Good terms would only be true from Harry’s perspective. He could admit that he liked Riddle well enough and would rather see him win the tournament than Viktor and Fleur. However, Riddle had shown at the Yule Ball that he didn’t feel any special affection in return. Besides, Harry didn’t fancy drowning in a lake for anyone.

“How are the hostages picked?” Hermione asked.

“I believe the criterion is something — rather, someone — the champion would sorely miss.”

Her cheeks reddened some more.

“Then wouldn’t Riddle’s hostage be a snake or something?” Harry blurted, eliciting a choked laugh from Hermione.

McGonagall kept a straight face. “Unfortunately the hostage must be human.”

“Then shouldn’t it be Rachele Lestrange?”

“I'm afraid it is you, Mr. Potter. You are, according to...magic, the one whom Mr. Riddle would sorely miss.”

This time, Harry’s own cheeks burned as his mind churned with too many incoherent thoughts. Maybe magic was wrong. Maybe Riddle did care. Maybe he should escape from McGonagall’s office right now.

Before he could protest again, McGonagall added, “I assure you, Mr. Potter, that we are taking all precautions to keep our students safe. You may not even realize that you’ve been underwater.”

“Riddle needs you,” Hermione added gently, patting his arm. “You wouldn’t want him to lose the tournament because you’re afraid of a little water, would you?”

Harry gaped. Was his best friend manipulating him? And it wasn’t a little water; the Black Lake was a lot of water.

“Besides, Riddle wants to win and he’ll miss you if you die. So you’ll be fine.”

“Wonderfully put, Ms. Granger,” said McGonagall, who definitely looked to be on the verge of laughter.

Harry glanced from one woman to the other. There wasn’t much he could do at this point. All he could think about, as the enchanted sleep sent him to a sea of blackness, was that he hoped Riddle liked him as much as magic believed.

Tom could hex whoever came up with the Second Task. It was utterly undignified to dive into the Black Lake in swimming trunks under the observation of three schools plus Ministry officials. If he had his way, the merpeople could keep his hostage and save him the trouble. How inconvenient he needed the points to win the tournament.

His Bubble-Head Charm was strong and his prowess with nonverbal spells meant he had no trouble with underwater spellcasting. With little effort, he disposed of his obstacles (grindylows, really?) and, with a few Point Me spells, reached the merfolk village ahead of Delacour and Krum.

Tom had expected his hostage to be Rachele. Maybe Kenneth or Cassius. He did not expect to find Potter tied to the merperson statue between Granger and a little girl who was probably Delacour’s sister.

This had to be Dumbledore’s doing. This had to be some twisted test because the old man had to meddle. Did he expect Tom to leave Potter to the mercy of the merpeople to subvert the prophecy? While yes, that thought did cross his mind, he identified the trap quickly enough. Hogwarts would have safeguards in place to protect the students and the merpeople were watching. If he left Potter here, Potter would still be fine, and he would be fifty points behind Delacour and Krum.

Not to mention, Potter looked so young and helpless. He must’ve trusted Tom to rescue him. He couldn’t leave him.

The hesitation cost him. Delacour had arrived to beat him to the statue. Less than a minute later, she was paddling back to the surface, her newly rescued sister in tow and her silvery blonde hair improbably still immaculate.

Tom sighed. After verifying that his Bubble-Head Charm remained intact, and no grindylows waited in the vicinity, he swam over to Potter and severed the ropes with a Diffindo. Potter’s head was drooping on Granger’s shoulder, which Tom corrected by shifting his weight against him.

Potter’s head settled in the crook of Tom’s neck, like it’d belonged there all along. Tom froze, staring down at the dark head, overcome by the crazy urge to rest his cheek against his hair.

His hostage.

Mine.

The sight of an approaching humanoid shark snapped Tom out of the trance. Either Krum had highly impressive human transfiguration skills, or he’d been ingested by a giant shark.

Either way, Tom wasn’t going to risk coming in last.

Swimming with an unconscious hostage was unwieldy, but he managed until they hit fresh air. As soon as Potter gasped awake, he started struggling and clawing at Tom, who fought to keep both of them afloat.

“Water! We’re in the water!”

“Yes, Potter, we’re in the water.” Tom tried to pry off his fingers. “Can you stop struggling? You’re slowing us down!”

“Why are we — who are you —”

“Potter.” Tom managed to maneuver them so that he was clasping Potter’s upper arms. Their foreheads touched. “It’s me.”

Green eyes squinted. “To — Riddle. Why are — we’re going to drown!”

“No, you won’t, I’ve got you,” Tom said, a little annoyed. “But if you don’t calm down, I will need to Stun you.”

Potter stopped flailing. Instead, he threw his arms around Tom’s waist and clung. Taken aback, Tom stared down at the dark head.

“Honestly. Are you scared of a little water?”

“Yes, I am!”

Any biting remark fizzled as Potter tightened his hold, his whole body trembling. Tom could feel the frantic thud-thud-thud of his heartbeats through their soaked shirts. He really was terrified. Now that he thought about it, hadn’t Draco gloated about his phobia of swimming in the past?

You have a twisted sense of humor, Albus Dumbledore, he thought darkly.

Drawing upon a worn childhood memory, Tom extracted and wrapped one arm around Potter’s shoulders so he could rub soothing circles on his back.

“I’ve got you,” he repeated.

“Okay,” came a soft voice, spoken against his neck. 

He had finally stopped shaking, but was still breathing hard. Tom shivered with each gentle puff of air and waited for his own heart rate to calm. Then, cupping Potter’s chin, he tilted his head so their eyes met. Trust; in this moment, he had Potter’s complete trust.

“Can we please get out of this lake now?”

Potter nodded and loosened his death grip. Tom kept one arm tucked around him as he paddled them to shore. As soon as they reached it, Madam Pomfrey came over with blankets, Pepperup Potions, and Potter’s glasses. Tom allowed her to minister to both of them, though made sure that she focused most of her attention on Potter.

After tutting about the present state of school tournaments (“Especially when we are already worried about the dwindling wizarding population!”) and warming them up to her satisfaction, she hustled them to the waiting area.

On dry land, a much calmer Potter smiled at Tom from inside the folds of his blanket. His dark hair stuck out ridiculously in every direction and Tom quelled the urge to smooth them.

“Thanks for rescuing me. I was worried you wouldn’t make it.”

“Of course I was going to make it.” Tom couldn’t manage a cross tone, not after having the boy shiver in his arms moments earlier. The surge of protectiveness had been unfamiliar and uncomfortable. “Might want to ease off on those treacle tarts in the future,” he added, trying to dispel the awkwardness. “It was a challenge hauling you out.”

“Sorry about...that,” Potter said, gesturing at the lake. “I panicked.”

“Why would you volunteer for this task if you’re afraid of water?”

“You think I volunteered? I was roped into doing this.”

“Quite literally roped, indeed.”

A few feet away, the Delacour sisters watched with curiosity.

“C’est son frangin?” said Fleur Delacour’s little sister. “Il a l’air sympa. J’peux lui parler?”

“Zat eez not ’is bruhzzer, Gabrielle,” Fleur said, eyeing Tom meaningfully. “Zat eez ’is petit ami.”

The conversation washed right over Potter, who had turned his attention to the newly arrived Krum and Granger. Tom, on the other hand, understood enough to give the girls a tight smile.

“Potter is not my petit ami.”

Gabrielle perked up and Fleur shrugged. “Alors vas-y,” she said, and her sister skipped over to join Potter.

Now Potter sat between Gabrielle and Granger, all of them jabbering away in a mixture of French and English. Krum stood nearby, occasionally contributing a few words. Too often, Gabrielle would put her hand on Potter’s shoulder and lean to whisper in his ear. Each time, Potter would blushed and tense, at a loss for the right response, but not moving away either.

Fleur, noticing Tom’s scowl, winked.

The scoring was a farce.

Tom had surfaced only a few minutes after Delacour, so he lagged only a few points behind for the Second Task and remained first overall. That made sense.

However, Krum received the exact same score, despite being ten minutes behind. It hadn’t gone unnoticed that Karkaroff, Umbridge, and Bagman had exchanged a meaningful look before announcing their scores.

Even Krum looked surprised and apologetic.

My godfather says that he’s a slimy git.

Tom’s hand clenched.

“And this might be the closest Triwizard Tournament we’ve ever had in history!” Bagman announced merrily. “Mr. Riddle and Mr. Krum are tied for first place, while Ms. Delacour is only one point behind! The Third Task will surely be very exciting.”

Tom wanted the ordeal to be over so he could return to the dorm for a proper hot shower, but it was not to be. His last hurdle came in the form of Rita Skeeter, who beelined for him, ignoring Delacour and Krum. She was the last reporter he wanted to speak to, given her reputation of twisting anything into sensational non-truth.

His glare did nothing to deter her.

“Great performance out there,” she said, beaming. A Quick-Quotes Quill worked rapidly beside her. “You represented Hogwarts and Britain well.”

He gave a curt nod. “Thank you.”

She leaned closer in a conspiratorial manner. “I’m sure the whole school is stunned by your choice of hostage!”

“I did not choose my hostage.”

“Everyone expected a charming witch,” she continued, ignoring him, “but your eventual hostage is quite a charmer himself, isn’t he? Hearts must be breaking all over Britain.”

“I had no say over my hostage,” Tom gritted out. And keep Potter out of this, he started to add, but she gave him no opportunity.

The Quick-Quotes Quill flew across the parchment as Skeeter peppered him with questions and observations on his relationship with Potter (“Now wasn’t that a tender moment in the lake?”). He resisted the urge to set her on fire.

If he’d known the article that would result, he would have set her on fire.

By the morning after, any flattery Harry might’ve felt at being Riddle’s hostage had faded in face of the teasing and loathing sent his way. His favorite breakfast scones didn’t improve his mood and the owl post sent it tumbling over the edge.

“You should read this,” George said, shoving over the latest issue of Witches Weekly and barely hiding his grin.

Harry glanced at the headline of the feature article and dropped the half-bitten scone.

A Heartwarming Romance Brews at Hogwarts

By: Rita Skeeter

“No, I’m not —”

“Read it.”

In a year of building stronger inter-school relations, inter-house relationships are similarly improving.

This is entirely thanks to the young romance brewing between Tom Riddle, an up-and-coming Slytherin sixth-year and Hogwarts champion in the Triwizard Tournament, and Harry Potter, a Gryffindor fourth-year most well-known for earning his house the Quidditch Cup three years running.

Even though Mr. Riddle and Mr. Potter have endeavored to keep their romance under wraps, they have been unable to hide it from observant eyes. Most telling, of course, is the fact that Mr. Potter was Mr. Riddle’s hostage during the Second Task of the Triwizard Tournament.

“The hostage is supposed to be someone that the champion will ‘sorely miss,’” acknowledged Minerva McGonagall, Transfiguration professor and Deputy Headmistress. 

Mr. Riddle and Mr. Potter were even seen deserting their dates to spend time together at the Yule Ball.

“I saw them take a walk together around the lake,” said Padma Patil, a bubbly and vivacious Ravenclaw fourth-year. “They were having a very intense conversation.”

Even non-Hogwarts students have noticed their special bond.

“Yes, I’ve seen Potter and Riddle practice Quidditch together. Potter is a good flyer,” said Andrei Sokolov, of Durmstrang, his serious expression softening in remembrance.

What makes their love story all the more gripping is the fact that the Gaunts and the Potters have historically been at odds. In fact, this reporter learned that Morfin Gaunt, Mr. Riddle’s maternal uncle, was responsible for the scar on Mr. Potter’s forehead. In other words, they are the living embodiment of the wizarding world’s Romeo and Juliet, a famous Muggle tragic love story.

“It really is romantic like Romeo and Juliet. Almost let bygones be bygones, don’t you think?” gushed Dennis Creevy, a discerning Gryffindor first-year.

The rest of the article, which ran for another five (!) pages, did not improve. Somehow, Skeeter was able to unearth and embellish every little interaction between Harry and Riddle over the past school year. Eye contact? Longing. Taking points off students for infractions? Retribution for interfering with their relationship. Clinging to each other in the middle of Black Lake? A hero’s rescue of his beloved.

Accompanying photographs highlighted the drama. In addition to (too) many shots of Harry hanging onto Riddle in a most undignified manner during the Second Task, there was somehow a photograph of them flying together (“sharing quality bonding time,” proclaimed the article). Harry stared at it glumly while Ginny craned her neck to finish reading the article.

“I’m going to have some words with Colin and Romilda,” she said, tapping on the offending photograph.

“You should,” Fred said, grinning. “Colin had much more romantic shots that Skeeter could’ve used instead.”

Harry shot the twins a withering glare that had zero effect.

“My question is,” George said, “which of you is Romeo and which of you is Juliet?”

“We disapprove either way, just so you know, Harriet.”

“Oooh, Tomeo and Harriet. Good one, Gred.”

Harry groaned. “This is utter rubbish. Please tell me no one is going to believe it.”

“Well,” Hermione said, glancing around the Great Hall, where most eyes were currently directed at either the Gryffindor or Slytherin table. “I’m afraid it’s not no one.”

“I hate to be the one to tell you,” George said, in a tone that implied quite the opposite, “everyone’s been associating you two for a while. I mean, flying together? Walking around the lake at night? Disappearing into a secret classroom all the time?”

“I was tutoring him —”

“And the way you gazed soulfully into each other’s eyes at the lake in that romantic embrace?”

“You know I’m afraid of water and I can’t even see without glasses —”

“Honestly Harriet, I’m only surprised it took you this long to realize.”

“Or took Skeeter this long to write an article,” Fred added with a snicker.

Harry buried his face in his hands. Dad and Sirius were definitely not going to let him live this down.

“Why does this have to happen to me?”

“You’re the one who wanted to help Riddle.”

He narrowed his eyes at his best friend. “Did you forget that you benefitted the most? How many points did Malfoy and his lot lose at your hands again?”

Ron only grinned, unrepentant and unappreciative. After thumping her brother on the head, Ginny squeezed Harry's arm.

“It will blow over soon. You just need to wait for the next scandal. A Quidditch player scandal, that will do the trick. Five Knuts on Lawrence Wakefield, anyone?”

“By then, Rachele Lestrange will have murdered me,” Harry said mournfully.

“Way before then,” Fred agreed.

“But we will protect you, don’t worry,” George said, thumping his chest in a chivalrous demonstration.

Harry only sighed.

Rachele Lestrange turned out to be only one of Harry’s many concerns the following week. Girls he’d never met burst into tears in his presence. Bulstrode and Zabini, at Malfoy’s behest, needled him in classes about being a helpless, lovelorn princess. Fleur Delacour admonished him — jokingly, surely — for breaking her little sister’s heart.

The professors were not much better. In Divination, Trelawney took a break from predicting his untimely death to lecturing him on the lack of astrological compatibility between Leo and Capricorn. In Astronomy, Sinistra made cryptic remarks about the Astronomy Tower having romantic night views while staring at Harry. And in Potions, after a poorly executed Wit-Sharpening Potion, Slughorn suggested that Harry should get private tutoring from “your Mr. Riddle.”

Even the folks back home offered no solace. It’s not quite how we envisioned our baby boy becoming a celebrity, but we’ll support you every step of the way! Mum and Dad wrote. Nicely done, Harry! But don’t abandon us old friends for your new love just yet, Dad’s friends wrote. And Mum’s friends owled him the latest edition of 101 Ways into a Wizard’s Heart and offered free advice whenever Harry needed it. (Severus told him to stop wasting time and study more.)

And finally, there were the fan letters, ranging from supportive to vicious, which Harry had taken to shredding unread.

As he stared down at a fresh stack of letters by his plate, Harry was certain that reliving last year’s antidote fiasco was ten times more preferable to his current predicament.

Across the Great Hall, his and Riddle’s eyes met. The contact lasted only seconds before Riddle turned to his own pile of letters.

(Okay, maybe just five.)

To say that Rachele was displeased would be the understatement of the millennium. Explaining that he had nothing to do with hostage selection had been futile. 

“Just give her time, it couldn’t get worse than this,” advised Rigel, used to his sister’s tantrums.

It could indeed, with the publication of Rita Skeeter’s article. 

Tom heard Rachele’s screams before he saw her. That was always a bad sign from someone who channeled her infamous mother even on good days.

He rounded the corner to find her in the middle of a confrontation with Potter. A group of Gryffindors hovered nearby, eyes darting between the two. Meanwhile, the Carrow twins stood behind Rachele, nursing burned arms from a failed attempt to play peacemaker.

“I told you to leave Tom alone,” she snarled, brandishing her wand. “And now you’ve humiliated me.”

Potter stood his ground, gripping his own wand. “Rita Skeeter wrote the article, not me.”

“You volunteered to be his hostage, when that should’ve been me.”

“Did you think I wanted to be stuck underwater for an hour? Go chuck yourself in the lake and have him rescue you for all I care.”

Tom sighed. Very brave but foolish to provoke Rachele. Potter was a good duelist, but her notoriety in dueling was well-earned.

“No dueling in the corridors,” he said, stepping forward.

The twins grinned.

“Ah, Tomeo to the rescue!”

“Lestrange, why don’t you ask your boyfriend why he jilted you for Harry?”

Ginny winced. “Now you’ve done it,” she told her brothers, as Rachele slashed her wand through the air.

However, Rachele’s anger was still directed at Potter and her jinx hit him straight in the face, right where his curse scar was. A scream exploded in Tom’s head as Potter staggered backwards, whimpering. Fortunately, Ron Weasley caught him.

When Tom could finally drag his eyes away from Potter — so pale, so fragile, so still — fury was rising. He clutched his wand, but Ginny acted first.

“Expelliarmus!” she shouted, successfully Disarming Rachele.

“Give it back, Weasley,” she snapped, stopping her advance only when Tom grabbed her shoulder.

“Let go —”

“That was out of line, Rachele.”

“What is going on here?”

McGonagall and Slughorn had arrived. They exchanged a loaded look after they surveyed the scene. Fortunately, Granger jumped in to clarify the situation.

“Rachele Lestrange attacked Harry and he needs to go to the hospital wing!”

Harry was still whimpering and starting to go limp in Weasley’s arms. Tom took a calming breath.

“Fifty points from Slytherin for attacking a fellow student in the hallway.”

Instead of flying into a rage, as he expected, Rachele glanced at Tom’s hand, which was gripping her shoulder so tightly that his knuckles had turned white. Then, leveling their eyes, she said in a strange voice, “Tom Riddle doesn’t know feelings, does he?”

Before he could reason out her response, she twisted away and stalked off, not even bothering to retrieve her wand.

“Come on now, Mr. Weasley,” McGonagall said, conjuring a stretcher. “Let’s see Mr. Potter to the hospital wing. Horace, you may want to consider detention for Ms. Lestrange.”

“Yes, a detention and a stern conversation are most warranted. Tom, my boy, if you don’t mind taking care of matters here.” Slughorn gestured at the crowd before he headed off after Rachele.

Tom nodded absently, eyes stuck on Potter, unconscious and floating away on the stretcher. He took an instinctive step forward and found himself blocked.

“You should go,” Granger said. Ginny stood beside her, flushed with indignation. “Keep your girlfriend away from us.”

He opened his mouth, forgetting what he’d planned to say halfway.

“Give this back to her,” Ginny said, slapping Rachele’s wand into Tom’s hand. “And tell her that my Bat-Bogey Jinx is waiting if she tries anything again.”

“Let’s go make sure Harry’s okay,” Granger said, tugging at her friend. “Good day, Riddle.”

Tom stood, rooted in place, until the crowd around him had dispersed on its own.

Harry opened his eyes, his head aching as if it’d been on the receiving end of a Blast-Ended Skrewt attack.

“He’s awake!” Ron’s joyful voice rang out. Harry grabbed his head and winced. “Oops, sorry mate.”

“Here, your glasses,” Hermione’s voice said, and something slipped over his face.

“Thanks,” he said, blinking as the room came into focus. He was in the hospital wing, with Ron and Hermione sitting vigil on one side, and the other Weasley siblings watching him from the other.

“Are you feeling better?” Ginny asked. “It was a bit scary when you passed out.”

“Um, I’m awake now, so I reckon so,” Harry said, giving her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “So, Lestrange jinxed me?”

“Yeah, what was that?” Fred said, sounding impressed. “It looked like it gave you a concussion or something.”

Harry flinched and Hermione bristled.

“That’s nothing to joke about. We’re lucky Madam Pomfrey knew the counter-jinx. We don’t even know all of the side effects yet!”

Fred and George bowed their heads, chastened.

“If you remember the incantation, I can ask Sirius,” Harry offered, since he was curious himself. Who knew, it could be useful in the future. “Wouldn’t be surprised if it’s a Black family special.”

The twins, avoiding Hermione’s glare, smiled at him gratefully.

“Maybe now everyone will stop teasing me about the Second Task,” Harry said, settling back against his pillow and hugging his plush penguin. “All the Riddle jokes seriously got old.”

His friends’ expressions didn’t reassure him.

“Well...I wouldn’t bet on the teasing stopping anytime soon,” said Fred.

“Or ever,” said George.

“You see, Riddle was apparently quite upset with Lestrange over your injury.”

“He took points off her.”

“Not just a few points either. Fifty points.”

“In front of everyone.”

Harry’s face grew hot. “Slughorn and McGonagall were watching, weren’t they?” His memories post-jinx were fuzzy. “That was why.”

“Points are one thing,” Ginny said. “Penelope Clearwater overheard them having a huge fight.”

“In public?” Hermione said in amazed horror. “It’s very unlike Riddle to air dirty laundry.”

Ginny shrugged. “Well, domestic spats are hard to hide when you have them right before a prefects’ meeting. Penelope said that the Head Boy had to end the meeting early because things were so tense.”

Fred had an odd glint in his eye. “So you’re telling me that Riddle broke up with Lestrange for his Harriet.”

“Can we please stop with the Harriet thing? It wasn’t even funny the first time.”

“No.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Anyway, I doubt he did that for me. He probably did it because Lestrange is a terrifying human being.”

“I’m sure he took you into consideration,” Ron said, grinning. “Doesn’t that make you feel better?”

“Yes, that really makes me feel better. Can someone pass me a Chocolate Frog?”

Harry’s tone was dry, but he surprisingly realized that actually, it did.

Tom waited until after curfew. Then, Disillusioned, he slipped inside the hospital wing.

Potter’s bed was easy to find, as his bedside table held the largest collection of sweets. He hesitated before he approached, not sure what he would say, whether he should say anything.

Fortunately, the choice was made. Potter was fast asleep, curled up on his side with one hand tucked under the pillow and one arm curled around a stuffed penguin. Every once in a while, his eyelashes would flutter, and Tom wondered what or who he was dreaming about.

Something stirred inside, something not unlike the swooping sensation of diving after Potter’s makeshift Snitch. Losing an internal battle, he reached out to smooth down Potter’s dark hair, softer than he’d imagined, and froze when he awakened with the contact.

Tom withdrew his hand and held his breath, dreading and wishing to be found at the same time. Potter’s eyes were unfocused as he searched. Then they closed again as he sank back under the covers, snuggling more closely against his penguin.

He watched Potter sleep for a few more minutes before he headed back to the dungeons, replaying Rachele’s cryptic words.

Tom Riddle doesn’t know feelings, does he?

Chapter Text

Madam Pomfrey kept Harry in the hospital wing for three days, over his protests, and reluctantly released him into Fred and George’s custody.

“If the headache returns in any form, come back immediately,” she warned, as the twins marched Harry away.

In all honesty, the hospital stay had been more than tolerable. Harry received tons of sweets, although Hermione screened the ones from unknown senders (“What if they read Witches Weekly and poisoned your chocolates?”). He also received friendly visitors from all houses. Daphne Greengrass came and entertained with Slytherin gossip, including Bellatrix Lestrange’s recent visit to berate her daughter for “publicly settling private debts.”

“So it’s okay to settle private debts privately?” said Ginny, snorting.

“That’s exactly what I said!” said Daphne, and the two witches appraised each other before they struck up a separate conversation, leaving Harry to witness the birth of a new friendship over Honeydukes chocolates.

Rumors of Harry and Riddle’s grand romance had largely calmed down. It helped that Lawrence Wakefield was implicated in a scandal concerning his contract with the Appleby Arrows, resulting in a very smug Ginny and a fresh wave of juicy headlines. Such was the fickleness of media attention.

Furthermore, once busybodies had noted and spread that Riddle never visited the hospital wing, many students came to the conclusion that either Skeeter had exaggerated or the romance had fizzled. Others had the courtesy to tone down the teasing, and a few even expressed sympathy to Harry that “things didn’t work out.”

Harry never mentioned to anyone that he had the weirdest dream that Riddle did drop by and patted him on the head.

Out of habit, Harry visited the Room of Requirement for their standing appointment, figuring he could catch up on missed lessons if Riddle wasn’t there.

He was.

“Oh. Hi.” Harry felt especially shy after the craziness of the past week. Riddle’s prolonged gaze didn’t help. “I wasn’t sure if we were still meeting.”

“I heard that you were discharged. Are you feeling better?”

“I’m fine. I just wish Lestrange didn’t have such good aim.” Harry poked at his scar. “As if your uncle’s curse didn’t do enough damage already.”

Riddle winced. “Sorry.”

His sincere contriteness caught Harry off-guard. What was he apologizing for, anyway — Rachele’s curse? His uncle’s curse? Something else?

“It’s all right.”

“Does it hurt?”

Harry rubbed the scar self-consciously. “No, it doesn't, most of the time I forget it’s even there. And when I do remember, I think it’s pretty cool-looking.”

Riddle’s arm twitched and half-rose, as if he wanted to reach out to touch the scar, touch Harry.

“I suppose it’s unique, as far as scars go. Glad you’re feeling better, then.” He smiled slightly. “Cute penguin, by the way.”

Harry froze. “How did you find out about Tubby?”

“Tubby?” Riddle sounded choked. “That’s what you named your penguin?”

“I was four.”

“Which means you had ten years to change the name.”

Harry crossed his arms. “I’m not you. You would name a penguin, I dunno, Prometheus or something pretentious like that.”

To his surprise, Riddle laughed. “I was thinking Poseidon, actually.”

“Exactly. Well, I prefer Tubby.”

They locked eyes. Riddle looked away first.

“Speaking of names,” he said, “since you’re apparently the person I would ‘sorely miss,’ perhaps it’s time we go on a first name basis.”

Harry blinked. Few students outside of Slytherin were on a first name basis with Riddle, and those select few either saw it as a badge of honor or a source of pressure. However, he seemed serious enough.

“Well, all right.” He hesitated. “Tom.”

The room must be too stuffy. That explained why Tom’s cheeks were pinker than usual and Harry’s own face felt uncomfortably warm.

He cleared his throat. “Do you still want to practice dueling?”

“If you feel up for it,” Tom said, and his wand slid into his hand.

“You know,” Harry said, “I’ve always thought it’s wicked, the way your wand just slides from your sleeve.”

“Oh.” Tom glanced at the wand, and then back at Harry. “Do you want me to show you?”

Before Harry could react, Tom had closed the distance between them.

“It’s essentially a modified sticking charm that I remove nonverbally. Let me show you.”

Tom was demonstrating the way he stashed and retrieved his wand from his sleeve, but Harry’s mind had blanked. At some point, Tom had moved to stand behind him, his arms practically around him. Harry couldn’t focus on anything other than Tom’s hand on his own and Tom’s breath ghosting over his neck.

“Try it. Inhaero. And then nonverbally, solvo.”

“Ri — right,” Harry managed. “In — inhaero.”

Solvo, he then tried to cast nonverbally, but he needed many more tries to master the release spell. Tom’s presence was overwhelming.

With one final, determined solvo, the holly wand slid into his hand.

“Nicely done,” Tom said and stepped away, leaving Harry with a thundering heart and too much emptiness between them.

Why did Tom have such an effect on him? This wasn’t his crush on Cho; this wasn’t about a pretty face and a flair for Quidditch. Yes, Tom was handsome and brilliant, but what tugged at Harry were those glimpses of humanity beneath a mask of polished indifference. The way Tom’s eyes crinkled when he smiled, really smiled; the way Tom's voice softened when he said “I’ve got you” during the Second Task; the way Tom’s pulse fluttered beneath his hands when he adjusted his broom grip.

Did you really think he enjoys your company?

Harry shook his head to clear his thoughts. He had no right to harbor more-than-friendly sentiments, no right to expect anything more from Tom — cold, driven, and inaccessible Tom. Their closeness, if it could even be considered that, wouldn’t last past the Third Task.

It was enough that they were (sort of) friends. No reason to make it awkward.

Tom had stridden to the other side of the room. Harry took a deep breath and assumed his own position.

Get a grip.

He bowed first. “I’m ready. Let’s duel.”

Tom loved dueling, which combined everything he loved about magic: power, creativity, and agility. Few things gave him the same exhilaration as the overpowering of a strong opponent. As a child, he’d enjoyed fencing with Grandfather for the same reasons.

Outside of the Lestrange siblings, unfortunately, worthy opponents were few and far between at Hogwarts. He hadn’t expected to enjoy dueling Harry.

Harry’s dueling was chaotic and unpredictable. He didn’t have the strongest spells, but he understood how to combine and sequence the ones in his arsenal to great effect. Furthermore, he wasn’t above the occasional tricks to catch Tom off-guard. His usage of the Patronus Charm was one example of many.

A few weeks of one-on-one practice dueling revealed another one of Harry’s strengths: he was observant. With a Seeker’s sharp eyes, he was analyzing Tom’s dueling style and predicting (often correctly) his future moves, forcing Tom to adopt more varied strategies. At the same time, he was identifying Tom’s weaknesses and, for some odd reason, sharing rather than exploiting them.

“Do you realize that you favor your right side too much?” Harry said one evening, after they’d dueled to a standstill, something that was happening with increasing frequency.

“Do I?”

“You do. When you leave your left side exposed, you don’t react as quickly. You would’ve blocked my Stinging Hex if it’d come on your right side, and then you could’ve won this round with your Rocket Charm.”

Tom frowned. He knew he was right-handed, but he hadn’t realized that his reaction speed was noticeably slower. That explained why Rachele and Rigel tended to unleash their strongest curses whenever his left side was unprotected.

He shouldn’t say anything, should be grateful that Harry was a Gryffindor who valued useless things like honor and nobleness. But he couldn’t stop himself.

“You’re giving away your advantage.”

“My advantage in what?”

Your advantage in our future duels. Duels with actual life-or-death stakes.

“You need to remember that on the battlefield, your opponent’s weaknesses are your protection.”

“I’m supposed to help you, so I want to make sure you have no blind spots against Viktor and Delacour.”

“Some duels have much higher stakes than a Triwizard Cup.” Why was he so dense? “This type of attitude can get you killed someday.”

Harry blinked. “But you don’t want to kill me, do you?”

Trelawney’s prediction echoed. Of course he did; he had to. They were prophesied enemies, the Dark Lord from the House of Serpents and his vanquisher from the house of enemies.

Tom imagined facing Harry across a smoldering battlefield, imagined him caught in the crosshair of spellfire and life drained from bright green eyes. It was easier to imagine crushing enemies in a vacuum. It was another matter to imagine hurting someone who’d spent the better part of the year by his side, unconditionally helping him.

It doesn’t have to be this way.

“No,” he said, unusually emphatic. “No, I don’t.”

They continued practicing the Patronus Charm, Harry remaining patient despite Tom’s struggles.

Tom nursed the private fear that the charm was beyond his reach, given his forays into the Dark Arts. Merrythought had mentioned that one needed a pure heart to cast a corporeal Patronus. Meanwhile, he had meticulous notes on Horcrux creation in his diary, which would all but guarantee a damaged soul.

By now, however, both he and Harry were too invested to give up.

“Watch me again. Expecto Patronum! ”

The usual envy stirred as Harry’s silver penguin materialized in the Room of Requirement and waddled over to nuzzle Harry. Both boy and penguin turned to give him a look of encouragement.

“Go on. Try again.”

Tom focused, pouring determination and will into his tightly clutched yew wand. “Expecto Patronum!”

Nothing but a pathetic wisp of silver smoke, as feeble as his two previous attempts this session.

Harry gently cupped the smoke to study it. His penguin poked at it curiously with its beak before dissolving itself.

“If you don’t mind me asking, what was the memory you used?”

Tom watched the smoke dissipate into nothing. “Receiving my prefect’s badge in fifth year.”

“What about the attempt before that?”

“Getting top marks on my O.W.L.s.”

“And before that?”

Tom bit back a sigh of impatience. “Mastering seventh year runes in fourth year.”

Harry sat cross-legged on a fall cushion, frowning. “Did any of these make you happy? The way you’re talking makes them sound like...I dunno, like chores or something.”

“Of course they make me happy,” Tom said, taking a seat beside him, their shoulders almost brushing. “I highly value success in school.”

“Maybe this type of happiness isn’t pure enough for a Patronus.” 

Happiness could be pure? This sounded like the type of nonsense spewed by Trelawney, only Harry was clearly serious.

“What powers your penguin, then?”

“Lots of things,” Harry replied immediately. “Seeing Hogwarts for the first time. Learning magic. Spending time with my friends. Eating treacle tarts. Hugging Tubby.” He grinned. “Kicking Slytherin butts at Quidditch.”

Tom considered. “I’m afraid I have nothing in the same vein.”

“Nothing? You must enjoy something. Like...reading a very good book.”

“I tried that last week.”

“Um, eating your favorite food?”

“I tried that last month, and I view food as a necessity rather than enjoyment.”

A hint of desperation slipped into Harry’s voice. “Talking to snakes?”

“Still no. Perhaps it’s a hopeless endeavor and I’m meant to be an unhappy person.”

His flippant words appeared to greatly distress Harry.

“No, we can’t give up. What if you have to fight a dementor during the Third Task? You can’t lose your soul. You absolutely can be happy with the right memory.”

“And how will I do that? We’ve established that what makes me happy isn’t happy enough.”

Harry chewed his bottom lip. “What if we try some happy memories from your childhood? Those tend to be pure.”

“Like taking revenge on kids who teased me?”

“Er, revenge?”

“Yes,” Tom said, watching Harry’s face carefully. “I once drowned a kid’s pet guinea pig.”

“What? Why?”

He shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “She teased me for not having parents around to love me.”

Harry’s face was a battlefield of emotions, not all of which Tom could place. Horror and shock, definitely, mixed with something that seemed like...sadness? Sympathy?

Harry moved as if to hold Tom’s arm, but only brushed his sleeve lightly with his hand.

“I’m sorry she was mean to you,” he said. “That’s uncalled for. But you still shouldn’t have drowned her guinea pig.”

“Only one of them. The old, sickly one that would’ve died in less than three months anyway.”

“Still not okay!” Harry lowered his gaze to his lap. “But...about what she said...is your family kind to you?”

“My dad wants very little to do with me,” Tom said, keeping an even tone as the words rushed out. “Apparently, I was only a drunken mistake and he never loved my mum. He remarried my stepmother almost as soon as she passed away and left me with my grandparents. He rarely visited, especially after my half-brothers were born. Everyone in my hometown always says my mum bewitched him into marrying her.”

“That’s horrible!” Harry squeezed his hands into fists. “And your stepmother and half-brothers, are they mean to you?”

Yes, Tom wanted to say so Harry could continue to be indignant on his behalf. Instead, he said with reluctance, “No. They aren’t” — not overtly, anyway — “but they pity me.”

And if there was anything he hated, it was pity, especially pity from vapid Muggles like Cecilia Riddle and her pampered sons.

Harry was quiet, and then he asked, “What are your grandparents like?”

Tom’s shoulders relaxed slightly. “My grandparents can be strict and somewhat distant, but they take good care of me.” Before he could stop himself, he added, “But I did wish that I could’ve grown up in a magical household.”

Perhaps it was ungrateful of him to admit this. Much as he cared for his grandparents, they would never be able to fully appreciate his feats at Hogwarts or fully participate in his wizarding life, such as cheer him on during the Triwizard Tournament. He would’ve liked to learn about magic from a young age, instead of having to research on his own and play catch-up during his first year of Hogwarts.

“Your mum’s family,” Harry said tentatively, “they are magical.”

“They are, and they used to live in Little Hangleton, but —”

“But then your uncle went to jail because he attacked me.” Harry looked horrified. “Is that why they couldn’t be around for you? I’m sorry.”

“Do you actually feel guilty —” Tom shook his head. “First of all, Morfin attacked you. Second of all, the Gaunts were not nice people. At all. Once, after Morfin had gone to Azkaban, my other grandfather got very drunk and came over to my grandparents’ house to take me away. Grandmother Mary chased him off with a feather duster and told him never to touch me again.”

As a child, Tom had been impressed by his grandmother, mortified by Marvolo Gaunt, and terrified by the fate he’d narrowly missed. He’d never shared this memory with anyone before, yet any regret faded at the insight of Harry's sympathetic face.

“I'm sorry that happened to you. And your grandmother sounds awesome.”

Tom quirked a smile. “She was the talk of the village for days. She still gets feather dusters as joke holiday presents.”

Harry clapped his hands, delighted. “Were your grandparents okay with you being, you know, a wizard?”

“Surprisingly, yes. They got on quite well with Professor Slughorn when he visited with my letter. They are on Christmas gift terms.”

Harry's face scrunched. “If your grandparents love you, why do you hate Muggles and Muggle-borns so much?”

Wasn’t this the thousand-Galleon question? Tom never liked to think too deeply about his attitude towards Muggles and Muggle-borns. It was simply an attitude he had to adopt to exert influence over Slytherins. Every dynasty needed scapegoats; every king built his throne over the carcasses of the sacrificed.

“It’s complicated.”

Harry tilted his chin. “Explain to me, then.”

Tom thought of his grandparents, who had raised him despite the scandal of his parents’ marriage and his birth. He thought of the way Grandmother directed the cook to prepare eggs on the extra runny side because he preferred it, or the way Grandfather regularly surprised him with new releases from Flourish & Blotts.

And then he thought of Salazar Slytherin, whom he had never known yet had revered his entire life. He thought of the fifty-foot basilisk at his command in the Chamber of Secrets. He thought of his father’s dismissal and his stepmother’s scorn.

He wanted — craved — his rightful inheritance.

“What if you’ve always been destined to do something?”

“Destined,” Harry repeated. “Well, it would depend on what that something is.”

“Salazar Slytherin left Hogwarts because he didn’t want to admit Muggle-borns. He wanted to keep wizarding bloodlines pure.”

“Then he was wrong,” Harry said firmly, “and you’re not your ancestor.”

“How would you know? What if you are destined for something yourself, Harry? What if you’re destined to kill someone because of your bloodline?”

Harry recoiled. “I wouldn’t do it. I would never want to kill anyone.”

Tom crossed his arms and cocked his head. “Even if that person is a bad wizard?”

“Then I would try to reform them, and if that doesn’t work, I’ll imprison them in Azkaban. I wouldn’t kill them.”

“What if you don’t have a choice?”

“What are you, a baddie on Muggle telly? There’s always a choice.”

Tom felt a stab of annoyance. Of course Harry would say that, Harry who grew up sheltered and loved.

“Forgiveness and redemption aren’t as easy as you think, Harry. Has anyone ever been mean to you before Malfoy?”

Harry stilled. In a subdued voice, he said, “When I was seven, we visited my Muggle aunt’s family and my cousin Dudley locked me inside a cupboard under the stairs. He told me I wasn’t allowed to cry for help or I’d be a baby.”

Tom’s gut twisted at the thought of a young Harry stuck inside a cupboard, alone and terrified. “And then what happened?”

“I think I somehow Apparated out. My parents were really upset, especially after Uncle Vernon called me a freak. Mum and Aunt Petunia fell out for a while.”

“And you don’t hate those Muggles?”

“I still don’t like Uncle Vernon much, but Dudley actually apologized to me a few years later and gave me a super awesome train set. Remote controlled and everything, it’s like magic.” Harry brightened. “How could I hate him after that?”

“Hatred isn’t a bad thing,” Tom said. “It allows you to cast very powerful spells.”

Harry flinched. “That’s dark magic. I don't want to cast those types of spells.”

“Even if you’re in the middle of a duel, and not casting them would mean that you lose?”

“Even so.”

Their eyes leveled. Tom studied Harry’s serious expression, marveling at his innocence and light. How could this boy be his downfall?

He thought again of their hypothetical battlefield, and the unease grew. He rose.

“Perhaps we should settle our philosophical differences another day.”

Harry nodded and followed his lead. “Yes. Let’s keep working on your happy memories.”

Tom had spent the better part of the afternoon practicing the Patronus Charm without success. Frustrated and disappointed, he decided to go for a walk outside the castle to clear his head.

A familiar voice drew him to the Quidditch pitch, which was disfigured with hedges growing for the Third Task. The Seekers were in the middle of what appeared to be a speed drill. Tom watched, mesmerized by the focus on Harry’s face as he hurtled towards the nearest hoop, leaving Diggory and Krum behind.

His ensuing laugh of triumph made Tom yearn for something he couldn’t name.

Harry noticed and waved at him. After an airborne conversation, everyone landed. Both Diggory and Krum nodded at Tom in greeting.

“We’d better be heading back,” Diggory said. “It’s getting dark.”

Tom raised his eyebrows — there must be at least another half hour of sunlight left — but didn’t protest as Diggory and Krum departed, Diggory with a wink and Krum with a smirk. Harry watched them, bemused.

“You know, I think you scared them away. They probably think you’ll take points off or something.”

“I was only passing by. I’m impressed you kept up with Quidditch practice.”

“Of course I would. Slytherins will have no chance next year.” Then Harry looked thoughtful. “Do you want to try flying for a bit? We still have some time before the sun’s completely gone.”

Tom had no desire to relive November. “Why on earth would I do that?”

“Maybe it could be a happy memory.”

“Quidditch makes you happy, not me.”

Harry’s expression turned teasing. “You aren’t scared now, are you? You’ll be fine, I’ve taught you well, and I wouldn’t let you get hurt.”

“You almost died yourself last year.”

“That’s because it was raining really hard and I thought I was drowning.” Harry shuddered at the memory. “Besides, flying is more than just Quidditch. It’s about freedom and possibilities and wonder.”

Even though Harry’s answer sounded ridiculous, he was so close and his expression was so earnest.

Tom took a deep breath. “All right.”

Harry’s face broke into a surprised grin. “Great! You can even borrow my Firebolt.”

“You’re not flying?”

“I’m going to, er, hide in the stands.” Harry rubbed his forehead with a rueful smile. “I swear Rita Skeeter has eyes everywhere and I want to stay out of Witches Weekly for at least the remainder of the term.”

“Is it that loathsome to be associated with me?”

He’d meant his remark as a joke, but Harry’s smile faltered. “It’s not that at all, it’s...anyway, here.”

He handed over his Firebolt and Tom hesitated, wanting Harry to finish his thought. But Harry had already moved on.

“I’ll watch you. I promise I’ll wingardium leviosa if you look like you’re about to fall.”

Tom was starting to have second thoughts, but it was too late to back out. “So I just...fly.”

“Yes. Fly and enjoy the view.”

This is madness, Tom thought, as he kicked off. He was definitely outlawing Quidditch.

The night air embraced him with a cool and gentle breeze. He paused his ascent and nudged the Firebolt into a lazy loop. Doing anything without a clear goal was a foreign concept, flying included. There was no one to race, no Snitch to chase, only him and his restless thoughts.

Fly and enjoy the view.

From this vantage point, Hogwarts was unfamiliar, breathtaking in a way he hadn’t found since he was an eager first year. Somewhere along the way, in his drive to learn and master everything, he’d stopped admiring its grandeur.

Tonight, he saw Hogwarts with refreshed eyes. Silhouetted against the moon, it brimmed with magic and enticed with secrets. The clocktower overlooking the rickety wooden bridge, the parapet at the Astronomy Tower, the Sundial Garden with the ancient stones. A thousand years of history, of stories from the ghosts of generations past.

When Tom landed, he was greeted by Harry’s face, upturned toward him and filled with wonder and admiration. Behind owlish glasses, his green eyes shone, reminding Tom of the garden at the Riddle Manor in springtime, fresh and vibrant.

What do you see? Who do you see?

He wanted to be Harry’s sole focus more often.

“How was it?”

Tom ran a careless hand through his messy and sweaty hair. “It was...relaxing. It was a good suggestion, thank you.”

Their hands brushed as Tom handed back the Firebolt. Too soon, Harry pulled away.

“Should we try the Patronus Charm now?”

“No, another time,” Tom said softly. “Can we...sit for a while?”

Harry’s eyebrows rose, but he complied. Side by side, they sat in the stands as the sky darkened, the silence occasionally filled by Harry pointing out some of his godfather’s favorite constellations. Tom hummed in response, but he wasn’t paying attention to the stars.

His steps were light and relaxed when he returned to the common room. Rachele, seated near the entrance, glanced up from her armchair. Things between them had remained frosty since her attack and subsequent “breakup,” though she'd become much less overbearing following the suspension of prefect duties and her mother’s visit.

“You’re smiling,” she said, initiating a conversation outside the classroom for the first time in weeks.

“I am allowed to express happiness.”

“It’s a nice night for flying.”

He gave her a sharp look, which she returned levelly. Then he shook his head and continued towards the staircase.

“If I may excuse myself, Rachele, I need to get ready for my shift.”

“Potter is changing you.”

He stopped, halfway to the staircase. Though her voice was low, more than a few heads had turned their way.

No, he’s not. No, I’m more myself than ever. No, leave him out of it.

“Is this of any concern?” he said evenly.

Rachele shrugged. “That’s for you to decide.”

The night before the Third Task, Harry asked to meet by the entrance hall. “It’s a surprise,” he said, leading Tom down a flight of stairs.

Tom glanced skeptically around the basement corridor, where the walls were filled with food-themed paintings. His skepticism turned into surprise when Harry headed to the painting of a fruit bowl, tickled a pear into giggling, and revealed a green door handle.

Harry grinned at his amazement. “You showed me a secret room, so I’ll show you an even better secret room.”

Harry’s secret room turned out to be the Hogwarts kitchen, a large room whose layout mirrored that of the Great Hall. Pots and pans filled the walls, the aroma of tonight’s dinner permeated the air, and eager house-elves were everywhere. All of them looked delighted by Harry’s appearance.

“Mr. Harry Potter, sir!” one of them cried. “Welcome! We’ve been waiting for you and your friend!”

“Great seeing you and everyone else, Dobby,” Harry said, sitting down at the basement analogue of the Hufflepuff table. When Tom remained standing, he chuckled. “Come on, Tom, you can sit too. Everyone here is friendly.”

Tom joined Harry on the bench. “How do you know about this entrance?”

“I have connections,” was the smug response.

While Dobby busied himself by the oven, another house-elf — Moppy, according to Harry — rushed over with clean plates and cutleries. Other house-elves lingered, some of them watching Tom with curiosity, but most of them swarming around Harry, asking about his classes and friends. Harry answered every question seriously and patiently.

Tom’s mouth twitched. “You’re clearly a frequent visitor. You know, I could take points off you for sneaking into the kitchens.”

“But you won’t, at least not today.”

“How are you so confident?”

“Because we’re here to wish you good luck. Isn’t that right, everyone?”

The house-elves cheered and clapped. Right on cue, Dobby reappeared, bearing an entire treacle tart.

“Dobby brought Harry Potter and his friend their snack, sir! Freshly baked, just as you asked!”

Dobby set the tart down in front of Tom and hopped back. Harry grinned.

“Looks as amazing as always, thank you.”

Tom tore his eyes away from the treacle tart to stare at Harry. “What am I supposed to do?”

“First, thank everyone.” Harry waited until Tom stiffly complied. “Then, you eat it, of course.”

“Eat treacle tart.”

“You wanted happy memories. This,” he said, cutting himself a generous slice, “makes me very happy.”

“This is not a happy memory, Harry. This is what my grandmother would call evil carbohydrates and cholesterol.”

“Are you afraid of a little sugar? What if treacle tart is the secret to my Patronus?” Harry leaned forward. “Are you going to risk never mastering the Patronus Charm?”

Surely treacle tart wasn’t the power he knew not. For a moment, Tom was overcome with a ridiculous image of Harry creaming his face with a tart tin. Truth be told, at this point he no longer knew what he believed.

Sensing Tom’s capitulation, Harry cut him a similarly large slice of treacle tart. Tom stared down at the abomination, and then at Harry who was waiting with his chin resting on his hands, and finally at the equally expectant house-elves.

He wasn’t getting out of this.

After a long-suffering sigh, he took a grudging bite. Though the crust was nice and short, the filling was as overwhelmingly sweet as expected.

“What do you think?”

“I don’t think it will result in a Patronus.”

Harry shrugged. “Oh well. We tried, didn’t we?”

He grinned at the onlooking house-elves, who cheered again before dispersing to continue their regular evening activities. A few took to knitting, others started mopping the tables and the floors, and still others disappeared to fulfill their duties in other parts of the castle.

Before joining the knitting circle, Dobby popped back to present a bowl of poached pears. “For Harry Potter’s friend, sir!”

Tom blinked at the bowl, surprised that a random house-elf knew he liked poached fruits. It even smelled of ginger and turmeric, two of his favorite spices.

“I figured you’d like this more,” Harry explained. “I promise this isn’t too sweet. Dobby even added honey and spices to help calm your nerves.”

Tom thanked Dobby — without prompting from Harry — and dug into the pears. The fruits were cooked to perfection, the flesh falling off the pits, and their flavors were well-balanced.

“This is delicious, thank you.”

Harry looked so satisfied, so pleased. Warmth coiled inside Tom’s stomach. He’d been in a low mood, knowing that he would be the only champion whose family wouldn’t be in the audience tomorrow. And with two simple desserts, Harry had managed to show him care and appreciation.

It was...unsettling.

Tom needed a safe subject. “Dobby looks familiar. Didn’t he used to work at Malfoy Manor?”

Harry rubbed the back of his neck, looking somewhat guilty. “He did, until I tricked Malfoy’s father into giving him socks. It’s a long story.”

“No wonder Draco hates you. You do realize that house-elves actually want to work for their masters.”

“Not when they’re mistreated. Dobby likes Hogwarts a lot more than Malfoy Manor. Dumbledore pays him and nobody beats him. He also founded the house-elves knitting circle. I recommend their mittens.”

Tom glanced doubtfully at the colorful yarns on the house-elves’ knitting needles. “I will...anticipate them.”

“Well, Hermione and I still need some time to work out a good marketing strategy, but I’ll reserve you a few pairs.” Harry rubbed his cheek, dislodging a few specks of tart filling. Tom itched to brush the rest off. “Can you believe the year’s almost over?”

Tom hummed. The year had passed both too slowly and too quickly.

“I guess we won’t spend time together after tonight.”

His head snapped up. “Why not?”

“You’ll be done with the tournament so you won’t need any more help from me.”

Tom had forgotten there was an expiration date to their deal, forgotten their rapport was founded on a false pretense. The Room of Requirement had become his retreat, and in contrast, a school year without Harry stretched ahead of him, dull and empty. Was this the price of power?

Maybe he didn’t have to eliminate Harry. Maybe they could find a way to coexist, enemies or not.

Or maybe they could simply be two friends, enjoying a late night’s snack and each other’s company.

I still want to see you, Tom thought, but the words remained unsaid. He was, after all, not a Gryffindor.

“You know…”

Tom’s heartbeat quickened. “Yes?”

“I should get into a fight with Malfoy one last time. That way Slytherin will have no shot at the House Cup even if you win the tournament.”

“Oh.” For some reason, disappointment was washing over him. “That’s simple. The fourth-year boys’ dormitory is a travesty. Certainly worthy of losing points.”

Harry perked up. “Thanks!”

Night was settling in. When they finished the rest of their desserts, Moppy cleared their plates and set down two steaming mugs of chamomile tea. Nursing his mug, Tom studied the flickering torchlight, casting distorted shadows on the wall.

Harry yawned. “It’s late. We’d better get back.” He stood, took off his glasses, and rubbed his eyes. “You have a long day tomorrow and need your rest.”

“Yes, long day tomorrow.”

“You coming?”

“No, you go ahead.” Tom didn’t trust himself to stand, because his knees felt wobbly at the sight of that apologetic, sleepy smile. “I need to...finish the tea.”

Harry nodded, bade the house-elves goodbye, and climbed out of the portrait hole.

Left behind, Tom couldn’t help feeling that even if he were to win the tournament tomorrow, he would still lose.

The twenty-feet hedges of the maze towered over the champions. Rules were explained and the whistle sounded. Tom and Krum entered together, followed shortly after by Delacour.

At the first fork, each champion picked a different path. The race to the Triwizard Cup was on.

“Point me,” Tom said, and forged on.

Mazes were theoretically easy, a simple mathematical construct for which even Muggles had developed efficient traversal algorithms. While this one was magical and featured obstacles, Tom wasn’t concerned.

His preparation over the past year dispatched of earlier obstacles without trouble. He faced a Limbo Mist that turned him briefly upside down, which was no trouble after a month of flying and diving with Harry; a Blast-Ended Skrewt, which was distracted and subdued by another powerful Serpensortia; and enchanted stone giants, which crumbled into rubble with a few Bombarda.

From time to time, Tom used homenum revelio to locate the other champions and patrolling professors. Pockets of high human density far away would indicate that he was falling behind.

Fortunately, he wasn’t falling behind. In fact, he was approaching the center of the maze.

There was rustling up ahead, a magical creature. Keeping a hand on the right hedge as orientation, Tom moved forward.

He recognized the plunge in temperature. A boggart. Well, that should be no issue. He’d faced them in third year and his had been the skeleton of Salazar Slytherin, berating him for his inability to find the Chamber of Secrets.

Only now, he’d found the Chamber, he’d laid claim to the basilisk; animated bones wouldn’t faze him.

However, he didn’t encounter Slytherin. Instead, he was looking at — 

Grindelwald, handsome face becoming sallow and wrinkled due to prolonged isolation at Nurmengard —

“Riddikulus!”

Morgan le Fay, beautiful face twisted as Excalibur impaled her chest —

“Riddikulus!”

A tall man with scarlet eyes and pale scaly skin, disfigured and yet eerily familiar. “I am Lord Vol —”

“Riddikulus!”

His father — or was it himself? — crouched on the ground, blubbering, beaten, and bloody. Tom forced out a mirthless laugh and closed his eyes. There was a crack. Did he defeat the boggart? Did he banish it? Or had it taken on yet another shape?

When he opened his eyes, the path was clear. The final Riddikulus had worked. He braced his hands against his knees, lungs burning and heart racing, before he straightened. This was no time to have an existential crisis.

He had to keep going.

A kappa and a red cap later, the Cup was within sight, sparkling in its glory under the moonlight. But Tom wasn’t alone. Krum was closing in from the other side. Tom stepped forward, clutching his wand. Perhaps the winner would depend on a duel after all.

The maze had other ideas. An acromantula ambled onto Krum’s path, forcing him to shift his attention from the Cup to self-defense. Meanwhile, something was sailing towards Tom: a dark cloak floating of its own volition.

A lethifold.

Tom recalled its textbook entry with clarity: a carnivorous and violent creature who suffocated then digested its human victims, a creature so dangerous that even Hagrid didn’t try to bring a specimen to show his students. Had the Ministry lost its mind, importing such a creature? Then again, after dragons, nothing would be off-limits.

Keeping a cool head, Tom considered his options. He could use Fiendfyre; very few magical creatures could withstand its flames, and few in the wizarding world could boast his control over this capricious spell. There were downsides, of course. Fiendfyre was an extremely dark spell, which would no doubt fuel media speculation and consternation. Plus, it required intense concentration to maintain, which meant it would cost time he couldn’t afford.

His other option was the Patronus Charm, a cleaner and faster spell, but even riskier. If he failed, he would certainly lose the Cup and hence the tournament. And failure was the likelier scenario. He’d never succeeded in practice sessions, after all, and he was still shaken from his boggart.

Tom raised his wand, the incantation for Fiendfyre at his lips.

And then he thought of Harry in the audience, watching and waiting.

With clarity, he remembered the warm spicy taste of the poached pears and toffees; he remembered admiring the beauty of Hogwarts from the sky; he remembered Harry saying so solemnly, you’re the brightest student at Hogwarts.

A different incarnation burst out: “Expecto Patronum!”

The magic that flowed through him was nothing like he’d ever experienced. Lightness. Freedom. Joy.

A silvery white shape materialized and took flight. It tackled and successfully dispelled the lethifold. Then it knocked into Krum and caused him to stumble, garnering Tom the time necessary to reach the Cup first.

In a daze, Tom closed his hand around the handle. The entire time, he could not look away from the Patronus.

It wasn’t a penguin, nor was it a snake.

It was an owl.

Chapter Text

Tom won the Triwizard Tournament.

Once the Portkey in the Cup deposited him in front of the judges, the audience erupted into cheers and applause. Bagman’s voice blared over the Quidditch pitch, announcing the final standings. Cornelius Fudge presented a bulging bag of Galleons while cameras flashed from every direction.

The Hogwarts professors beamed with pride (“Well done, my boy!” cried Slughorn), the Ministry officials jostled to shake his hand first (Umbridge unfortunately won), and even Delacour and Krum clapped, though their smiles were tight.

Wearing a polite smile of his own, Tom scanned the crowd, enhancing his eyesight with magic as he searched. It was a long shot when there were so many people, but his victory wouldn’t feel real until —

He found Harry, who was on his feet and clapping. Somehow, they made eye contact across the distance and Harry broke into a huge grin.

“You did it!” he mouthed.

Bathed in contentment, Tom inclined his head and reluctantly glanced away, allowing the rest of the world to return to focus.

As soon as the victory ceremony concluded, the reporters descended upon him, Rita Skeeter leading the pack.

“A corporeal Patronus!” she cooed. “That was a most impressive finish to the tournament.”

“What was it?” asked a wizard from Spellbound. “It looked like a bird, didn’t it?”

“It did,” agreed a witch from The Wizard’s Voice. “Was it —”

“It was a thunderbird,” Tom said, cutting off any rogue hypothesis.

He chose to hide the identity of his Patronus partly out of the need to impress, yes, but mostly out of the need to protect. Perhaps he was protecting himself; the genesis of his Patronus made him feel vulnerable. Or perhaps he was protecting someone else; his little owl was his and his alone.

His response further excited the reporters.

“A thunderbird. Never seen one of those before.”

“That makes your feat even more impressive!”

“Wouldn’t a thunderbird be bigger though?”

Dumbledore, who stood nearby, chuckled. Tom glared at him, wondering if he would give away the truth.

“Patronuses are quite varied,” Dumbledore said. “They can be any creature that we identify with, mythical or common or, in some cases, human. Why, my own Patronus is a phoenix. If Mr. Riddle shares that his Patronus is a thunderbird, we have no reason to think otherwise.”

He successfully appeased the reporters, who eagerly tried to move on to new questions.

“Now, I understand that you are all eager to speak further with Mr. Riddle,” Dumbledore continued. “However, it has been a long evening, and I would like a few private words with my student before we retire for the night. Shall we regroup for interviews another time?”

He didn’t wait for the reporters’ assent. “If you would accompany me to my office, Mr. Riddle?”

Tom followed. It wasn’t as if he had an actual choice.

As they wound through the quiet corridors, Dumbledore made meaningless small talk and Tom learned more about the décor of Hogwarts than he ever cared to. It was a relief to finally reach the headmaster’s office. He sank into the visitor's chair and declined the offer of a sherbet lemon.

From across the desk, Dumbledore beamed at him.

“Congratulations again, Mr. Riddle. Thank you for representing Hogwarts in such a positive light. This will certainly encourage the Ministry to continue holding the Triwizard Tournament.”

“It was an honor to represent Hogwarts and Britain,” Tom replied dutifully. “Thank you for allowing me the opportunity, sir.”

“The Goblet chose you, not I. In fact, if we may speak with frankness, I wondered at the time whether the Goblet had made the correct choice.”

Tom twitched. He’d discerned Dumbledore’s disapproval of his selection and he didn’t care.

“I had no idea that you held me in low esteem, sir.”

“On the contrary, Mr. Riddle, I hold you in extremely high esteem. However, talent isn’t the only factor in the selection of a school champion.”

No, of course not. Dumbledore probably looked for loyalty and kindness and other useless rot embodied by students like Diggory. Tom fought the urge to sneer.

“Well, did the Goblet make the right choice?”

“Yes.”

The response caught Tom off-guard.

“Because I won?”

“Because you learned.”

Tom mulled over the headmaster's words and decided that they were his usual nonsensical quips.

“Thank you. If that would be all, sir?” he said, half-rising to go.

Dumbledore’s words stopped him. “You may have heard the rumors that Gellert and I were once very close friends.”

Gellert. Tom threw the headmaster a sharp look. There had been rumors of quite a sensational nature regarding Dumbledore and Grindelwald, but as Grindelwald faded into obscurity, they were now only championed by the likes of Skeeter.

Dumbledore’s gaze was distant. “Yes, very close indeed. It’s a shame that ambitions derailed what could have been.” His eyes snapped back. “Well, all is not lost. We still correspond, as Nurmengard is rather lacking in entertainment. He’s fascinated by updates to my sock collection.”

“How...fascinating.”

“I do believe he regrets certain choices.”

Tom’s jaw clenched.

“I’m happy to share that you’ll be Head Boy next year,” Dumbledore said, in an abrupt topic change, “and Mr. Potter will be a prefect. I hope you will continue your admirable partnership.”

Tom’s fingers tightened around the armrests. “Of course, sir. Thank you for entrusting me with the responsibility. Good night.”

Without waiting for permission, he stood to go, and Dumbledore didn’t stop him.

“Good night, Mr. Riddle. Congratulations again.”

The night before the departure of the Durmstrang ship, Tom met Igor Karkaroff in an abandoned classroom to return the last of the library books.

Karkaroff studied each title, resting for some time on one particular book whose cover included a graphic depiction of a soul-binding ritual.

“I trust you found the information you sought?”

“Yes,” Tom said, more firmly than he felt.

“Congratulations on winning the Triwizard Tournament,” Karkaroff said, putting the books away. “As much as I would’ve liked Viktor to win the Cup, you are a worthy champion.”

“Thank you.”

Karkaroff’s eyes bore into him, something lurking behind their gaze. “I’ve been meaning to find an opportunity to reprise an earlier conversation about a future position at Durmstrang.”

Heart pounding, Tom lowered his eyes in a show of deference.

“I’ve no doubt about your talent, but I do wonder whether you are as dedicated to the practice of Dark Arts as you think you are.”

“Oh?” That was an interesting concern.

“I was anticipating your encounter with the lethifold.”

Tom raised his head. “Did you expect to see me face off against one?”

“Surely you aren’t naïve enough to believe that your encounters in the maze are random.” Karkaroff’s yellow teeth gleamed under the candlelight. “I wanted to witness firsthand your aptitude for Fiendfyre.”

“The Patronus Charm is the textbook counter.”

“Yes, but neither of us is satisfied with textbook answers, are we?” Karkaroff crossed his arms and leaned against a nearby desk. “Fiendfyre would’ve been equally potent and far more impressive.”

Remembering the purity of the magic that had suffused him, Tom wasn’t sure he agreed. But he merely said, “I didn't want to risk Krum’s safety.”

“I find something else most curious. You say that your Patronus is a thunderbird. But it wasn’t, was it?”

Tom stiffened and, feeling the light brush of Legilimency, slammed down his Occlumency shields in warning. Karkaroff’s eyes narrowed, but gave no indication otherwise that anything was amiss.

“We will stay in touch. There will be a place for you on my staff if you so wish.” Karkaroff had begun moving towards the door. “In the meantime, I would caution you against...distractions. Cuteness rarely equates to usefulness. Enjoy your summer, Mr. Riddle.”

Only after Karkaroff’s footsteps had faded did Tom's fists unclench.

The rest of the school term flew by, with a distinct lack of Harry.

With the conclusion of the Triwizard Tournament and the onset of final exams, they had no opportunity to meet in the Room of Requirement. Furthermore, with Tom ensconced by admiration and media attention, their interactions were limited to passing nods and rushed greetings.

However, Tom would be patient, knowing now that Harry would be a prefect next year. He could arrange their patrol schedules to coincide. More time together meant more opportunities to keep deciphering the prophecy, though deep down inside, Tom suspected he craved something else.

They met by chance at King’s Cross Station. As the mass of returning Hogwarts students swarmed the train station, Tom spotted Harry leaning against a wall with his owl’s cage under one arm, his trunk at his feet, and a grimace on his face.

“Is your family late?” Tom asked, joining him.

The grimace turned into a resigned smile. “Mum and Dad are always late. There’s always some Potions experiment or some Muggle program on the telly. Is your family also late?”

“No. I’m seventeen now, so I can Apparate home.”

“I can’t wait until I’m old enough,” Harry said with a sigh and another look at his watch. “By the way, I’m sure you heard this a thousand times already, but congratulations on winning the tournament.”

Tom had been waiting to hear the words from Harry. “Thank you.”

“And I was really happy you mastered the Patronus Charm,” he added, grinning. “Impeccable timing. I was worried when I saw the lethifold.”

“Did you...see my Patronus?”

Harry shook his head. “It was too dark and far away. I wish I could’ve seen it, a thunderbird sounds cool.”

“Right.” Tom cleared his throat. “A thunderbird.”

“I guess we were both wrong about your Patronus then. Neither of us won the bet.”

“That’s true. It was neither a fluffy animal nor a snake.”

He had a dangerous urge to say more, to reveal more, but he didn’t get the chance because a woman called Harry’s name.

Harry brightened and Tom studied the new arrivals, who were clearly Harry’s parents. The man was an older version of Harry, bespectacled and messy-haired, while the woman had the same lively green eyes.

“Sorry we’re late, again,” said his mother, throwing her husband a quick glare. “Someone almost destroyed the VCR player trying to record a football match.”

“There were too many buttons!”

“That’s why I gave you an instruction manual.”

“Which is even more confusing than Scrimgeour’s briefs.”

“C’mon Dad,” Harry piped up, “even I know how to record a video.”

The Potters’ ended their squabble immediately. Mrs. Potter pulled Harry into her arms and dropped a kiss on his head, while Mr. Potter reached out to stroke his cheek. With a silly happy smile, Harry hugged them back.

Tom watched, his chest tightening. His presence didn’t go unnoticed.

“We mustn’t be rude, sweetie. Why don’t you introduce us to your friend?”

From the mirth in Mrs. Potter’s eyes, Tom had a feeling that she knew perfectly well who he was.

“This is Tom Riddle, from school.”

“The same Tom who —”

Mr. Potter was interrupted by his wife, who managed to shove him aside and shake Tom’s hand in one smooth motion.

“It’s a pleasure meeting you at last, Tom. I’m Lily and this is my husband, James.”

“Yes.” Mr. Potter coughed. “A pleasure meeting you and congratulations on winning the Triwizard Tournament. I understand that our Harry helped.”

“Thank you, and yes, Harry was indeed helpful.”

Harry squeaked and blushed furiously when three pairs of eyes — two amused and one bemused — trained on him.

“We should go.” His voice was higher-pitched than usual. “Don’t you have, er, an appointment?”

“Do we?” Mrs. Potter affected a look of surprise.

“Yes, you do!”

Harry started maneuvering his parents away from Tom, pausing only to retrieve his luggage.

“Have a good summer, Tom!”

As the Potters made their way to the exit, the last snippets of their conversation floated back.

“Why the rush, Harry? You will need to properly introduce us sometime.”

“Now James, our son is just miffed we interrupted their romantic farewell.”

“Mum, Dad, please, he can still hear us!”

Tom fought not to smile.

Harry loved summers, which he associated with his birthday celebration. As usual, Mum and Dad planned a big party with their families and friends.

The food was wonderful — Mum, Mrs. Weasley, and Mrs. Longbottom had once again outdone themselves — and everyone was extra nice. Even Severus was less grumpy than usual, though he lectured Harry on the importance of doing better in Potions.

“Horace is still sharing concerning reports on your performance,” he said with his usual sternness. “You’re taking your O.W.L.s this upcoming school year. Do not disappoint your mother and me.”

Harry nodded meekly, and only Sirius’s antics managed to distract Severus from expounding further.

Presents were another wonderful consequence of turning a year older. This year, among other things, Harry received a set of Defense books from Hermione, a new chess set from Ron, a pot that automatically watered plants based on their needs from Neville, and yet another Potions kit from Severus.

Harry was helping Mum clean up after the party when an unfamiliar owl delivered an unexpected present. He unwrapped the parcel to find a hardcover book, The Magical World of Penguins, by Porpentina Scamander and Queenie Kowalski. Every page was filled with detailed moving pictures, encyclopedic entries, and anecdotes from both Muggle and magical penguin experts. He didn’t need to read the card to recognize the handwriting.

Tubby should enjoy this book. Happy birthday. TMR.

“That looks fun,” said Mum, who was putting away leftover cake nearby. “Is it also from Hermione?”

Harry clutched the book to his chest. “It’s from another schoolmate.”

Mum caught the name on the card and her eyebrows rose nearly to her hairline, but to her credit, she kept silent.

Tom’s summer was full of correspondences. There were letters from his Knights, full of dull pure-blood gossip like engagements and debutante balls. There were letters from his connections in the Ministry or abroad, to which he was obliged to respond. And then there were letters from acquaintances, which he rarely bothered reading.

Only one letter made him smile.

Hi Tom,

Thank you for the book! I read a chapter to Tubby and Hedwig every night. Did you know that there were giant penguins in prehistoric times? (Of course you did — you probably read and memorized the whole book.)

Tina and Queenie are building a magical penguin sanctuary in South Africa, where they’re working with Muggle scientists to revive extinct penguins from fossils. Mum says it’s a bad idea because it reminds her of the Muggle film Jurassic Park (have you seen it?), but Dad and I think it’d be totally wicked. If they succeed, I’d love to go and meet ancient penguins. To be honest, I wouldn’t mind meeting dinosaurs either.

I hope you’ve been having a great summer!

Best,

Harry

Tom carefully folded the letter. He’d spotted the book browsing the new release section at Flourish & Blotts and purchased it on impulse. Did he want to make Harry happy? Yes. Did he check to see whether penguins might be related to Harry’s destined powers? Also yes.

(They weren’t. Penguins appeared to be perfectly ordinary.)

He’d picked up a few books for himself from a used bookshop in Knockturn Alley, though he’d made little reading progress. He could blame his inability to focus on holiday travels, but the reason ran deeper. The seduction of dark magic was losing its potency next to the euphoria of mastering the Patronus Charm. He was starting to see the potential of a different path.

Tom fingered the gilded locket on his bedside table, his one heirloom from the mother he’d never met. The S, composed of intricate green stones, glinted in the morning light.

What was the price of his soul?

You could do something bigger and better than becoming a dark wizard.

The summer wore on. The books remained unopened.

On Platform 9¾, Harry adjusted his prefect badge, feeling self-conscious. Though it had come as a surprise to everyone, Mum and Dad had both been embarrassingly proud. In Mum’s mind, he was good as Head Boy and Quidditch Captain already, and in Dad’s mind, he would be the first Potter to seamlessly combine rule-breaking and rule-enforcing.

“I almost was one myself,” he said with a wink, “but your mother kept me on a tight leash after we started going together.”

To which Mum snorted before she continued expounding on the virtues of the prefects’ bathroom and lounge.

Harry’s best friends eagerly remarked upon his new badge as well.

“Why didn’t you tell us about becoming prefect in your letters?” Hermione demanded.

“Er...Mum and Dad were making such a big deal, I was a little embarrassed.” Harry glanced at Ron, who didn’t look overly jealous, as he’d feared. “We’re okay, right?”

“When I didn’t get the badge, I was hoping it’d be you than anyone else,” Ron said, and the knot in Harry’s stomach eased. “I think Mum’s the one who was actually disappointed. She was hoping to have a fourth prefect in the family.”

Harry snuck a look at Mrs. Weasley, who was exchanging recipes with Mum. She seemed quite cheerful.

“But hey,” Ron said, “I’m taking over as the president of the Chess Club now that Talia’s Head Girl, so that counts for something, right?”

“Definitely more fun than patrolling.”

“Just make sure to go easy on me with the points.”

“I’ll be very generous,” Harry said, grinning.

Hermione huffed, no doubt displeased by Harry’s planned abuse of power, but before she could launch into a lecture, Ron took the offensive.

“How was your visit to Viktor?”

“What visit?”

“Didn’t he invite you to visit Bulgaria?”

Hermione reddened. “I didn’t end up going. We’re just pen pals now.”

“So you’re still writing all the time…”

Harry rolled his eyes. So much for his hope that his best friends would finally stop bickering and acknowledge their mutual attraction. Why were some people so oblivious?

Tuning them out, he surveyed the platform for other schoolmates. There was Luna, passing out the latest editions of The Quibbler to Ginny and some of her housemates. There was Neville, showing off a new plant to Hannah Abbot. There were the twins, demonstrating their latest inventions (some sort of fireworks) to Lee Jordan.

And there was Tom, standing beside a well-dressed elderly couple, who must be his grandparents. The woman sported an elegant ribboned hat, the man rested on an intricately carved cane, and they were both glancing around the platform, as if they’d never seen such concentrated chaos.

From the shift in Tom’s posture, Harry could tell he’d noticed him. Should he say hi, then? He checked on his friends and family, none of whom was paying attention to him, and headed over.

“Congratulations on becoming prefect,” Tom said, by way of greeting.

“Congratulations to you too,” Harry said, pleased to see Tom’s Head Boy badge. Then, remembering his manners, he turned to Tom’s family, who’d been studying him with curiosity. “Um, hi, Mr. and Mrs. Riddle.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” The woman’s accent reminded Harry of the Muggle Queen. “You must be one of Tommy’s friends.”

Tommy? Harry stifled a smile, making a mental note to tease Tom later. “My name is Harry. Nice meeting you. Tom said wonderful things about you.”

“Did he?” Mrs. Riddle’s face softened in fondness, and relief swept over Harry. They’d seemed so stern. He shouldn’t have doubted that they cared about Tom. “Our Tommy is quite a sweet and thoughtful boy. He took us to Côte d'Azur this summer with his magical tournament winnings.”

“That sounds fun!”

“And now he’s Head Boy at the magical school.” Mr. Riddle clapped a hand on Tom’s shoulder. “He’s never disappointed us, our dear boy. The one thing left, Tommy, is that we hope you find yourself a nice young lady soon.”

“Or a young man,” Mrs. Riddle said. “We can be as modern as wizards, Thomas.”

“Oh certainly. A nice and kind young man is perfectly acceptable. Isn’t that right, Harry?”

Harry blinked. “Um, right.”

“School romances can be quite sweet. Why, Tommy’s grandmother and I met in secondary school ourselves.”

“He used to surprise me with the most beautiful flowers,” Mrs. Riddle said, patting her husband’s cheek. “But I suppose children nowadays prefer other things. Tommy will simply need to learn the art of courtship, won’t he?”

“Uh…”

Harry was rapidly coming to the conclusion that posh Muggles were odd. He glanced at Tom, who was turning suspiciously red. Did this mean he had a young lady or a young man in mind?

“We should board the train soon,” Tom said, avoiding Harry’s eyes. “Grandmother, Grandfather, thank you for coming. I’ll see you next summer.”

“It was nice meeting you,” Harry said.

“Enjoy your school year, boys,” Mrs. Riddle said, and Harry could’ve sworn Mr. Riddle twinkled at him.

As he followed Tom towards the train, a terrifying thought occurred to him. “Your grandparents don’t read Witches Weekly, do they?” he asked.

“Grandmother has a subscription, as a matter of fact. She finds wizarding gossip quite fascinating. She recently wrote to the editor about her disappointment over the biased coverage of the Wakefield scandal.” Tom paused. “Is something the matter?”

Harry wished he could sink into the ground. “Um, no.”

Fortunately, the train whistled then, and he dismissed himself to say goodbye to Mum and Dad.

Tom had expected seventh year to be less eventful. The Triwizard Tournament was over, he had multiple verbal job offers, and he’d won the Head Boy position over Diggory.

September 1st proved him wrong.

It started with allowing his grandparents to accompany him to King’s Cross for the first time since first year. “It would be our last opportunity to see you off to school,” Grandfather had said, and Tom had agreed. Part of him had hoped that Harry would notice his appreciation of his Muggle family.

Of course, Grandmother and Grandfather had to embarrass him by calling him Tommy and talking about courtship, of all things.

It continued with the meeting in the prefects’ carriage. While he was pleased that Talia Prewett was the new Head Girl — she was remarkably levelheaded for a Gryffindor — some of the new prefects must’ve been selected by Dumbledore to maximize drama. In particular, the new Slytherin prefects were Draco Malfoy and Daphne Greengrass, the worst combination possible.

Draco and Harry glared daggers at each other through almost the entirety of the meeting. Tom had no doubt that house points for both Gryffindor and Slytherin would suffer this year. Hufflepuff might actually have a shot at the House Cup for once.

Daphne, on the other hand, was too friendly. She seated herself beside Harry, as if they were long-time friends, and complimented him on his new glasses, even though they looked exactly the same as his previous pairs. Tom made a mental note to separate her and Harry’s patrol schedules.

The actual shock, however, came at the Start-of-Term Feast. 

“Isn’t that Umbridge?” said Astoria Greengrass, pointing at the Head Table.

It was indeed. Umbridge sat between Flitwick and Slughorn, surveying the Great Hall with obvious smugness. Her polka dot bow clashed horribly with her bright purple robes.

Tom could hear the thoughts of nearby students. Why is she still here? Isn’t the Triwizard Tournament over? Umbridge had not been popular during her tenure as the High Inquisitor, even among the Slytherins. Her restrictive decrees on social activities and school clubs were universally decried.

Surely it couldn't be...

His terrible premonition was confirmed at the end of Dumbledore’s welcoming speech.

“Before we tuck in, I would like to take a moment to introduce our new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, whom many of you will remember from last year. Dolores Umbridge, welcome officially to Hogwarts.”

“Thank you, Albus.”

With a giggle, Umbridge stood to make her own speech, interspersed with her signature hem, hems. Tom plastered a polite smile on his face, but mostly tuned out her droning.

“The Ministry of Magic has always considered the education of young witches and wizards to be of vital importance...

“Progress for progress’s sake must be discouraged…

“Some changes will be for the better, while others will come to be recognized as errors of judgement…

“Let us move forward, then, into a new era of openness, effectiveness and accountability…

“Perfecting what needs to be perfected, and pruning wherever we find practices that ought to be prohibited…” [*]

Umbridge concluded with a flourish. Clapping was sparse and even professors were exchanging significant looks. Tom was impressed by Dumbledore’s calm demeanor. Over at the Gryffindor table, Harry looked as though he'd swallowed a toad.

Fudge was clearly not taking any chances during a reelection year. There had been rumors of internal strife within the Ministry and articles in the Daily Prophet suggesting that all wasn’t well with his administration. Unsurprisingly, corruption and underhanded deals couldn’t stay covered up forever. Dumbledore might not be a candidate for the Minister of Magic, but as Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, he had too much political sway.

Tom suppressed a sigh. As Head Boy and someone with political ambitions, he would have to curry favors with Umbridge, which meant he’d need to somehow enforce her ridiculous decrees without damaging his own credibility or popularity.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose. Yes, seventh year was definitely not going to be uneventful.

Perhaps he should’ve allowed Diggory to get Head Boy after all.

Harry trudged to the first Defense class of the term with extremely low expectations.

“It can’t be that bad,” Hermione said, trying to sound upbeat as they took their seats.

“What can she teach us?” Harry grumbled. “How to tame kittens?”

Taming kittens would’ve been better than their actual curriculum. An uneasy silence fell over the classroom as the students stared at the covers of their new textbooks. How could Defensive Magical Theory be enough for a proper Defense education? Didn’t Remus once mention that Wilbert Slinkhard was a known crackpot in academic circles?

Hermione raised her hand. “Excuse me, Professor Umbridge. There doesn’t appear to be any spells in our textbook.”

“Next time, Ms. Granger, please don’t speak until I call on you.” Umbridge patted her bright fuchsia bow. “Now, I can’t say that I’m fond of Galatea’s curriculum, so I’ve made some changes that will render the class more suitable to young wizards and witches.”

“But how are we expected to defend ourselves?”

“Raise our hand before you speak, Mr. Potter. Five points from Gryffindor. There hasn’t been a Dark Lord in the past five decades. The Ministry sees no reason why we spend time learning spells that won’t be of any practical use when we can instead reinforce your theoretical foundations.”

Even the Slytherins looked aghast at her logic. Bristling, Harry raised his hand, which Umbridge ignored.

“If we may turn to page —”

“Spells aren’t only for defending against Dark Lords!”

“Mr. Potter, I must remind you again to raise your hand, five points —”

Harry jumped to his feet. “You want us to fail our O.W.L.s. You want Dumbledore to look bad so Fudge could stay in office!”

“Twenty points from Gryffindor and detention at eight o’clock on Friday, Mr. Potter, and if you do not sit down, that will be one week of detentions.”

A week of detentions would disrupt Quidditch practice. He couldn’t do that to the team. Harry took a deep breath and sank into his chair. Ron and Hermione each squeezed one of his arms. Across the room, Malfoy smirked.

The rest of the class was quiet as the students self-studied. Brimming with outrage, Harry could barely read the textbook and only managed to finish the first page before class mercifully ended.

Daphne tapped him on the shoulder on their way out of the classroom. “That was brave of you!” she whispered before heading off with her friends.

Ron looked confused while Hermione looked thoughtful.

“That’s an interesting development,” she said. “You’re becoming quite popular with Slytherins.”

“Isn’t she seeing Rigel Lestrange?” The last thing Harry needed was another jealous Lestrange out for his blood.

“Having Daphne on our side can be quite useful,” she mused.

Dinner was a glum affair at the Gryffindor table. Even those who hadn’t yet experienced Umbridge’s class had heard enough from their housemates to dread their upcoming lessons.

“We’ll fail our O.W.L.s,” Ron moaned, and Harry knew it was serious when his best friend started worrying about grades. “Why would Dumbledore do this to us?”

“It’s not Dumbledore. Fudge has the Board of Governors in his pocket,” said George, throwing a dark glare at the Head Table.

“And if we fail our O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s,” said Fred, “it will cast Hogwarts in a bad light, which means Dumbledore will pose less of a risk to Fudge’s reelection.”

“Dumbledore doesn’t even want to be the minister.”

“No, Ginny, but that doesn’t matter. That’s how politics work.”

Harry recalled Tom’s words from the night of the Yule Ball. Officials can abuse power for their own agenda.

Hermione, who had been suspiciously quiet, spoke. “Fortunately, I’ve come up with a solution. Harry will teach us Defense.”

Harry was sure he’d misheard. “Um, what?”

“It’s simple,” she said in the tone of someone explaining the alphabet to a child. “You’ll teach us what we need for our exams.”

Neville perked up. “That’s a great idea! Harry’s always been brilliant at Defense.”

“But I’m only a fifth-year, not a professor.” Harry was horrified by the thought. “I would be awful at teaching.”

“You did a great job with Riddle,” Seamus said. “His thunderbird Patronus was impressive.”

Ron nodded eagerly. “Yeah! I’d like to learn how to cast the Patronus Charm.”

Harry glared at his perpetually unhelpful best friend. “The Patronus Charm was the only spell I taught Tom.”

“You don’t need to teach us everything,” Ginny said. “Fred and George can find us some upper-years for the more advanced spells.”

“We can definitely find some sixth- and seventh-years,” Fred said, “though Harry should still be our leader because he has the most credibility.”

“What credibility?”

“Don’t think of it like teaching a class,” Hermione said. “Think of it like...being the president of a school club.”

“There’s no way Umbridge would approve a club that I’m running.”

“Call it a study group then. The terminology doesn’t matter.” Hermione waved away the concern, as if she’d been breaking rules her entire life.

“We will come up with the curriculum together,” Neville suggested. “You won’t do any of this alone.”

“Exactly.” Hermione turned back to Harry. “So, what do you think? Let’s give this a try?”

Harry glanced around the table, taking in the expectant glances of his friends, and bit his lip. Teaching Tom had been fun last year and undermining Umbridge had lots of appeal.

Imagine what you can accomplish if you actually apply yourself.

“All right,” he said, giving in, “but I bet nobody except us is going to sign up.”

Hermione beamed. “This is where your admirers in other houses come in. Leave it to me.”

Unable to concentrate, Tom set his Ancient Runes textbook on his lap with a sigh. The Slytherin common room was chattier than usual and the voices of his younger housemates grated on his ears. He was about to retire to his dormitory when he heard a familiar name.

“But Potter?”

His head snapped up. From her queenly perch at a nearby couch, Daphne Greengrass was facing down her housemates, whose expressions ranged from puzzlement (in the case of Vincent) to outrage (in the case of Draco).

“All I’m doing is signing up for his club, no need for a storm in a teapot.” She caught sight of Tom watching. “Besides, none of you minded when Harry helped Tom with the Triwizard Tournament.”

A few Slytherins turned to Tom, though they quickly turned back to Daphne upon seeing his expression.

“The club is clearly illegal,” said Draco.

“Then call it a study group. If you ask nicely, you might even be welcome to join.”

Astoria frowned. “You should be careful. Umbridge doesn’t like Potter, so she won’t approve of whatever this is.”

Daphne shrugged. “Umbridge doesn’t like Daddy either, and he’s doing fine. And we’re Slytherins. Since when do we follow the rules?”

“Be honest. It’s all because you have a crush on Potter, isn’t it?” accused a very red Rigel, who evidently hadn’t gotten over their terrible Yule Ball date.

“Is it any of your business if I do? Harry is really nice and adorable.”

“Adorable?” Draco threw up his arms. “What, do you actually want to snog him?”

“Why not?” Daphne countered, a small smile playing at the corner of her lips. “In fact, I bet he’s a better kisser than any of you.”

Everyone within earshot either began sputtering in indignation or burst into shocked giggles. The rest of the common room regarded the corner with puzzlement. Over the commotion she caused, Daphne stared straight at Tom, a challenge in her gray eyes.

Tom glared right back. Slytherin’s standards were truly slipping. This frivolous discussion was beneath him, he should take points off the lot of them.

Besides, Daphne’s pronouncement made no sense. Harry couldn’t be a better kisser than everyone in Slytherin, certainly not better than Tom. Tom had done his fair share of kissing and received nothing but positive feedback.

Then again, Harry’s kisses would be different, wouldn’t they? They would be gentle and sweet and lingering. Tom’s stomach somersaulted as the mental image of Harry kissing Daphne morphed into one of Harry kissing him. He imagined Harry slotting perfectly in his arms, imagined the curve of Harry’s lips. Would they feel soft and warm against his own? Would they taste of Harry’s latest dessert obsession?

He had to stop thinking about kissing Harry. Karkaroff was right, he couldn’t afford to be distracted right now — 

And then the idea occurred to him.

What if kissing was Harry’s powers that he knew not?

Surely this was absurd. Kissing was a foolish teenage pastime, not a weapon capable of overcoming an accomplished dark wizard.

Yet the idea was taking root. The prophecy said defeat, not kill. Kissing might not be a traditional weapon, but it led to distraction and sentiments. In the right hands, it could be potent.

Was this how Harry had gotten under Tom’s skin, consumed his thoughts?

Was this why he couldn’t concentrate on his plans, couldn’t muster interest in dark magic and Ministry politics?

He was losing the plot, this was ridiculous —

It made sense. It had to. It would explain everything.

(The alternative explanation for his distraction was far more terrifying to consider.)

Tom clapped his book shut. There was only one path forward.

He would need to verify for himself.

Chapter Text

Per his usual tradition, Professor Slughorn celebrated the start of the school year with a party, which also served to introduce new Slug Club members.

Harry was unsurprisingly one of them, as Slughorn had been hinting at this for some time. However, the honor was lost on him. Unlike other new members, who came in freshly-pressed dress robes, he showed up in a bright red monogrammed jumper and Muggle jeans. Instead of “making connections for the future,” as Slughorn would put it, he stayed in the corner with Granger and Daphne, when he wasn’t stuffing his face with the hors d’oeuvres.

“Free-spirited, exactly like his mother,” Slughorn said indulgently. “I can understand your affection for the boy, Tom.”

In truth, Tom couldn’t entirely blame Harry. Most of Slughorn’s distinguished guests were as compelling as Professor Binns’ lectures. To make matters worse, Dolores Umbridge was in attendance tonight, and her giggles could be heard from across the room.

Tom went through his usual routine. First he introduced himself to the new guests (“Mr. Fawley, I enjoyed your latest article on the evolution of runic wards”), then caught up with past connections (“Mr. Cuffe, such a well-written coverage of vampire rights activists”), and was about to end his round with more relaxed conversations with fellow seventh-years when Umbridge accosted him.

“Mr. Riddle! I’ve been meaning to congratulate you on your appointment as Head Boy.”

“Professor Umbridge, what a pleasure to have you back at Hogwarts after you did such a wonderful job reviving the Triwizard Tournament.”

She patted her hair. “Well, you see, I was invited so nicely that I simply couldn’t refuse.”

“Would this be a permanent position for you? I imagine that Minister Fudge would miss your great work at the Ministry.”

“That remains to be seen. I leave big shoes to be filled at the Ministry.” Umbridge took a sip of her drink, which smelled like imported Bourgogne wine, and leaned over in the manner of someone confiding an important secret. “I’m doing this as a great personal favor to Cornelius. Between you and me, standards have gone down at Hogwarts.”

Tom made a noncommittal sound. Even if standards had gone down, he doubted Umbridge was the solution. At least it appeared she wouldn’t remain the professor for long. He wanted the Defense position to be one of his post-Hogwarts options.

“Speaking of which, I’d love to schedule more career chats with you this year.” Her eyes glinted. “As lucrative as Igor’s job offer may be, I find his part of the world to be rather...uncouth.”

Tom hid his cough of disagreement behind a sip of pumpkin juice. Not noticing, Umbridge continued, “If you’d like to stay closer to home, Cornelius and I can create a position for you. As I’ve mentioned before, we need more young talent like you to help push forward our agenda for a better magical Britain.”

After last year, he knew her agenda well. In addition to lifetime tenure for select officials, anti-Muggle laws and anti-creature rights featured prominently. Then, he hadn’t minded, but now, juxtaposed against the eager house-elves in the kitchen and his proud grandparents on the train platform, he found them less appealing.

Tom smiled. “I’ll certainly consider it. Thank you for your generous offer.”

Umbridge bestowed what she probably thought was a benevolent smile before she went off to harass another guest. Tom took large gulps of juice, wishing that students were allowed something stronger at Slug Parties.

“Still friends with her?” Harry had joined him at the food table to replenish his plate with sausage rolls.

“She’s charming in her own way,” Tom said, recalling he’d used much the same words to describe Rachele.

“Well, I hate her. We’re shot for our O.W.L.s. Can you believe we’re learning from Slinkhard?”

“A different perspective and teaching style could be beneficial.”

In all honesty, Tom had no faith in Umbridge’s teaching abilities. Then again, it didn’t matter to him. He knew he’d pass his N.E.W.T.s with flying colors courtesy of self-studying, and Merrythought’s classes had been too tame for his tastes.

Harry saw through his insincerity. “Are you listening to yourself? You’re the one who told me about how dodgy she and Fudge are.”

Tom glanced around the room and lowered his voice. “You still shouldn’t get on Umbridge’s bad side. Her influence is too powerful and can negatively impact your future career, especially if you want to work in the Ministry.”

“Too late.” Harry bit into a sausage roll. “I already got myself detention with her.”

“Already? What did you do?”

“Accused her of sabotaging Dumbledore.” He shrugged at Tom’s horror. “It was worth it. I won’t go to the Ministry after Hogwarts if she’s still there.”

“You can’t insult the Senior Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic.”

“I can’t put on a mask the way you can.” Harry gestured around the room. “How can you stand it, pretending any of these people are actually interesting?”

“Sometimes you have to put on a mask to endear yourself to others.”

Harry’s sigh was a soft exhale. “You’re already talking like a politician.”

“Wait.” Tom almost grabbed his wrist. “I...don’t wear a mask around you.”

It was both a statement and a question. Though Harry didn’t respond, his gaze was searching and unsettling. Tom became aware of their proximity. With his newest revelation regarding the prophecy at the forefront of his mind, he couldn’t stop staring at Harry’s mouth, pink and flecked with pastry flakes.

“Is there something on my face?” Harry asked, noticing.

“Um, yes.” Tom glanced away. “You have crumbs all over.”

“Bugger.” Harry scrubbed his cheeks, which did little. “Well, I better let you get back to your connections.”

He rejoined his friends in the corner without glancing back.

Hand tightening around his goblet, Tom put on a smile to strike up a conversation with Wendy Slinkhard, who was working on a sequel to her brother's textbook.

Defense class did not improve. Harry bit his tongue every time Umbridge promoted Fudge’s platform, or put down Dumbledore and the current state of affairs at Hogwarts. Only the thought of Hermione’s Defense club kept him from outright screaming at her.

After dinner on Friday, Harry headed to Umbridge’s office, armed with his friends’ well-wishes and his own curiosity. Her door was already open in anticipation of his arrival, so he entered after a perfunctory knock. The office was exactly as he’d imagined: an explosion of pinkness, laces, and kittens, laden with a strong floral aroma that was already giving him a slight headache.

She looked up from a mirror she was using to adjust her bow. “Good evening, Mr. Potter, I appreciate that you showed up for detention on time. Please, take a seat. Tonight, you’ll be writing lines.”

“Just write lines?” Harry had expected something much worse, like manually polishing every one of her decorative plates.

“Yes, but not with your quill,” she said, before he could retrieve one from his bag. “I have a rather special invention that I’d like you to use instead.”

Harry studied the black quill she handed over. While it was thin and very sharp, it looked harmless as long as he didn’t accidentally poke himself. He started to reach for an ink bottle, but again she stopped him.

“You don’t need any ink. A piece of parchment will do nicely. Now, I would like you to write, I must not show disrespect.”

“How many times?” he asked, smoothing parchment over her desk.

She giggled and started to refill her teacup. “Oh, as long as it takes for the message to sink in.”

Whatever that meant. Well, at worst it would be a few hours of lines, and then he would keep his mouth shut and stay away from this crazy woman.

Pressing the tip of the quill to the parchment, Harry began to write...and yelped in pain as letters appeared on the parchment in red ink. No, not red ink, he realized as he examined the back of his hand in horror. He was writing in his own blood.

Surely this was illegal. This was clearly dark magic, and everyone knew that dark magic involving human blood was forbidden.

Umbridge cut off his protest without looking up from her tea biscuit. “I would advise you to keep writing. It would be a shame if your insubordination ends up hurting those you care about. For instance, have you heard that the Ministry has been rethinking some of our policies concerning...werewolves?”

He stiffened.

“Yes, indeed, Cornelius always did feel that merely enforcing a registry isn’t enough precaution given how dangerous they could be. We don’t want a repeat of Fenrir Greyback, do we? In fact, I do believe the Ministry will be voting on a few proposals regarding employment eligibility and background checks next week. The panel currently leans towards more lenient policies, so it would be foolish to sway them, wouldn’t it?”

Harry trembled with the effort of staying quiet. She was bluffing; she had to be. Nobody could get away with manipulation like this.

“Not only that.” Umbridge’s teacup clinked against the saucer. “I heard that your father is up for a promotion. He’s been quite dedicated to his job over the past decade, hasn’t he? Risked his life more than a few times. It would be such a shame if anonymous tips on his occasional lapses in responsibilities reach the ears of Rufus Scrimgeour, wouldn’t it?”

Scrimgeour, that was Dad’s boss. Dad had been working so hard for his promotion and promised to take Mum on a long holiday to celebrate. While Harry couldn’t imagine his father being outright irresponsible, he and Sirius did have a tendency to goof at the most inconvenient times. He wouldn’t be surprised if Dad had offended some higher-ups at the Ministry at some point.

“I’ve also heard that you and the Head Boy are close friends, difficult as it may be to believe. Both Mr. Fudge and I have been quite impressed with his potential. It would be a shame if his promising career in the Ministry is derailed if, say, word gets out regarding his non-magical grandparents. Old school pure-bloods can be so particular, can’t they?”

Harry’s heart squeezed at the thought of troubling Tom, who spent so much time and energy cultivating his Ministry connections.

Umbridge made eye contact then, and Harry shivered at the predatory glint in her bulging eyes. “Shall I go on?”

He bit his lip, coming to a fairly easy decision. A little blood was nothing to protect the people he cared about.

Her smile was victorious. “No dillydallying,” she sang.

Harry gritted his teeth and continued writing.

Before heading back to the Gryffindor Tower, Harry stopped at the nearest boys’ bathroom to wash his hands. To his relief, the cuts had mostly healed, leaving behind only an uncomfortable itchiness. By tomorrow, nobody would be any wiser as to what had happened.

Lost in his thoughts, Harry rounded the corner and stumbled into someone, who grabbed his shoulders to steady him.

“Tom,” he gasped. “Er, thank you.”

“What are you doing after curfew? Quidditch practice?”

“Detention with Umbridge, and then I cleaned up a bit.” 

Tom glanced down at Harry’s right hand, which he was still absently rubbing. “Why do you need to clean up? Did she have you scrub the classroom?”

Harry briefly considered telling Tom about the blood quill. As the Head Boy, he’d know there was no way a professor could use a dark artifact on a student. Then he recalled Tom cozying up to Umbridge at the Slug Party and her threat about Tom’s future. Better not put him in a tough position. Maybe he could mention it to Talia after the werewolf bills and Dad’s promotion passed. The Prewetts never liked Fudge or Umbridge anyway.

“No, I just had to write lines.” Harry shoved his hands into his pockets. “It’s not important.”

Tom frowned, tightening his hold on Harry’s shoulders.

“Are you still concerned about your O.W.L.s?” he asked. “I can always help you study.”

Though Harry wouldn’t mind more time with Tom, he hesitated. “Will you help everyone else?”

“No. I’ve long learned that it’s not worth the trouble to help everyone.”

Tom’s casual dismissal solidified Harry’s resolve to do his best for the new Defense club. He would not give up on everyone else. At least Tom could be a good resource as long as he didn’t know Harry would pass along the knowledge to others.

“Thanks, I’ll probably take you up on that offer.” Harry yawned before he could say more. After such an exhausting evening, he was looking forward to a cozy night in bed with Tubby. “I should get back. I still have homework to finish.”

Tom hadn’t looked away, but he did finally let go of his shoulders. “All right. Let me walk you back, then.”

Harry’s face heated. “I know how to get back. Aren’t you supposed to be patrolling?”

“Well, I’m also supposed to escort students back to their dorms, and you look unsteady on your feet.”

Harry rather blamed Tom for that. His proximity only intensified Harry's dizziness from detention.

Nevertheless, he agreed. Their footsteps echoed in the empty corridors, interrupted by the occasional ghost, talking portrait, or wayward student. The entire way, Tom was quiet, almost distracted. From time to time, Harry tried to catch his eye to break the silence, but every time Tom glanced away, leaving him confused. Was he boring company? Tom didn’t have to walk him back.

Thankfully, it didn’t take them long to reach the portrait of the Fat Lady. Harry almost sighed in relief.

“Well, we’re here. Thanks for walking me back.”

Tom nodded absently. He was staring at Harry’s face again, which made Harry feel more self-conscious. But he couldn’t have food crumbs this time; he’d checked his face in the bathroom mirror earlier.

“Harry,” Tom began.

There was a crash. The two of them spun around to find Ginny scattering an armful of Quidditch magazines. She looked furious with herself.

“Sorry! Don’t let me interrupt!”

“You aren’t interrupting,” Harry said in confusion, kneeling down beside her. “Here, let me help —”

With a loud huff, Tom flicked his wand, collecting the magazines into a neat stack that he handed back to a flushed Ginny.

“We’re at Hogwarts. There’s something called magic. Anyhow. Good night, then.”

Was it Harry's imagination or did Tom seem unnaturally annoyed by such an honest mistake?

Once Tom had completely gone, Ginny let out a theatrical sigh. “I’m sorry for ruining everything with my clumsiness.”

“You didn’t. The magazines are fine. Oh wow, you even got Which Broomstick?’s latest issue.”

Ginny snatched the offending issue back. “Were you not paying attention? He was totally going to —”

She clapped a hand to her mouth, eyes widening. Harry narrowed his eyes.

“Were you eavesdropping?”

She shoved the magazine back. “Actually, let’s talk about Quidditch. You should see the upgrades they’re making to the next iteration of the Firebolt, aerodynamic stabilization, can you imagine...”

With one last glance down the corridor, Harry followed a chattering Ginny inside the common room.

For the Defense club’s introductory meeting, Hermione secured an empty classroom on the fifth floor. Harry had been skeptical that anyone outside their friend circle would show up, especially since they’d relied on word of mouth. Therefore, he was more than a little surprised to see a steady trickle of students, not all of whom he recognized.

“I had no idea you were so popular, Hermione,” he marveled.

“Me? They came for you.” Hermione looked smug. “I told everyone that you were starting a Defense club and they came flocking, just as I know they would.”

“Why would they come for me? Half of them don’t even know me.”

“Oh, everyone knows you.” Anthony Goldstein, a fellow prefect, had overheard the conversation. “You helped Tom Riddle win the tournament.”

“I didn’t help him win —”

“So we all figured, hey, if you’re good enough for him, you’re more than good enough for us.”

Harry choked.

“Some of us are also wondering if Riddle would join, since you’re running the club,” said Padma Patil, twirling a lock of hair around her finger.

“Tom is definitely not going to join.” In fact, for many reasons, Harry would ensure Tom would never learn about this club.

“We understand,” said Hannah Abbott coyly. “You don’t want to share your boyfriend.”

This was getting old. “Tom’s not my boyfriend.”

“Isn’t he? He’s always staring at you in prefects’ meetings.”

“He does not!” Harry protested, even as he realized that actually, Tom had been staring at him a lot.

(And he didn’t exactly mind.)

Okay, now he was blushing, and everyone was grinning at his expense.

Fortunately, Hermione decided then that quorum had been reached. Using Sonorous to magnify her voice, she called the room to order.

“Hi everyone, thanks for coming,” she said. “To recap why we are all here —”

“Umbridge sucks!”

“Um, exactly,” Hermione said, blinking at Dennis Creevey. “Umbridge is doing a terrible job of teaching Defense, and we can’t let her ruin our education, especially for those of us taking O.W.L.s or N.E.W.T.s. So we’re going to form a club to learn Defense ourselves. Harry has agreed to lead our lessons and I think his achievements speak for themselves.”

“Hear, hear!” Ron cried, leading the room into enthusiastic clapping.

Hermione turned to Harry, whose face was burning. “Do you want to say a few words?”

“Er, sure.” Harry scratched his head. “Thank you for your support. I’ll do my best to help everyone. Please share your ideas as well, we’re all in this together. Um, that’s all.”

“Perfect!” Hermione beamed with pride. “We’re still working out the logistics. I’m thinking that we will meet once or twice a week, but we still need to figure out a schedule that works for everyone and a good way to contact each other. So stay tuned.”

She nodded meaningfully at Daphne, Luna, and Susan Bones, her liaisons to the other houses.

“To formalize the club, we should give ourselves a name,” Cedric said.

“We can call ourselves the Defense Association,” Cho said. “D.A. for short.”

“Ooh, let’s make the D.A. stand for something more exciting,” Ginny suggested. “Like...Daring Army.”

“Or Dolores Anti-society,” Daphne said, ignoring the scandalized look from her younger sister.

Harry and Hermione exchanged a glance. “They both sound...interesting,” Harry said, “but let’s stay with the acronym to be safe.”

“On that note,” Hermione said. “We technically need Umbridge’s approval to start this club, but she’s obviously not going to give it. This means that we need to be discreet. Please be careful and only invite those you personally trust. And if anyone outside the club asks, we're simply another study group. Any questions?”

When the room remained quiet but attentive, she grabbed a piece of parchment from her bag and wrote D.A. at the top. “Let’s all add our names here so we know who we are and promise to keep our secret.”

One by one, the students came up to put their name down. Some were eager — Cedric and Cho gave Harry reassuring grins — while others were far more reluctant — Marietta Edgecombe and Astoria Greengrass had to be nudged. Harry swallowed, both nervous and excited by his upcoming responsibilities.

All of a sudden, the sound of someone trying the classroom door cut through the excited chatter. Then came a knock and a question, “Why is the door locked?”

The room froze at Tom’s voice. Hermione hurriedly tucked away the sign-up sheet.

“I’m the Head Boy,” Tom continued. “If you don’t open the door, I’ll need to come in to investigate.”

“He probably thinks there’s a romantic rendezvous in here,” said Lee, wiggling his eyebrows so suggestively that Ron gagged.

“Talia,” he said, turning to his cousin. “You’re Head Girl. Go chase him off.”

Talia tossed her red pigtail over her shoulder. “Shouldn’t Harry do it?”

Harry gaped at her as more than a few people around the classroom chuckled, the twins the loudest among them.

“Of course it should be Harry. He’s the only one Riddle would believe.”

“He’s Riddle’s Harri —”

Harry jumped to his feet. “All right, enough. I will talk to him!”

“Go save us, o fearless leader!”

O sacrificial lamb, more like, Harry thought with a sigh. Once everyone had arranged themselves in some semblance of studying together, he opened the door.

Tom stood outside, arms crossed and eyebrows raised. Harry tried to block his view, realized its futility due to their height difference, and hurriedly pulled the door shut behind him. 

“Hi Tom!” He opted for a chipper tone. “Isn’t it too early to start patrolling?”

“It’s part of my duty as Head Boy to make sure nothing untoward happens at Hogwarts. What’s going on inside?”

“Nothing untoward.”

Tom narrowed his eyes. “Then why did you close the door behind you?”

“Because everyone’s studying and noise would be distracting.”

The excuse sounded lame even to his own ears. There was no way they didn’t look somewhat suspicious. 

Tom clearly thought the same. “It’s rather interesting that all of you would choose to study together in an empty classroom rather than the library, especially considering most of you didn’t bring textbooks and you don’t share the same classes.”

“It’s an impromptu study hall. And we’re building inter-house relationships.”

“So there’s no rule-breaking of any sort occurring.”

“Of course not. I’m a prefect!” Harry tapped his badge. “I wouldn’t break any rules.”

Without good reason, anyway.

Tom scrutinized him. Much as Harry tried to avoid eye contact, he couldn’t look away. There was that stare again, so unnerving, like Tom could see everything inside his head.

And now Tom was leaning closer, and closer, like...he wanted to kiss Harry or something.

How ridiculous. The stress of hiding an illegal club was surely encroaching on his sanity.

“Are you satisfied?” he squeaked.

Tom stepped back. “All right,” he said softly. “Enjoy your studying.”

Harry collapsed against the door, heart pounding, until Tom’s footsteps had faded down the corridor. That was a close call.

He reentered the classroom to find everyone looking expectantly at him. A select few, like Daphne and Ginny, smirked.

“We’re safe for now, but Tom’s definitely suspicious.”

“We could set up some Silencing Spells and wards next time,” Eddie Carmichael suggested, but Hermione shook her head.

“Those are too easily detected. We need to find a better place to meet going forward.”

“George and I are on it,” Fred said.

“Actually,” Harry said, after a mental sorry to Tom, “I know the perfect place.”

The first month of school passed in a blur of activities.

Despite Harry’s initial misgivings, he was settling well into his role as a prefect. Tom and Talia were knowledgeable and patient mentors, and he found he enjoyed enforcing school rules (within reason, of course) and mentoring younger students. And aside from the very occasional point wars with Malfoy, he thought he’d done a good job of avoiding House bias.

Running the D.A. also turned out to be quite fulfilling. Designing lessons for the D.A. reminded him of designing Quidditch exercises for Tom, and seeing his classmates master new spells gave him the same accomplishment as seeing Tom successfully cast a corporeal Patronus.

“Harry! Look, I did it. I finally Disarmed Hermione!”

Harry grinned at Neville, who was brandishing two wands happily. Behind him, Hermione looked torn between pride and annoyance.

“Great work!”

In fact, everyone had done well this evening. The floor of the Room of Requirement was littered with wands, quite a good sign for a lesson focused on the Disarming Spell.

“Next time, we can start trying the Patronus Charm,” Harry told the room and held up the fake Galleon Hermione had created for communication. “Pay attention to your coins for our next meeting time.”

After the meeting, Harry stayed behind to answer questions and demonstrate wand movement. His best friends couldn’t wait for him, as Ron had a chess club meeting and Hermione had an actual study group. As a result, he was the last person to leave, or he thought he was until he spotted Daphne lingering by the door.

“Daphne, is everything okay?” he asked.

She smiled, fiddling with the straps of her schoolbag. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t realize. Er, did you also need help with the Disarming Spell?”

“No, I was wondering whether you’d like to walk me back to my common room.”

Harry hesitated. The Slytherin dungeons were in a different part of the castle from Umbridge’s office, and he didn’t want to risk being late to detention. Then again, Daphne would be pleasant company before another two hours of carving letters on his hand.

“All right.”

While Harry felt somewhat awkward accompanying a girl back to her dormitory, Daphne soon set him at ease. Her talkativeness reminded him of Ginny and Luna, except instead of Quidditch or mythical creatures, her stories centered on her family’s interactions with the Gringotts goblins.

“...and that,” she said with a flourish, “was how Daddy ended up sponsoring a memorial dedicated to the Goblin Rebellion of 1752, all because he confused Urg the Unclean with Ug the Unreliable.”

“Wow, I’d love to see it sometime.”

“I’ll bring a picture next time.”

Next time? Did she expect him to walk her back after every D.A. meeting now?

They had reached the stone wall that led to the Slytherin common room. A few Slytherins passed by, giving the two of them curious looks. Harry didn’t see Tom among them and wasn’t sure whether he was disappointed or relieved.

He shuffled his feet. “Well, we’re here. Um, I guess I’ll see you?”

“Wait.” Daphne laid her hand on his arm. “Harry, I want to tell you that I like you.”

“I like you too —” Harry began, but she was leaning in.

Oh. She meant like, like.

He swallowed. What was he supposed to do? He’d never kissed anyone before, hadn’t expected his first kiss to be from her. In his third year, he’d nursed fantasies about Cho, and then more recently —

Her face was so close now. She was pretty and nice and funny, like Cho, even if she didn’t have dark curls and dark eyes.

He didn’t lean away and Daphne’s lips touched his cheek lightly.

It was nice, for a first kiss. If that even counted as a first kiss.

She cocked her head, watching and waiting for his response.

“Are your housemates going to murder me?” he said, trying to defuse his awkwardness. “I don’t want to cross another Lestrange.”

Despite how ridiculous he sounded, Daphne laughed. “Rigel isn’t my boyfriend, and no Slytherin would dare hurt you.”

Harry wasn’t quite so confident.

“Anyway,” she continued, “there’s a Hogsmeade weekend coming up. Do you want to go together?”

“I —” For some reason, he thought of Tom. “I don’t know. I — I need to go to detention!” he blurted desperately.

Daphne seemed to understand. “Well, let me know when you do. Good night, Harry.”

Brushing his shoulder lightly, she slipped past, told the stone wall “Nundu,” and disappeared inside her common room.

The night sky was overcast. Other than the castle’s illuminated windows, the only source of light came from the shimmering blanket of magic that always settled over Hogwarts at nighttime.

Harry stared into the dark depths of the Black Lake. After spending an hour sleeping underwater, his childhood terror of water had largely faded. While he still planned to avoid swimming, he now found the lake soothing with its rhythmic waves, a good place where he could clear his muddled mind.

“Waiting for the Giant Squid?”

Harry snapped to attention. How long had Tom been watching?

“No, he's gone,” he said. “I just finished lecturing him.”

Tom’s chuckle was low and rumbly. “He does misbehave quite often.”

“What are you doing here?” Harry asked. Tom seemed to have a knack for showing up wherever he was these days.

“I need to make sure that the prefects are staying out of trouble.”

“I’ve been staying out of trouble! Even McGonagall says that I’ve been doing a good job.”

“Your streak of detentions tells me otherwise. Draco is practically gleeful over your weekly appointments with Umbridge.”

Harry slumped, as Tom had a point there. “We hate each other. I like to think that the detentions are just as painful for her because she has to put up with me.”

“So it may be. What was the impetus this time?”

“She tried to disband the Quidditch teams! And my detention was worth it, because I got Dumbledore and McGonagall to intervene.”

Tom sighed. “You must control your temper better. You are on her blacklist and she’s been asking around about your secret study group.”

Talia had mentioned this as well. “We have a study group only because she can’t teach Defense properly,” he said stubbornly. “It’s not against school rules.”

“If that’s truly all that’s going on inside the Room of Requirement.”

Harry caught the implicit accusation. “I’m sorry for sharing your secret, but...I shared a secret room with you too, so fair trade, really.”

“Except I don’t sneak into kitchens to eat treacle tarts.”

Another fair point.

“Are you going to tell Umbridge?”

Tom cocked his head. “Well, according to you, nothing untoward is going on, so I see no reason to tattle.”

Harry grinned. “In return, I can tell you about other secret rooms and passageways at Hogwarts. There are lots of them that I bet you don’t know. There’s even one that goes to Honeydukes, so you can go to Hogsmeade whenever you want!”

“And how do you know those?” he asked, sounding both intrigued and suspicious.

“A marauder never tells his secrets.”

Tom hummed, but didn’t pursue the point. Instead, he took a step closer.

“On the topic of Hogsmeade, I heard you and Daphne are going together this coming weekend. That caused quite a ruckus in the dungeons.”

“Oh.” Harry rubbed his arms. “Yeah, Daphne asked me, but I...haven’t said yes yet.”

“Why not?”

Harry’s eyes flicked up to Tom’s face and flicked away. “I — I don’t know.”

But he did know. He just couldn’t explain that much as he liked Daphne, saying yes to her would feel like shutting the door on something — something impossible, his mind supplied — with Tom.

Tom had taken another step closer. “Is that so?” he said softly.

Harry almost jumped when Tom’s hand fell on his shoulder. Even as his brain sounded alarm, the rest of him was rooted in place. Anticipation hung heavily in the air and Harry had to remember to breathe. Before he could say anything, Tom slipped a hand under his chin, angled his head upward, and brushed their lips together.

Harry had never kissed anyone before, and he had never allowed himself to imagine kissing Tom. Even if he had, however, he wouldn’t have imagined it to be so achingly tender. The pressure against his mouth was feather-light, the contact just long enough to pick up the faintest taste of Tom’s favorite tea, bitter and floral. 

Before he had fully recovered, before he could panic about whether he was doing this correctly, Tom had drawn away. His face remained close, his expression intense and expectant. They gazed at each other in the darkness, a silent question passing between them.

When Harry nodded, Tom pulled him into a second kiss, deeper and more lingering. Cradling Harry’s cheek with one hand, he rested his other hand at the small of Harry’s back to nudge him closer. Very shyly, Harry placed his own hands at Tom’s waist. He should close his eyes — wasn’t that how Muggles on telly kissed? — but he kept them wide open. He wanted to slow down time and commit every detail to memory. The warmth of Tom’s skin, the scent of his aftershave, the thuds of his heartbeat.

Too soon, they broke for air, though Tom did not move away. Harry’s breathing hitched as Tom ran a hand through his hair, trailed it down his face, thumbed across his cheek. Though the night air was warm, he was shivering, and Tom pulled him even closer.

Harry found his voice. “What — what was that?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Tom’s whisper was laden with amusement.

“You kissed me. Why?”

“I’ve wanted to do so for sometime.” Tom’s lips brushed his forehead, right over his scar. Then he lightly rested his cheek on Harry’s head and inhaled. “You seem surprised.”

Harry allowed himself to relax into Tom’s arms. “I — I’ve never done it before,” he said, and immediately winced in embarrassment.

“Never?” Tom shifted so they faced each other again.

“Only because I’ve been busy with other endeavors.”

Tom was smiling so fondly that Harry’s breath caught.

“Well,” he said, “turns out the prophecy was quite insightful.”

He leaned forward again, and Harry started to mirror, and —

Wait.

“What did you say about a prophecy?”

Tom stiffened. “Nothing.”

It’d been an offhand question to an offhand comment, one to which Harry didn’t expect a serious answer, but the flicker on Tom’s face gave him pause. He’d known Tom long enough to recognize this expression.

What was he hiding?

With difficulty, Harry wrenched himself away from Tom and felt instantly colder.

“You did say prophecy,” he said more shakily than he would’ve liked. “What prophecy?”

“You misunderstood —”

“No. Tell me the truth.”

Tom was silent for so long that Harry almost didn’t expect him to answer, didn’t want him to answer, so he could chalk up this whole exchange to hallucination from blood loss.

Yet Tom did speak again.

“Professor Trelawney made a prophecy. About us.”

“Trelawney? About us?”

Tom nodded. His hands fell to his sides, curling into loose fists.

“What did it say?” Harry prodded.

A long pause, and then he answered, in a very flat tone, “I would become a Dark Lord.”

“A Dark Lord?”

“Yes,” he said in the same flat tone, “and you were going to defeat me with ‘the power that he knows not.’”

 The words made sense individually, but strung together, they were incomprehensible. Defeat Tom? With some mysterious bogus power? He would’ve laughed, except Tom was serious.

“You didn’t actually believe the prophecy, did you?” Harry said. “Because if it’s true, it would’ve been a lot easier to just murder me.” His blood ran cold at the look on Tom’s face. “You actually wanted to murder me. What stopped you, then?”

“I wanted to find out what your special power is.”

“And then kill me right after?”

Tom exhaled. “Not right after, but that was the spirit of the original plan, yes.”

Harry took a moment to digest the newfound truth. Horror was settling in, replacing the euphoria of kissing Tom.

“That was the real reason you made the deal with me last year.” He needed to spell everything out. “It wasn’t about helping you with the tournament. You were actually trying to find out what I’m good at so you could counter me.”

That’s why we spent so much time together.

That’s why we kissed.

Tom’s answering silence hurt far more than Rachele Lestrange’s jinx.

Harry pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. How could he have been so stupid? How could he have assumed that Tom actually liked him? Tom had simply done what he’d always done, masked manipulation with charisma, and he’d fallen for it, just like everyone else.

He wasn’t special.

He should’ve listened to Lestrange all along.

“So tell me about my ‘special power.’” Harry’s fingers curled into air quotes. “How will I defeat you? Will I whack you on the head with my Firebolt? Choke you with a treacle tart? Snog you to death?”

“I haven’t figured it out.”

“No, I suppose not. We wouldn’t be here if you have, would we?” He’d never spoken this way before to anyone, let alone Tom. “Ever considered you’ve been barking up the wrong tree? Maybe my special power is that I actually try to be a nice person? Maybe my special power is that I don’t manipulate people at every opportunity?”

“I don’t manipulate people —”

“All you do is manipulate people. You’ve spent the past year brownnosing Umbridge and Karkaroff even though they’re both slimy and awful —”

“I wasn’t brownnosing —”

“And not just them. The way you act around the Slytherins, strutting around and spewing ideologies you don’t actually believe in, just so you can watch them lap everything up —”

“Stop —”

Harry refused to stop.

“What’s the point?” he demanded. “Isn’t it sad to keep pretending to be someone you aren’t and can never be?”

Tom flinched and his lips pursed.

“I told you before, this is a game,” he said, each word biting and chilling. “It’s not my fault if you don’t like the rules.”

“You’re right. Everything to you is just a game,” Harry said, the hollowness inside expanding as he replayed the devastating gentleness of Tom’s kisses. “Everything to you is just a means to an end. But you can’t just — you can’t just —”

His voice broke. Tom’s face seemed to soften, and his ensuing whisper held a note of urgency.

“I can’t what?”

Make me feel. Make me hope.

Only to wake me up.

And it had been such a nice dream too.

While it lasted.

The lump in Harry’s throat was painful. He felt helpless and useless and so pathetic. Drawing a shuddering breath, he turned away so Tom couldn’t see the tears stinging his eyes.

“Doesn’t matter. Go do whatever you want. Have a good life, Riddle.”

He started to move, but Tom grabbed his arm. “Don’t, wait —”

Harry jerked free and spun around, releasing his wand into his hand, just the way Tom had taught him. Acting on instinct, Tom followed suit. They faced each other, wands raised, magic charging around them.

He wasn’t sure how the duel had begun. One of them must’ve shouted something, it might’ve even been himself. But it wasn’t one of their duels in the Room of Requirement. Tom lacked his usual precision and Harry lacked his usual restraint. Later, he wouldn’t even remember which spells they exchanged, only that they continued throwing them at each other in a corruption of a choreographed duel.

They would both be in so much trouble if someone were to catch them, but Harry didn’t care. The duel gave him something else to focus on than the crushing weight in his chest. 

Green light sparked from Tom’s wand, and although Harry knew it couldn’t be the Killing Curse, he reacted instinctively. With the D.A. lesson fresh in mind, he hurled back the Disarming Spell.

Startled by his sudden movement, Tom hurled his spell right back.

Red and green jets of light collided in the air, only to turn into a beam of golden light. Then the beam splintered into thousands of delicate golden threads to form a web that encircled them. As the web shimmered around them, Harry picked up the distant notes of a phoenix song.

“Brother wands,” Tom said, his face reflecting Harry’s own wonder.

So their wand cores were feathers from the same phoenix. Once upon a time, Harry would’ve exalted in this connection to Tom, and now he felt only cold dread pooling in his gut.

Except...why hadn’t their wands behaved this way in their previous duels? Then Harry recalled Merrythought explaining once that brother wands refused to cast at each other with the intent to harm. 

And this time, he did want to hurt Tom, if only to see that he could be hurt, could feel pain.

The web trembled as Harry tried to regain control over his emotions. When he couldn’t hold on any longer, he jerked his wand away, shattering the connection. As the phoenix song faded away, the web dissolved, leaving behind a glimmering shower of broken threads.

The resulting silence was deafening, and then Harry forced a laugh.

“Are you satisfied now?” he asked. “I’m prophesied to defeat you, but it turns out we can’t even exchange direct spells with each other.”

“No, I —”

“Only the same applies to you. Good luck killing me.”

“Harry.” Tom lowered his wand. “I don’t want to kill you anymore.”

“How lucky of me.”

Tom stepped closer and reached out, fingertips grazing Harry’s cheek. Harry batted his hand away.

“Don’t touch me,” he snarled.

“Harry, listen —”

But Harry was done listening. He drew himself up to look Tom straight in the eye.

“Ten points from Slytherin for distracting a prefect on duty.”

Tom’s eyes burned red. “You can’t just —”

“I just did,” Harry said quietly, and left.

Chapter Text

By the time Harry returned to the Gryffindor Tower, the exhilaration from confronting Tom had worn off, leaving behind only exhaustion and humiliation.

He wanted nothing more than to wallow alone in the privacy of his bed. Unfortunately, the common room was bustling with activity, so he failed to slip inside unnoticed.

“Hey Harry. Did you just get back from detention?” Ron said, glancing up from a chess match he was proctoring. “I thought it was only for two hours.”

“I, um —”

“Of course not. Harry was kissing a Slytherin,” Lavender announced in a sing-song voice.

Harry froze as half of the room, including Ron and Hermione, turned towards him with interest. Had someone seen him and Tom?

“A Slytherin?” he repeated with a nervous laugh. “What are you — I mean it’s definitely not —”

“Daphne Greengrass, right?” Lavender said, frowning. “That’s what Tracey told me.”

He could’ve cried in relief. “Right. Daphne. Um, it was only a cheek kiss.”

“Only a cheek kiss?” Parvati’s eyebrows rose. “You look thoroughly snogged. What have you and Daphne really been up to?”

“Nothing. I had detention with Umbridge, remember?”

Ron’s jaw dropped. “Wait, don’t tell us Umbridge snogged you.”

“Ew no, gross!”

Hermione picked up on the nuance of Harry’s reaction. “Hang on, Harry, why did you think we were talking about someone else? How many Slytherins have you been snogging?”

Now the other half of the room was staring. Writing lines in Umbridge’s office was looking a lot more attractive.

“I only meant that I don’t think of Daphne as a Slytherin,” he said. “You know, not like Malfoy or To — Riddle.”

Nope, Daphne was definitely not Tom; no black curls, no soulful eyes, no strong arms that had held him so securely…

“You snogging Malfoy or Riddle,” Lee said, chuckling. “I’d like to see that.”

“Oi, you’re talking about my best mate!” Ron groaned. “Spare me the mental image.”

Harry choked out a laugh. “Exactly.”

“Malfoy, I don’t see,” Ginny said thoughtfully, “but Riddle...I haven’t ruled out.”

Parvati laughed. “Face it, Ginny, you lost the bet. You might as well pay up now.”

“We’ll see. I’ve never lost a bet.”

“Well, you still have some time,” Lavender said, “but the outlook doesn’t look good.”

“Wait a second,” Harry said, mind catching up at last. “You’re betting on me snogging Riddle?”

Why was everyone betraying him tonight?

Ginny crossed her arms, unabashed. “Not quite in those terms, but yes, and only because I have your best interests at heart.”

“My best interests?” Harry rubbed his forehead, now completely out of patience. “Never mind, I’m going to bed.”

“Wait, not yet, tell us more about Daphne!” Parvati said. “How did this happen? Do you like her?”

“There’s not much to tell.” Harry fiddled with his sleeve, frayed from dodging one of Tom’s jinxes. “I walked her back to the Slytherin dungeons after the D.A. meeting, and then it sort of happened. She’s nice, so yeah, I like her.”

Not to mention that, in addition to being pretty and funny, Daphne wasn’t prophesied to be a Dark Lord and never demonstrated interest in murdering him. That definitely worked in her favor.

“Sounds promising. Are you going together to Hogsmeade, then?”

He’d hesitated because of Tom, and now...

“Yes,” Harry said, resolutely shoving Tom from his mind. “Yes, we will.”

Tom stormed back to the Slytherin dungeons in such a rage that the common room silenced upon his entry. No one dared to greet him or even make eye contact as he stomped up the staircase.

The seventh-year boys’ dormitory was not empty.

“Leave,” he said and, without bothering to identify the dormmates who scurried out, slammed the door shut.

Then he sank onto his bed and dropped his head in his hands.

He’d always prided himself on his level-headedness, which had contributed in great part to his ascension in Slytherin over more tenured and pedigreed housemates. Emotions were weaknesses, so he refused to allow them to cloud his judgment.

Yet try as he might, his current emotions were a confused tangle. Humiliation from losing House points. Wonder from witnessing the brother wands connection. And something he couldn’t name, something that tore at him whenever he visualized the way Harry’s expression transformed from post-kiss bliss to post-realization horror.

So happy, so hopeful, and then, so hurt.

Why was this so...upsetting?

Slowly, reluctantly, the cold realization seeped through.

Rachele was wrong.

He did know feelings...because he had feelings for Harry.

Harry, who saw through his façade, recognized the insecurities buried under perfect grades and charming smiles, and stayed.

Harry, who tried to help him, from that initial detailed Quidditch lesson plan, to the long afternoons spent in the Room of Requirement mastering one spell, to simple tokens like toffees and treacle tarts and the poached fruits.

Harry, who wormed his way into Tom’s life and upended everything he believed in, because he cared.

That had been his power all along.

The prophecy had never been about one thing; it had been about everything that Harry stood for.

And, in his arrogance and blind determination, Tom had distorted Harry’s friendship, denied his own attachment, and hurt the one person who mattered.

Everything to you is just a game, Harry’s accusation echoed, each word drilling home. Everything to you is just a means to an end.

As it turned out, not everything could be explained by rules and logic. Not everything could be reduced to a mathematical equation with a well-defined solution.

What a shame this lesson sank in only after he’d ruined everything.

Tom felt the loss of Harry keenly.

Other than fleeting glimpses during mealtimes and between classes, his interactions with Harry were limited to prefect meetings, during which Harry refused to look at him.

Talia and the other prefects noticed nothing amiss. The two of them had always been careful not to be too overtly friendly, especially in light of last year’s Skeeter article. Only Tom missed the warm sparkle in Harry’s eyes, or noticed the tension in Harry’s shoulders whenever they were forced to directly address each other.

The Hogsmeade weekend came around. Tom received invites from a few brave souls and mercilessly refused them all. In fact, he considered skipping the trip altogether, had Kenneth and Cassius not convinced him to check out the latest product line at Dervish and Banges.

The day was gloomy with the promise of rain. Though the streets were packed with students and villagers, Tom easily picked out the familiar mop of messy dark hair. Harry was flanked by Daphne on one side and his best friends on the other. They were all laughing, and with a hand on Harry’s arm, Daphne was guiding the group towards an all-too-familiar tea shop.

“Dervish and Banges is a bit out of the way,” Kenneth was saying, “so we should stop there first so we have enough time to browse around. What do you think?”

“That sounds —”

“Actually,” Tom said, not looking away from Harry, “I would prefer getting a spot of tea.”

“Oh.” Kenneth cleared his throat. “Well, I heard the owners of Dogweed and Deathcap recently opened up a tea shop that features quite an exotic selection. Should we try it out?”

“Why not go here instead?” Tom gestured carelessly. “It’s just up ahead.”

Cassius and Kenneth exchanged a look. “That’s Madam Puddifoot’s,” Kenneth said slowly.

“Is that a problem?”

“Isn’t it usually reserved for —”

Tom raised an eyebrow and Cassius quieted.

“I recall she serves very good raspberry trifles,” Tom said, already moving forward and forcing his dormmates to follow.

“You don’t like trifles. You’ve always said they’re too sweet.”

“Have I? Well, tastes change.”

When Kenneth opened his mouth again, Tom swept them both with a cold gaze, and neither spoke again until they were seated inside Madam Puddifoot’s.

Tom knew what to expect from the tea shop from past visits with Rachele and Agnes. The décor was reminiscent of Umbridge’s office in the worst ways, though at least today there weren’t golden cherubs tossing pink confetti everywhere. The three of them did strike a curious contrast with the besotted couples who populated the other tables. Then again, most of them were too preoccupied with their dates to notice.

Harry, however, did notice them. He sat unnaturally straight and deliberately avoided looking in their direction.

Kenneth and Cassius visibly relaxed once their orders arrived. The black tea was bitter and boiling hot, as Tom liked it, but the trifle tasted much too strongly of caster sugar. He stabbed it with his spoon, annoyed that the dessert couldn’t make up its mind as to whether it wanted to be a pudding or a cake.

“You’re right, Tom. The trifles are scrumptious,” said Kenneth, digging into his own serving with relish. “You can tell that Madam Puddifoot thickened the custard with egg yolks instead of cornflour, that really gives the whole ensemble an extra richness. And those raspberries, usually they are too —”

Cassius jabbed him in the side and coughed.

“What was that for?” demanded Kenneth, annoyed. “Just because your palette isn’t delicate enough to appreciate good food like mine...”

Tom paid little attention to their discussion. Daphne was holding Harry's hand now. Was his smile genuine? Why were they sharing the same dessert?

Unbidden, memories surfaced of eating treacle tart and poached pears with Harry in the Hogwarts kitchen. He set down his spoon, losing what little appetite he had.

“Tom, what do you think?” Cassius was watching him closely. “Is the trifle too sweet for you?”

“No,” Tom said, shoving his dessert towards a grateful Kenneth. “It’s not sweet enough.”

Harry didn’t want to go to Madam Puddifoot’s, not after hearing stories from Dad and Sirius. But at Daphne’s suggestion, Ron gave him a pleading look, Hermione blushed, and that was that.

Besides, maybe he was overestimating the significance of going there. Not everyone in Madam Puddifoot’s was snogging and giggling. Tom was there with two seventh-year Slytherins, and they seemed to be simply enjoying their tea and trifles.

Seeing Tom dampened his mood. The tea was tepid and flavorless, the sponge cakes were too stodgy, and he couldn’t concentrate on the conversation with his friends. At some point, Daphne reached out to hold his hand, but he was far more aware of Tom’s hard gaze boring into his back.

The rest of the Hogsmeade trip — or date, according to Hermione — was more pleasant. They went to Honeydukes, where he and Daphne both indulged in too many fudge samples, and spent the rest of the afternoon at Zonko’s Joke Shop after the ominous clouds finally gave way to a downpour.

Back at the castle, Harry remembered Dad’s advice on gentlemanly behaviors and offered to walk Daphne back to the dungeons. As previously promised, she’d brought the picture of the goblin war memorial that her father had sponsored, which made for a fun discussion during which they both agreed that Mr. Greengrass would make a far better History of Magic professor than Professor Binns, if he ever fancied a change from his banking career.

As they neared the entrance to the Slytherin common room, Harry felt the onset of nerves.

Were he and Daphne boyfriend and girlfriend now?

Would he be expected to kiss her goodbye?

What if they ran into Tom?

They paused at a small alcove, just before reaching the common room entrance. The chatters of other students faded away, replaced by the sound of the rain pelting against castle walls.

Harry opened his mouth, but Daphne spoke first. “It’s okay, Harry. You don’t have to say anything.”

He blinked at her, not knowing himself what he was about to say.

“Today was a lot of fun,” she continued, expression placid, “but we can just be friends.”

Dates weren’t supposed to end in this manner, right?

“I like you a lot, Daphne —”

“But I’m not Tom.”

Harry’s stomach clenched and he glanced down, scuffing his trainers against the stone floor. Her forthrightness, though unexpected, came as a relief.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

“That’s all right. I still think you’re a really great person.” She poked his arm lightly. “Hopefully Tom sees that too. Let’s still go to Hogsmeade sometime, as friends? You have good taste in fudge samples.”

Harry smiled tentatively at her. “Sure, and I’d love to hear more about your dad and the goblins.”

She returned his smile. “Of course.”

Well, Harry thought as he headed back to the Gryffindor Tower, that went quite well, all things considered. Daphne hadn’t even seemed that disappointed. Maybe he wasn’t that great of a date after all?

Once again, he came to the conclusion that this dating business was confusing.

Ron and Hermione were waiting for him in the common room.

“So, how’d everything go?” asked Ron, grinning.

“Is everything all right with Daphne?” asked Hermione, who was more discerning.

“Yeah.” Harry sat down beside them on the couch. “We sort of ended...things.”

Well, not that things had actually begun in the first place.

Ron’s eyes widened. “Was she upset? Did she throw fudge in your face?”

Harry stared. “Why would she? We’re still friends.”

“Not everyone throws tantrums, Ron,” Hermione said, rolling her eyes. “I’m glad you and Daphne are still friends, Harry.”

“Me too. She’s very nice.”

“Wait, it sounds like you still like her. Why did you —”

“Ron,” Hermione cut in, clearly exasperated. “You are not helping. Honestly, you truly have the emotional range of a teaspoon.”

“A teaspoon?” Ron nudged her shoulder with his. “C’mon, Hermione, give me at least a tablespoon.”

Hermione sputtered. Worried that she was about to snap, Harry readied himself to break up another spat between his best friends. To his surprise, she laughed, and after a few seconds, Ron joined in with a goofy look. That only spurred her further, until both of them collapsed into hysterics.

Harry’s mouth dropped open in wonder. Somehow, after over four years of bickering and missed signals, his best friends had reached an understanding.

He stared down at his knees, trying to ignore the pangs of yearning. Maybe one day, someone would laugh with him the same way.

Hermione was the first to recover. She tore her attention away from Ron and took one of Harry’s hands in both of hers.

“It’s okay. You know we support you no matter what, right?”

“Definitely,” Ron said, circling around the couch to sling an arm around him. “No matter what. No matter who.”

“Thanks.” Harry allowed himself a few seconds of basking in his friends’ support. “Come on, let’s go to dinner. I need some real food to balance out all the sugar.”

Tom had been doing a decent job of avoiding tea with Umbridge. Between her Educational Decrees and Defense classes, her popularity had plummeted below that of Filch’s, which was quite an achievement. He didn’t want any more ties to her than necessary.

Undeterred, she invited him to a career chat with her and Slughorn, which he couldn’t outright refuse. He wasn’t surprised to show up at her office and find Slughorn conveniently absent.

Since he was clearly not getting those thirty minutes back, he made himself comfortable and accepted the proffered teacup.

“It’s been rather difficult finding time with you this term, Mr. Riddle.”

Tom pretended to take a sip of tea that he’d wandlessly Vanished. “I’ve been quite busy with my duties, professor.”

“I am quite sympathetic, as I’ve been occupied myself.” She set down her teacup. “Many affairs at Hogwarts concern me greatly.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Indeed. Cornelius and I seek to create a better space for the young wizards and witches of tomorrow, but unfortunately, not everyone acknowledges our efforts. In fact, some people are downright insubordinate.” She gave him a meaningful gaze. “For instance, I continue to worry about Potter’s so-called study group.”

Tom kept his expression neutral. “Does it disobey one of your Educational Decrees?”

“That’s what I intend to find out. I’ve been trying to get Potter to talk in detention, but he’s more cunning than I expected, and his associates have been tight-lipped. You don’t happen to know anything, do you, Mr. Riddle?”

“No, and I haven’t seen any evidence of wrongdoing.”

“I hope you aren’t shielding him,” she said, not looking away. “I know the two of you are...close.”

He smiled tightly. “I assure you that I’m not.”

“Well, no matter.” She busied herself with the teapot. “I imagine I’ll break him down eventually.”

Break him down? Tom recalled how pale and unsteady Harry had looked after his first detention. He surveyed the room, his heart beginning to thud.

“I’m thinking of creating a squad to assist me. An Inquisitorial Squad, if you will. Someone in my position will need eyes and ears everywhere. Mr. Malfoy was most supportive.” She smiled at him. “What do you think?”

“It’s certainly an idea, but I’m afraid I can’t be counted on to contribute.”

“Because you’re busy, I understand. You will keep an eye though, won’t you? And if you know anything at all, you will tell me.”

Tom was still glancing around, searching for clues to the specifics of Harry’s detentions. His eyes fell on her wall of decorative plates, among which a large beetle was nestled, looking very out of place. The markings around its antennas looked familiar.

How curious.

He took another sip of nonexistent tea. “Of course. But there truly is nothing to share at the moment.”

Umbridge leaned back in her seat with an air of self-satisfaction. “Very well. I suppose I’ve kept you long enough. Enjoy the rest of your afternoon, Mr. Riddle.”

“You too, professor,” Tom said, rising to his feet. “Good day.”

On his way out, he studied the wall once more. The beetle was gone.

The first Quidditch match of the season always came highly anticipated, especially after a year that had left Quidditch fans starving.

A hush fell over the Slytherin stands when Tom took his seat, ignoring curious stares from housemates who knew too well his low opinion of Quidditch.

A second, more unpleasant hush fell over the Slytherin stands when Daphne appeared, supporting a red-and-gold scarf. Seemingly oblivious to the disapproving stares, she sat down next to Astoria, who looked torn between amusement and mortification.

Rachele broke the uneasy silence. “Daphne, you realize you’re wearing Gryffindor colors?”

“And you do realize Slytherin is playing against Gryffindor today?” added Pansy.

“Of course,” she said, unruffled, “and as a proud Slytherin, I prefer cheering for the winning team.”

“Daffy,” said Astoria, tugging at her sister’s sleeves. “Let’s not do this here.”

“Sorry Tory, didn’t mean to insult darling Draco,” Daphne said, and Astoria blushed.

“So you’re cheering for Potter? Didn’t he dump you?”

“What a savage way of putting things, Rachele. We’re still good friends.” Daphne adjusted her scarf and threw a side-eye at Tom. “At least I’m not afraid of going after what I want.”

Tom dug his nails into his palms.

Rachele sniffed and turned away. “What a disgrace,” she muttered, to which Daphne returned an angelic smile.

The other Slytherins shifted uncomfortably. Kenneth and Theodore Nott, sitting closest to the action, looked as though they’d rather deal with Bludgers than squabbling witches. Rigel looked as though he would like to hex the whole Gryffindor Quidditch team.

Tom supposed he should restore order. However, the two teams emerged onto the field then, drawing everyone’s attention. He immediately picked out Harry, who was trailing his older teammates to murmur what appeared to be encouragement to the new Keeper.

His throat tightened. Once, Harry had encouraged him the same way, with kind words and gentle, fleeting touches.

The whistle blew and the game began.

Daphne cheered for the correct team after all.

In the beginning, the match was a tight race, thanks to the presence of new players on both sides. Crabbe and Goyle, the new Slytherin Beaters, were all power and no finesse, resulting in wayward Bludgers that earned Slytherin surprise points due to sheer unpredictability.

On the Gryffindor side, Ron Weasley was rough around the edges and lacked the experience of the former Keeper and Captain. Nevertheless, he had a good eye for angled shots and collaborated well with his older brothers.

After almost an hour, Gryffindor and Slytherin were tied. Most eyes had turned to the two Seekers, who were looping above the other players in search of the Snitch. All of a sudden, they started streaking towards the same location.

Tom leaned forward, spotting a glint of gold a few feet above the grass. His breath caught as he watched Harry flatten himself over his broomstick. The effortless acceleration, the ease with which he wove around the Bludgers and Beaters trying to stop him, the focus in his green eyes — 

He’d looked much the same when he’d caught Tom’s enchanted Snitch, the look of someone who would never back down.

(Tom should’ve known, even then, that he never stood a chance.)

The stands were deathly silent and even the other players froze in the air, afraid to get in the way and accidentally distract their own Seeker. Having started out equidistant from the Snitch, Harry and Draco were now hurtling towards each other at breakneck speeds.

Tom recognized the exact moment that Harry won the race. A few yards before reaching the Snitch, Harry angled his broom away so that he was flying above rather than towards it. Adjusting his grip so that he was flying one-handed, he dove down and accelerated, streaking towards the ground in a blur of red, a suicidal maneuver that gave even Draco pause.

Right before crashing, Harry sharply flew from the dive. And then he was raising his arm, the struggling Snitch in his hand.

The stands erupted into cheers and fluttering red-and-gold banners. As Lee Jordan giddily announced the final scores, the Gryffindor team tackled a grinning Harry in an airborne group hug. Somehow everybody landed in one piece, and then their housemates were upon them, hoisting all the players onto their shoulders before making their way back to the castle. As they passed the teachers’ stands, Harry cheekily waved the Snitch at a scowling Dolores Umbridge.

He did not glance over at the Slytherin stands once.

“Great game, wasn’t it?” Slughorn joined Tom as the crowds began to disperse. “A real shame about Slytherin losing, but Harry flew very well, didn’t he?”

“Yes, good game,” Tom agreed, his tone light.

“I imagine there will be quite the celebration tonight. The Weasleys throw legendary parties, I’ve heard. Some inter-house bonding wouldn’t be remiss,” he added with a wink.

He sauntered off to congratulate McGonagall, and Tom allowed his polite smile to slip off.

Slughorn was right. The Gryffindors were indeed throwing a legendary party, if the number of obnoxiously loud partygoers was any indication.

Tom docked points and doled out detentions with malicious glee. What gave Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws the right to such rowdiness? They didn’t even have the excuse of winning a Quidditch match.

After his patrol was over, he dreaded the stuffiness of the Slytherin dungeons. A walk outside cleared his head, and he was returning to the castle when he noticed someone sitting in the Quidditch stands.

He would recognize that silhouette anywhere.

Harry had his knees pulled to his chest and seemed to be staring at the sky, even though clouds were obscuring the stars. His posture gave off an air of forlornness, incongruous with his earlier triumph.

Observing from a safe distance, Tom was overcome with the desire to join him. To listen to him babble about Quidditch and constellations and whatever else, he didn’t care what.

Go talk to him, then, said a voice in his head.

Only, what would he say? He had limited experience with apologies, and I’m sorry seemed inadequate in light of everything.

Before Tom could harden his resolve, voices called out Harry’s name. Of course it would be the twins with their usual impeccable timing.

“There’s our hero of the hour! Escaping your own party?”

“You said you were getting snacks from the kitchen, not moping around outside!”

Harry got to his feet, raking his hair. “I was getting some fresh air. Are you looking for me?”

“Yes! Do you want to come to Hogsmeade with us? We could use some Honeydukes treats.”

“And some butterbeers. Maybe a few firewhiskeys.”

Harry laughed. “You realize that you’re asking a prefect to break the rules? I could report you.”

“You could, but you won’t.”

“In fact, you’ll come along with us.”

A moment of hesitation — please stay, Tom pleaded silently — and Harry laughed again. “All right, you got me. Let’s go before the shops close.”

Too late, Tom realized he was directly in their path and hadn’t cast a Disillusionment Charm.

All three stiffened upon seeing him.

“Riddle,” said one of the twins. “Get on with it, then. Take points off, we don’t care.”

“Be a sore loser, you can’t stop us.”

Tom watched only Harry, within reach and yet inaccessible.

“I didn’t see anything,” he said eventually, turning away. “And congratulations, by the way.”

He didn’t wait for a response, though he did catch a glimpse of startled green eyes as the twins dragged Harry away.

Alone on the Quidditch pitch, he claimed the seat that Harry had vacated and sat for a long time.

Karkaroff’s formal job offer arrived in December. As expected, it was a junior professor position in the Dark Arts. Tom would apprentice under the current professor with the opportunity of taking over upon the latter’s retirement.

I await your response so I can finalize arrangements. Preferably before the end of the year. IK.

Yes, Tom wrote, I’ll be happy to accept.

Because this was the right choice, wasn’t it?

Go to Durmstrang. Leave everything behind. Start over. (Forget Harry.)

Except...no matter how far he traveled, he would still be haunted by Harry’s unshed tears and choked accusations. He would still be chasing the sensation of Harry’s lips against his own, so sweet and careful.

He didn’t want to forget Harry.

Tom set aside both Karkaroff’s letter and his unfinished response.

Durmstrang or not, he needed to fix things first.

Or, at the very least, try.

Tom heard Harry and Draco’s voices floating down the basement corridor. The house points of Gryffindor and Slytherin were once again in jeopardy.

Tonight, they had inadvertently synced the timings of their post-dinner snacks.

“This isn’t your personal kitchen and Dobby isn’t your personal house-elf anymore,” Harry said hotly. “Five points from Slytherin.”

“Five points from Gryffindor. Don’t tell me what to do, or should I ask Umbridge to give you detention again?” Draco retorted. “Would be a shame if you miss another practice.”

“Did you already forget how our last match went? Your team isn’t winning the Cup no matter how much you cheat. Five points from Slytherin.”

“We’ll see whether you have a team left after this term. Five points from Gryffindor.”

Tom coughed. They both jumped and assumed twin guilty looks.

“Tom,” Draco began. “Er, Potter and I were —”

“You are prefects because the school entrusts you with the responsibility. I’m disappointed that you continue to drag your houses into your grudges. Has Aunt Bella not given either of you her speech on settling private debts publicly?”

Harry and Draco scowled at each other.

“I’ll give you a warning this time. Don’t let me catch you again.” Tom was in no mood to discipline anyone. “Draco, your patrol finished an hour ago. Return to the common room. Harry, if you don’t mind, I’d like to have a word.”

Draco glanced between them, but nodded and left without further comment. Malfoys always were good at self-preservation.

Harry stiffened, but made no protest. They were now alone, standing in such close proximity that Tom could see the pinkness blooming on his cheeks. Yet the chasm lay between them, too great to be bridged.

“How can I help you, Riddle?”

Though Tom had rehearsed the conversation, Harry’s flat voice was enough to wrong-foot him. Mouth dry, he said, “I merely wanted to talk to you.”

“Fine.” Harry kept his eyes fixed on the painting of a cheese platter. “Let’s talk here, then.”

It was now or never. Tom cast a privacy bubble and took a deep breath.

“I’m sorry.”

A look of surprise crossed Harry’s face. He turned, meeting Tom’s eyes for the first time in weeks.

“You were right,” Tom continued. “I’ve been selfish and manipulative. You’ve done a lot for me, and I never properly showed you appreciation. I took you for granted.” Harry’s bottom lip wobbled. “I’m sorry I hurt you, but it’s not something that I would do again.”

He could apologize for more, for every instance when he’d failed to defend or protect Harry. However, his chest was compressing with each passing second of Harry’s silence. He needed to hear that he was on the right track.

Harry’s voice was soft. “You’re...sorry.”

“Yes. Very.”

Harry’s expression became a little more open, a little more vulnerable. “Thank you for the apology. And...I’m sorry too. I overreacted the other day and said mean things that aren’t true.”

Tom shook his head. “You don’t need to apologize.”

“No, I do!” Harry insisted, flushed and earnest. “I’ve always known that you’re a good bloke deep down inside. You are so kind to your grandparents, you are a responsible Head Boy, and you never actually tried to kill me.” He paused and rubbed his right hand. “I mean, you aren’t still trying to kill me, right?”

“Of course not.” The very notion was ridiculous now. Tom was more likely to kill anyone who dared to harm Harry.

“Exactly. See? You aren’t a Dark Lord. You aren’t evil.”

“I —” Tom cleared his throat. “Thank you.”

There was a brief, awkward silence. Harry dropped his gaze.

“Maybe now, we could go back to normal?”

“Normal?”

“Yeah. You know, go back to where we were before...any of this happened.”

Tom’s hands clenched. Go back to a normal where last year didn’t happen, where he and Harry continued as strangers on parallel paths?

He didn’t want that.

Two paths lay before him. He could agree and walk away now, dignity intact with lasting regret, or...

“I’d like to become friends again.”

Hurt spread across Harry’s face. “Were we ever truly friends? You had an agenda the entire time.”

“I did, but my appreciation of your company was genuine.”

“Only because you found me useful. My real friends actually like me.”

He could do this, he could — 

“But I do. Like you.”

A lot.

Harry’s smile was resigned. “I’m not sure I believe that.”

“You were my hostage for the Second Task.” Tom was edging into dangerous territory, but he pushed on. “Do you remember what the clue said?”

“Something about the merpeople taking what you’d sorely miss.” Harry plucked at a loose thread in the hem of his robes. “Back then, we were spending a lot of time together practicing duels, that was probably why magic or whatever picked me. It was always meant to be temporary. Look at Hermione and Viktor. They barely even write these days.”

“It’s not temporary.”

The admission was on the tip of his tongue, wrestling with his pride.

One side won.

“My Patronus,” Tom croaked.

Harry looked puzzled. “What about it?”

“It wasn’t a thunderbird. It was an owl.”

Harry’s expression didn’t clear. “So? Owls are awesome, unless you think they aren’t impressive enough —”

"You remind me of an owl."

The words hung between them for a few excruciating seconds before realization dawned on Harry, accompanied by a fragile hope that made Tom ache to hold and shield him.

“Your Patronus is because...I remind you of an owl,” he said, raising a hand to his cheek.

Because you make me happy, Tom wanted to say. And kissing you wasn’t a game. It meant more.

So much more.

But self-preservation had at last caught up, and those words crumbled to dust.

Harry was still staring at him, eyes uncertain and oddly bright. “I don’t...I need time to think about it, if it’s okay —”

Tom stopped listening.

He grabbed Harry’s hand, forgetting to be gentle in his haste. Startled, Harry held still until Tom had finished a close examination, fingertips carefully tracing over each word carved into the skin.

I must not show disrespect.

Tom raised his eyes slowly, dangerously. “What is this?”

“Nothing,” Harry said, trying and failing to extricate his hand.

“Only dark magic scars skin like this. Repeated dark magic.”

“It’s not that bad —”

“And this is your own handwriting,” Tom said. “Why would you —”

Oh.

Harry rubbing his hand after detention: I just had to write lines.

Umbridge smiling over her teacup: I’ll break him down eventually.

Something must’ve shown on his face because Harry shrank away and again tugged at his hand. Tom blinked away the red haze in his vision and realized he must’ve been crushing it to the point of pain.

He loosened his grip and Harry immediately curled his hand protectively against himself.

“Please tell me what happened,” Tom said, as gently as he could manage with simmering rage. “Please, I need to know.”

Conflict in those expressive eyes, a whirl of thoughts too messy for Legilimency to disentangle, and then Harry sighed.

“It’s this quill she invented,” he explained. “It uses my blood as ink, and I end up writing whatever she wants onto my hand. I don’t think it’s supposed to leave permanent scars, but...”

But of course it would, with the hours of lines that Harry had racked up.

“That’s twisted.” It was difficult keeping his tone even. “Professors aren’t supposed to use corporal punishment. Why didn’t you tell someone? Does anyone know?”

If Draco knew and still goaded Harry into detention every week...

“No, I don’t think so. Only the people who’ve had detention would know, and she knows how to keep us quiet.”

“How?” Tom had difficulty imagining Umbridge intimidating Harry into submission.

“You were right about her having too much power. She has leverage over everyone in the school. Including you.”

Tom stilled. “She used me to threaten you?”

“No!” Harry said, averting his eyes quickly, but not quickly enough. “I was just warning you. Please don’t do anything rash.”

“She hurt you.”

“It doesn’t hurt that much.”

Tom reached for Harry’s hand again, this time examining the wounds rather than the words.

“Are you using a salve?” he asked.

“Sort of. Hermione is giving me murtlap essence, which helps a lot with the pain.”

He frowned. “That doesn’t address the scar tissue.”

Harry reddened and pulled his hand away. “You can’t even see the scars unless the lighting is really good.”

“Unless the lighting is really good,” Tom repeated, incredulous.

“I’m fine. Honestly.”

Tom didn’t return Harry’s tentative smile. He didn’t trust himself to speak or move.

“It’s late. We should probably get back,” Harry said. “Thank you for — well, thank you. I’m glad we can talk to each other again. Um, well, I’ll see you around?”

When Tom still remained silent, Harry gave him one last hesitant look and started towards the staircase, accidentally bumping his shoulder in the process.

Once his footsteps had faded away, Tom turned and started towards the Owlery.

He had a letter to write.

As Head Boy, Tom knew every prefect’s schedule, which was how he knew to find Hermione Granger in the library just as her Arithmancy study group wrapped up.

“Good evening, Granger.”

“Good evening, Riddle.” She was a little wary. “Can I help you?”

“I want to talk to you about Harry’s hand.”

Her eyebrows rose. “He told you?”

“In a manner. He doesn’t seem inclined to let others know in general.”

“No, he doesn’t. Ron and I wanted to tell McGonagall, but he sees it as a private battle of wills or something.” She gave a helpless shrug. “You know how he can be.”

Indeed, Tom was no stranger to Harry’s stubbornness.

“Well, in any case, that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about,” he said. “Harry mentioned you’ve been soaking his hand in murtlap essence. That will reduce the pain, but it will still scar unless you add healing agents, such as dittany or eucalyptus oil.”

Granger sighed. “I know, but those ingredients are hard to find and I can’t ask Slughorn for them without explaining why.”

“Take this.” Tom handed over a vial. “Add it to murtlap essence. Don’t worry,” he added, noting her hesitation, “it won’t hurt him. It’s formulated to regrow skin.”

He’d perused several Potions and Herbology textbooks to create the most effective formula to counteract scarring by dark magic. Some of the ingredients had indeed been difficult to procure, but he had favors to call upon.

Granger was chewing her bottom lip. “I know it won’t hurt him, but...why don’t you give it to him yourself?”

“It’s better if he doesn’t know that it’s from me.”

“Riddle, I don’t know what happened between you and Harry. He wouldn’t talk about it. If you hurt him…”

Granger paused, weighing her words. Tom half-expected her to threaten revenge, which would be so predictably Gryffindor. Yet her thoughts, when he read them, were neutral.

“Harry isn’t someone who holds grudges. Please don’t give him a reason to do so.” She stood, carefully tucking the vial into her bag. “Anyway, I won’t say anything, for now. Thank you.”

Tom inclined his head. “I appreciate your help.”

Was that pity or sympathy in her eyes? He was never good at telling between the two.

Either way, the encounter with Granger was worth the discomfort. That night, Harry’s scarred hand did not haunt his dreams.

Another decadent holiday dinner at the Burrow had concluded. Full and heavy from an extra helping of plum pudding, Harry survived two rounds of Exploding Snap before he stole out to the garden. The cool air was a welcome reprieve from the overly cozy living room, still brimming with laughter and chatter.

To his surprise, Luna was seated cross-legged on the grass, weaving what appeared to be a flower crown employing a mixture of magic and Muggle tools. She raised her head in greeting as he joined her.

“I didn’t realize there are still flowers around,” he said, sitting and casting a Warming Spell on them both.

“You need to know where to look. If you listen carefully, they call out to you.” Luna deftly fastened a daffodil. “What are you doing outside?”

Harry shrugged. “Avoiding nargles, I guess.”

“So you saw them too,” Luna said brightly. “They are quite numerous today, aren’t they? I’ll have to relocate some of them later.”

He laughed. “I can help.”

Luna’s pale eyes fixed upon him, unblinking. “Is everything all right? I see a lot of wrackspurts about you.”

Harry rubbed the back of his right hand, which remained a nervous habit even though the scars were fading, courtesy of Hermione’s new salve. “Luna, what do you think of prophecies?”

She smiled slightly. “I see things others don’t, Harry, but I’m not a Seer.”

“I know, but I just wondered what you think.”

“Well,” she said, after a moment’s consideration. “In my opinion, prophecies are like butterflies.”

“Butterflies?” The analogy was mundane by Luna’s standards.

“Yes, butterflies,” she said earnestly. “They are extremely delicate and unpredictable. If you try to chase them down, they’ll only fly away. You must wait patiently and hope they’ll grace you with their secrets.”

Harry scratched his head. “That makes sense. I think.”

Luna’s expression remained thoughtful. “The Department of Mysteries keeps all the prophecies ever recorded, did you know? Mum knows Unspeakables who work with them. She told me once that most prophecies remain unfulfilled, because by simply existing, they have already enacted changes.”

Harry replayed Trelawney’s prophecy. Tom becoming a Dark Lord. Harry defeating him. A golden web encaging them by the lake.

I don’t want to kill you anymore.

“Why do you ask?” Luna asked. “Are you developing your Inner Eye?”

Harry hugged his knees to his chest. In the end, his question wasn’t really about prophecies, was it?

“What if someone you care about really hurt you?” he asked. “Would you ever be friends again?”

Luna’s fingers paused in the braiding of flower stems.

“Forgiveness is also like a butterfly,” she said, a few beats later. “It needs space to mature and grow wings, and only then can it take flight.”

With that, she turned back to the flower crown. She didn’t ask for elaboration, nor did Harry offer any. Instead, he closed his eyes and recalled Tom’s voice saying, at once desperate and sincere, But I do. Like you.

Harry wanted so terribly to believe those words, but Tom had lied to him for a year. Could he really forgive him? Could he really allow himself to be vulnerable again?

And yet, despite everything, he couldn’t stop thinking about the way Tom had looked the night he and the twins snuck off to Hogsmeade. A solitary figure by the Quidditch pitch, watching them with what could be described as longing.

Were you lonely? he’d once wanted to ask, imagining Tom as a first-year, carving out a place among the haughty Slytherins.

Maybe underneath his proud exterior was a loneliness that never went away.

Maybe he kept a mask on because he didn’t trust others to accept the person underneath.

Maybe...Harry could still help him.

Meanwhile, Luna had finished her flower crown, which she carefully laid on his head.

“That should keep the wrackspurts away, at least until we go back to school,” she said. “Are you feeling better now?”

Harry gently rubbed a silky petal, dusting his fingertips with fragrant pollen.

“Yes,” he said, breaking into a genuine smile. “Thank you, I do.”

On his birthday, Tom received a box of toffees along with a garishly-colored pair of mittens.

The toffees won’t be overly sweet this time. The mittens are a limited edition set — the mismatched colors are intentional and Dobby says they match your nose (not sure what he means). Happy birthday and New Year. HP.

Tom tucked the mittens inside the pockets of his favorite Muggle coat, but for some reason couldn’t bring himself to eat the toffees.

They remained in their box, preserved by a Freshness Spell and infusing the dorm with the scent of home.

Chapter Text

The new year brought the thawing of Harry’s frostiness. After the first prefects’ meeting of the term, he stayed behind to ask after Tom’s holidays. When Tom thanked him for the birthday presents, he even responded with a familiar grin.

They settled back into friendship, though uncertainty lingered between them, rendering their interactions overly cordial and brief. The longest conversation Harry initiated was to get Tom’s advice on hex-deflection spells.

“I’m, er, trying to self-study Merrythought’s fifth-year curriculum,” he explained, reddening.

Though Tom had more than an inkling he was asking on behalf of others, he didn’t voice his suspicion, and instead enjoyed a pleasant half-hour debating the merits of Salvo hexia against the more generic Protego with Harry, leaving much nostalgia in its wake.

Yes, they were friends again, but what they had was a pale imitation of what had been...and could have been.

Tom was never one to mope, yet if time could be rewound, he would recapture their magical moment by the lake, freeze it before everything fell apart. From time to time, he’d catch glimpses of yearning on Harry’s face, as if he shared the desire.

If so, they were part of a dance that neither knew how to lead.

Fortunately or unfortunately, Tom had other distractions. As the Minister for Magic elections approached, Umbridge’s tyranny over Hogwarts intensified. She formalized the Inquisitorial Squad, whose members were granted prefect-like authority and encouraged to spy on fellow students. She also began inspecting other professors’ teachings, leading to more than one class ending in a shouting match (in the case of McGonagall) or a tearful breakdown (in the case of Trelawney).

Tom was careful to appear outwardly neutral, even mildly supportive, as he continued positioning pieces in a chess game of which Umbridge was an unknowing participant. The game was different from the ones Tom had played in the past, but he knew the payoff would be all the more satisfying.

Once or twice, he noticed Dumbledore watching him from the Head Table, his goblet slightly raised in a secret toast. If he wasn’t mistaken, Dumbledore was brewing his own scheme under that deceptively placid expression.

An unexpected ally, but not altogether undesirable.

The noose was tightening around Umbridge, and Tom looked forward to the day of her discovery.

A few weeks into the spring term, Slughorn began holding career chats for the seventh-years. 

For Tom, the chat should’ve been a formality. Yet he’d lost conviction in his previously defined post-Hogwarts plans, and the road before him was as foggy as Trelawney’s crystal balls.

“Certainly lots of possibilities, aren’t there? I expect nothing less, my boy.” Slughorn beamed with pride. “Where does your current inclination lie? I know you’re exploring options in the Ministry. Dolores is quite keen to recruit you” — Tom barely held back a sneer — “and other departments will also be delighted to have you.”

Once upon a time, climbing up the ranks in the Ministry had been appealing. Now, the idea of enduring the company of Umbridge and her ilk was torturous.

“Later in my career, perhaps,” he said, “but not now.”

“Are you considering Igor’s offer, then? He wrote to me recently to inquire about your decision. While Durmstrang does have a mixed reputation, a successful professorship there will open many doors, and Igor rarely offers it to someone straight out of school.”

Another option that had been so attractive. Durmstrang’s full library would be at his disposal, not to mention the masters of dark arts who would serve as his mentors.

“It is indeed an honor, but I haven’t committed yet.”

“Well, there are other options. Lots of other options.” Slughorn was undeterred. “Given your academic records, you would do well in fields that involve complex spellwork, such as curse-breaking, Auror training, or Unspeakable training. You could take on a professorship at Hogwarts. Dolores doesn’t plan to teach Defense long-term, from what I understand. In fact,” he added with a wink, “you’ll excel in anything aside from Quidditch. That’s more in Mr. Potter’s realm, I’d say.”

Tom kept his smile steady. “Yes, I’m very fortunate to have these options. Right now, I’m leaning towards going abroad for a few years, either in an academic or a professional capacity. Many branches of magic are practiced differently in other countries and my education would feel incomplete without experiencing them.”

“I understand, and I can connect you with my contacts at Castelobruxo and Koldovstoretz, who can shed more light on post-secondary wizarding education.” Slughorn paused and gave Tom a searching look. “There are fine post-secondary institutions in Britain that incorporate foreign curriculums. Why not consider options closer to home?”

Why not, indeed?

Tom glanced out of Slughorn’s ornate windows. A flock of owls flew past; just regular school owls, delivering mail. To where, he wondered.

“Sometimes,” he said, meeting Slughorn’s kind eyes, “distance may be necessary.”

After a long study session in the library, Tom returned late to the dungeons and surveyed the common room from the entrance.

Something was wrong.

His eyes landed on the couch, where Astoria sat sobbing into her sister’s shoulder, while other Slytherins looked on with curiosity and discomfort. Oddly enough, Ginny Weasley sat on Daphne’s other side, and the two witches were conversing in low urgent tones, both uncharacteristically solemn.

Tom raised his eyebrows at Rachele, who was calmly watching the scene without remarking on either proper decorum or non-Slytherin visitors.

“Perfect timing, Tom,” she said. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

“You’re a prefect, Rachele.” He didn’t have the energy for drama. “You can take care of matters as well as I do.”

“Well, I believe this may be of special interest to you. Astoria, would you care to explain?”

Astoria only became more hysterical, so Daphne explained in her stead, “Umbridge has Harry.”

Tom’s mind blanked briefly. “For detention?”

“Something more serious,” Ginny said. “Malfoy and a few others from her stupid squad came to fetch him after dinner. They wouldn’t explain anything other than Umbridge is expressly summoning Harry to her office.”

“Why?”

Rachele jerked her head towards Astoria, who’d finally recovered the ability to speak.

“I swear I didn’t mean to get Harry into trouble! But I...but I didn’t realize that Umbridge had Veritaserum in her tea!”

Veritaserum. The picture was elucidating itself.

“Go on.”

“Umbridge invited me...invited me to her office to talk about my essay, and then she was asking me...asking me where I was spending my extracurricular time.” Astoria hiccupped and scrubbed her eyes. “And...and I ended up telling her about our club.”

Ginny frowned. “But Hermione put in safeguards. You shouldn’t have been able to say anything.”

“Umbridge never asked me directly about it. She just asked who I was spending my time with...where and when we were meeting...what I was learning...whether Harry was a good teacher…”

Her voice trailed off as a fresh wave of tears overcame her. Daphne tightened her arm around her sister and murmured soothing words.

Tom had no patience for her tears. “When was this?”

Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Last...last week.”

“And you mention it now?”

“Umbridge was so calm...and then we started talking about Slinkhard...so I thought…I thought maybe I didn’t say anything incriminating.” Astoria twisted her hands. “I forgot about it until Ginny came here...”

“So Potter is with Umbridge, on his own?” Rachele said, glancing at Tom with a half-smile.

“Ron and Hermione went after them, and Talia is looking for Professor Dumbledore,” Ginny said. “I came because I thought Riddle could help.”

She and Daphne looked at him expectantly. Although he didn’t know what they had in mind, the decision was easy. This wasn’t how he planned to confront Umbridge, but if he’d learned anything from Harry, improvising could lead to interesting results.

“I appreciate you alerting us, Weasley,” he said. “But you should return to Gryffindor Tower before anyone else is alarmed. Daphne, you might want to take Astoria to Madam Pomfrey for some Calming Draught.”

“And what will you do, Tom?” Rachele asked.

He shrugged. “I’ll pay Umbridge a visit and see how I can help. Would you mind keeping order in Slytherin until then?”

Tom didn’t wait for her assent, and his calm demeanor lasted until he’d left behind the prying eyes in the common room.

Then he took off running.

Harry expected the visit from the Inquisitorial Squad.

Despite Hermione’s constant reassurances about the Secrecy Vow embedded in her sign-up sheet, he knew Umbridge was bound to catch on. She wouldn’t have become the Senior Undersecretary to Cornelius Fudge without some measure of resourcefulness.

He only wished the D.A. had more time. Well, no matter, he wasn’t going down without a fight.

As they followed Malfoy and his friends to Umbridge’s office, Ron and Hermione both gave him reassuring smiles. Even though Harry would’ve preferred not to involve them, he was grateful that he didn’t have to face Umbridge alone this time.

Umbridge was in her element tonight. She greeted her visitors with a broad smile and sipped her tea while her squad shut the door and took position behind her. 

“Thank you, you’ve done well,” she said. Her smile turned colder and crueler as she fixed her eyes upon Harry. “I didn’t expect you to bring your friends, Mr. Potter, but it’s just as well. Would you like a seat?”

“I think we can skip the pleasantries.”

“Cheeky as usual. Well, if you insist.” She set her teacup down. “I’ve been looking forward to this conversation for a while. As someone who cares greatly for the future of the wizarding population, I am very concerned that you are openly undermining the authority of the Ministry of Magic at such a young age.”

“The Ministry?” Harry snorted. “You mean Fudge, and how exactly am I undermining him?”

“It’s Minister Fudge, Potter,” she snapped, “and you’re defying him when you refuse to follow his carefully designed curriculum. You’re defying him when you trick your classmates into joining a political club intended to sully his reelection campaign.”

“There’s no political club.”

“I’m tired of your lies. Young Astoria Greengrass already told me everything. About you holding secret meetings, training students so they can fight against the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, spreading falsehoods regarding our esteemed administration.” She leaned across the desk with such force that she upended the teapot, soaking a stack of essays. “What do you seek? Overthrow the government? Put us at the mercy of other nations, or worse, Muggles?”

Harry had to look at Ron and Hermione to make sure he was hearing correctly. Their expressions reflected his own confusion. What was Umbridge talking about?

“But of course,” she said, “you cannot shoulder the full blame, when it was Dumbledore who planned this subversion.”

“This has nothing to do with Dumbledore,” Harry said. “He wouldn’t waste his time on you, anyway.”

“It has everything to do with Albus Dumbledore. He seems so guileless, doesn’t he? Pretending to be content as the headmaster and the Chief Warlock, but in reality, he’s been salivating after Cornelius’s chair for years. It’s disgusting that he’s manipulating his own students to do his bidding. I do pity you, Potter.”

“You’re completely off your rocker.”

“Am I?” she snarled. “Well, I was trying to reason with you, but clearly you won’t be cooperating, so more extreme measures are warranted. Let me see, would you rather that I cast an Imperius Curse on you, or would you rather that I torture your friends until you tell me the truth?”

“Leave them out of it!” Harry shouted, taking a step forward. Threatening him was one thing, since he was used to it by now, but threatening his friends was unacceptable.

“Then I suppose it’s the Imperius,” she said, fingering her wand.

“You’re bluffing, you old toad,” Ron taunted. “It’s not like Slinkhard ever teaches you to —”

“Crucio!”

A jet of red light burst from Umbridge’s wand. Hurrying in front of his best friend, Harry barely erected a Shield Charm in time. Ron and Hermione hastily joined in with their own magic to fortify the shield. Even then, their combined efforts trembled under the force of Umbridge’s curse, which dissipated mere seconds before the shield itself disintegrated.

Winded, Harry staggered back a few steps, and his friends steadied him on either side.

“Are you okay?” he asked, and when they both nodded, he whirled on Umbridge in disbelief. “You tried to Crucio us. That’s illegal.”

Not to mention, Merrythought and Tom had both said that Unforgivables were powered by hatred. It boggled his mind that Umbridge hated him that much. Even the faces of the Inquisitorial Squad had become ashen, clearly not having expected the interrogation to escalate.

Eyes glinting with savagery, Umbridge kept her wand raised and pointed.

“What Cornelius doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” she said with a crazed giggle. “And what you won’t remember won’t be of any concern. Should we try this again?”

Harry leveled his own wand, knowing without looking that Ron and Hermione had done the same. Maybe they couldn’t cast Unforgivables, but their time in the D.A. equipped them with more than a few options to defend themselves.

“Go on. We’re not afraid of you.”

An ugly smile stretched Umbridge’s face even wider. “In that case, I’ll enjoy punishing you for your impertinence. Crucio —”

The door blasted off its hinges and crashed onto the floor. Everyone jumped.

Tom strode into Umbridge’s office, with the casual air of someone visiting for tea and chat. However, his wand was still smoking and his breathing was heavy, as if he’d been running.

Umbridge blinked at the ruins of her office door, mouth opening and closing soundlessly.

“I’m sorry about the door, professor,” Tom said, tossing it aside with a flick of his wand. He didn’t sound apologetic in the least. “It was locked, you see.”

“I — I wasn’t expecting you, Mr. Riddle.”

“I heard that there’s commotion at your office and wanted to investigate.” Tom’s gaze swept around the room, resting on the Inquisitorial Squad, who cowered. “Ah, we have an audience. How perfect.”

Umbridge patted her hair, trying and failing to secure her magenta bow. “As you can see, I’m in the middle of something. If you’d like to chat —”

“She was about to use the Cruciatus on Harry!” Ron shouted.

Tom stiffened. He didn’t spare Harry or his friends a glance, but his magic flooded the room, so oppressive and menacing that the Inquisitorial Squad flattened themselves against the wall. A few tendrils floated towards Harry, surprisingly cool and reassuring against his flushed face.

“Is Minister Fudge condoning the usage of Unforgivables on students now?” Tom asked in a pleasant voice.

While Harry heard his dangerous undertone, saw the way he stepped protectively in front of him, Umbridge did not.

“Mr. Weasley is exaggerating the circumstances,” she said. “I was simply disciplining Mr. Potter for disrespecting the Ministry’s Educational Decrees.”

“I see. In that case, as Head Boy, I should be privy to the details.”

Harry heard a sharp intake of breath behind him and saw alarm crossing the faces of the Inquisitorial Squad. Umbridge again did not notice.

“He’s working with Albus Dumbledore to start a political campaign to undermine Minister Fudge’s reelection.” She returned her baleful eyes to Harry. “But he refuses to speak out of misplaced loyalty.”

“A political campaign?” Tom repeated, still in that deceptively easygoing voice. “I thought Harry was only running a study group.”

“That’s obviously a front. Since you’re here, Mr. Riddle, I would greatly appreciate your help getting answers from Potter and his friends.”

Tom tilted his head, as if considering her suggestion. Then, very slowly, he shook his head.

“No.”

Everyone gasped. Umbridge’s smile wavered. “No?” she repeated.

“No.” Tom’s posture was still loose and relaxed. “The truth is, Harry and I are co-running this...club. You can understand why interrogating him would present a conflict of interests.”

Umbridge didn’t appreciate the turn of events. “I hope you are aware of what you’re saying,” she said softly.

“Yes. Perfectly.”

She lost her composure. “Mr. Riddle, you are trying my patience. You couldn’t possibly be involved with this club. I’ve asked you before whether you knew anything.”

“You have, and I’ve simply been lying to you.”

“Then you are admitting to acting against the Minister for Magic. Cornelius will not be pleased.”

“Well,” Tom said, “it turns out that pleasing the minister isn’t exactly high on my list of priorities.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Surely you’ve heard the rumors. You’ve cited them yourself.” Amusement and scorn crept into Tom’s voice. “Harry and I are quite...close.”

Umbridge’s shoulders were heaving and her wand hand was shaking. This did not bode well.

“Tom.” Harry tugged at Tom’s sleeve, his plea low and urgent. “You don’t have to do this.”

Tom turned to face him for the first time since his arrival. “Why not?” he said, raising his voice. “I meant everything I said.”

He was ostensibly addressing the entire room, but his eyes never strayed from Harry’s, and only Harry knew Tom wasn’t referring to his stance on the Minister for Magic. Something stung in his eyes, settled in his chest, and choked off anything else he might’ve said.

Tom turned back to Umbridge. “This isn’t a productive use of your time, professor, and I must warn you not to force my hand.” He flashed a bland smile. “You won’t like the consequences of messing with me and mine.”

“Are you threatening me, Mr. Riddle? Cornelius will —”

“Funny you keep on mentioning him. Minister Fudge has also been on my mind frequently as of late. I’ve been learning the most fascinating things, would you like to hear?” He didn’t wait for her response. “For instance, I wonder how the public would react when they hear about his voting rings. I don’t imagine Mrs. Lestrange would be pleased to know that he has been double-timing her on the inheritance laws, despite her generous donations.”

Umbridge’s jowls quivered. “How did —”

“And I don’t suppose Mr. Greengrass would appreciate you and Minister Fudge undermining the sanctity of Gringotts by importing leprechaun gold to inflate the prices of your real estate investments in southern Wales.”

“We weren’t —”

“And since Draco is in the room, perhaps he will be unhappy to learn that Minister Fudge has been bribing other members of the Board of Governors so his father won’t be staying another term, due to personal disagreements.”

“Stop talking!” Umbridge practically shrieked, as Malfoy glowered at her.

“You have a point, I should stop talking about Ministry politics,” Tom said. “After all, reciting the whole list becomes boring and this conversation should be about you. So why don’t we enumerate some of your accomplishments?”

Watching the exchange, Harry was reminded of Tom during the First Task, where he’d subdued a dragon with magical serpents. So confident, so triumphant.

“You give students detentions that utilize a quill that performs dark magic using human blood, which has been outlawed since the eighteenth century.

“You’ve been stealing from Professor Slughorn’s supply of Veritaserum and illegally administering them to students since last year.”

“Stop —”

Tom showed no interest in stopping, and Umbridge withered with every word he uttered.

“You sneak into professors’ offices to try to collect blackmail material so they’d be forced to support Fudge’s reelection.

“You and Bagman tried to rig the results of the Triwizard Tournament in Durmstrang’s favor to suppress unsavory dealings with Karkaroff and Fudge.”

Harry turned to his gaping friends. Catching his eye, Hermione mouthed, Legilimens.

Of course, Tom was a Legilimens, and he was wielding Legilimency like a weapon. Harry couldn’t help being impressed by his ruthlessness as he tore through Umbridge’s darkest secrets. And the more panicked she was becoming, the more her thoughts were revealing, plunging right into his trap.

“You’ve been embezzling for years to fund your extravagant lifestyle. Those ridiculous plates don’t come cheaply, I understand.

“You are a half-blood but you pretend to have blood ties to Slytherin and hide the existence of your Squib brother.

“You tried to make a pass at Argus Filch and was rebutted in favor of Mrs. Norris.”

That last one drew the strongest reaction from both Umbridge and the audience.

“How dare you?” she snarled.

“Blackmail is a wonderful thing, isn’t it? In fact, there’s been so much scrutiny on the Fudge administration that everything I shared just now would help greatly with the circulation of many publications, especially the esteemed Witches Weekly.” He laughed. “My Muggle grandmother has a subscription, do you know? She will be most delighted to read about your predicament.”

“This is the end of your future, Mr. Riddle.”

“That’s quite all right. I’m not interested in a future with you, Dolores.”

“Crucio!”

Harry rushed forward to cover Tom’s non-dominant side.

“Protego!” he yelled, halting the curse long enough for Tom to react.

“Confringo!”

The two curses collided in an explosion, shattering Umbridge’s plates and threatening to shower the room with china shards.

“Alarte Ascendare!” Harry shouted, sending the plate fragments flying into the ceiling.

Tom immediately followed up with a series of “Evanesco!” to Vanish them.

“I spent decades collecting those plates!” Umbridge growled. “You’ll pay dearly for that. Expulso — ”

“Expelliarmus!” Harry interrupted, watching with no small satisfaction as Umbridge’s wand sailed into his hand.

“Incarcerous!” Tom finished, conjuring thick ropes to bind her to her chair.

Umbridge struggled against her bounds and screamed obscenities, all propriety forgotten. Tom wrinkled his nose.

“Such strong language, Dolores,” he said. “Silencio. Depulso.”

With that, he cut off her tirade and sent her — still fastened to her chair — crashing into the corner. Hair disheveled and robes smoking, she looked pitiful, but Harry couldn’t muster a shred of sympathy.

In the stillness that followed, Harry and Tom shared a long gaze. As inappropriate as it would be under the circumstances, Harry was fighting the urge to grin, and Tom’s own mouth was twitching. They’d dueled against each other plenty of times, but dueling together took exhilaration to a new level. They had no time to coordinate, yet their spells perfectly complemented each other.

“You know,” Harry said, “maybe Umbridge isn’t such a terrible Defense professor after all.”

“I agree,” Tom said. “That was a most excellent dueling demonstration.”

From behind Umbridge’s desk came pitiful whimpers. In the excitement, Harry had forgotten about the Inquisitorial Squad. They were rising unsteadily to their feet, covered in tea and soot, and looking incredibly lost.

“Um, Tom,” Malfoy began.

Tom’s eyes snapped over. “This is a reminder that Slytherins are known for their discretion. Am I understood?”

He received four nods, ranging from eager to terrified.

“Perfect. Let’s wrap up, then, as it’s close to curfew. Please return to the common room. Draco, please alert Professor Slughorn and direct him this way at your earliest convenience.”

No one protested as they shuffled out of the office, Malfoy avoiding eye contact with Harry the entire time.

Tom turned to Ron and Hermione. “The same goes for you, please return to your common room. Granger, would you mind alerting Professor McGonagall? She will want to be involved.”

Harry knew, without being asked, that he was to remain behind. His friends both gave him worried looks as they headed out of the office, Ron so reluctantly that Hermione had to drag him away.

Hands fell on his shoulders. “Are you all right?” Tom asked, giving him a careful onceover. The mirth was gone from his face. “She didn’t hurt you, did she?”

“I’m fine. You got here in time.” Tom’s hands slid down Harry’s arms, sending tingles down his spine. “But will you be all right? What Umbridge said about the Ministry —”

Tom waved the question away. “That doesn’t concern me.”

His eyes were dark and intense. Harry swallowed, racking his brain for something meaningful to fill the moment.

“Ah, it appears I have missed all the excitement.”

Harry and Tom sprang apart to find Dumbledore beaming at them. Talia stood beside him, a hand clapped to her mouth.

“I apologize for my tardiness. Ms. Prewett had some trouble locating me due to an evening engagement.” He peered over his half-moon spectacles. “Dolores, what an unfortunate predicament you’ve found yourself in.”

“She, um, can’t talk right now,” Harry said, while Umbridge renewed her struggles and screams.

“So I see. A Silencing Spell, simple yet effective.” Dumbledore’s eyes roamed the room, taking in the broken plates, the tea-splattered desk, and the carcass of an oak door. “I would like to hold a longer debrief, but this is hardly the appropriate place. Mr. Potter, Mr. Riddle, would you mind accompanying Professor Umbridge and myself back to my office? The Floo should work well.”

He gestured wandlessly at Umbridge’s fireplace, which burst into flames.

“We need to send a message to Professors Slughorn and McGonagall,” Tom said. “I asked them to join us here.”

“Of course. Thank you for the reminder. Ms. Prewett, would you mind intercepting and redirecting Horace and Minerva? Much appreciated.”

Once Talia had gone, Dumbledore clasped his hands. “I do wonder, Mr. Riddle,” he said thoughtfully, “whether you think your press correspondent will be interested in participating in the conversation.”

Blue and brown eyes met, and a smile passed between Head Boy and headmaster. Harry felt like a witness to a conversation in which he could take no part. Since when did Tom and Dumbledore become...buddies? And what press correspondent?

“Yes,” Tom said. “I do believe she will.”

The rest of the night passed in a blur.

Harry didn’t remain long in the headmaster’s office. He’d barely finished giving his version of events, starting from the first detention, before a horrified McGonagall insisted that he needed to rest immediately.

Though he had many questions, he was exhausted. He allowed Talia to escort him back to Gryffindor Tower, where she warded off their housemates’ curiosity so he could retire unperturbed to bed.

The press reacted quickly. By the next morning’s owl post, Fudge and Umbridge’s downfall dominated the news, starting with the Daily Prophet’s headline.

Scandals Uncovered: the Truth Behind the Fudge Administration

By: Andy Smudgley and Rita Skeeter

Much of the article rehashed what Harry already knew regarding Fudge and Umbridge’s corruption. To his chagrin, his detentions featured more prominently than he would’ve liked, and he knew Mum and Dad would soon be sending him concerned owls.

The end of the article was more interesting.

Despite claiming that he had no knowledge of Umbridge’s actions, Fudge is stepping down, effective immediately, and stripped of rights to any reelection. He and Umbridge are at present awaiting trials by the Wizengamot for charges ranging from embezzlement to intimidation.

Rufus Scrimgeour will step in as acting Minister of Magic until the May elections, while James Potter, recently promoted to Head Auror, will run the Department of Magical Law Enforcement in the interim.

The position of Hogwarts High Inquisitor is eliminated and all Educational Decrees are revoked. Patricia Rakepick will take over as the Defense Against Dark Arts professor for the remainder of the school year.

Many individuals have come forward with evidence of Fudge and Umbridge’s coercion. Acting Minister Scrimgeour has promised full protection while a detailed investigation is underway.

 

See page 6 for continued coverage.

See this week’s issue of Witches Weekly for the companion article, “The Life and Lies of Dolores Umbridge,” by Rita Skeeter.

Ginny was already reading the Witches Weekly article, and after reading a few paragraphs over her shoulder, Harry was struck by its familiarity. Skeeter had reproduced Tom’s accusations almost perfectly, from Umbridge’s pilfering of Veritaserum to her ill-fated courtship of Filch.

How did she learn everything so quickly? Unless...unless she was Tom’s mysterious press correspondent.

Harry choked on his porridge as the pieces connected. He had no idea how it happened, but it made sense. Through Smudgley and Skeeter, Tom helped to expose the Fudge administration without alarming Umbridge. As an added bonus, he gave Umbridge a taste of her own medicine by supplying Skeeter with sensational gossip.

No wonder Trelawney thought Tom would become a Dark Lord. Umbridge never stood a chance.

As the Gryffindor table discussed the articles and their implications, Harry turned to the Slytherin table. The former Inquisitorial Squad sat at one end, noticeably shunned by housemates. Tom presided at the other end, though instead of reading and discussing the article, he was watching Harry.

Thank you, he thought as hard as he could, unsure whether Legilimency worked over long distances, yet praying that it did.

“Come on, Harry!” Ron clapped a hand on his shoulder. “I’ve been bragging to everyone about your duel with Umbridge, but it’ll be much more exciting hearing directly from you.”

Harry reluctantly dragged his eyes away from Tom.

“Um, well,” he said, as the Gryffindors listened with rapt attention, “it all started when Ron insulted her ability to cast an Unforgivable…”

Hermione Granger approached Tom in the library while he was puzzling over a difficult translation.

“Linear A?” she said, sliding uninvited into the empty seat across the table. “It doesn’t have a key.”

“Not yet, but wizards can do better than Muggle scholars.” Tom bookmarked the page and shut the book. “I’m doing independent research with Babbling.”

“Very impressive.”

Tom leaned back and folded his arms. “I take it you aren’t here to make conversation on Ancient Runes.”

“No, I actually wanted to thank you. For helping us in Umbridge’s office. And for the Skeeter article.”

“The Witches Weekly article? How odd.” He smiled slightly. “I'm not exactly in the target demographic.”

“Well, nothing in the article will be new to you.” Granger tapped on the table. “It’s kind of uncanny, actually. I’ve been wondering for a while how Skeeter gets some of her scoops, as if she can secretly eavesdrop on private conversations. Reminds me of an annoying bug.”

A meaningful pause.

“An annoying bug indeed,” Tom agreed, “and an illegal one who prefers not to be caught, in exchange for favors.”

She nodded, understanding dawning.

“Have I solved your puzzle?” Tom said. “If so, I’d like to get back to my research.”

“Just one other question, if that’s all right.” Granger met his eyes. “When are you going to tell Harry what you did?”

He raised his eyebrows in question.

“The salve. The articles. You did them for him.”

Tom stiffened. Yes, he’d done those things for Harry, yet he could hardly express the reason to himself, let alone to Granger. Because he felt responsible as Head Boy, he might say. Because he enjoyed the challenge. But, in reality, because he wanted to take care of Harry without the risk of rejection.

“I don’t see how that’s relevant,” Tom said eventually.

Granger stood and slung her bag over her shoulder.

“I won’t question your judgment. But, for the record?” There was that look again, hovering tantalizingly on the boundary between pity and sympathy. “I think it’s very relevant. Good night, Riddle. Thank you again.”

As winter melted into spring, Tom finally sent his response to Karkaroff. The message had changed.

Thank you for your generous offer, but I’ve chosen another path.

Afterwards, he headed down to the Chamber of Secrets, which he hadn’t visited in a long time. It was even danker and dustier than he remembered. He ran a hand along the walls, the worn stones breaking into small rubbles underneath his fingers.

For a long time, he’d planned to create his Horcruxes here, under the watch of his ancestor and the protection of his basilisk.

And now, staring up at the statue looming over him, he wondered whether Salazar Slytherin himself had once been pure of heart.

Tom drew his wand and focused.

“Expecto Patronum!”

It took several attempts, but to his relief, his little owl appeared. It fluttered around the Chamber, unaware of how out of place it was.

Still so cute, so Harry-like.

Tom held out a hand and his Patronus nuzzled it, cooing.

He couldn’t bring himself to dispel it, so he waited until the magic fizzled out on its own, leaving him with nothing but silvery wisps and the final echoes of soft hoots.

Chapter Text

The Slug Party was in full swing.

As much as Harry respected Professor Slughorn, he detested attending his parties. The guests were always dull, the conversations stilted. How Mum had flourished in her time, he’d never understand.

It didn’t help that his usual partners-in-crime had deserted him. Hermione was deep in conversation with Newt Scamander, in town for his wife’s book tour, and Daphne was chatting with her father’s old classmates.

Harry made an honest attempt at socializing, he truly did, but fielding questions on Umbridge grew tiresome. Fortunately, he eventually found himself in conversation with the infamous Lawrence Wakefield, too fresh from his own scandals to gossip about a new one. Unfortunately, he was also terrifically boring; instead of sharing anecdotes from his decorated Chaser career, he launched into a neverending discourse on Quidditch contracts.

“It’s all about negotiation, Harry, tactical negotiation,” he said. “You can’t let a salary cap hold you back, especially early on in your career, and archaic rules are meant to be circumvented. The Appleby Arrows needed to understand.”

At some point, Harry excused himself to refill his pumpkin juice, leaving Wakefield to be approached by another Quidditch hopeful. Sighing in relief, Harry loaded his plate with hors d’oeuvres and escaped onto Slughorn’s balcony. It was pretty nice, munching on sausage rolls while enjoying the view from the sixth floor. Maybe he could stay here until the party was over.

“Hiding?”

Harry almost dropped his pastry, stomach fluttering and self-consciousness heightening. When did Tom sneak up on him?

“I’m, er, taking a break from socializing,” he said, grateful for the dim lighting obscuring his burning face. “Why are you here? Shouldn’t you be making your round?”

Tom shrugged and leaned against the railing, all elegant nonchalance. “I’m taking a break too. From wearing masks.”

“Right. That’s...that’s good. Um, you’ve been well?”

Harry could’ve pinched himself. The Umbridge debacle wasn’t that long ago, and here he was, acting as if he and Tom were catching up after decades of separation.

Tom didn’t seem to mind. “I’ve been busy, as it’s not often that a professor departs mid-term, but I’m learning a lot and things are finally calming down. How about yourself? How do you like Rakepick so far?”

“She hates Slinkhard, so that’s already a good start.” Harry joined Tom in leaning against the railing. “Her stories from her curse-breaking days are super interesting, and she actually encouraged me to keep running the D.A.”

“No surprise there. I don’t think there’s another club at Hogwarts more popular than the Dolores Anti-society at the moment.”

Harry groaned. “All because Fred and George spread rumors that I led a secret resistance to oust Umbridge. Well, and also because some people think you’re co-running it with me,” he added, with a shy glance.

“If you need me,” Tom said, turning to him, “I don’t mind helping out.”

Harry’s mouth went dry at Tom’s sincerity. “You don’t?” he squeaked as the balcony door opened.

“Ah, Tom, Harry, two of my favorites!” Slughorn joined them, nursing a flute of champagne. “Not in the mood to mingle with others tonight?”

“Quite the contrary, professor, I’ve had many delightful conversations,” Tom said smoothly. “Mr. Fawley was just giving me great pointers on my Ancient Runes research. I merely fancied a break, and I’m sure that it’s the same for Harry.”

“Um, exactly.” Harry cleared his throat. “Mr. Wakefield taught me a lot about, er, contracts. And, er, negotiations. Very important things.”

He could’ve sworn Tom snorted, but he didn’t dare to check.

Slughorn nodded. “Well, I can’t begrudge the fact that you want to spend more time with each other. After all, starting next year, Tom will be quite far away, won’t he?”

Harry’s eyes snapped to Tom in time to catch him tensing. “You will?” he blurted. “Where are you going?”

“I’ve spoken with a few of Professor Slughorn’s contacts about doing a university certification at Koldovstoretz. In Russia.”

“But why Russia? Why can’t you do the certification in Britain?”

Tom’s expression was as unreadable as his tone. “Koldovstoretz’s Magizoology and Charms programs are world-class.”

“Very world-class,” Slughorn agreed. “I’m very excited for you, Tom, as is Zhenya. He’s been owling me nonstop with ideas on your collaboration, having heard so many good things from his nephew Andrei.”

“Please tell him I’m extremely flattered and look forward to meeting him in person.”

“I will, I will. What a shame though that British institutions will lose access to your talent.” Slughorn patted Harry’s shoulder. “You’ll miss him, won’t you, Harry?”

“I’m very happy for Tom,” Harry said, words coming out strangled. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” Tom replied, watching Slughorn instead of Harry.

Slughorn seemed to sense a change in atmosphere. “Well, I only meant to make sure you two are enjoying yourselves, and it certainly seems so. I better get back before Celestina wonders where I’ve wandered off to. Enjoy your evening, my boys.”

A brittle silence followed his departure.

Tom stared into the distance, stance impossibly casual, while Harry stared at his sausage rolls, appetite lost. Their shoulders were only inches apart, but Tom might as well already be an entire continent away.

“I didn’t realize you decided to go so far away,” he said quietly.

“I’ve only recently finalized my future plans, but I believe I’ve made the right decision. Thank you for your well wishes.”

Harry clutched his plate.

“Anyway,” Tom said, “back to our original conversation. I meant what I said. If you do need me, I can help you with your club.”

“I —”

I do need you, and not just for the club.

Tom’s face remained averted. Harry studied the sharp lines of his profile, chest tightening. Ever since he had learned that Tom was a Legilimens, he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to be close, so he could convey everything he couldn’t verbally express, or whether he wanted to avoid Tom altogether, so he couldn’t reveal anything embarrassing.

The same conundrum faced him now, and suddenly Harry couldn’t bear to stay. Despite the cool air, the night was too stuffy, too overwhelming, too...everything.

“I better go back too. I — I hear Hermione calling,” he lied, and without waiting for Tom’s reaction, hurried back inside.

He was blindly shoving his way through the crowd when Hermione seized him by the arm.

“Harry! I’ve been looking for you. I was just telling Mr. Scamander how much you enjoy his wife’s book. Do you want to meet him?”

“I’m sorry, another time maybe. I need to go.”

“Already? It’s only been half an hour.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Tom returning to the party. He didn’t want to be found.

“I need to go,” he repeated. “I — I’m not feeling too well.”

“It must be those sausage rolls. I told you, you have to eat them in moderation.”

“Yeah, you’re right. I will do better.”

Hermione frowned in concern. “I should come with you. You really don’t look well, and I can always find Mr. Scamander later.”

“No, don’t!” Harry said. “I’ll be fine. Can you tell Professor Slughorn I had to leave? And drop off my plate for me?”

“Your plate? Wait, Harry —”

She barely finished her sentence before Harry was shoving his plate at her. Tom was heading in their direction, and his knee-jerk reaction fully embodied the spirit of Godric Gryffindor.

He dashed off.

“You’re staring at Riddle.”

Harry turned his gaze back to his pudding. “I’m not,” he mumbled, his protest half-hearted.

Hermione glanced around and, after checking that Ron was deep in conversation with Seamus, leaned closer.

“You know you can talk to me, right?” she said. “I won’t share with Ron or anyone else.”

“There’s nothing to share.”

“I disagree. Something happened between you and Riddle. The two of you have been awkward around each other, Talia and the Slytherin prefects say he’s been in a dark mood, and both of you left Slughorn’s party early last night.”

Sometimes Harry wished Hermione wasn’t so perceptive.

“He’s had to deal with Umbridge, that will put any normal person in a dark mood,” he said stubbornly.

“I don’t think so. She doesn’t mean enough to him.”

Was she saying that Harry did? If he did, why would Tom leave him behind? He didn’t even give Harry a chance to convince him otherwise.

He thought Tom cared.

He thought Tom...liked him.

“You’re staring again,” Hermione said.

“Nothing happened, really.” Harry set down his spoon. “We got into some, um, disagreement but we both apologized. That’s all.”

Hermione studied him with the intense look she wore whenever she was trying to add another inch to her Transfiguration essay. Harry could see his face reflected in her eyes, petulant and miserable.

She patted his right hand. “Your hand looks better now.”

“Um, yes,” Harry said, puzzled but relieved by the shift to a safer topic. “The scars are all gone now, thanks to your salve.”

“It’s not an easy salve to make. It takes a high level of competence, not to mention dedication, to come up with an effective formula and procure the necessary ingredients.”

Harry’s eyes flew to Hermione’s solemn expression. Heart pounding, he hardly dared to hope. “You...do you mean…”

“If you’re grateful, you should thank the right person.” Her tone softened. “I promised not to tell, but I thought you should know.”

Harry glanced down at his hand, tingling with the ghost of Tom’s touch as he examined the scars. He’d made the salve before receiving the toffees and the mittens; he’d made it before he knew that Harry had forgiven him.

“Why are you telling me now?” he asked in a small voice, even though part of him already knew.

“You’ve never been the most proactive person, Harry, and opportunities so rarely wait around.”

Per usual, she was right. Opportunities didn’t wait around. Sometimes they even traveled thousands of miles away.

“What are you two muttering about?” Ron said. “What did I miss?”

Hermione gave Harry a meaningful look. “Nothing,” she replied. “Just giving Harry something to noodle on.”

“But there aren’t any noodles for dinner.”

She rolled her eyes at Ron’s bafflement. “It’s called a figure of speech. Honestly.”

“It’s not my fault it makes no sense!”

As his best friends lectured each other on Muggle and wizarding sayings involving food, peppering their discussion with affectionate mutual jabs, Harry turned back to the Slytherin table.

Tom was gone.

Another evening, another interrupted study session in the library. Tom was starting to think that he should favor the prefects’ lounge more.

This time, the offender was Cassius, who had come from Quidditch practice, judging by his sweaty face and windswept hair.

“Tom,” he began, then hesitated for so long that Tom sighed and set down his book.

“Do please go on, Cassius.”

“Um, well, I was wondering...would you mind if I asked Rachele out sometime?”

It took Tom a few seconds to process the question. “Why would I mind?”

Cassius scratched his head. “You two were dating for a while.”

Oh, right. Tom had completely forgotten. He supposed he should feel jealousy, but he felt only indifference — relief, even — mixed with perverse curiosity to see how Cassius would fare. Oh, and he probably shouldn’t begrudge Rachele a boyfriend who genuinely liked her, as baffling as the reasons might be.

“I assure you that it will not upset me in the least.”

“Oh, thank you,” Cassius said with relief. He lingered, however, and was now looking over Tom’s shoulder with a funny smile.

“Is anything else on your mind?” Tom asked, giving his Ancient Runes textbook a pointed look.

Cassius didn’t get the hint. “You know, we wouldn’t think any less of you if you are interested in someone from another house.”

Tom glared. Where did that come from? And why would he need the approval of someone romantically interested in Rachele Lestrange?

“And if something doesn’t go as expected the first time,” Cassius continued in a surprising show of courage, “you can always try again.”

Wasn’t that the obvious statement of the week? Was he truly getting a motivational lecture from the Quidditch Captain?

“My personal life is not your concern, nor do I have anything against inter-house relationships in the first place. If you have no other requests, I’d like to continue my research.” Then, replaying how his words sounded, Tom added stiffly, “But I...appreciate your concern.”

Still wearing that funny smile, Cassius inclined his head and left. Before Tom could reopen the book, a different shadow fell over the table.

He raised his head, ready to be annoyed anew, and froze.

“Harry.”

“Hi.” Harry looked even more nervous than Cassius had. “I hope you don’t mind the interruption? Hermione said I might find you here.”

“You’re not interrupting anything.”

Harry blinked at the stack of books and parchments on the table. “Um, in that case, would you want to take a walk?”

He’d barely finished speaking before Tom was gathering his study materials with a flick of his wand. Linear A and Minoan tablets could wait until tomorrow.

“Yes. Let’s.”

By unspoken agreement, they exited the castle and headed south, following the curving shore of the lake until they reached the small inlet tucked at the edge of the Great Lawn. Together they gazed across the water, dappled by starlight and rippled by the occasional breeze, scattering the fragrance of growing grass.

“I’ve always found the view here calming,” Tom said, having come to see this place as their spot.

“My parents showed it to me. Apparently you get the best view of sunrise at Hogwarts here, so this is where Dad proposed to Mum.” Harry rubbed the back of his right hand. “Not that it’s related to anything.”

Tom could tell Harry was babbling, so he remained quiet. A moment passed, and then, an audible inhale.

“I...I want to thank you,” Harry said.

Thank you. Tom hated the distant politeness of those two words.

“You’re welcome, but ridding the school of Umbridge was long overdue. Plus, you helped.”

“It’s not just that...thank you for the salve.”

Tom swerved, overcome by panic.

“Hermione told me and I’m glad she did.” Harry’s tone held a note of reproach. “Why did you hide it in the first place?”

“At the time, I thought you might still be upset with me.”

“I wasn’t. Like I told you, I overreacted.” Harry dug the toe of his trainer into the soft soil. “I never wanted to stay angry, because I care. About you. A lot.”

Tom cleared his throat. “Likewise.”

“And I especially don’t want things to be awkward between us anymore, because after this year, we won’t see each other around.”

“Why wouldn’t we?”

“You’ll be in Russia, and I’m very happy for you by the way.” Harry was drilling a hole into the ground now. “But I’ll miss you,” he said, his voice so soft that Tom worried that he’d misheard. “And before you leave, before it’s too late, I want to tell you...I want to tell you…tell you...”

Distress etched on his face, Harry was struggling to get his words out. Tom’s own breathing quickened.

“Tell me what?” he asked.

“Winters will be really cold in Russia!”

That wasn’t what Harry had meant to say, if the ensuing groan of mortification was any indication. Nevertheless, the ghost of a smile tugged at Tom’s lips.

“I imagine winters are cold in most places.”

“But I’ve been reading up on Russia, and winters will be especially cold because of arctic winds, and the northern seas, and the lack of mountains. What if you can’t stay warm? What if you get sick?”

“Russian wizards and Muggles alike have survived winters there for centuries. I’m not concerned.”

Harry slid his eyes away, bottom lip jutting in a small pout. Though Tom itched to reassure him, he kept his tone light and teasing.

“It’s sounding like you don’t want me to go to Russia. I thought you were happy for me.”

“I am, I really am, but…” Harry’s voice trailed off and he visibly drooped.

Heart in throat, Tom took a careful step forward. Harry tensed, but did not move away.

“Harry,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “What if I tell you that you don’t need to worry?”

Harry’s head rose. Their eyes locked.

“What if I tell you that cold Russian winters don’t concern me because I’m not going to Russia? What if I tell you that I’m not even leaving Scotland?”

He might never tire of watching those green eyes light up. “You...you’re not?”

“I’m not. I’ve spoken with Dumbledore regarding taking over the Defense position in a few years, and he’s quite supportive. In the meantime, I’ve accepted a fellowship with one of Slughorn’s former students to study spell creation at the Wizarding Institute of Glasgow.”

“That’s great, they both sound perfect for you! Wait, one of Slughorn’s former students.” Harry crossed his arms. “So he knew all along?”

Tom managed to hide his smile. “He knew all along.”

Harry’s tone turned accusing. “And you knew.”

“In my defense, I neither admitted nor denied anything. You never gave me the opportunity to clarify.”

“I...see.” Harry puffed his cheeks before he gave in to his own smile. “I’m glad things worked out. But I thought Professor Rakepick is only staying through the end of the term. Why do you have to wait a few years to take over?”

“Well, the timing wouldn’t be ideal.” Tom took another step closer and Harry remained, wide-eyed and expectant. “You see, staff and students are discouraged from becoming too close. And there is one student with whom I’d like to spend more time. Ask him out to Hogsmeade, for example.”

Harry’s mouth opened slightly.

“Not only that. I want to see whether this inlet really has the best view of sunrise at Hogwarts. I want to make up for the dance we didn’t have at the Yule Ball, even though he’s a terrible dancer. I want to take him to Côte d’Azur and properly teach him to swim. I wouldn’t even mind flying together from time to time, as long as no diving is involved. That is, if he would want to.” His voice fell to a whisper. “If you would want to.”

When Tom finished, he was panting as though he’d finished a Quidditch race. The words had tumbled out, unrehearsed and unrefined, leaving him self-conscious and uncertain in their wake.

Rather than answering, Harry took a step closer, and then another, until he’d eliminated the little remaining distance between them. Tom stayed still, afraid to breathe too harshly and chase him away.

A hand fell on his arm; Harry’s, curling fingers gently around his wrist.

“Yeah, I would,” he said. “All of these.”

And more, Tom heard.

Hesitantly, he reached out and very lightly rested his hand against Harry’s cheek. This time, Harry didn’t bat him away. Instead, he leaned into the touch, never once breaking eye contact.

“In that case,” Tom said, “there’s a Hogsmeade weekend coming up. Perhaps we could start there.”

Harry’s face was burning beneath his hand, and Tom doubted his own was faring much better. Part of him wouldn’t mind if the basilisk showed up and Petrified him right about now.

“Yeah, that sounds nice. Really nice. But under one condition,” Harry added, extremely serious.

“Go on.”

“No Madam Puddifoot’s.”

Tom laughed. “That, I can absolutely promise.”

A determined expression passed over Harry. Without another word, he stood on tiptoes, cradled Tom’s face with both hands, and leaned in to kiss him.

Harry was as inexperienced as he claimed to be. He almost missed, so that he initially brushed the corner of Tom’s mouth with his. Then their lips met, the pressure tentative then deepening with confidence, and Tom closed his eyes, allowing Harry to guide the kiss.

Very gently and carefully, Harry explored his face, hands ghosting over his eyelids and tracing the curve of his jaw. In turn, Tom wrapped one arm around Harry’s waist and leaned down so Harry didn’t need to crane his neck. His other hand cupped the back of Harry’s head, sinking fingers into the soft dark hair.

The kiss wasn’t skilled — in fact, they bumped noses more than once, and glasses posed another obstacle — but it was sweeter than the aftertaste of Harry’s dinner pudding, and even better than their first two kisses. In the end, it wasn’t about the kissing technique, it was about the kisser, and Daphne had been completely correct about Harry.

Too soon, Harry began to pull away, and with reluctance, Tom released him. Cheeks aflame, Harry was too shy to make eye contact, and was thus addressing Tom’s collar when he asked, “Was that...okay?”

Tom thumbed away the uncertain furrow between Harry’s brows, giving himself time to recover the ability to speak.

“Yes,” he said. “More than okay.”

Still avoiding eye contact, Harry tucked his face in the crook of Tom’s neck, his skin pleasantly soft and warm against Tom’s.

“Then I guess the third kiss is the charm?” he said, voice a little muffled.

“Well, I strongly suspect the fourth won’t be too shabby either,” Tom said. “Or the fifth, for that matter.”

He proceeded to prove his hypothesis, and would’ve continued beyond, had Harry not wriggled away.

“Hold on,” he said. “About the prophecy.”

Tom bit back a groan. “I propose that we never mention it again.”

“But inquiring minds need to know,” Harry insisted. “You’re not going to be a Dark Lord.”

“You were right. Being a Dark Lord isn’t worth the trouble.”

“And you don’t want to kill me.”

“Definitely not.”

Harry cocked his head in exaggerated thoughtfulness. “So...does this mean I defeated you just as the prophecy predicted?”

Tom scoffed. “I wouldn’t go that far. I could still change my mind and take over the world down the road.”

“Well, we can keep working on this,” Harry said, assuming the tone of a martyr. Laughing, he dodged when Tom reached for him. “Wait, one more question.”

“Fine. One last question.”

“This ‘power that he knows not’ — did you ever end up figuring it out?”

“Of course.”

“Really?” Harry sounded intrigued. “What is it?”

“The snogging,” Tom said, successfully ensconcing his little owl back in his arms at last. “Definitely the snogging.”

The Great Hall was full of excitement the following morning.

During breakfast, Colin, Dennis, and Romilda were eagerly passing out the inaugural issue of Hogwarts’ first ever gossip magazine (dubbed Flying Oinks and Giant Tentacles), which sold out within an hour, thanks to the front page article featuring a picture of Tom and Harry returning to the castle holding hands. Tomeo and Harriet publicly announce their star-crossed romance! proclaimed the headline, in parallel foreshadowing Romila’s future apprenticeship under Rita Skeeter.

At the same time, Ginny and Daphne sat side-by-side at the Gryffindor table, poring over the article together. Every once in a while, a student would stop by to drop off a few Knuts that Ginny would smugly pocket.

Meanwhile, everyone else — the professors included, whether they admitted to this or not — were searching for the stars of said article, though they were nowhere to be found.

Harry remained blissfully unaware until hours later. During the height of the commotion, he and Tom were enjoying breakfast in the privacy of the Hogwarts kitchen.

And if they weren’t entirely focused on eating, well, the house-elves promised to keep their secret.

It was a wonderful spring day, the perfect day for Hogwarts professors to relax, socialize with colleagues, and spy on unsuspecting students in the Three Broomsticks.

“How sweet, how adorable,” Slughorn remarked, as they watched Harry Potter and Tom Riddle on what was evidently a first date, both of them pink and awkward as they grinned at each other over butterbeers and apple tart. From time to time, Tom would reach over to brush stray crumbs from Harry’s face. “Young love indeed.”

Amusingly, they were not the only spectators. In a display of inter-house unity, an assortment of students from all four houses sat together at a nearby table, doing a poor job of remaining inconspicuous thanks to the proliferation of Omnioculars and Extendable Ears. However, all attempts to eavesdrop were thwarted by a privacy ward.

“They do seem quite happy together,” McGonagall said, “though it’s almost unsettling to see Mr. Riddle acting like...well...”

“A young man in love?” Dumbledore supplied.

“Why...yes. I’ve never seen him smile so much.”

“It was no mean feat getting them to this point,” Slughorn said fondly. “For a while, Mr. Riddle was considering going abroad, and I was concerned he would regret his decision. I like to think that my nudges helped them to finally acknowledge their mutual sentiment.”

“You had quite a few conspirators among the students,” McGonagall said, nodding at the fan club, of which Ginny Weasley and Daphne Greengrass were the clear leaders.

Slughorn chuckled. “To be honest, I’ve always thought that of my students, it’s Ms. Greengrass who has the most suitable temperament to be a Dark Lord. While Mr. Riddle has a brilliant mind, he is completely helpless in matters of the heart.”

“The power that he knows not,” McGonagall mused aloud.

“Ah, that reminds me,” Dumbledore said, clapping his hands. “Sybill is due a raise.”

Slughorn choked on his mulled mead. “Now Albus, I don’t begrudge Sybill a raise in the least and find her a lovely colleague, but you must admit that her prophecy is hogwash. To think that she predicted that those dear boys are destined to be mortal enemies.” He shook his head. “With all due respect, you were irresponsible to raise premature alarm.”

“Even great men make mistakes,” came the cheerful response. “And I am getting on in years.”

McGonagall, however, was studying her colleague, brows furrowed. “Albus, why do I have the impression that you’ve planned this all along?”

“Dear me, Minerva,” protested Dumbledore. “I am not nearly as manipulative as you insist on believing.”

But his blue eyes twinkled.