Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Golden stars alight your skin, dancing through our darkness. The enormity of shining, innocent eyes; a swirling crimson nebula of dastardly transgression. Self-preservation beaten by enlightening reflection.

Yes, you were mine, but was I not yours?

Without your illumination, drowning in our inky depths. Hearts anchored in expanding space by invisible string; a brilliant configuration of collective imagination. Empty annihilation denied by endless devotion.

Were we not, a perfect constellation?

** 1995 **

It was one of those scorching, summer days, one that left Billy Tumworth sweating through his thin t-shirt, that left him wishing it wasn’t uncool to carry a water bottle because his throat was parched and his eyes stung and his feet hurt, and it was all Trevor’s fault. Trevor and his stupid, grand plans that always landed Billy in trouble. Trevor and his made-up ghost stories.

“Dumb, this,” said Sam, kicking a scuffed trainer at the dirt road, the tuft of grass growing along its centre.

Too tired to speak, Billy nodded.

“Dunno what’s exciting about some old shack.”

Billy didn’t know either. Or, maybe he had known, back in his mum’s shaded living room when the prospect of adventure had sung to him. But that was before the unrelenting sun crisped his scalp and arms, left his lips chapped and sore.

Trevor’s fault. Silly, idiotic Trev-

“It’s here!” Trevor yelled from the front of their group, shout slicing through the gentle hum of hedgerow insects. “Told you I wasn’t making it up, didn’t I?”

Sam huffed, unimpressed, but Billy peered toward Trevor, around the curve of the country lane.

Often, Trevor’s tales sucked: loose narratives woven from his gran’s drunken rambling, barely coherent. Yet, somehow, they always wormed their way into Billy’s mind, images playing in his head before he slept – of madmen, of rituals, of ghosts.

Distractions that lulled him into dreamland. Anything to not think about Lettie –

No. Not now.

The road (if the farmer’s track could be called that) dived into a hollow, brambles swarming its edges. And there, just visible beyond a smattering of ivy-choked trees, was the tilted, broken roof of a hovel. Trevor’s stories, as it transpired, were occasionally built on truth.

Beneath the hot sun, the shack groaned and creaked, the gasping cries of its splintered wooden beams escaping into the thick air. Fingers of ivy chocked the final drops of life from the crumbling stone, and the windows, glass panes shattered, gaped and sagged like unblinking, tired eyes.

“They say he died all alone in there,” Trevor whispered, and all of them - even Sam - leaned closer to catch his words. “The crazy, old man. No family, no friends… he died and no one even knew. His flesh turned to sludge and rats chewed his bones. The house swallowed up whatever was left - gave it a taste for flesh. They say it gobbles up anything that dares get too close.” Mischief flashed in his narrow eyes. “Reckon one of us’ll be next on the menu.”

Nervous chuckles. Despite the sun, Billy shivered. There was something strange about the hovel, something creepy, Billy could feel it on the air. Like it was watching them.

“Someone should go in,” Sam said, grinning. “See if there’s a skeleton.”

“Billy,” said Trevor, and Billy gaped at him.

“Me? Why not you? It’s your story!”

“Exactly. So, I get to decide who takes the dare.”

“But you – you always want to do the dares, Trev!”

It was true. Trevor loved to play the hero. Billy was just the sidekick, there to watch and clap. He didn’t mind.

Today, though, for whatever reason, Trevor only shrugged. “Don’t be a wuss. Just go open the door and stick your head inside.”

Looking at the shack, Billy swallowed. In the dappled shade from the copse of trees, there was something human about it, the creaking door swinging on its hinges like the lopsided grin of a mad man. He glanced at his friends, their goading, sunburnt faces.

“In and out?” Billy asked. “Just like that?”

Sam smirked. “Scared? I’ll do it.”

“No!” said Trevor. “It’s Billy’s dare.”

Again, Billy swallowed. Again, he glanced at the shack - because it was only a shack. Not a hungry madman. He took a step forward. The breeze hissed through its exposed rafters.

“All right,” he said, mostly to himself. “All right.”

His friends whooped, and that gave him the bit of confidence he needed to stride up the overgrown, grassy path to the door, head held high. As he approached the soft birdsong and the hum of insects faded, like his mum had turned the volume down on their old television set. Maybe... maybe this place was haunted.

Something was pinned to the door, swinging gently in the breeze.

“There’s an old snakeskin here,” Billy called. His voice sounded echoey, disrespectfully loud. This house didn’t like intruders.

“Gross!” someone called, distant as though speaking from the end of a long tunnel.

It was gross – green and flaky and limp. It was still intact though, so it couldn’t have been dead all that long; last term, Ms Phillips had taught them all about decomposition. Someone must’ve put it here recently. Who would’ve –

Trevor!

Billy grinned to himself, shaking off that strange feeling of being watched. That was why he hadn’t wanted the dare! He’d probably hidden a fake skeleton inside the hovel, trying to scare him. Maybe it was revenge for last week – unjust revenge. Billy didn’t understand what he could’ve done to make Trevor’s ice lolly explode, he wasn’t a magician, but that hadn’t stopped Trevor suspecting him. After all, it was Billy’s sister he’d been making stupid jokes about –

No. He wasn’t thinking about Lettie.

Feeling braver now he’d seen through Trevor’s plan, Billy yanked on the door.

Pain pricked his finger and he let out a yelp, loud in the strangled quiet. Hoping his friends hadn’t heard, Billy yanked out a sliver of dry wood, blood beading on his fingertip. Damn house! He kicked the door open the rest of the way, sucking on his finger as he did so.

Inside, the shack was filthy. Dirt and dust coated everything from the broken pots and pans beneath a rusted sink to a sagging sofa, its fabric matted and torn apart by vermin. A staircase clung to one of the walls, its steps broken and splintered. Parts of the ceiling above had collapsed onto the floor, letting sunlight filter in through the rafters, illuminating the choking dust swirling in the air. Billy saw no skeleton of an old, crazed man (real or fake); nothing but broken wood, decomposing leaves, and mouse droppings.

Perhaps the fake skeleton would drop down on him? Peering around, Billy waited a few moments. Nothing happened.

That was that, then. He’d been inside, he’d done the dare. Time to go.

Thoughts quieting, much like the birdsong outside, Billy wandered further into the hovel. He wasn’t quite sure what made him do it. There may be no body, but the house was still creepy. He still wanted to leave.

Don’t go yet, Billy. I have something for you.  

The voice in his head was soft, like the gentle brush of his mum’s touch, fingers gliding over his hair as he drifted off to sleep. It soothed him. And the voice was right – there was something here, something beneath the rotted rug and fractured floorboards.

Even so... he should really go. Were those the cries of his friends he heard? Their yells whisked away by the wind?

Billy didn’t go. He fell to his knees, shoving aside debris. He didn’t notice the pain of the splinters anymore, nor the pain as his nails cracked and broke, nor the way the house hungered after his blood, the spatters and streaks soaking into the wood.

There was a hole cut into dirt beneath the floorboards, and inside it, a small, unassuming box. It was strangely well-preserved, protected somehow from the dust and dirt that coated every inch of the hovel. And it sung to him, an alluring purr that tugged his hand. He wanted to know what was inside, needed to know. His fingers stretched…

No!

Loud and painful, the stranger’s voice rattled his head. Outside, his friends’ voices became clearer.

“BILLY! It’s not funny anymore! Stop messing around!”

Panic started to grip his body; his hands throbbed in pain.

Let me help you, the voice said, calm once more.

Dimly, Billy noticed his pain subside, his heart rate slow, his vision blur. He felt his hands move of their own accord, tracing strange patterns in the air. A warmth extended from his heart to his fingers, a tingling he’d felt before when he was scared or frightened or angry. Mum said he had an overactive imagination. He hadn’t really slammed the door shut without touching it as his parents argued downstairs. He hadn’t really made stars dance above Lettie’s head as she lay in that hospital bed.   

Lettie…

The air shimmered and the box creaked open. The hovel breathed.

A single ring lay inside, the gold band tarnished and the black stone dull. It was ugly, but Billy didn’t think he’d ever seen something so beautiful. He wondered whether mum would like it – they never had the spare cash for presents such as these. He wondered how it would look on his finger. Perhaps he’d look like one of those posh boys that went to that public school down the road. He wondered what his friends might think when he emerged victorious from the house, clutching his treasure.

Billy reached down and this time the voice didn’t tell him to stop. Strangely, the gold was warm to the touch, though he didn’t think much of it. A terrible excitement clutched his heart, and he could bear the wait no longer.

Too big for his other fingers, he slid the ring onto his thumb.

Silence.

Then, a light stinging returned to his grazed and bloodied hands. The birdsong swelled, harmonising with the renewed cries of his friends.

His fear and confusion fled in a rush.

It was only a shack. Abandoned, dirty, crummy bits of shattered furniture. Standing, Billy took a shaky breath. What had he been so afraid of? Already the memory of the voice, of the box, of the tug on his heart was beginning to fade, leaving him only with his prize. His ring. Trevor was going to be so jealous.

Shaking his head, Billy headed out into the sunshine.

Stupid.

As if a house could be alive.

*****

For the next two weeks, Billy dreamt of the Riddle House. A grand old thing, perched atop the hill in Little Hangleton; a half-hour walk or three-minute drive, if mum happened to be passing that way. It loomed empty and derelict, lording over the quaint, English village like King George on his deathbed.

Early last summer, Billy had visited. Back when the lawns weren’t blanketed by weeds and the pruned roses still upturned their faces to the sun. They’d picked a rainy day to throw eggs at the upper floor windows when the grumpy gardener with his bad leg would slip on the mown grass chasing them away. With the gardener gone, those activities had lost their appeal – or so Trevor said.

But, in Billy’s dream, it was always night; quiet, calm, and cold. He’d stand in the sweeping gardens staring up at the Riddle House, its windows illuminated with an inviting warmth - though he knew, somehow, that he was unwelcome. A figure would cross a window on the first floor, there’d come two brilliant flashes of green, a pause, then one more and Billy would awaken, trembling.

Mum didn’t notice his tired eyes and loss of appetite; she spent all her time at work. Said home reminded her too much of Lettie. It reminded Billy of Lettie, too, but he liked that. He liked to sit in his sister’s room leafing through her silly diaries or showing off his fancy, new ring to Crumpet, her stuffed blue whale.

In the gardens of the Riddle House stood a tall pine tree. The grass at its base had receded, leaving a circle of soil and decomposing pine needles. One night, Billy spotted a boy sitting there, back against the trunk. Before he could call out to him, however, the flashes of green light came, and the dream slipped from his grasp.

All of the following week, the boy appeared in his dreams. Always shadowed by night, always facing the house on the hill, always fading to fog before Billy could say hello.

The Saturday evening, Billy struggled to fall asleep. One Sunday a month, mum forced him to attend church for communion. Billy didn’t find this fair. If mum could avoid home, could avoid Billy, to forget Lettie, then he should be able to avoid the Little Hangleton graveyard and the bundles of wilted flowers. When he finally did drift into sleep, exhausted, he opened his eyes to the underbelly of the pine tree.

The boy sat beside him, head pressed to the trunk, eyes closed, and chin upturned to the branches. He was deathly pale – grey, really – with dark, wavy hair and strange, old-fashioned clothes. A teenager, Billy thought, and an older one too. Trevor said it was cool to hang out with teenagers.

“Hello,” Billy said.

“Hullo,” replied the boy. He had a pleasant voice, rich and low, but it trembled as he spoke. It reminded Billy of the voice from the shack, the one he thought he’d dreamt.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m tired.” Slowly, the boy rolled his head against the trunk, opening his eyes to look at Billy. They were as dark as his hair and framed by bags. “Who are you?”

“Billy,” Billy said. Then, “Billy Tamworth.”

The boy shrugged, turning away from him.

“Who are you?” Billy prompted.

The boy laughed, though Billy didn’t think he’d said anything funny, then he stopped shortly, out of breath. That reminded Billy of Lettie, towards the end.

“Tom,” the boy eventually said.

Billy awoke.

The next time he spoke with Tom, two nights later, the bags under his eyes had diminished and his skin was white, rather than grey. “Were you ill?” Billy asked.

Tom shook his head. “I was asleep for a long time. But I’m waking up.”

“I’m asleep right now.”

“That’s interesting,” Tom said. Then he closed his eyes again and was quiet for a while.

Billy gazed up at the house on the hill, so much grander in his dreams than when he’d visited last year. Ivy adorned the stone walls, rather than choked them. Light and life came from inside and piano music spilled onto the lawn.

“Are there people up there?”

Tom nodded.

“Are they ghosts? Trevor says some people died here a long time ago.”

“Who’s Trevor?”

“My friend,” Billy said. It wasn’t really a lie. He thought they were friends.

The corners of Tom’s mouth lifted slightly in a smile that faded to mist. Billy woke up again.

When he next went over to Sam’s house, Billy wore his ring (not that he took it off), the prize for his bravery. Trevor’s eyes kept catching on it, then he’d look away quickly, sneering about how walking into an old shack wasn’t that impressive.

“Tell you what would be really brave,” Trevor said when Danny, Sam’s older brother, agreed that the ring was cool, “Sneaking into the Riddle House.”

Sam’s eyes went wide. “But people died in there, Trev.”

“An old man died in the shack too!” Billy said, clutching his ring defensively.

Trevor waved a hand. “I only said that to scare you, dummy. The Riddle House though – there was an investigation and everything. Three people died. They never caught the killer.”

“Don’t try going up there,” Danny said, leaning against the sofa. “Coppers got one of my mates on trespassing last year.”

“The gardener’s gone now,” Trevor said. “There’s no one to snitch.”

They didn’t go to the Riddle House that day, but Billy kept thinking about it, about the faceless, nameless people who had died. He asked Tom about them that night, sat beneath the pine.

“Don’t be scared of them,” Tom said. He looked less tired tonight. His voice no longer shook. “They were snobby, ungrateful muggles and they got what they deserved. And they’re dead now. The dead can’t hurt you, Billy. The dead can’t do much of anything.”

“What are muggles?” Billy asked, not wanting to dwell on the second bit. It made him think of Lettie.

“People who can’t do magic.”

Billy stared at him. “I can’t do magic.”

“Yes, you can.”

Tom explained things then, as much as he could before the tiredness set in. About muggles and magic and wands and secret wizarding schools. He said that Billy could do things too, the strange things Billy thought he’d made up. He remembered the warmth flowing through his fingertips in the shack – the shack which felt like a dream.

Tom didn’t speak like Billy’s teachers at school. He was patient, repeating himself when Billy didn’t understand rather than snapping and calling him stupid. He was clever too, cleverer even than Rachel, the girl at church who’d gotten straight A*s at GCSE. Tom knew so much about everything.

Every night their conversations continued, lasting longer and longer the stronger Tom got. He’d started pacing in front of Billy, waving his hands as he discussed the differences between Charms and Transfiguration. Billy didn’t have to do much but nod along, mind heaving with the overwhelming weight of information. Sometimes, Tom noticed this, and he’d sit down again and encourage Billy to talk about his life: his mum, his absent father, his school, his friends, his sister’s illness.

Billy liked talking about Lettie with Tom. He asked fun questions: her favourite food, what they’d talk about, how she’d embarrass him, what they’d do together if he could see her again. No one else wanted to talk about Lettie. Especially Mum. They’d get sad, or uncomfortable, or make stupid jokes. Tom didn’t.

Billy started looking forward to their conversations so much that he’d sleep early, sometimes even before Mum got back from work. In the mornings he’d sleep in late too, but it was the summer holidays, so it didn’t matter. So much sleep didn’t seem to be good for him though. Despite getting over ten hours every night, his eyes would threaten to close when he watched TV with his friends, his feet tripped over themselves when they kicked a ball down the street.

Often, he preferred to lie in bed, twisting the ring around his thumb, watching the red stone catch the sunlight, tracing the pattern etched on the stone’s surface: the triangle, circle and line.

One night, he asked about the ring.

“I’m trapped in it,” Tom explained. He’d been pacing, but he sat down next to Billy again for this. Billy would’ve preferred to stand up, but his limbs were too heavy. “That’s why you started dreaming of me once you picked it up.”

“How did you get trapped in the ring?”

“My uncle. He lived in that shack. Cast some spell. He didn’t like me much.”

“The crazy, old man,” Billy muttered.

Tom nodded.

“How long were you asleep for?”

He shrugged. “Last I knew, it was 1943.”

Billy gaped at him. “That’s…” he tried to count on his fingers, then gave up. “It’s 1995 now.”

“Strange. Doesn’t feel that long to me.”

“But what did you do all that time? Did you dream?”

Tom gave him a sharp look, and Billy shrank back. “No.”

“Then… what?” he stammered.

“Nothing. I didn’t do anything. It was like I was dead.”

“I don’t think death is like that…” Billy said, suddenly shy. Tom was acting strange. “In church they say –”

“What? That there are fluffy, white clouds and singing angels? There aren’t. There isn’t anything. You die and that’s it.”

“But Lettie…”

“Your sister’s dead, Billy. Accept it and move on. She’s not coming back.”

After that, Billy hadn’t wanted to go back to sleep. He didn’t want to dream of the Riddle House, he didn’t want to think about the graveyard at the bottom of the hill and the little stone plaque with Lettie’s name on it. Tom hadn’t actually died – he’d said so himself: he’d been in a deep, dreamless sleep. Tom didn’t know what came after death any better than Billy did.

When he did fall asleep again, lying on the sofa that afternoon, Tom apologised, and very nicely too. Mum would’ve beamed and hugged Billy if he’d given an apology like that. Not that Mum beamed anymore.

“Can you get out of the ring?” Billy asked as they lapped the grounds. Slashes of light from the warm windows broke the heavy shadow of the house, and Billy tried to hop between them. Quickly, he ran out of breath.

“I’ve been thinking about that,” Tom said. “How to break Morfin’s spell.” He frowned, hands shoved deep in his pockets. “Why here? That’s what I keep wondering. Why do we always meet at the Riddle House?”

“D’you think he killed them? The people who lived here?”

“It’s possible,” Tom said. “But I don’t know why.”

“Maybe you need to figure it out?”

They both paused, gazing up at the grand house. “I think you’re right,” Tom said.

Mum got back early from work and made them spaghetti Bolognese for dinner, even letting Billy stir the sauce.

“You alright, love?” she asked as they sat side-by-side on the sofa in front of the TV, plates scraped clean. “You look a bit peaky.”

Billy shrugged. “’M fine, mum.”

“Shall I take your temperature? Laura said there was a bug going around – maybe you caught it off Sam? Why don’t you have an early night?”

Billy just shrugged again. The more time he spent in the grounds of the Riddle House, the more the waking world felt like the dream.

“Billy! I’m speaking to you – it’s rude to ignore people.”

“I’m not ignoring you.”

Billy stood up, grabbing their plates so Mum wouldn’t complain that he never helped. “I’m going to the park with Trevor.”

“Let me call his dad and say you’re not feeling well.”

“But I’m fine!”

“You don’t look fine.”

Billy didn’t have the words to explain how he felt, so he ditched the plates and ran upstairs instead, ducking into the small space under Lettie’s bed. For a while mum called for him, and he lay there silently amongst the dust and sweet wrappers, staring across the floor at the painted wooden dollhouse. Mum wouldn’t look in here.

“I’ve figured something out,” Tom said that night.

“About the crazy, old man?”

“No, it’s about the ring. I couldn’t feel anything before, but now that I’ve woken up…” He looked at Billy, eyes gleaming. “I think we can use it to bring your sister back.”

Billy stared at him. “But… I thought you said…”

“I was wrong,” Tom said, waving a hand dismissively. “This is old magic, powerful magic. It feels different to Morfin’s – it’s like nothing I’ve ever come across before.”

Billy’s heart leapt and he fumbled for the ring on his thumb, forgetting, momentarily, that the ring never appeared in his dreams. “How?! How does it work?”

“I’m sorry, Billy. I don’t know exactly. My being trapped here might be limiting its magic somehow. Don’t worry, though; I’m sure with time we could figure it out.”

Billy looked up at Tom, wide-eyed. “Do you really think it could bring her back?”

Solemnly, Tom nodded.

The piano music had stopped. It normally had by this point in the dream. Soon, the windows would glow green, and he’d wake up. Tom stood at his side, gazing up at the house too. When the flashes of green came, they lit his face: pale, sharp, alive.

Billy knew what he needed to do.

*****

The following morning, after mum left for work, he packed a bag: jumper, change for the bus home, two packets of crisps (walkers and mini cheddars), a bottle of Ribena, and, after some thought, Crumpet, the stuffed whale. Just in case.

He’d walked halfway to Little Hangleton by the time Trevor passed him on his beat-up bike. “Hey, loser,” he called, wheeling close on Billy’s heels. “Where were you last night?”

“Busy,” Billy said.

“Where you going?”

“Into town.”

“Why?”

“I’m going to the Riddle House.” He wasn’t able to resist.

The bike’s wheels squealed on the tarmac. Ungainly, Trevor clambered off it. “You’re what?!”

“Maybe there are more rings inside.”

Wheeling the bike between them, Trevor stared at him. “You’re lying.”

“Am not.”

“Why didn’t you tell us?”

“I wanted to do it alone. Reckon it’ll be scarier that way.”

The awed look Trevor shot him made it all worth it. That morning, Billy’s plan had terrified him, but walking along the country road under the bright, summer sun, basking in Trevor’s admiration… he could do this. It was as Tom said: he had magic. He could save Tom. They were going to bring Lettie back and dad would come home and his family would be whole again. The world wasn’t so scary anymore.

“I’m coming with you.”

“No,” Billy said, alarmed. “You’re not.”

“Am too.”

“I’m going alone.”

“If you’re going, I’m going,” Trevor said. He got back on his bike. “Race you!”

A spray of loose gravel spun from the back wheel, hitting Billy’s knees. “Hey!” he yelled, but Trevor had already zoomed off.

Billy caught up to him in Little Hangleton, Trevor already leaning his bike against the crumbling, stone wall that surrounded the manor. It had been a long time since Billy had been this close to the Riddle House – in waking life, anyway. Dilapidated, boarded up windows, waist-high weeds; its resemblance to the house in his dreams was tenuous at best. He wondered what Tom would think of it.

“Come on,” Trevor said, grinning and nimbly scaling the wall. “Before you chicken out.”

“I won’t chicken out!” Billy insisted, checking the lane for any passing police cars then scrambling up after him. “This was my idea!”

“It was mine first.”

The two boys landed in the damp weeds with a light thump, the world quieter, somehow, on the shadowed side of the wall. Together, they trudged up the slope, Billy marvelling at the warmth of the sun on his back. In his dream it was always cold. They paused by each tree to listen for footsteps or shouts. None came, though Billy thought he saw a figure in the dappled shadows. He blinked, and it was gone.

A little ways to the left, Billy spotted his and Tom’s pine tree – much taller and fuller than he was used to. A spasm of guilt twisted his gut. Tom said not to tell muggles about magic: they’d try to steal it for their own good. But he’d brought Trevor along, and was glad of it, too. The Riddle House and its dead, empty windows were daunting up close.

No, Tom wouldn’t be happy, but… it was only Trevor. He’d told Tom about Trevor.

They sprinted the last few metres, rapidly covering the exposed ground where some nosy bugger in Little Hangleton might glance up at the wrong time and spot them. Billy gripped the brick wall, panting for breath. Wasn’t he fitter than this?

“How’d we get in?” Trevor whispered, sounding more scared than his pinched, determined face made him seem.

“This way,” Billy said. He’d lapped the house enough times with Tom to know where the kitchen door was.

Trevor tried the brass handle. It didn’t budge.

“Let me try,” Billy said. He squatted before it and stared at the rusty lock, focussing. Tom said he’d have a well of power in his belly and that whenever he wanted to use his magic, he could call it up to the surface and focus…

“What are you doing?” Trevor peered down at him suspiciously. “You’re not a Jedi, Billy, you dolt. C’mon, we can climb through this window.”

Billy flushed, trying the door anyway. It still didn’t budge. Disappointed, he followed Trevor in through the window, the glass pane missing.

A kitchen lay beyond. Dust coated every surface, a thin layer that clung to his fingers, clothes, and trainers, softening their footsteps.

“What now?” Trevor asked, peeking in a handful of drawers. A spider scuttled free. Plainly, the house had been thoroughly looted, stripped to its barest bones.

“We have to find out what happened here. What happened to those people.”

Trevor’s eyebrows shot up. “What?! I thought we were gonna, I dunno, steal an eggcup or something. Why did you have to break into the house for that? I just asked my nan.”

“Your nan told you what happened?”

“Yeah,” Trevor said. He’d stuck his head into a cabinet and when he withdrew it, a spiderweb clung to his spikey hair. “C’mon, there’s nothing here. Let’s explore more.”

“What did she say?” Billy asked, trailing Trevor into a narrow servant’s corridor.

Trevor grinned, like he always did when he got to tell a story. “There were three of them – the Riddles. Parents and their son. Right snobs they were, ran some business or other - no one in the village liked them, nan says. At some point, the son ditched his fancy girl and ran off with a tramp, only to go crawling back home when it didn’t work out.”

The corridor had no windows, and Billy could imagine it was nighttime outside. A wash of cold air brushed against his arms. He shivered.

“They were eating dinner when they died. All three in one go, just like that. The cook found them in the morning. Police arrested the gardener – that’s who nan thinks did it, said the guilt finally caught up with him last year and he offed himself – but the police let him go because the Riddles had nothing wrong with them. Except, y’know, being dead.”

Those green flashes.

“They were killed with magic,” Billy said, and he knew it was true. “That crazy, old man did it – Morfin – the one who lived in the shack.”

Trevor laughed, pausing at the next door. “What you on about?”

“It’s true, Trevor,” Billy insisted. It all made sense. “The hovel down by Greater Hangleton, where I got my ring. The crazy, old man you said died there – Morfin. He was a wizard; he killed the Riddles, not the gardener. He was Tom’s uncle!”

“Tom?”

“Yeah, he’s my friend. Morfin trapped him in the ring.”

Trevor gave him a funny look. Billy rubbed at his ear; he could swear he heard music. “You feeling alright?”

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t look good, Billy. You’ve gone all pale and clammy. And talking about magic and wizards. You know Father Christmas doesn’t exist, right? Dad told me when I was six.”

“Magic does exist!”

Billy pushed past him, the servant’s door leading to a wide entrance hall, a sweeping staircase climbing up one wall, a crystal chandelier cascading above their heads. It wasn’t dusty here; he could breathe clean air.

“If you’re pulling my leg, you’ve messed up the story, anyway,” Trevor said. “Tom was one of the Riddles who died. Tom Riddle – he was the son, look!”

A portrait hung over the fireplace, shadowy despite the golden light trickling down the staircase from a room upstairs, despite the orange flames crackling in the grate. Billy was grateful for their warmth; the night had been brisk.

“See?” Trevor said.

Three people, and the one in the centre… the one in the centre was Tom. The same pale complexion, same dark, wavy hair, the same angular cheek bones. Except… something was wrong. Billy’s brain churned, trying to figure it out.

“But… Tom said Morfin was his uncle…”

Could that make sense? But if his Tom was Tom Riddle… Trevor said the Riddles had died. His Tom was alive. Trapped in a ring, but alive.

“Look, I dunno who this Morfin guy is, Billy… Quit acting weird, it’s creeping me out. The gardener did it – he even made up some dumb story about seeing a teenager moping around the place. No one else saw a teenager.”

Billy peered closer at the portrait, pristine, recent. The man in the middle, Tom. His eyes, his lips, and were those wrinkles by his mouth? This man wasn’t a teenager. This man might be Tom Riddle, but he wasn’t his Tom.

“Let’s go,” Trevor said. His voice came from far away, masked by the tinkling piano. “C’mon. It’s so dusty in here; my eyes are stinging.”

No, Tom and this man were not the same, they could never be the same. Tom…. Tom was so much more…

“Hey, Billy, snap out of it.”

There were voices upstairs: two men, one woman. Loud, jovial. Didn’t they know there was a war on? How disrespectful. Beneath his feet, the stairs didn’t creak. The banister was smooth and polished, smelling faintly of varnish. To think, he could’ve grown up in a place like this. Wanted for nothing.

“Billy!”

A hand snagged his wrist.

“Get off me!” Billy snarled. Power swelled in his abdomen, pulled taut like the line of Cole’s displeased lips. It snapped, lashing out all at once, and the hand disappeared. Oh, magic felt good. Addictive.

A crash – distant.

He frowned at the empty entrance hall below, the slivers of December moonlight illuminating sleek floorboards, the Persian rug. He’d heard something. A servant? No, they wouldn’t return, he’d seen to that. Tonight, it was only them. Their family reunion. No interruptions.

The Riddles dined in a room off the upper floor landing, the door ajar. Savouring the moment, he paused, long, pale fingers on the carved mahogany, the air rich with wine and opulence. How long he’d waited for this. How patient he’d been.

He smiled, then pushed the door open and stepped through.

The conversation halted, three faces turned to him, three mouths falling agape, shocked, astonished. Like they could never have imagined this day coming.

The woman, pinned, grey hair, wine-stained lips, stood up, drinking in the sight of him. “Who…” she stammered, but she knew. She knew who he was. How could she not? His hair, his eyes, his nose. He and his father might’ve been twins.

“Hullo,” he said pleasantly. Their gramophone sat on an exquisite side table. He lifted the needle, and the music stuttered to a halt. “Charming evening, isn’t it?”

The older Riddle looked to the younger, aghast. “Why didn’t you –”

“I didn’t know,” the younger Riddle said, hoarse, staring.

Liar.

They inspected one another, father and son. Tom Riddle Sr respectable and handsome, despite – or perhaps heightened by – his middle age. His jacket tailored, his shirt crisp and clean, his jaw shaved. Yet no wife sat beside him, no other children. A name too marred by scandal?

 He took the seat opposite his father. His father. The moment he’d dreamt of.

“What’s your name?” his grandfather asked gruffly.

“Tom,” Tom said. “Named after my father; my mother thought that important.”

“Your – your mother,” said Tom Riddle Sr. Wrapped around his glass, his hand trembled, but his face was frozen. “Is she...?”

“Dead. Eighteen years ago this very night.”

The muggle opened his mouth but no words fell forth.

There came a clatter, Tom’s grandfather placing down his knife and fork. Politely, Tom raised an eyebrow at him.

“Right. Listen here, young man,” his grandfather said. “What is it you’re after? Money? Connections? It can be arranged. Thomas has no other children. If you’re a respectable gentleman, and you look like you are, there’s no need for this to get nasty.”

Thomas – his father – had gone very still. He’d seen Tom draw Morfin’s wand. He knew what that meant.

“Avada Kedavra.”

For the first time in his life, Tom cast the killing curse at another human being.

His grandmother.

At the mention of his mother’s death, a dawning, horrified pity had been swelling in her eyes, filling Tom with all the desire for murder the spell required. Pity. Tsk. He didn’t need their money, nor their support, and certainly not their pity.

Face first, she slumped into her dinner, gravy splashing onto the pristine tablecloth, mashed potatoes clumping in her grey hair.

Perplexed, the old man leapt to his feet, displaying a surprising degree of agility for one who had dedicated much of his life to consumption. “Mary! Mary! What is that thing? What did you –”

A second flash of green light. A wet sort-of thump as the body hit the floor. His grandfather spoke so much yet had so little to say.

And it wasn’t him Tom had come here to talk to.

Placing the wand on the table, he settled more comfortably into his chair. “Do you mind if I eat?” he asked his father. “It would be a shame to waste all this good food. We are at war, you understand.”

His father remained frozen, staring at the bodies of his parents as Tom filled a plate. Not that Tom was particularly hungry – he’d come from Christmas at Hogwarts.

Funny, for all the lamentations of the likes of Dumbledore, Merrythought, and Dippet concerning the protection of muggles, they were all too comfortable gorging themselves in vast, decorated halls as said muggles starved themselves on rations and shot each other in muddy trenches. They were no different to the Riddles.

At least Tom wasn’t a hypocrite. He didn’t pretend to care.

Eventually, his father spoke. “You’re like her.”

“Yes.”

“Devil spawn.”

That was ironic. Tom speared a carrot.

“I never wanted to marry her.” The words spilled from his father’s lips, eyes wild and gripped to Tom’s face, teetering on the edge of hysteria. “She did something. She did something to my head. I didn’t want her, but she made me think I did. For two years I thought I did.”

No second wife. No other children. Perhaps it wasn’t scandal – gossip ebbs and flows, after all. Perhaps Tom Riddle Sr was simply broken.

Like his dear, dead mother, Tom too often broke his favourite toys.

“Why did you leave?” Tom asked.

His father straightened. “Whatever she did to me, it stopped. She hoped I’d stay. Thought I loved her, as if that were possible after… after…”

“Did you know she was pregnant?”

He didn’t meet Tom’s eyes.

“You knew she was pregnant and still you left.”

“She told me how it worked. The… things you can do. That you’d be… like her.”

“Is that what you tell yourself?”

“You are,” he said, quietly. “Like her. They’re dead, aren’t they? You murdered your own grandparents, and you don’t care.”

Thoughtful, Tom placed down the knife and fork. “Perhaps I would have cared if you hadn’t left. Perhaps this –” he gestured at the woman slumped in a pie; the man slumped in a pile. “Is your fault.”

His father was shaking his head before Tom had even finished speaking. “No. No. It’s you. You. That whole family was fucked – everyone knew it! Dirty tramps fucking each other in a hovel to make babies because they thought themselves better than everyone else. Better! She told me. Their father forced them. It’s sick. Twisted. You’re not better – you people. You’re scum. Witches. Demons. Using those abnormal powers to take what you want.”

“Isn’t that what you do? Use power to take what you want? Lovely house, by the way.”

His father rose, jabbing a finger at Tom. “We don’t kill people.”

“As you say.”

Breathing heavily, the muggle pitched forwards, both hands on the table. “If you’re here to murder me, get it over with. I’ll join God willingly. Unless you want to tell me again how I’m a terrible father for wanting nothing to do with you hell spawn.”

Tom sighed, picking up Morfin’s wand. “No, I’d rather not.”

Another hypocrite, then. Weak and pathetic. Running to death. Yes, they looked alike, but the similarities ended there. There was nothing left to say.

One final flash of green, and Tom Riddle died.

That was the last of his family, Tom supposed, twisting the Gaunt ring on his finger. Only his uncle remained, and he’d be rotting in Azkaban soon enough. No more disappointments.

Leaving the food, he rounded the table and stared down into his father’s dark, glazed eyes. The man had fallen back on his chair, arms splayed wide, that familiar face upturned to the decorative plaster ceiling, and Tom vowed then that he would never become this. His handsome face would never hold that blank expression, his pale skin would never turn cold, his brilliant mind would never plunge into that empty abyss. He was better than that. He was better than them.

For life, he would do anything.

He placed the ring and Morfin’s wand on the table. For this, he needed his own. He needed control. It had worked so flawlessly last time, with the girl, with the diary. But this. This was when he stepped beyond what any wizard had done before. Accomplished what they were too weak to do.

Wizards held a strange reverence around souls. Many killed harshly, indiscriminately, cruelly, ripping their souls to shreds, yet they cowered at the act of removing even a sliver. It made no sense to Tom. Like all things, his soul was simply another tool.

The spell was barely even complicated; a few incantations, some precise movements and his magic flowed free. How little effort it required to soar above the masses, to achieve brilliance.

His fingers brushed his father’s chin and Tom leant forwards, pressing his lips to his father’s stiff, dead ones.

Love, perverted.

Love, defeated by power.

It was power that –

The ornate, glittering room lurched horribly.

Something had gone wrong.

But hadn’t he been perfect? He’d been perfect! Tom was always perfect. But now he was floating, falling, crumbling, the world dissolving. Pain. Searing, blistering pain cleaving his being into two, fading and fumbling, careering into darkness.

This hadn’t… Last time…

Thoughts snatched and torn, a blinding flash, and then…

Nothing.

…

…

Chapter Text

“Billy! Billy!”

Words; distant, intangible, soaring past his ears as if from the end of a long, cavernous hallway, incomprehensible.

“Billy, wake up goddammit! Your mum’s going to kill me!”

Behind his eyelids was a soft, red glow. Sunlight. He marvelled at it - at everything: the warmth, the light, the solid floor supporting his back, the rustle of scratchy cotton over his legs, his chest. Breath expanding his lungs, fingers twitching at his command.

Life.

“Billy, you prick! Open your eyes!”

He opened his eyes.

A cracked, plaster ceiling, backdrop to motes of dust swirling in dying, sunset rays. To his side, four carved chair legs, sturdy and strong. Funny, he didn’t remember falling over. He was struggling to remember much of anything.

A December night, frosted grass, tinkling piano.

His father.

Past the chair, two boys, one slumped on the floor, the other leaning over them, shaking their shoulder, blood smeared on his head.

The grounds, the pine tree, the boy. The ring. Oh.

Oh.

Tom pushed himself up, admiring how the tendons and muscles of his stomach, his shoulders obeyed him. That had been it: he’d been dead, or as good as. Blank, bland, terrifying oblivion. And now, he was back. Now, he had life.

A second chance.

Startled, the moving boy’s bloodied head spun to stare at him. Spikey hair, pudgy in the face and hands, Tom didn’t know him. But the boy knew him: shock and recognition flashed across his face. He screamed – a high-pitched child’s shriek, ear-piercingly loud. Then he stumbled from the room, abandoning the fallen boy, footsteps wild and chaotic, retreating down the stairs.

A witness.

Fleetingly, Tom considered chasing him. He even lurched up, then his legs buckled beneath him and he clutched at the table to steady himself, panting. What would he have done with the boy anyway? He didn’t have a wand – he felt for one in his pockets, nothing – he couldn’t wipe the boy’s mind clean. Or kill him. Not with magic, anyway.

The remaining child – Billy, Tom remembered – still hadn’t stirred.

Feeling steadier now, Tom walked over, catching his reflection in a gaudy, tarnished mirror over the mantlepiece as he went and frowning. Newly eighteen, same hair, same clothes, his father’s face. He’d thought… a second horcrux, it might distinguish him. Apparently not.

Annoyed, he poked the boy with his foot. No response. Kneeling, Tom rolled him over, pushing a dirty, stuffed whale out of his way.

Dead.

Hm.

On the boy’s thumb, the Gaunt ring sparkled in the setting sun. Tom claimed it, inspecting his horcrux, his grave for fifty years. An urge to crush the ring beneath his foot swept over him, strong and overwhelming.

No. Stay in control.

That pattern, etched on the garnet. Before, he’d assumed it a scratch, evidence of its shoddy care under the Gaunts, nothing of note. Then, once he’d awakened, he’d felt the pull. Strange, ancient magic. Not his own. Curious, he looked down at the child’s body and turned the ring thrice over.

Nothing.

Eyes still glassy, skin still cool to the touch.

Tom hadn’t intended to kill the boy. Well, he’d realised it a likely outcome - the more he’d strengthened, the weaker the boy had become. But he hadn’t intended it like he’d intended to kill his father. The boy had magic; he’d been helpful. Unfortunately, it had been a question of his life or Tom’s. And every single time, Tom knew his choice.

Still, he had wondered whether the ring…

No, it did not matter.

He stood, spotting his reflection in the mirror again. Then, Tom let out a shout, spinning and stumbling back over the boy’s legs, catching himself against the wall.

Four flat, grey figures watched him, unmoving, semi-translucent. His grandparents, his father, the boy. Tom stared back, one hand on his heart. It pounded.

The boy opened his mouth as if to speak, and Tom jerked, throwing the ring to the floor. At once they vanished, the ring tinkling as it spun. It hit a chair leg then stilled, leaving the dilapidated dining room quiet and empty. Tom remained frozen, gasping.

Whatever that was, it had not been life, only some pale, demented imitation of it. The ring’s magic was a lie, a trick, it never would’ve resurrected the boy’s sister. Death was final, Tom knew this, better than anyone, perhaps.

Death’s only defeat was to cling to life.

From below came a noise. Had Tom not been so on edge, rooted in place, he would’ve missed it. The creak of a door, muffled by dust.

The other child - the witness? Had he returned? No, surely. He’d turned tail and run like a startled rabbit.

Swallowing his fear, Tom moved swiftly across the room to the servants’ door, pulling it to and enclosing himself in a black, cobwebbed corridor. Not a moment later, footsteps sounded from the dining room. A sliver of light illuminated the doorframe and, though he really should leave, escape this intruder, Tom pressed an eye to it.

A tall, old man stooped over Billy’s body, long white hair trailing over scarlet robes and fanning onto the floor. A wrinkled hand plucked something up. Mentally, Tom cursed. The Gaunt ring, he’d left it behind. Fine. He hated that ring anyway. The wizard – for with robes like that, he surely must be – held the ring up to the light, turning his head and numbing the blood pumping in Tom’s veins.

Old, yes, but unmistakable.

Albus Dumbledore.

Quick as he dared, Tom ran. Down the rickety steps, along the ground floor corridor, through the kitchen, out the window. He clung to the wall, made haste for the densest copse of trees, then ran. Ran as far and as fast as he could.

Tom didn’t pause for breath until he reached the train station, lungs burning, sweat sticking curls to his forehead and neck.

Fifty years! Fifty years for the fucker to off himself! Yet there he’d been, on Tom’s property! And how did Dumbledore know about the Riddle House anyway? Why was he there? Tom had been so careful, saving his connection to the Gaunts for only his dearest friends. Surely none of them would have dared tattle.

… Right?

How much could fifty years change?

Little Hangleton train station was different, busier, the ground hard and black, the cars sleek and fast, the muggle clothes bright and bold, and there was so much noise, and movement, and Tom pressed himself into the brick wall and did what he always tried so hard not to do – he panicked.

He knew nothing. Nothing! Where was he, the other part of Tom’s soul? Did he know Tom had obtained a body? Had he felt it? Would he come for him? Had Lord Voldemort taken over Britain? Was there still a Britain? Were they still at war with Germany?

His breaths came hard and fast, his palms sweating, heart still racing from the ghostly apparitions, from Dumbledore’s appearance, from Tom’s existence in a world he did not understand. No wand, no money. His Knights would be greying, kneeling to some other version of himself. Everything he’d worked for, gone. Just… gone.

He pushed his hands to his eyes.

Breathe.

“Are you alrigh’, love?”

He could’ve hit her, the kindly woman with the groceries and enormous sun hat. Control. Panicking accomplished nothing.

“C’mere, kiddo. Take a seat. That’s it.”

Breathe.

He allowed her to lead him to a bench and accepted her offer of a sloshing, metal can. Expecting water or alcohol, Tom nearly spat out the horrible, fizzy fluid, an aftertaste of sugar and chemicals coating his mouth. ‘Coca Cola’, apparently.

“Thank you,” he said mechanically, because she’d expect it.

“That’s okay, love. Cracker?”

He shook his head, glancing over his shoulder. From here, buildings obscured the hill and the house; some new, some old. Was Dumbledore still up there? Had he taken the memories from Tom’s witness yet? Curse that stupid child for bringing a friend. Was that a tall shadow in an alleyway? Did the Transfiguration professor have a way to track him? Would he come here next?

Stop it. Take control.

“I’m awfully sorry,” he said to the woman, playing up the shakiness in his voice. “Two men grabbed me and took my wallet. I promised my mother I’d be home by nightfall - she worries so much.”

“Oh, dear,” she cooed, patting his arm. “You look like you’ve had a fright. Keep the crackers, I insist, you might want them later. Are you catching a train?”

“My ticket was in the wallet – they –” It felt strange, to be an adult man displaying so much weakness in public, but the woman was lapping it up, and it wasn’t like Tom would ever see these muggles again. Once he had a wand, he could return and burn this whole village to the ground.

“Don’t worry, love. Where’re you headed? Let me grab you one.”

“Cambridge.” London, really, but better to go a round-about-way.

She bought a ticket, then squeezed him into a side hug, sun hat knocking his head as she pressed a bag of apples and a crumpled note into his hand. Tom glanced at it. Five pounds! Then, seeing the price tag printed on the apples, felt foolish. Inflation.

Tom ignored the woman as she waved him off on the lurching train, closing his eyes to block out the unfamiliar bright lights, coloured surfaces, and patterned fabrics. He breathed.

Control.

*****

Tom needed a wand. He needed one like he needed his legs, or his lungs, or his heart. Sure, he was no stranger to a little wandless magic, the skills he’d honed as a child. They’d obtained him these new clothes (denim was horribly uncomfortable), several days perusing a muggle library (yes, they’d won the war), and a week’s stay in a decent London hotel with hot, running water (why couldn’t the orphanage have had that?). But lacking a wand endangered him.

It crippled him.

That damn muggle child, the one who’d seen his face. Dumbledore would know - if not that Tom was a horcrux - that he was something. That he existed. Had a body.

Dumbledore would be searching for him.

And then there was Tom’s other problem. The one he felt lying alone at night. The tugging deep within the blackness of his mind, a shimmering web of indistinct connections. Tom’s horcruxes.

Tom’s counterpart.

The mind arts had always been one of Tom’s greatest strengths. While he favoured legilimency, he was no stranger to occlumency - after all, Tom was a fantastic liar, and what were lies but a protection of the mind? That connection between him and his counterpart – the one that shone the brightest – he’d tried to thin it, imagined tying a cord around the beam and strangled it until its flow stemmed.

Closed. That was good. Tom didn’t know whether or not his counterpart had felt his resurrection, and he didn’t want to find out. Not until he had a wand, anyway.

After all, if he saw a younger version of himself running around... well, Tom would want to put him back in the box he came from.

Or the ring.

Above his head, the rusted sign for the Leaky Cauldron creaked as it swung in the late summer breeze. In Tom’s time, it had been shiny and black. 1995. Fifty-two years. A week on the run and it still felt peculiar. Yesterday morning, he’d visited Wool’s Orphanage and found a block of tired apartments in its place. A small, graffiti-covered plaque commemorated a fire that had ripped through the street some fifty years prior. Tom took a little satisfaction in that, though he was sad he’d missed it.

He wondered how Cole’s scream had sounded as she burned.

Tom smoothed his hair. This was the riskiest part.

He’d passed much of the week sipping tea in the floral pâtissier across from the Leaky Cauldron, watching the timeworn pub’s comings and goings. Frustratingly, very few wizards used the muggle entrance to Diagon Alley: it seemed reserved only for young mudbloods shopping for school supplies with their muggle parents.

Tom had used that entrance.

Regardless, assuming the trace still existed, there was no one to pickpocket a wand from on this side of the gate. Only the pureblood kids with proper parenting carried them around over summer (and Tom, of course). Thus, he needed to venture inside – and there came Tom’s dilemma.

With no wand, his magic was limited. He had no way to disguise himself. While Tom knew no average wizard would recognise his face – he’d sworn that cold, December night would be the death of more than one Tom Riddle – Dumbledore knew him. Dumbledore’s allies would know him. And so would Lord Voldemort.

So, Tom was wearing a hoodie (he was not happy about it). Slacks and a shirt he could manage – Tom had grown up in them after all – but this new age muggle clothing? Jeans? At least Dumbledore wouldn’t expect it of him. His counterpart wouldn’t either.

His plan was simple: get through the chokepoint of a pub as fast as he could manage, snatch a wand from the first imbecile in Diagon Alley to have one sticking out of their pocket, and apparate to safety. Then, with a proper disguise, he could return and gorge himself on all the wizarding history textbooks Flourish and Blott’s had to offer.

A foolproof plan. He just had to make it through the pub.

Again, Tom smoothed his hair, tucking a few loose curls behind his ears. Then he pulled the hoodie up. The curls sprung free again.

This was a bad idea, but what choice did he have? He needed a wand. Taking a deep breath and affixing the expression of a bored teenager onto his face, Tom pushed open the door to the Leaky Cauldron.

Unlike the muggle world, the wizarding world hadn’t changed a jolt. The familiar stench of cheap alcohol, pipe smoke, and sweat suffocated the air like a damp cloth, blanketing the pub in dusty melancholy. The barest beams of sunlight struggled through the grimy skylights, peppering the low room in a dim glow – helpfully, it threw his face into shadow.

The pub was about as busy as Tom remembered it, which is to say approaching empty. A pair of witches in ruffled robes with glasses of bubbling, purple liquid held a heated conversation about charmed item imports; a wizard of considerable age rotated his chicken leg in mid-air, dripping gooey gravy onto a rickety wooden table; and a witch tucked into a shadowed corner stared blankly into a large, untouched glass of amber wine.

In his usual spot, pouring a glass of crackling firewhiskey for a tired man in battered robes, was Tom, the Leaky Cauldron’s bartender and landlord, a rather gummy-looking wizard now more bald and more shrunken than he’d been fifty-two years prior. That they shared a name made Tom’s skin crawl.

Heart beating faster than he’d ever admit, Tom ducked his head, eyes to the battered floorboards. The landlord wouldn’t recognise him... right? Who’d recognise the face of a child they met once or twice decades ago? Still, fighting to keep his shoulders relaxed and his gait loose, Tom strode for the back exit as quickly as was appropriate.

Halfway through, the wizard dropped his chicken leg, cursing. Tom kept walking.

Three-quarters through, the lone witch shifted in her seat. Tom ignored her.

At the back door –

“Oi, you – young'un! Where’d you think you’re going? Didn’t you see the sign?”

There was a moment in which Tom deliberated running. He was tall and slim while the landlord probably had arthritis, but... everyone else had a wand, and Tom did not. Pausing, he turned.

The landlord had shuffled out from behind the bar, his thin eyebrows knotted. The two well-dressed witches stopped talking and glanced over in their direction.

“My apologies,” Tom said, gaze down, “Where’s the sign?”

Huffing, the landlord pointed a wizened finger over towards the bar, then – “Ah, shit. Stay upright you bloody thing!”

A placard in a wooden frame had slumped down face-first onto the bar. Once returned to its position, in handwriting only legible to Tom because he’d spent his earlier Hogwarts years correcting Lestrange’s homework in exchange for social currency, it read:

ALL UNKNOWN PERSONS MUST MAKE THEMSELVES KNOWN.

“Don’t think I know you,” the landlord said, squinting. If his eyesight had gone along with his hair, more’s the better.

“I’m at Hogwarts,” said Tom. “Just picking up school supplies. I’m not looking to make trouble.”

“You not got any parents with you?”

Tom gave a tight-lipped smile. “I’m seventeen.” A lie, just in case. Wizarding law was more lenient on the underage.

“Oh, stop it, Tom!” exclaimed one of the witches, violet cocktail spitting purple sparks into her lap. At his name, Tom’s heart skipped a beat, but it was the landlord she shook her head at. “You’re scaring the poor lad. Let him do his shopping!”

“Can’t be too careful nowadays, Glenda,” the landlord muttered, still peering at Tom who adverted his eyes. “There’s some dangerous folk around.”

Glenda huffed. “Don’t tell me you’re taking that codger’s words to heart, love. I know he’s done some great things but I think he’s finally cracked it!” She tapped her head, “He’s all gone up there.”

Glenda’s companion leant in. “That’s not what I heard. He’s not mad, he’s clever. He’s trying to make the ministry look weak, take them down from the inside. He’s got his eye on the top job.”

Glenda laughed so hard she hiccupped, slopping her drink onto her lap. “Who told you that? The wandmaker’s widow? That’s bonkers! Dumbledore? In politics? He’d never leave that precious school of his.”

Despite his beating heart, his anxiety to leave, Tom’s lips threatened to curl into a smirk. Had the world finally come to appreciate how much of a meddling, manipulative fool the old man was? He smiled at Glenda. “It does seem old age has turned him senile.”

She positively beamed back. “See, Olga? The lad agrees with me.”

“I do,” Tom said, “But I’m afraid I must get going. Lots of textbooks to buy and I’ve already left it quite late.”

“Oh, yes, yes, go!” Glenda said, waving her hand towards the door. “Ignore Tom’s paranoia, he’s always had a soft spot for Dumbledore. If you’re heading to Hogwarts though I’d watch out for that boy – apparently Dumbledore’s madness has infected him too.”

Tom didn’t know who ‘that boy’ was and while he wanted to find out, now – in this chokepoint where Dumbledore’s spies were surely watching – wasn’t the time. He needed a wand, then, with a proper disguise, he could return for a chat.

“I will do,” he said, nodding and turning toward the back exit. He’d breathe easy once he was out of this damn –

The landlord’s hand shot out, clutching Tom’s shoulder and stopping his escape in its tracks. “Do I know you?”

Shit.

“You don’t – isn’t that the problem?” Tom asked, keeping his head ducked, half turned towards the back door. “I suppose I’ve been through here a few times in the past five years. I’m not sure we’ve ever spoken though.”

“Righ’,” the landlord said, unconvinced. “What did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t, but it’s George Henford,” Tom lied. “Would you mind letting go?”

The landlord did not let go. He was squinting, probably pushing at the limits of his myopia to bring Tom’s face into focus. Was this him – Dumbledore’s spy? Was the professor so low on allies that he’d left a partially-blind, not-quite-with-it barman as his gatekeeper to the wizarding world? It wouldn’t be a surprise, Dumbledore loved an underdog. (Unless that underdog happened to be called Tom Riddle, apparently).

The landlord’s gaze remained on his face and Tom felt that spark, that irresistible urge, the need to see, to know. He shouldn’t, but... he looked up, their eyes met, and he reached out.

A rush of emotions surged. Confusion. A whispered warning… A reminder… A thin eleven-year-old, nose upturned and proud despite his dirty, muggle clothes, asking him how to enter Diagon Alley. Riddle’s friend, Avery, smashing the bottle on the counter, drunkenly yelling, Riddle frowning. A bang outside, the glass on the door blown in, fear, hiding in the cellar, the stench of piss. A cold, cruel laugh from above.

Confusion.

Fear.

Tom blinked and swallowed, wrenching his mind free.

Wide-eyed, the landlord glanced over his shoulder to the unkempt wizard at the bar.

That wizard. He’d been watching them.

He hadn’t touched his drink.

Tom pulled back, wrenching his arm free, heart pounding so hard he could hear it. Without another word he darted through the back door, that cold laugh from the landlord’s memory echoing in his head as he placed a hand on the brick, a pulse of magic materialising the doorway.

Shit.

Tom glanced over his shoulder. Still alone – that unkempt wizard hadn’t followed him out yet. Was he calling Dumbledore first? Maybe he knew Tom was dangerous and didn’t want to approach him without the Transfiguration professor’s help. That wizard had certainly been no auror.

Focus. Wand, then apparate.

Tom hurried into the crowd, darting around the busy wizards and witches engaged in their afternoon shopping, gaze snapping to pockets and handbags, to teenagers preoccupied with dripping ice creams, to the elderly ambling from shop to shop. There – a man hand-in-hand with a young child, both drooling over some broom in a shop window, wand sticking out of his robe pocket.

Tom managed to get within a metre when the man moved, swiping his child up onto his hip, sighing, “Not today, AJ, papa would kick us out if we spent the mortgage on a broom.”

“Tomorrow?” the child pleaded. “Pleeeease, daddy!”

They moved away and Tom gritted his teeth. There wasn’t time for this. He needed a wand now. He glanced over his shoulder again. He couldn’t spot the scruffy wizard, Dumbledore’s spy, though the throng of people, too many colours and shapes and faces getting in the way.

He was panicking again.

Perhaps Knockturn Alley was the better bet? Grab a wand off a drunkard and apparate back to his nice, safe hotel room.

How Tom hated not having a wand. How did muggles survive like this?

Pace quickening, he slipped into Knockturn Alley, the streets becoming twisted and cracked, the hustle and bustle of the main street fading away. Had the spy informed Dumbledore already? Were they watching Tom? Had they seen him leave Diagon?

Tom passed several shady characters but no easy targets: a hag who’d giggled and shrieked; a group of youths who’d eyed him suspiciously through wafts of a foul-smelling orange smoke; a couple who’d blocked off an alleyway and given him a lewd smile.

Finally, Tom found his prey.

Two round-faced boys, the same age or perhaps a little younger than himself, dressed in clean, dark grey robes with short, bristly hair. They leant up against a faded shopfront entitled Moribund’s Maladies playing a game with a set of cards while they loitered, presumably waiting for someone within.

Reverting to a crisp walk, Tom took a deep, steadying breath. As he drew closer, he noticed the family crests embroidered on their robes: a Crabbe and a Goyle. Excellent. Though purebloods, if these two were anything like their parents (or possibly grandparents) he doubted this would be too difficult.

“Give me your wand,” Tom said, staring straight at the Goyle boy. Barely a beat passed before he held it out for Tom to take, a blank look plastered across his face. Magic surged up his arm. Instantly, Tom felt better.

The Crabbe scrambled for his own wand as the Goyle blinked. “What are you –”

“Torigna,” Tom said to shut them up – both of their mouths vanished. Their eyes went comically wide as they started to panic, fingers reaching up and feeling where the skin had been stretched taught. Tom doubted the curse would last very long – this wand didn’t like him. He’d like to obliviate them, but it took time and with this wand he’d likely botch it.

Besides, Dumbledore already knew he existed. What he did with this face didn’t matter when soon he’d fashion himself a new one. One that could slip under Dumbledore’s radar.

Fixing his mind on his lovely hotel room, Tom apparated.

His ears popped, his chest constricted. When the sensation passed, he opened his eyes.

Oh.

Fuck.

The same damn alleyway.

Anti-apparation ward. In Knockturn?

That was new.

He turned back to face the two boys, both now pounding at the store window. He grabbed the Goyle’s shoulder and spun him around, quickly performing the counter-curse, then stunning the Crabbe for good measure. “Tell me where I can apparate from.”

The Goyle gasped for air – rather dramatic considering Tom had left their noses unblocked. “Spot on Diagon Alley,” the boy panted. “Opposite Flourish and Blotts, marked by a – Wait, how are you –”

Tom stunned him and he dropped to the floor alongside his friend.

Then, from the direction Tom had come, and irritatingly now the direction he wanted to go, he heard hurried footsteps. He had time only to duck around the far corner of the alley when a high-pitched, discordant bell rung. The door of Moribund’s Maladies swung open and a drawling voice said, “What in Merlin’s name are you two –”

“Malfoy!” called a gruff, male voice from the other end of the alley. On each alternate step came a dull striking noise, the sound of wood on cobble. “What’s going on?”

Pressing himself into the brick, Tom cast a disillusionment spell. It didn’t turn out as excellently as it normally did (curse this blasted wand) but it would have to do. Following this street further would take him deeper into Knockturn, closer to the vampires who lurked the damp, dark alleys down there. On the one hand, he may reach the end of the anti-apparation wards, but on the other, a run in with vampires and werewolves with this awful wand didn’t sound like fun.

“Oh look, someone let the looney loose from St Mungo’s,” Malfoy said. He sounded young, presumably the same age as the Crabbe and Goyle boys. “Father thought you’d be in there for months, but I suppose there wasn’t much they could do for you. You’d already lost your mind.”

“I was disappointed to be told I’d missed you turning into a ferret, boy,” the man growled. “Perhaps we could recreate the moment?”

“Moody!” There was another voice – a women’s.

Satisfied he was as invisible as he was going to be, Tom peeked around the corner. Two aurors, judging by their dark green robes and the one-and-a-half pairs of ministry-standard boots. The elder auror, Moody, was grizzled, a large chunk missing from his nose, his skin wrinkled and weathered. Hanging across his face, a strap held a single electric blue eyeball. The woman was considerably younger, likely barely out of training, her luminous pink hair scraped up in a ponytail.

“That’s enough bickering,” she said. Then, to Malfoy, “Why are your friends unconscious?”

“What’s it to you?” Malfoy retorted. He was pouting in the same way that Abraxas tended to do when offended. “They were probably messing around and knocked themselves out.”

Tom crept forwards, a silencing spell ensuring he moved as quietly as possible. The aurors were distracted – as soon as they weren’t… well, he had no doubt they’d find him in an instant.

“Why don’t we ask them?” Moody said, smiling and revealing a few missing teeth.

His partner peered around apprehensively, her eyes glancing over the spot where Tom stood. Then, she aimed her wand at the boys. “Enervate.”

Crabbe blinked stupidly, passing a hand over his newly returned mouth as Goyle rubbed his head. “Was goin’ on?” Crabbe muttered.

“Who did this to you?” asked the woman, walking towards the three boys. Tom took a few more steps up the street.

Crabbe glanced up at Malfoy who just shrugged. “I dunno, some kid. Don’t think he goes to Hogwarts. He took Goyle’s wand. And our mouths.”

The two aurors exchanged a glance. “What did he look like?”  

“Dunno. Pale, dark hair. Dressed like a mudblood.”

Tom felt a spike of resentment. It wasn’t his fault the stupid muggle shops didn’t sell robes. Self-consciously, he tugged his hood down.

Moody growled. “Language. You see which way he went?”

They both shook their heads. The woman bit her lip, glancing around again.

“What’s this about?” Malfoy demanded, his voice too high pitched to be convincingly commanding.

The aurors ignored him. The woman turned to the man. “Can you – ” but the elder auror cut her off with a jerk of the head.

He turned, pacing towards the end of the ally, toward Tom, peg leg clanging on the cobblestones. The ally wasn’t wide, and Tom stayed very, very still as the auror passed him.

It struck Tom then that he’d seen men like Moody before. Those few muggles who’d returned to London from the front line. It wasn’t the scars, nor the life altering injuries. It was the haunted shadows that crept behind their eyes, the caress of trauma. This auror had seen war, and he held it in contempt.

The flash of light left Tom breathless, with no time to cling onto the wand as it was yanked from his hand, disillusionment charm failing.

Moody turned, the electric, blue eye quivered in place, focussed solely on Tom. Another jet of light hit him in the arm and his strength dissipated, swirling away like water down a drain. Tom stumbled, fingers scraping the rough brick wall for purchase as his legs shook. The auror caught his arm, grinning wickedly. “Never assume someone can’t see you, boy!”

Tom tried to respond, to charm and protest, but his jaw was heavy and his tongue slack. A red glow swelled at the tip of Moody’s wand. A stunner. This was –

“Alastor!”

That man appeared at the end of the alley – the shabby one from the bar. Scars littered his face and hands and grey tinted his hair, though he couldn’t be older than forty. “They know you’re here, you have to – ” The wizard froze, bagged eyes catching on Tom in Moody’s grip, struggling against the spell, then on the boys still stood outside the shop. His face hardened. “Get inside,” he said roughly to the kids.

Malfoy’s lip curled. “Like hell I’d listen to a werewolf. I’m telling my –”

Tom never found put who he’d tell because Moody stunned him. Two subsequent stunners hit the Crabbe and Goyle. They all crumpled.

“Moody!” The woman cried. “You shouldn’t – ”

“I don’t give a shit,” said Moody. “Remus, how long?”

“They were right behind me.”

“Which ones?” the auror demanded, yanking painfully on Tom’s arm, dragging him towards the street end that twisted further into Knockturn, other hand digging in his pocket. Still under the effects of the strength draining spell, Tom barely managed to stay on his feet.

‘Remus’ the werewolf followed them. “Singh and Dawlish.”

“I’ll talk to them,” the woman offered, starting away.

There came a new voice. “Oh, you will, will you?”

Another two aurors, both in those dark green robes. The first, the one who’d spoken – an Indian woman with thick, braided hair – smirked in satisfaction. The second, a short, nimble man, hovered at her shoulder, wand in hand.

“We expected this from Alastor, but you, Nymphadora? Part of Dumbledore’s little gang? And you showed such promise. Scrimgeour will be most disappointed.”

The woman – Nymphadora – flushed, and her bright pink hair faded to a mousey brown. For a moment, Tom thought it a trick of the light, then he realised. A metamorphmagus.

“We received a tip off about a troublemaker in Diagon Alley, caught him tormenting those kids. That’s all, Singh.”

“And at what point did you meet up with your werewolf friend?”

“I was in the area,” Remus said, one hand slipping into his pocket – fetching a wand? Did they let werewolves have those now? He’d stepped sideways, half obscuring Tom from the new aurors.

Singh eyed the werewolf’s tattered robes. “Shopping, I hope?”

Remus grunted.

She looked to the prone forms of the boys. “You’d better hope your troublemaker did that, Alastor. Lucius will not be happy.”

“Best news I’ve heard all day,” Moody said.

“Who is he, then?” the second auror – Dawlish – asked, jerking his chin towards Tom.

Moody’s grip tightened around his arm. His spell had not weakened a jolt; it took effort for Tom to expand his lungs.

“Just a kid – I told you,” Nymphadora said. Behind her back, Tom saw her slip her wand out from a wrist holder.

Singh’s eyes narrowed, flicking her own wrist. “Let’s not make this more difficult than it needs to be. Hand the boy over and we can forget this incident ever happened. I assume you’d like to keep your jobs?”

Nymphadora and Moody looked at each other, a wordless exchange Tom couldn’t decipher.

Anxiously, he fought harder against the spell, grasping for the well of power stored in his abdomen, forcing it to flow along his veins, restoring strength. If there was going to be a fight he would not be a sitting duck, a prize to be claimed. Whoever ‘Moody’ and ‘Nymphadora’ were, they consorted with werewolves and were friendly with Dumbledore.

Dumbledore who’d known about the Riddle House. Dumbledore who’d seen Billy’s body. Dumbledore who’d taken the ring.

These were Tom’s enemies.

Three things happened at once. One, Moody turned his wand on Nymphadora, a powerful disarming spell throwing her to the cobblestones, wand arcing into the air. Two, Tom broke the strength sapping spell and kicked Moody’s false leg, hard. The auror grunted, struggling for balance and loosening his grip enough for Tom to rip his arm free and dash forwards, snatching the falling wand. Three, more people arrived behind Singh and Dawlish, one of them squat, stodgy, donned in violet robes and horrifically out of breath.

“Apprehend him!” the violet man cried, pointing at Moody.

A new auror strode forwards, tall and powerful, aiming his wand. “Alastor, do not resist,” he said, voice deep.

God, why was the entire fucking auror department descending on them?

“Not even in hell,” Moody growled, letting loose a string of – Tom wasn’t sure what, curses? Hexes? – at the auror. Expertly, the new, tall auror blocked. Caught between the two parties, the force of the magic pushed Tom back into the wall.

There came a shout of, “And grab the werewolf, too!”

“Go!” Moody barked to Remus as Dawlish and Singh leapt forwards, wands at the ready.

With a final, despairing look of panic, the werewolf dashed away, vanishing into the shadows.

The tall auror aimed a spell or two after him, but they both missed. He wasn’t making any progress with Moody, either: the grizzled auror was backing further and further into the alley, approaching freedom. Several of Moody’s spells shot Tom’s way, yet the tall auror failed to help him block. That was decidedly strange. Tom’s initial impression was that this new man would be highly competent, yet his spells kept missing.

So, because Tom had the wand, the oblique angle, the desire to make himself useful to these people who disliked Dumbledore, and also because he wanted to, he hit Moody with a silent petrificus totalus. Stiffening, the man careened over.

Take that, berk.

The tall auror paused, surprised. He looked at Tom, eyes flicking rapidly over his face, unreadable. A stilted second later, he said, “Much appreciated.”

Liar.

The auror stooped over Moody, removing his wand, cuffing him, and surreptitiously sliding a few items from Moody’s pocket into his own.

Ah. So, this tall man was one of Dumbledore’s too. What might Moody have had hidden in his robes? An illegal portkey? Tom let out a breath. If they hadn’t been interrupted, if he hadn’t broken that spell, would he be before Dumbledore now? At his mercy. Gripping Nymphadora’s wand, he took a few paces towards the others.

“Excellent shot, young man,” the violet man said appreciatively. 

“Thank you,” Tom said.

“Tonks was confounded,” the tall auror said, having performed some diagnostic spell and now helping Nymphadora to her feet. Another lie.

Singh frowned. “She seemed fine to me – she’s working with Dumbledore, Minister!”

Minister?

“We all saw Moody attack her,” the tall auror said, calm. “The charm must’ve been lifting.” He held out a hand towards Tom. “Her wand?”

Tom paused. These enemies of Dumbledore... was it Lord Voldemort they worked for instead? They didn’t seem like dark wizards, acting instead much like the ministry of Tom’s own time, yet how could his counterpart not control the ministry..?

He could run, follow the werewolf into the darkness, but… this many fully trained aurors? And – stood next to who might possibly be the Minister of Magic – a wild-looking man donned in robes with a cut Tom was sure identified him as the Head Auror, if he remembered Slughorn’s parties correctly.

How had he ended up stuck in an alley in Knockturn with six aurors, one of whom had been arrested, a werewolf, the Minister of Magic and Abraxas Malfoy’s spawn sprawled unconscious on the ground? This was not how today was supposed to go. Somehow, Tom was certain it was all Dumbledore’s fault.

He passed the wand back.

“Someone enervate the children,” the Head Auror said, brusque.

“Do we have to?” Dawlish muttered, quietly enough that only Tom and the tall auror heard him.

Singh did it, checking the three boys for any injuries before helping them stand. Malfoy rebuffed her assistance, clambering up himself and brushing his robes free of dirt. He glanced around, eyes widening at the number of aurors, at Moody in handcuffs, at the Minister of Magic, and he took a small step away from the entrance to Moribund’s Maladies, a certainly-not-reputable Potions establishment.

“Draco, are you quite alright?” the Minister asked.

“Yes, sir,” the boy said, far politer than he’d been with Moody. “What’s going on?”

“My question exactly,” the Head Auror said. “Why, Cornelius, are we arresting one of my best aurors?”

“He’s working for Dumbledore!” the Minister exclaimed.

The Head Auror groaned, running a hand through wiry, dirt-blonde hair. “They’re friends, Cornelius. They’ve been friends for years.”

“Precisely my concern! Dumbledore’s attempting a coup, and Alastor’s helping him! We’ve been keeping a close eye –”

“You’re tracking one of my aurors?”

“Well,” blustered the Minister. “It had to be done, Rufus, you see. Chanda’s been helping me – ” he nodded to Singh, who smiled briefly, before her expression wilted under the Head Auror’s glower. “ – and it’s been very useful! We wouldn’t have known what he was up to today, otherwise.”

“And, pray tell, what was he ‘up to today’, Cornelius?”

“Well…”

“Chasing down that boy,” Singh interjected, nodding at Tom, “Apparently he’s a ‘troublemaker’”.

Everyone looked at Tom. Confusion flitted over Malfoy’s face. He wasn’t as good as Abraxas at hiding his emotions.

“He took our mouths,” Goyle said helpfully.

The Minister frowned at Goyle. “Well, you appear to have gotten them back.”

“And who is this boy?” asked the Head Auror. When Moody said nothing, glaring, and Nymphadora remained as white as a sheet, staring at the ground, he directed the question to Tom. “Who are you?”

From a young age, Tom learnt that the greatest lies always began with a grain of truth. And – if his counterpart didn’t control the ministry, which Tom really had to hope he didn't – this lie he’d need to live and breathe. “Tom Riddle,” he said.

In his peripheral vision, he saw Nymphadora, Moody, and the tall auror tense. The Minister, Crabbe, and Goyle frowned. It was Draco Malfoy who had the most visceral reaction, turning off-white, lower lip dropping open.

Ah. A Malfoy. That was that, then. No guesses who he’d go tattling to.

The Head Auror remained nonplussed. “And… Are you at Hogwarts?”

“Sort of,” Tom said.

“How can you ‘sort of’ be at Hogwarts?”

“Well, you see, sir, I think something might’ve gone a little wrong...”

It was time to do what Tom Riddle did best: lie.

Chapter Text

Harry Potter was having a fucking awful summer, thank you very much.

Lying on the thin rug in the living room of Number 12 Grimmuld Place, he pressed Mrs Weasley’s charmed cold compress to his stinging scar, a headache building. For a week and a half it had burned near constantly: a smarting pain that dotted the edges of his vision, that woke him up thrice a night – if his nightmares of dark graveyards, locked doors, and indistinct, shadowed figures hadn’t gotten there first.

“But, what was Mad-Eye doing?” Ron asked aloud of no one in particular. He was lounging on the broken sofa, long legs dangling over the arm rest, a set of chocolate frog cards scattered over his broad chest. His latest growth spurt now put him a good four inches above Harry, whose own body had stubbornly refused to grow since his thirteenth birthday.

He probably had the Dursleys to thank for that. Sirius said his dad had been tall.

Curled on the armchair opposite, Hermione sighed, lowering her book – the thrilling Testing Transfigurations: an Advanced Analysis of Reconfigurment by Hecklington Dintree. “Must we really discuss this again?”

Ron ignored her. “What business does the Order have in Knockturn Alley d’you reckon? Maybe You-Know-Who’s hiding out there somewhere?”

Harry snorted. “What, in a shop?”

He tried to imagine Voldemort’s tall, skeletal body folding itself into a box-filled, cobwebbed basement. The image was amusing for all of a second until it grew a little too vivid; scarlet eyes in the dark, the hiss of a command, the flash of a bone-white wand. Harry’s chest tightened, his breathing shallowed.

“Quiet, don’t let anyone overhear,” Hermione was saying. “We shouldn’t even know Moody was in Knockturn. And besides, it’s not worth worrying about – Scrimgeour’s fighting Fudge to retract the arrest. Being friends with Dumbledore isn’t a crime yet, and he only got in a little scuffle with Kingsley. He can’t be sent to Azkaban for that, and Fudge can’t anything else on him otherwise the Daily Prophet would’ve been all over it.”

“Oh, there’s something else,” Ron said. “Dad says the only people who dislike Moody at the ministry are the old Death Eaters – Fudge couldn’t get away with arresting him over nothing. I’m telling you, Moody was in Knockturn on Order business, and I bet Fudge knows what.”

“Then why isn’t it in the papers?”

“Maybe it involves sensitive ministry stuff?” Harry suggested.

“In Knockturn?” Hermione asked, dubious, but Ron gasped, sitting up to the tune of shrieking sofa springs. Harry twisted his head on the rug to squint up at him.

“The weapon Sirius mentioned! What if it’s the ministry’s and they’re hiding it down there? Maybe the Order are trying to steal it before You-Know-Who can?”

“The ministry are not hiding a weapon in Knockturn Alley,” Hermione said – but her sensibilities came too late because Harry and Ron had already launched into another long-winded, going-nowhere, totally-speculative discussion. One Harry was all too happy to have because if anything made him forget about the headaches and nightmares, it was endlessly theorising about Dumbledore and Voldemort’s plans.

Sighing loudly, Hermione retreated behind her book.

She resurfaced – fifteen minutes later – just as Harry suggested, “Maybe it’s where Fudge keeps his secret stash of love potions? He’s not charming the whole ministry over on his wit alone.”

Ron grinned. “Ah yes – love potions could definitely be the weapon You-Know-Who’s after. Someone to love him – that’s all he – ”

“If you’ve got so much energy to talk, you could finish your homework,” Hermione snapped.

“Why?” Harry asked. “We’ve got another week before term starts.”

“Homework’s gonna take us like two days maximum,” Ron added, and Harry nodded.

“Then you could go clean the library.”

“Lupin said not to go in there until they’ve figured out whatever it was that spooked Ron.”

“Don’t say spooked like I made it up, Harry – something’s in there!”

Harry laughed. “Yeah, a bunch of doxies. Watch out – they might munch on your dress robes.”

“It’s not a joke! Something moved the curtain, I swear–”

“Look, I don’t care what you do,” Hermione said, “But can you not talk about Moody?”

Harry frowned. “Why? You love being nosy.”

“I – that’s not true!”

“Yes, it is,” said Ron.

“Well – fine, maybe, but... I don’t think we should be dragging ourselves into things this year.”

“Dragged into what, exactly?” Harry asked, a tinge of hardness creeping into his tone.

“You know, Harry... maybe it would be nice to try and keep ourselves out of life-or-death situations?”

Harry sat up, the cold compress falling to one side. “Right. If only I’d tried harder last year.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Hermione said, flushing.

“What do you want me to do? Stick my head in the sand and pretend a mass murderer’s not attempting to do me in?”

“Of course not! But – I think we should trust the Order more. They know what they’re doing. Whatever Moody was up to – if it’s important they’d tell us.”

Hermione, Harry often thought, had too much faith in adults.

“I just think,” she continued, “That y – we should try not to do anything rash.”

Rash? Harry glared at her. “I’m not rash.”

There was a brief pause.

“No,” Ron said, hastily filling the silence. “I can’t think of a single time we’ve ever done anything rash. Not once.”

“The fact that you’re using sarcasm proves my point, Ronald.”

“It wasn’t –”

CRACK!

Harry lunged for his wand, seeing red eyes in the dark, only to huff in relief.

“FRED!” Ron yelled, grasping for the chocolate frog cards he’d chucked across over the floor. “Mum told you to stop that!”

Fred Weasley, standing by Harry’s feet, orange hair askew and lumpy, woollen sweater untucked, looked, for once, serious. “Sorry to interrupt the bickering, but Kingsley’s in the kitchen,” he said. “They’ve called a meeting. A big one.”

“About Mad-Eye?” Ron asked, abandoning the chocolate frog cards and scrambling to the living room door. Still scowling, Harry followed, Hermione – for all her opinions – a few paces behind. How dare she lecture him on not getting involved when she was often the most curious one of them all!

“Not a clue, little brother,” said Fred, peering over their heads into the entry hall beyond.

They all shrunk back when the doorbell rang, and Mrs Weasley rushed up from the kitchen, frizzy, orange hair pulled into a knot atop her head, cheeks a rosy-red, and pulled open the front door.

The four of them watched as a steady stream of stony-faced Order members proceeded to file inside, traipsing after Mrs Weasley towards the basement kitchen. Only Daedalus Diggle, who’d gotten stuck holding the door, noticed them. He shot Harry a friendly wave.

“So many,” Hermione whispered. “This must be the whole Order.”

“Almost,” George replied, having apparated behind them. “Overheard Kingsley chatting to mum before they realised Fred and I were raiding the pantry. Tonks is needed at the Ministry – Kingsley could only get away for fifteen minutes – and Dumbledore’s there too. Something huge is going down.”

“Has Fudge called Moody’s trial?” Hermione asked, fearful.

“Are they going to send him to Azkaban?” asked Ron.

“No chance,” Fred said. “Mad-Eye would burn down the ministry before he allowed himself to be sent there.”

Diggle stuck his head out into the street, glancing to and fro before he allowed the door to close.

No Dumbledore, no Moody. Something big.

Something they would never tell Harry. 

“Shall we try the ears?” Ron asked. “Maybe mum’ll forget to charm the door –”

Harry didn’t let himself think. Sometimes, it was better to just do. He darted forwards through the throng of people, nearly stepping on Professor McGonagall’s foot, and leapt for the main staircase. Up in his and Ron’s bedroom, he kicked open his trunk and grabbed his invisibility cloak, the light, silvery material settling around his shoulders.

Ron had made it to the first-floor landing, expression bemused as he peered into their empty bedroom, eyes glancing over Harry. Then, he realised.

“Harry! Don’t! You’ll get in so much trouble!”

“Trouble?” asked Fred, popping up by Ron’s shoulder, looking delighted.

“What’s he doing?” Hermione hissed, pausing at the top of the stairs.

“I’ll tell you everything,” Harry whispered into Ron’s ear as he squeezed past them, back down the stairs.

“Ron, what’s he – Oh, Harry, you can’t!”

“Well, he can,” George said.

Harry didn’t pause to hear her complaints, sliding into line between Hestia Jones and Emmeline Vance, holding his breath as he trailed them down the narrow steps into the kitchen.

He’d never seen the place so busy, every chair around the long, wooden table taken, others standing, crowded against the walls. Kingsley stood by the fireplace, donned in his pristine auror robes, straight and sombre.

With some difficultly, Harry slipped through the gaps (his short stature coming in useful for once) pressing forwards towards the pantry, grateful Fred and George had left the door ajar. If he brushed against anyone, they didn’t notice in the hubbub. Inside, he tucked himself between the shelves, heart pounding.

So much for not being rash.

Oh, shut up, he told himself. What did the Order expect, keeping him in the dark? Him! Their only witness to Voldemort’s return. The reincarnation of the Order of the Phoenix wouldn’t exist if it weren’t for Harry.

“Settle down,” he heard Kingsley call. The kitchen immediately fell silent.

Anxious, Harry squeezed himself further in, biting his lip.

“Will Albus not be joining us?”

“No, Elphias,” Kingsley replied. “Presently, Albus is at the ministry. They’re lifting the press embargo shortly; things are about to get considerably more complicated.”

“And?” Lupin – urgent.

Kingsley sighed and Harry, jars of pickled vegetables obscuring his view, could imagine the tall auror running a hand over his bald head. “The ministry have confirmed the identity of the boy apprehended in Knockturn Alley last week as seventeen-year-old Tom Riddle.”

Mutters burst, rippling like waves. Beneath Harry’s feet the ground tilted, threatening to send him tumbling, mind reeling.

Tom Riddle.

Lord Voldemort.

In Knockturn Alley.

Seventeen?

“The ministry are taking the position that it’s time travel –”

“Time travel?” McGonagall asked, incredulous. “That’s ridiculous!”

“I quite agree, Minerva. But that’s Riddle’s story and – unfortunately – it’s not as if the physical evidence doesn’t match up. The jump, fifty years or so, is significantly further than previously tested, but after heavy consultation the unspeakables have determined it is theoretically possible – though highly inadvisable, of course.”

“What does Dumbledore believe?” Hestia asked.

“That this is dark magic: an echo of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, similar to the memory that opened the Chamber of Secrets at Hogwarts three years ago.”

Further murmurs. Over his thumping heart, Harry couldn’t make them out.

“Well,” Elphias Doge proclaimed. “If that’s what Albus believes, that’s good enough for me!”

Riddle, dark hair, dark eyes, the steady drip of water, and Ginny’s body, slumped, unmoving. Why was the pantry still tilting? Harry pressed himself to the wall, trying to force air into his lungs.

“For me too,” Kingsley said. “However, the ministry will oppose Dumbledore’s claim. Unfortunately, we played our hand too early, trying to capture the boy in Knockturn Alley without the ministry’s knowledge, and now Fudge knows Dumbledore cares. It puts Alastor in an awkward predicament.”

“What will happen to him?”

“We’re not sure. Alastor won’t admit to anything. Given he’s friendly with over half the Wizengamot, it’ll be tough for Fudge to chase a conviction. Even Rufus doesn’t think he’s done anything wrong. Likely they’ll keep him in holding until the tides of political favour swing Fudge’s way.”

“And what of Riddle?” Sirius asked. “Are they going to make him out as some sort of victim?”

“They can’t!” said Lupin. “Even if they claim time travel, they must know who the boy becomes? They must know he’s dangerous. Surely, they understand –”

Kingsley’s voice was clipped, angry. “Understand? No. All the ministry claim to understand of Tom Riddle is that he was raised in a muggle orphanage in London, attended Hogwarts in the late 30s and early 40s, achieved outstanding grades, and became Head Boy. He then spent a few years integrated in wizarding society with one report indicating that he worked in a shop in Knockturn Alley, and then… nothing. He disappears. It is only on the word of Albus, Harry, and Miss Weasley that while at Hogwarts Tom Riddle opened the Chamber of Secrets and killed a girl – that Tom Riddle became He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.”

McGonagall cursed very loudly.

“That’s insane!” Sirius exclaimed.

“So, what?” Emmeline Vance said. “They’re just going to let this – this menace loose on the public?!”

“No,” said Kingsley, grave. “He’s seventeen. They’re going to send him to Hogwarts.”

In the ensuing silence, all Harry could hear was the beat of his heart, the sharp breaths falling from his lips, fluttering the cloak.

A chair screeched on the floor. “No.” Mr Weasley.

“Arthur, we’ve tried –”

“It’s a school – there are children –”

“I believe we all know what a school is, Weasley,” Snape drawled.

“You don’t have a daughter there, Severus! A daughter who… that boy –” His voice trembled with rage.

When Kingsley next spoke, he sounded very tired. “Arthur, sit, please. We’ve convinced them to keep Riddle under constant watch; he’ll be accompanied by an auror at all times – Tonks is included in the rotation, thank Merlin – he’ll have separate accommodation and won’t have a wand. Thankfully, Dumbledore still holds the authority at Hogwarts. This isn’t a terrible outcome – yes, I understand, Molly – but Dumbledore can keep a closer eye on the boy there than he ever could in the ministry.”

“Can’t Albus… get rid of him?” Hestia asked. “I mean… Riddle’s killed a girl! Then there was that other poor boy Albus found too. And the three muggles – his family. What did Albus say? He’s an echo? Is he even human?”

There was an uncomfortable silence.

“I don’t know that that would make us any better than them,” Lupin said quietly.

“This isn’t a misguided Death Eater, Remus, it’s him.”

“He’s a minor.”

“Who’s murdered five people!”

“The Order has our stance on this, Hestia,” Kingsley said. “While another option is available, we do not kill.”

“So, we wait for him to murder someone else – another child?” asked Mr Weasley, hoarse.

“That will not happen, Arthur. Not while Albus is at Hogwarts.”

“And what of Harry?” asked Sirius. “Hogwarts is one of the only places we can keep him safe. As Dumbledore described it, the first thing that Voldemort echo who opened the Chamber of Secrets did was lure Harry down there to kill him!”

“Riddle doesn’t know anything about Harry. He doesn’t even know anything of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Thankfully, it’s the one thing the unspeakables have insisted upon: that until they’ve further researched time skips of this magnitude, the ministry should be careful to limit Riddle’s access to information, lest they figure out a way to send him back. Powerful obliviates are dangerous, especially so for the young. It’s how we swung the aurors. Actually, the unspeakables wanted to lock him in the Department of Mysteries.”

“That would’ve done us all a favour,” Hestia muttered.

Sirius snorted. “Right. It’s Hogwarts. He’ll have no information for a week, tops.”

“It’s the best we can hope for, Sirius. Harry will be under Albus’s protection.”

“He was under Albus’s protection last year,” Sirius said bitterly.

“Yes,” Kingsley sighed. “I know.”

“We’ll keep a close eye on him,” McGonagall said. “On all of the students.”

“Naturally,” said Snape, sounding to Harry as though he didn’t give a toss. “Though we cannot help the boy if he seeks out Riddle himself.”

“Harry wouldn’t do that!” Sirius protested. “He’s not an idiot!”

“Potter has a consistent history of rule-breaking and reckless, stupid behaviour you appear too blinded by your fawning to see, Black.”

“You – ”

“For Merlin’s sake, sit down, Sirius and put your wand away,” McGonagall snapped. “We will ensure – ”

At that moment, a barrage of raised voices rained down from the entrance hall. All Harry could distinguish was, “Hermione!” before –

“FILTHY BLOOD-TRAITORS AND MUDBLOODS STAINING THE ANCIENT AND NOBLE – ”

“Those bloody kids!” Mrs Weasley exclaimed, flustered. “Excuse me.”

“I’ll help with my mother,” Sirius said, chair scraping, evidently grateful for the excuse to escape Snape.

Sensing his opportunity, Harry forced his numb legs to move, heart pounding so fast it made him feel ill. He wanted to yell, or throw up, or scream.

Tom Riddle. Tom Riddle at Hogwarts.

The words ricocheted in his mind like a chant, so loud he worried the Order members he sidled past might hear them.

Tom Riddle.

An echo – like the diary.

He passed within a hair’s breadth of Snape’s oiled locks and a wave of resentment surged, his scar tingling. He fought the urge to tip the Potion Master’s coffee over his greasy, sneering head. ‘Reckless and stupid behaviour’! Why was Sirius the only one who didn’t treat him like a child?

Unnoticed, he snuck up the steps behind his godfather and Mrs Weasley, sliding nimbly past the door at the top.

“WHAT IN MERLIN’S NAME ARE YOU DOING?” Mrs Weasley bellowed over the enraged shrieks of Mrs Black. George was already tugging on the velvet curtains and Sirius rushed over to help.

Ron clung to a furious Hermione’s arm, Fred at his shoulder. They all spoke at once, inaudible. Harry slipped into the living room and shoved the cloak behind a sofa cushion. Suddenly, ringing silence.

“Oh, thank fuck,” Sirius breathed.

“Sirius!”

“Sorry, Molly, thank Merlin.”

“What’s this commotion for?” Mrs Weasley whispered furiously. “We’re in an important meeting!”

“Harry – ” Hermione begun, then let out a hiss as Ron trod on her foot.

“Here,” Harry said, breathless, stepping out behind them.

Ron shot him a grin while Hermione pursed her lips.

“Upstairs! All of you! Now! And don’t come back down until I call you for supper!”

Hermione looked on the brink of protesting, but Ron pulled her towards the stairs. Harry, Fred, and George followed, Mrs Weasley disappearing back downstairs with a vicious glare.

“Suppose she’ll yell more later,” Fred sighed.

George nodded. “Must be a bad meeting – usually we have to try harder to get her that worked up.”

“Harry,” Sirius said, catching his arm.

Numb, brain buzzing, Harry paused, allowing the others to go ahead. Then, Sirius tugged him into a rough, tight hug. Unsure what to do, Harry froze.

“Take care, yeah?” Sirius said, pulling back quickly and ruffling his hair.

“I’m only going upstairs,” Harry said, but his voice was weak.

Tom Riddle.

“Well… there’s a boggart and a bored hippogriff up there,” Sirius said. “And in this house who knows what else.”

“I’ll be alright, Sirius. I can handle… boggarts.”

Sirius nodded, clearing his throat. “Yeah. Sure. We won’t be much longer. Kingsley can’t disappear from Fudge’s side forever.”

“Sirius!” Mrs Weasley had reappeared at the basement door.

“Yep, coming.” His godfather tried to smile at him. Harry tried to smile back. They both failed.

Once the hall was empty, Harry retrieved his cloak and returned to his and Ron’s bedroom. The others were perched on the twin beds, waiting expectantly. No doubt drawn by the commotion, Ginny had appeared too. One look at her – homemade jumper and rosy cheeks – and Harry felt like he’d been punched in the gut.

“Hermione was going to tell on you,” Ron said.

“Of course I was!” Hermione said, glaring. “This is why they won’t let you join, Harry! You can’t follow orders! What if you heard something confidential, and it got out, and someone… someone died?”

Tom Riddle at Hogwarts.

The buzzing in his brain was so loud, he could barely hear her.

“Who’s he going to tell, Hermione?” George asked. “We’re the only ones here.”

“It’s the principle!”

Dripping water, stone, him.

“There are things I deserve to know,” Harry said quietly.

Hermione’s lips pressed together, turning white. “I understand you’ve been through a lot, Harry, but you’re sixteen – none of this should be on you. Please let the Order deal with it.”

A silent graveyard, scarlet eyes in the dark.

“I can’t. If I do nothing, I’m just waiting around to die. Voldemort’s never going to let me be. The least they can do – the least Dumbledore can do – is allow me to prepare myself.”

Hermione opened her mouth, but George cut her off. “C’mon, Hermione. Harry’s right. We’re in a war, there’s no running away from it. They can’t protect us, much as mum wishes she could.”

“Did you ever consider that it’s not about protection?” Hermione asked, cold. “That instead it just isn’t smart for a secret organisation to let in a bunch of teenagers?”

Fred glared. “You’re saying they can’t trust us to keep our mouths shut?”

“I’m saying – ”

“Can you all shut up?” Ginny snapped. She’d been staring at Harry – Harry who’d been determinedly avoiding her gaze. He felt sick. “I want to know what they said.”

“Are you sure you want to stay for this, Hermione?” Fred asked. “It might be delicate information –”

“Leave off her!” Ron retorted.

Fred rolled his eyes and George smirked.

“Go on then, Harry,” George said. “What’s all the fuss about?”

Five pairs of expectant eyes regarded him. Harry’s mouth dried up. How… How was he meant to tell Ginny? It should be Mr or Mrs Weasley to do it, not him. It would break her heart. And his heart? Fluttering, pounding, straining his ribs.

Why couldn’t Hermione yell at him again?

Water, hissed echoes in the cavernous dark, a body with flaming, red hair.

Why were his palms sweating? Could they open the window? It was so hot.

“Harry?” Ron asked. “Mate, you alright?”

He opened his mouth… nothing happened.

Then, he ran from the room, making it to the bathroom just in time to hurl into the sink.

Tom Riddle.

At Hogwarts.

Fuck.

*****

There were twenty-eight rows of black, marble tiles from the floor to the ceiling. Tom knew this because he had counted them thirty-two times. Approximately ten rows must equal a metre, because it reached his waist. Therefore, the holding cell in the bowls of the ministry must be two-point-eight metres tall, give or take ten centimetres.

Merlin, he was bored.

Tom had thought about other things of course, before he’d started counting tiles.

He’d done a neat job with his lie. How easy it was to act confused and apologetic, to feign remorse. Over the week, the unspeakables had tried every trick in the book to prove he was wearing a disguise, or that he was some kind of relative of Tom Riddle, not the one and same, a teenager. When Tom had passed all their tests, they were forced to accept the improbable.

Time travel indeed.

At first, the prospect of wearing his own name and face had worried him, but now Tom was starting to warm to the idea. This fame, this avid attention from the ministry gave him security. No longer could Dumbledore or disappear him without creating a fuss. Tom’s counterpart couldn’t either, wherever he was.

And where was he?

Lord Voldemort couldn’t have control over the ministry, otherwise he would’ve come and said hello the instant Tom entered their custody. It was odd, because Tom had always assumed he’d have control over the ministry before he turned thirty. Although, if Dumbledore was still around... If Grindelwald hadn’t managed to kill him off. Yes, perhaps that might’ve put a spanner in the works.

But, after days of nothing, Tom had started counting tiles. There was one – just above the door – that was more dark grey than –

The heavy door slid open. Tom jumped to his feet, smoothing his hair. Before him stood the Minister – the short man from Knockturn Alley – dressed in those awful, freshly pressed, violet robes, nervously twirling an equally violet bowler hat. A slight shimmer under his eyes betrayed a glamour.

“Mr Riddle,” he said by way of introduction, briefly dipping his head but keeping his eyes fixed on a tile behind Tom’s shoulder. That one was chipped.

Tom stuck out a hand. “Indeed. It’s a pleasure to meet you again. Mr Fudge, is it?”

“Oh, yes. Cornelius Fudge, er, Minister of Magic.” After a beat, he took the outstretched hand, retracting his own almost as soon as they made contact. “Perhaps we should sit?” He gestured to the cold, hard bench Tom had spent most of the past week sitting on.

“Of course.”

They sat. Fudge kept as much distance between them as possible, still staring at the cell wall. As far as ministers went, he didn’t strike an imposing figure, his nervous twitching reminding Tom of a mouse, or a skittery cat. He waited for the man to speak, and after a moment, he did.

“You have a rather impressive academic record, Mr Riddle. Straight Os in your OWLs.”

Graciously, Tom feigned surprise. “Thank you, sir. I hadn’t yet received my results. I’m glad the hard work paid off.”

Fudge glanced at him quickly. “Yes… I have discussed your, ah, predicament with the unspeakables. They’ve satisfied themselves that – how did they put it: ‘substantial time travel in excess of contemporary knowns is the logical conclusion.’” Fudge continued twirling his bowler hat. “I’m afraid they don’t know how to send you back.”

Tom nodded. “I suspected as much. And they’re confident my presence will not have consequences?”

“Well, they hope not! Something about diverging timelines and the theory of multiverse stabilisation,” he waved a hand vaguely. “Speak with them if you want the details. Point is, from what I could tell anyway, nothing’s exploded yet, so it probably won’t... Even so, it’d be prudent not to let you wander.”

Tom nodded again but remained silent, waiting for Fudge to continue. When he didn’t, he prompted, “Hopefully I am not to be kept in this cell for the remainder of my time here?”

“Oh!” Fudge said. “No, no. That would be rather mean of us.” He chortled. Tom gave a tight-lipped smile. “No, it’s been arranged that you’ll be moved to Hogwarts, remaining under supervision of course for the, er, timeline security. You can attend the sixth-year classes.”

Though there was a lie in there somewhere, Tom couldn’t help the smile – the genuine smile – that tugged on his lips. Hogwarts.

“Thank you, sir. I appreciate it.” Carefully, he looked at Fudge. “I’m surprised Professor Dumbledore is happy with this arrangement. He and I didn’t see eye-to-eye much.”

“He had hardly a say in the matter,” Fudge said. While the minister may have been trying for nonchalance, his tone was sharp, and his eyes hardened.

“My apologies,” Tom said. “One of the aurors let slip he was the current headmaster–”

“He is,” Fudge replied. He sat a little straighter. “But unfortunately for him, Albus does not have the sway with the governing board that he used to. There is evidence that educational standards at Hogwarts are slipping, and the ministry have been forced to intervene.”

That was certainly interesting information. “I can’t say I’m surprised, sir. I was never partial to his teaching methods.”

Fudge looked at him, properly this time. “You may speak plainly, Mr Riddle. You should have no concerns of kinship between Albus and I.”

“Professor Dumbledore never liked me, sir. I could never figure out why.” Aside from the dead rabbit, the two insane orphans, the box of trophies. “I wondered whether it was my muggle heritage. I know there were rumours that he and Grindelwald had been close –”

Fudge nearly fell off the bench. His eyes flew wide with excitement as he stared at Tom, oblivious that he had dropped his bowler hat. “What do you mean by that? Albus and Grindelwald...?”

“I cannot say for certain, sir, only that a journalist reported an anonymous tip of a blood pact between Professor Dumbledore and Grindelwald.” Fudge’s eyebrows merged with his receding hairline. Tom made sure to hastily add, “If you have no knowledge of it, sir, surely it was disproven.”

“Or covered up,” Fudge muttered, mostly to himself.

Tom was quite certain the minister was as mad as he claimed Dumbledore was, but it suited Tom, so he had no complaints.

 Fudge jumped to his feet, sweeping his bowler hat off the ground. “You’ve been quite helpful, my boy,” he said, striding towards the door. “You’ll be at Hogwarts before you know it!”

Five hours later, someone pushed the front page of the evening edition of the Daily Prophet under his cell door. Smiling up at him from the frontpage was a picture of a teenage Albus Dumbledore and Gellert Grindelwald linking arms in Godric’s Hollow.

Tom grinned. He’d never really seen himself as one for the ministry, no matter how much Slughorn had tried to convince him. Too much bureaucracy that Tom didn’t want to deal with. But he couldn’t deny the thrill of politics. And if the ministry wanted to interfere at Hogwarts – wanted to interfere with Dumbledore’s domain... well, Tom wouldn’t mind lending them a helping hand.

Chapter Text

“Yes, yes,” the wizard crooned, adjusting Tom’s stiff collar with gaudy, ringed fingers, shaking free the few wrinkles that dared remain from his straight, black robes. Stepping back to admire his handiwork, he flicked his wand, adjusting a stray curl that had fallen over Tom’s forehead. “Beautiful,” he said, hands clinking as he clapped them together. “They’re going to love you!”

“Are we done?” inquired Shacklebolt, that tall auror from Knockturn Alley, the one secretly working for Dumbledore; Fudge liked him close. He trusted him. Fool. “We’re only walking down a corridor, Paisley.”

“A corridor with cameras!”

“Quite,” said Fudge, dusting the brim of his bowler hat. “Good first impressions are critical! This is why you’re not in politics, Kingsley.”

Shacklebolt nodded politely, but Tom spotted the steely glint in his eye. Fudge did not.

“Dolores!” the Minister exclaimed as the door to the conference room in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement creaked open and a squat, prim, and viciously pink witch entered. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten all about us humble ministry folk!”

The Minister chortled and the witch tittered in response – a shrill, grating noise that raised the hairs on Tom’s neck. “Oh, Cornelius,” she said, high and girlish. “How could I ever forget you?”

“An obliviate might do it!”

Tom wanted to curse them both. From Shacklebolt’s expression, the auror felt the same way.

“Allow me to introduce our resident time traveller,” Fudge said. This was his and Tom’s third meeting now, and a healthy chunk of the apprehension he’d harboured earlier had since dissolved, evaporated by the strength of Tom’s lies and the sincerity of his smiles. “This is Tom Riddle, and Tom, this is Dolores Umbridge – ahem! Professor Umbridge, pardon me! She’ll be your Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts this year.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Professor,” Tom said, extending a hand. Like Paisley, she wore numerous rings, hers thick, ugly, and golden; they were cool against his palm as she squeezed.

“Hullo, Thomas,” Umbridge said, smiling and exposing a set of teeth that were much too white. Tom had never gone by Thomas, but frankly he didn’t care enough about his muggle father’s name to correct her. “How wonderful to finally see you in the flesh. I’ve heard so much about you.”

Smoothly, Tom smiled. “I look forward to getting to know you better in your classes, Professor. Defence is one of my favourite subjects.”

Fudge beamed. “I doubt you’ll have the time for conversing, Mr Riddle. Dolores, he’s starting eight NEWTS this year. Eight! Can you imagine!”

“I’d have liked to do nine,” Tom said, “But it seems Alchemy is no longer offered.”

“Its content was redistributed into Transfiguration and Potions,” said Shacklebolt in that even, deep voice of his. “Magical understanding has progressed in the past fifty years.” He smiled thinly.

“Quite, quite,” said Fudge, with the air of one who had no understanding of the matters being discussed. “Well, I think Professor Umbridge will be the best Defence teacher that school has had in some time.”

“That’s a rather low bar, Cornelius,” said Umbridge.

“Oh, yes, absolutely. Dumbledore’s been allowed to run away with things for too long. But no more!”

This Fudge announced with a rather extravagant gesture, and Tom wondered when he might be allowed some peace and quiet – preferably not in a cell. People were interesting: amusing toys to unwrap and play with for a while, but once he picked them apart and discovered what made them tick, they dulled. Fudge was more of a tool than a toy; dreadfully boring, but incessantly useful. He was curious what Umbridge would turn out to be.

“We should be going,” Shacklebolt said.

“Ever the auror,” said Fudge. “But you needn’t faff, Kingsley, there are no dark wizards awaiting us in the atrium. At least, I hope not – I had sent Weatherby – ahem, Weasley down there to fetch me a mocha, Merlin knows where that boy’s gotten to.”

“Even so –”

“Alright, alright,” Fudge snapped. “Thank you for your assistance, Paisley, your eye is as impeccable as ever.”

Tom was hesitant to agree. Donned in lime-green, frilled dress robes, the Minister looked a far cry from impeccable. Thankfully, Tom’s robes were considerably plainer.

“Dolores, you go in front, Mr Riddle, stand beside me – yes, like that – Kingsley, you… well, do your job, I suppose. Protect us from the lurking Death Eaters.” He gave a chortle than turned hastily into a cough.

Death Eaters?

As they exited the conference room into the quiet auror office, Tom went to smooth his hair, stopping himself when Paisley’s large eyes widened in alarm. Fine. The thing felt glued to his head anyway.

Almost immediately, Fudge stopped. Tom had to pull up short to avoid walking straight into the back of him. “Ah – Lucius! Narcissa! What a wonderful surprise!”

Across the office, a couple, heads bowed, looked over. The man’s lips curved into a thin smile, and he strode toward them, the woman following. Once closer, he said, “Not a pleasant visit, Cornelius, I’m afraid. Yet another meeting with Rufus to discuss just why an auror of his thought attacking children to be a reasonable course of action.”

Lucius. A Malfoy. With that long, white-blonde hair and pale, pointed face, Tom needed no introduction: this must be Draco’s father. The family name of the woman – Malfoy’s wife, presumably – was harder to guess. After centuries of inbreeding, purebloods tended to look alike. Perhaps there was something of Nott in her sharp nose, or something of Black in her hooded eyes.

“A horribly unfortunate business,” Fudge was saying. “Rest assured, Alastor will face his punishment – Rufus too if he insists on going down with the flying carpet. Say, you haven’t met Mr Riddle yet, have you? Tom, this is Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, two utterly delightful personal friends of mine.”

The attempt at distraction was blatant, but the Malfoys did not care – Lucius turning his disdainful smirk on Tom, Narcissa’s dark eyes roving hungrily over his face. Oh, they’d come here to talk to Scrimgeour, had they?

Tom fought a cowardly urge to step closer to Shacklebolt, Dumbledore’s man though he was.

He hated not having a wand.

“A pleasure, Mr Riddle,” said Lucius, extending a long hand as he and his wife shifted closer.

As Tom reached to take it, he felt a very strange sensation: a tug in his navel, like the jerk of a portkey - so much so, in fact, that he curled his toes in his shoes, assuring himself that he had not moved, that the carpet below his feet was the forest green of the auror office. As quickly as was courteous, he shook Lucius’s hand, and then Narcissa’s, hers tucked into a dainty glove.

“We’re behind schedule, Minister –”

“Oh, yes, Kingsley. An audience never minds a little tardiness, you know. Well – best be off, I suppose. Let’s do dinner on Wednesday, Lucius, clear up this nastiness.”

“Of course,” Lucius said, his gaze still on Tom. “Enjoy your schooling, Mr Riddle – and do take care. I hear Hogwarts isn’t as safe as it once was.”

“Thomas’ll have plenty of eyes on him,” said Umbridge. “Perhaps you read this morning’s edition of the Daily Prophet, but –”

“Time, Minister.”

“Alright, alright,” Fudge said, gesturing them towards the lift. “Until Wednesday, then.”

“Until Wednesday,” Lucius said with a smile.

That tugging feeling in Tom’s navel didn’t relent until they reached the gold-chained lift. It was held by Broderick Bode, a sallow-skinned unspeakable Tom had had the displeasure of spending several interrogation sessions with over the past week. The man stared unfalteringly at Fudge.

“We don’t approve of this.”

“Nonsense,” Fudge said, steering Tom into the lift. “You can’t keep a child locked up in that department of yours, Broderick. Mr Riddle isn’t one of your experiments.”

Bode’s gaze settled on Tom. He had very wide, light eyes. “This won’t end well.”

“Run along downstairs. This is the end of our discussion,” Fudge said, Umbridge and Kingsley sliding into the lift alongside them. With a clang, the grate closed, and they lurched downwards, Bode’s face, the heated stares of the Malfoys, sliding away.

Those Malfoys. Were they servants of Lord Voldemort? Their son had recognised Tom’s name. Draco had known Tom was someone to fear. But, where was –

Fudge turned to their group as the lift slowed, adjusting his bowler hat and quivering with excitement. “Right then – remember, big smiles!”

When the lift grate opened onto the atrium – sweeping dark wood floors, a glittering blue and gold ceiling, and more ornate fireplaces than Tom could count – it was to a vast congregation of wizards. Rows of scrutinising faces lined either side of the central walkway, kept at bay by many green-clad aurors, the air heavy with furious whispers and indistinct shouts. The flashes and clicks of cameras blinded and deafened, and Tom did his best to keep to his path, Umbridge out front, Fudge at his side.

It was… a lot, but… this crowd, they were all here for him. For Tom. Their undivided attention was captivating… powerful. He walked straighter, more confident, striking that balance of charming, but reserved. Intelligent, but humble. A poor, unlucky teenager, lost in time. He wondered whether his counterpart would see any of the pictures, whether he’d pilfer the Malfoy’s memories. He smiled at a camera.

They passed the golden fountain and approached their fireplace too quickly for Tom’s liking. A gangly red-head hovering beside it, a take-away coffee cup in hand. Faintly, Fudge groaned. “Couldn’t he have met us on the other side?” Fudge muttered to Umbridge. “I shouldn’t look like I can’t get my own mocha.”

Then, he turned and waved to the crowd in dramatic farewell (though he’d be back at the ministry within the hour). Tom followed suit, committing the moment to memory: those hundreds of curious eyes trained on him, his face, his hand, then, reluctantly, he tailed Umbridge into the warm, green flames.

The office they emerged into had once been Professor Ganymede’s. Fudge commented as much, appearing behind them a moment later. It had, however, been redone in rather hideous fashion – and Tom hadn’t been partial to Ganymede’s nautical theme.

Pink, lace, porcelain, and frills.

Tom strode to the window, an excuse to turn his back, shoes sinking into a plush, cream rug. At least Hogwarts’ grounds were much unchanged. From here he could see the Quidditch pitch, empty and drenched in late August sun. There was the curve of the sparkling lake, and there the foothills of the highlands. Tom breathed fresh, crisp air, felt sunlight on his skin. Worlds away from the bowls of the ministry.

The gangly red-head they’d picked up was rambling:

“– So sorry, sir, they didn’t have the usual beans – I’d told Allen those were your favourite – she said she couldn’t control the climate in Brazil, though she is a witch –”

“Yes, fine, Weasley. This’ll do. Well, I thought that went splendidly! Madam Rosery has already passed our statement to Quentin. As long as they’re quick about it we’ll make the evening edition – and Quentin did promise. It’s an excellent follow-up to this morning’s announcement of Dolores’s new position, if I do say so myself.”

“Quite ingenious, Cornelius,” Umbridge simpered.

Glancing over his shoulder, Tom spied a framed photograph on Umbridge’s desk: her and the Minister, smiling and shaking hands. She’d made no attempt to hide it, despite knowing of their visit in advance. It was there on purpose then, playing to Fudge’s fragile ego.

Tom eyed the woman again as her and Fudge conversed. She tittered at all the right moments, demure and unthreatening. To Tom (and any with their sanity intact) it was intensely grating, but it bolstered the Minister. Yes, Tom could recognise good game when he saw it.

Inadvertently, he caught Weasley’s eye.

The man – or boy, really, he only looked a few years older than Tom – jumped, eyes darting frantically away. That was an interesting reaction. Fudge had been nervous of him too, the last time they had met. Why? If his counterpart was so feared as to invoke a reaction such as that, why didn’t he have control over the ministry?

Where was he?

“Shouldn’t Singh be here?” Fudge asked.

Ah, yes. His aurors. The demands of the unspeakables. How tedious.

“I’m sure she’ll be along shortly,” Umbridge said.

“Will they be accompanying me for long, sir?” Tom asked.

“For the foreseeable future, I’m afraid,” Fudge said, avoiding his eyes. “It’s best you don’t gather too much important information before they send you back. Obliviates are tricky things, especially on impressionable minds such as yours. And they will send you back, don’t you worry!”

“I have every confidence in them, sir,” Tom lied.

There came a knock on the door.

“Ah, that must be Singh,” Fudge said.

“Come in,” Umbridge called.

It was not Singh.

It was Dumbledore.

The crisp, Scottish air was too cold.

“Most kind, Dolores,” he said. He sounded old, voice warbling. “I see you’re making yourself at home – goodness, those are a lot of cats. I’m more of a bird person, myself, though I am partial to a kneazle.”

“Albus,” Fudge said stiffly.

“Hello again, Cornelius. As of late, it seems we bump into each other more days than not. And Mr Weasley, Mr Shacklebolt, how wonderful to see you both.”

He tipped a wizened hand to a ghastly, sequinned hat, and Tom wanted to wrench the thing off his head. Chuck it in the fire and watch it burn. Throw the old man from the window and savour the crunch as his frail body hit the earth.

“Tom,” Dumbledore said, appraising him with those piercing, light-blue eyes, now tucked behind half-moon glasses. “How time flies! It might have been yesterday that you sat in my classroom for the first time - it took you all of two minutes to turn a matchstick into a needle if I remember rightly.”

Tom wanted to say something. He should say something, Umbridge and Fudge were expecting it. “It did, sir,” was all he managed. Weak.

Thinly, Dumbledore smiled. He was so old. His once auburn hair glowed a brilliant white and his skin sagged beneath decades upon decades of wrinkles. Tom couldn’t have waited out a few more years as a horcrux? Then the fucker might’ve been dead. Behind his back, his hands twisted.

Calm, stay calm.

“I take it you’ve seen the papers, Albus,” Fudge said, smug.

“Not at all, Cornelius! Alas, my busy schedule has allotted me far too little time to indulge in the pleasure of reading. Is there a particular issue you recommend?”

“Where is Auror Singh?” Umbridge asked in that high-pitched, girlish voice, saving Fudge – who’d turned a fetching claret red – a reply.

“Ah, I sent her off on a wander of the grounds, I hope you don’t mind. The day is delightfully bright and I thought she might enjoy a moment of unhindered exploration. Hogwarts is a wonder to fresh eyes. Besides,” Dumbledore’s glasses flashed in Tom’s direction, “I thought I might walk Tom to his accommodation. We have fifty years’ worth of catching up to do and now’s a good a time as any to begin.”

“The boy’s supposed to be with an auror –”

“I’m sure I can manage him just fine for ten minutes, Cornelius. I did once defeat Grindelwald, you know. Perhaps my hay days are behind me, but I like to think there’s something of that old spark there.”

 Fudge blustered, claret darkening to burgundy. “Well, yes, we’ve heard a lot about you and Grindelwald recently, Albus–”

“Have you now? It appears I have reached the point of fame where others know more about me than I know about myself – I cannot say it is a pleasant experience. Perhaps you feel the same way, Tom?”

Tom did not respond, jaw resolutely set.

“Well, best not to dally. I’m sure you have better things to do with your time than accompany a student to school, Minister. And Dolores, we’re having a staff dinner in the Great Hall at 7 o’clock before the rush begins tomorrow. I hope you’ll join us?”

“Of course,” Umbridge said.

“Excellent – the rest of the staff are dearly looking forward to making your acquaintance. Mr Weasley, Mr Shacklebolt, a pleasure.” He propped the door open. “Let us make haste, Tom. I’m sure you’d enjoy some peace and quiet.”

Tom did not want to go with Dumbledore, not at all. He wanted to stay here – to hell with the lace and the doilies – and he wanted to never see Dumbledore again. The old man was going to kill him, wasn’t he? He had Tom’s ring. He knew what he’d done to that boy. Billy. Someone like Dumbledore wouldn’t let that go.

Dumbledore raised a polite, wispy eyebrow.

Fudge frowned. “He should be with an auror, Albus–”

“Nonsense. I’ll take good care of him. Come along now, Tom, I’m a busier man than I’d like to be.”

Tom had tried his best. The papers had his photograph. The ministry knew where he was. If Dumbledore did… If Dumbledore did kill him, he wouldn’t get away with it. Was that enough of a deterrence?

And besides, Tom had his horcruxes, the diary, others presumably. He couldn’t die.

He forced his legs to move, to carry him to the door where he passed within an inch of Dumbledore’s sweeping, patterned robes, then beyond, away from the safety of witnesses. The Headmaster followed and the door clicked shut. Tension stung Tom’s shoulders, his jaw; he gripped his hands tight.

“How are you faring, Tom?” Dumbledore asked, taking great, long strides.

“As well as can be expected, sir,” Tom forced himself to say.

“Did the ministry treat you well? I’ve always found the unspeakables unnerving myself. Not their fault, of course, only a product of the job.”

Tom said nothing. The inane small talk was a distraction. Where would the codger pick? Would he let him feel the sun on his skin one final time? Would he give Tom a chance to defend himself? Or would he opt for a short, sharp killing curse in the back. Tom slowed, keeping Dumbledore and his crinkled hands firmly in his sights.

He couldn’t see the Headmaster’s wand.

“Remind an old man how your time travelling incident occurred, Tom? I’m sure I read the story somewhere, but it’s quite slipped my mind.”

“I visited a friend in London over the summer holidays,” Tom said, fighting to keep his voice steady. Thankfully, this lie was well-practised. “His uncle was an eclectic; interested in all sorts of unusual magicks. We – rather irresponsibly – messed around with his experiments. One involved a lot of sand. The next thing I knew, I awoke in the park outside the house, fifty years in the future.”

“This friend of yours, what was his name?”

“Orion Black.”

The corners of Dumbledore’s mouth lifted in wry amusement. Tom didn’t know what was so funny.

Orion did have a wayward uncle, and he was an eclectic, though a dim-witted one. Tom had once rummaged through his experiments (they’d been tat).

Then, Dumbledore sighed. “You’ll forgive me, Tom, if I don’t believe you.”

Tom gritted his teeth. There lay several corridors between them and Umbridge’s office now. Would they hear him if he yelled?

“Tell me, have you heard of a boy named Billy Tamworth?”

Tom stopped walking.

Dumbledore paused too, turning so they were face-to-face.

“They know I’m with you,” Tom said, expressionless. “Umbridge, Fudge. There are photographs of me leaving the ministry.”

A crease appeared between Dumbledore’s eyebrows.

“I know things,” Tom tried. “Things about him.”

“Do you?”

“Yes. I could find him.” It was a lie, but Dumbledore wouldn’t know any better.

“How helpful.”

They stared at each other, predator and prey.

“Did you have any contact with him before the ministry brought you in?” Dumbledore asked.

“No.”

“Have you attempted to contact him since?”

“I have not.” Tom’s upper lip was curling; he tried to control it, to be impassive, but the old man just made him feel so… so…

“Are you concerned that I’ll kill you?” Dumbledore said.

Tom stared resolutely back, head high. With his latest growth spurt, he was almost as tall as Dumbledore.

“Each time we converse, Tom, I am struck by how little you are able to grasp the motivations of others, especially when they pertain to mercy or compassion.”

Now that was just unfair. Tom was excellent at understanding what made others tick.

“I am not going to kill you: you are a child, and a student at my school, as much as I wish that wasn’t the case.”

Tom vehemently detested being referred to as a child, but perhaps this wasn’t the time to argue the point.

“Though, I can’t say I haven’t considered it.” Dumbledore regarded Tom with those ice-blue eyes. “Billy Tamworth was a muggleborn resident of Greater Hangleton. He passed two weeks ago at only ten years old. Understandably, his mother is distraught. His elder sister, Lauretta Tamworth succumbed to a brain tumour the winter past. Of course, I suspect none of this information is new to you.”

“Is there a point, sir?”

“Sadly, that is one of life’s great unfairness’s: the pointlessness of death.”

Tom disagreed. Billy’s death had certainly had a point.

“You may be under the impression, Tom, that your presence at Hogwarts is due to the ministry’s interference. Cornelius certainly believes so. While I would rather you be locked in a room with no one to harm but yourself, if that cannot be so I prefer you here at Hogwarts, where I can keep a close eye on you, than anywhere else.”

Tom continued to regard him coldly.

“Let me indulge in a spot of guesswork. Your counterpart will not take kindly to the presence of another version of himself. He knows you – very well – he knows that you would never be content to bow to him; you are at odds. Am I correct?”

Tom said nothing.

Dumbledore continued. “Therefore, Hogwarts and her protections are desirable to you. I am – content is the wrong word – but willing to allow you to stay, yet there are conditions. As I’m sure you were aware, in your Hogwarts’ days I was wary of you. I suspected you of opening the Chamber of Secrets and killing Myrtle Warren, of your involvement in the incidents of your nasty friends. Though you will not understand this, Tom, I regret that I was right. Time has not been kind to my opinion of you. I will not kill you, and I will offer you protection. Those are my mercies. Should it become necessary, should you test my kindness, those mercies will be revoked. Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystal, sir.”

“Then, let us walk. I am an older man than when you knew me, and my heart cannot tolerate serious conversations as it once did.”

For the remainder of the journey, Dumbledore babbled incessantly about his favourite smorrebrod toppings, purely to spite Tom, he was sure. And no, Tom did not attribute the relief he felt, the tension draining in shaky breaths, to Dumbledore. ‘Compassion and mercy’. It was bullshit. No, if the old codger believed Tom to be as bad as he made out, he’d surely be dead, to hell with the consequences.

No, Dumbledore wanted something: information. Tom’s counterpart – that thin connection in his mind he’d been so careful to keep closed, stretching into nothingness. Horcruxes. Dumbledore wanted to know how to defeat Lord Voldemort. Well, he’d have to keep Tom alive and safe for a good, long time then. That was one secret he’d never spill.

“Ah, our destination at last,” Dumbledore said. “Sometimes, I think the castle endeavours to lengthen my strolls, perhaps she worries for my health.”

Tom wished she wouldn’t.

A plain, wooden door set into a corridor on the fourth floor swung open. “In you go. I trust it will be sufficient to your needs. The house elves will send up food when you’re hungry – you need only ask nicely.” He winked.

Taking significant effort to keep his expression neutral, Tom stalked into the room: thin and long, a desk, a bed, a wardrobe. A door leading to a small bathroom.

“Do try to stay out of trouble,” Dumbledore said.

Tom had one last glimpse of creviced wrinkles and ice-blue eyes, frosted with dislike – open dislike – then, the door closed.

A flare of magic. Tom tried the handle. Locked. He stared at the handle, imagining the mechanism clicking.

Still locked.

Bastard.

He took his time with the room, roving over every inch, every crack. The window – at least there was one – overlooked the eastern grounds, towards the Forbidden Forest: an immeasurable green sea. It opened, though he was too high up to jump.

Two sets of school robes hung in the wardrobe. They were plain black - the green and silver trim absent. A scarf, a winter cloak, several stiff, white shirts, a black tie, and a pair of boots. On the desk were several textbooks: The Standard Book of Spells: Grade Six, Advanced Potion Making, A Comprehensive Dictionary on Ancient Runes, among others. One, entitled Magical Defence Theory, looked exceedingly dull, so Tom threw it at the door.

The violence did not make him feel better, neither did imagining Dumbledore kneeling before him, the snap of his half-moon glasses as Tom smashed the book into his temple, repeatedly, until blood flowed and the fool’s eyes turned glassy. The fantasy was horribly muggle, but Tom couldn’t help himself. He wanted his hands stained with gore, to dig his nails into withered flesh, to rip and tear.

Several pages of the book had bent; Tom straightened them while he paced. Dumbledore had been the first to mention his counterpart. Where was he? Had the Malfoys been a threat? A curiousity? Why did the Ministry not bend to Lord Voldemort’s whim? Why wasn’t Dumbledore dead? It was a jigsaw with the picture burned away. All the pieces were there, but Tom couldn’t fit them together.

He was sorely tempted to throw the book again.

At least he had Umbridge. Dumbledore could claim Hogwarts as his domain all he wished, but Tom saw the game. The ministry were interfering, and Fudge had brought him into play. Unfortunately for Fudge, Tom had never been a pawn.

*****

On September 1^st, Harry awoke to a lightening, grey sky, the earliest of the morning birds chirping their song. He’d been dreaming of long corridors and locked doors again, accompanied by the unsettling sensation of being watched, an observer hovering on the edge of his peripheral vision.

Rubbing at his scar, he slid out of bed and grabbed his glasses, picking his way around an obstacle course of half-packed trunks, discarded books, quills, and clothes, careful not to wake Ron. His best mate lounged on the other bed, mouth parted and snoring heavily. On his nightstand glittered Ron’s shiny, new prefect badge.

The sight of it almost made Harry want to slam the door on his way out, but that’d wake Ron up, and then they’d have to talk.

How had Riddle become a prefect when he, Harry, the headmaster’s favourite student (according to the papers) couldn’t? Riddle had set a basilisk on the school and killed a girl, for God’s sake! Though, Harry supposed he’d been a prefect before all of that. And he’d never been caught. Harry often got caught doing things he shouldn’t. His school record must be a million times worse than a mass murdering Dark Lord’s.

Still, Dumbledore could’ve shown some faith in him. Perhaps, like everybody else, he didn’t think Harry responsible enough.

Lost in his thoughts, he slammed straight into Sirius on the stairs, his godfather stumbling to prevent coffee sloshing over the severed house elf heads they hadn’t yet managed to remove.

“Sorry!” Harry gasped, Sirius clutching his arm to steady him. “I didn’t think anyone else was up.”

“Just me,” Sirius said. Unbothered by the coffee dripping down his shirt, he too seemed distracted. “I was going to give Buckbeak his breakfast. If you want, you could…?”

“Uh, yeah,” Harry said, “I’ll come.”

Sirius smiled that bland, false smile that never reached his eyes. “After you, then.”

They trudged up to the top of the house, the stench of straw and manure growing stronger with each step.

“I don’t know how you sleep up here,” Harry said, wrinkling his nose.

“I don’t mind; chases away the smell of home.”

Sirius pushed open the door to Buckbeak’s room. The proud hippogriff, legs tucked beneath him on a bed of straw and feathers, gazed reproachfully up at them.

“I know, I know,” Sirius muttered, “Me too. Hold this for me, Harry?”

Harry took his coffee, giving it a tentative sniff as Sirius rummaged in a bin for a wrapped, paper parcel, leaking blood and smelling something foul. When he threw it to Buckbeak the Hippogriff didn’t bother to shift off his haunches, instead stretching his feathered neck to pull the package towards him, snapping at it gloomily.

“Did you want one?” Sirius asked, nodding to the coffee in Harry’s hands. He drew his wand. “James always insisted the duplicate tasted weird, but I could never tell the difference.” He tapped the mug and a second appeared, curling steam.

“My dad drank coffee?”

“One every morning since the day he turned fifteen. He’d be in a right foul mood if he missed it.”

Cautiously, Harry sipped the deep brown liquid. He might as well have bitten a charcoaled log seasoned with lemon pith.

Sirius chuckled at his expression, taking a seat on the floor and patting the space beside him. “You get used to it. Usually. Some milk and cocoa powder might help; I’d ask Kreacher, but if he’s asleep I’d rather he stay that way.”

Settling beside his godfather, Harry tried another sip. Just as bad as before.

“You’re up early,” Sirius remarked.

“So are you.”

“Wanted to feed Buckbeak before the rush. I have a feeling it’ll be a hectic morning.”

Reflecting on every other 1^st September he’d spent with the Weasleys, Harry had to agree. “How long before your mother starts shrieking?”

“Oh, 9 o’clock at the latest.”

“I’m glad I never met her.”

“I wish I hadn’t. She was right bitch – sorry, uh… No, I can’t think of a better word Molly wouldn’t admonish me for.”

Harry smiled. “I won’t tell.”

“Good lad. Yeah, your dad really did me a solid helping me out of here.”

Watching Buckbeak snap at the package, a puddle of blood steadily growing, Harry quietly said, “I’m sorry you’re back.”

Sirius raised his eyebrows. “What are you sorry for?”

If he hadn’t touched that cup… If he’d recognised Wormtail earlier... If they’d stunned him… Why hadn’t he struggled more when Wormtail grabbed him? Why had his body shut down instead of fighting back?

“Nothing, I meant… I wish you didn’t have to be stuck here.”

“Yeah. That makes two of us.”

Harry cradled his mug, staring into the steam. “Sirius... that article in the Daily Prophet – Hermione showed me.”

His godfather sighed. “Dumbledore and Grindelwald.”

“Er, yeah. Did you know? About... them?”

Shaking his head, Sirius said, “There were rumours – none anyone believed, mind you – it was a thing society gossiped about whenever they thought Dumbledore got too preachy about muggleborns. After a while they died away.”

“Until now.”

Sirius nodded. “Until the ministry decided they no longer owed Dumbledore gratitude, I suppose.”

“It doesn’t make him look good,” Harry agreed. It was more than that though, more than Dumbledore’s toppling approval reflecting badly on Harry, too. Dumbledore was an unshakable force for good. For him to have been caught up in… with Grindelwald…

“Don’t dwell on it, Harry. We all do dumb shit when we’re young and stupid. And dumb shit when we’re old and stupid too, come to think of it. Some of the crap James and I pulled -” He broke off, smiling to himself.

“Did you date any dark lords?”

Sirius snorted. “Never got the opportunity.”

“Good.”

“I don’t know,” Sirius said, shrugging. “The world isn’t so black and white.” At Harry’s outraged expression, he added, “What if they were really attractive?”

Despite himself, Harry laughed. “Don’t be an idiot.”

Sirius grinned at him, and this time his hollowed eyes sparkled. Quickly, Harry glanced back to Buckbeak.

Part of him wanted to bring up Riddle. Like a jinx, no one had dared whisper the name Tom Riddle, not since Sirius and Remus had gathered them in the kitchen on the night Harry had snuck into the Order meeting, the twins serious, Ron pale-faced, Hermione queasy. Ginny and her parents noticeably absent. Harry might’ve slammed a door or two, and now everyone danced on eggshells around him. Not one mention of Tom Riddle. Not to Harry, anyway. And no word from Dumbledore.

Not even a letter.

Harry said nothing. Sirius said nothing too. Instead, they were quiet at his godfather downed the rest of his coffee. Harry managed a few more sips; if his dad had liked it, maybe he could too. Eventually, Sirius nodded towards Buckbeak. “I think Hagrid should take him back. Keep him in the forest.”

The hippogriff looked up at them, hopeful, a string of crimson meat trailing from his beak.

“He’d like that.”

“Yeah. He shouldn’t be cooped up in here.”

“What about you? Could you come to Hogwarts?” Harry asked. A sudden, glorious vision of the castle surged, glistening under the Scottish, winter sun, Harry running around the lake with a scraggly, black dog at his heels, laughing as Sirius chased ducks and bowtruckles. “No one would bat an eye if Hagrid got another dog.”

“Can’t. Wormtail. My disguise has been rumbled.”

The vision evaporated. “But… There won’t be Death Eaters at Hogwarts?” Harry asked. Snape, perhaps, but he was supposedly on their side. And… Riddle. Not a Death Eater. Something worse. Would he spy for Voldemort?

“Can’t be sure,” Sirius said. “He has eyes everywhere. Voldemort can be remarkably convincing.”

Harry nodded. “When will you move Buckbeak?” he asked, because he didn’t want to think about how convincing Voldemort could be. How easily Riddle had hoodwinked Ginny into opening the Chamber of Secrets. How easily he’d convinced Harry of his innocence. How he’d lounged in the Chamber, barely a day over sixteen, lording over Ginny’s unconscious body and Harry had asked him for help.

“Soon, hopefully. Once Hagrid’s back.”

“Back?”

“Yeah,” Sirius said, and something about his voice – hoarse – made Harry’s ears prick up. Abruptly, his godfather stood, brushing straw off his trousers. “Best grab some breakfast, shouldn’t we? Sounds like someone else is up downstairs.”

“Back from where, Sirius?”

“Oh, just, summer holidays, you know – don’t worry about it. Later, Buckbeak. C’mon, Harry, breakfast. Bet you’re not fully packed yet.”

A flare of anger seared along Harry’s spine; he jumped up, hand shooting out, gripping Sirius’s forearm. “Tell me.”

Shock flitted over his godfather’s face. “I – I can’t, Harry, I –”

The rush in Harry’s ears subsided and he dropped Sirius’s arm, fingers prickling as though burned. “Sorry! I don’t know what – I didn’t mean –”

“It’s fine,” Sirius said, adjusting his sleeve, eyes wide. “It’s fine. No harm done.”

“Okay.” Harry was breathing heavily. His scar hurt.

“Look, I wish I could tell you more, kid. I promise I’ve tried to convince them – you have a right to know things. But, Dumbledore –”

Dumbledore.

Another stab of pain from his scar. Dumbledore. Cavorting with Grindelwald; keeping him in the dark, unable to meet his eyes. Fucking coward.

“Harry,” Sirius said gently, moving closer. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I’m fine, Sirius. Breakfast, right?”

Sirius stared at him a moment, then, “Breakfast,” he agreed.

As they left, Harry glanced over his shoulder, meeting Buckbeak’s shrewd gaze.

I’m fine.

Liar.

Chapter Text

Harry thought leaving Number 12 Grimmuld Place behind – leaving Sirius behind – might’ve been hard, but by the time he stood in the entrance hall, Hedwig tucked into her cage and trunk strapped shut, he couldn’t fucking wait to escape.

CRASH.

The clawed umbrella stand (which had been steadily inching its way closer to Hedwig’s cage, nails scratching the hardwood floor) shrieked as Tonks, part of Harry’s ‘guard’ to King’s Cross, fell into it.

That, apparently, was the last straw for Molly Weasley.

“FOR MERLIN’S SAKE, SIRIUS, I SAID GET RID OF THAT THING!”

“I CAN’T, MOLLY! IT SCRATCHED ME TO HELL AND BACK LAST TIME I TRIED!”

“– FILTHY MUDBLOODS TAINTING THE SACRED HALLS OF THE NOBLE AND ANCIENT HOUSE OF BLACK –”

“GIVE IT A FUCKING REST, MOTHER!”

“SIRIUS, LANGUAGE! MY DAUGHTER IS RIGHT H – FRED WEASLEY, IF YOU DON’T PUT THAT TRUNK DOWN RIGHT NOW, I WILL –”

“I’m George, mu –”

“I DON’T GIVE A SHRIVELFIG’S –”

As Tonks and Sirius wrestled with Walburga Black’s mouldy curtains, Harry rushed to gather Tonks’ scattered belongings before the ever-growing pile of trunks, satchels, broomsticks, and animal cages swallowed them. Amongst the empty liquorice lace packages, loose sickles, and fogged remembreball was last night’s edition of the Daily Prophet. Catching a glimpse of the front page, Harry froze.

TOM RIDDLE, HOGWARTS BOUND.

The picture showed a handsome teenage boy, pale with dark hair, reporters and aurors buzzing around him like flies. On his either side, flanking him like gargoyles, were Fudge and a primly dressed, pompous woman who looked vaguely familiar, thought Harry couldn’t quite place her. A floo flame flickered behind them. Every now and then the miniature Riddle would wave a hand and his cold, shadowed eyes would meet the camera, a small smile on his lips.

And below, an advertisement: Even time travellers go to school! Ensure your books aren’t a blast from the past and pick up the latest edition of the Standard Book of Spells Grades 1-7 from Flourish and Blotts today!

The screaming stopped.

“Ah, ta, Harry,” Tonks stage-whispered.

Harry scrambled to finish gathering her belongings, angling his body away from her and covertly ripping the front page free. Handing her the bag back, he shoved the page into his pocket. “Yeah, no worries.”

They both ducked as a ball of fluff zoomed inches above their heads, hooting happily.

“No! Why can’t you just fly to Hogwarts, you dumb owl,” Ron moaned, leaning over the balcony. “I don’t want to take you on the train again –”

“Ronald!” Mrs Weasley hissed. “It’s 10:08! If you don’t get dressed this instant, I will drag you onto the train in your pyjamas!”

Ron’s face disappeared.

“Harry, dear,” Mrs Weasley said, rounding on him. Harry glanced down, double checking he’d already changed. “It’s been so lovely –”

BANG!

There came an, “Ah, shit!”

“HALF-BREEDS AND BLOOD TRAITORS THINKING THEY –”

Faintly, the smell of smoke wafted from upstairs.

“Whatever did I do to deserve those two,” Mrs Weasley muttered. She took a deep breath. “THAT HAD BETTER NOT BE A FIREWORK –”

“Perhaps that’s our cue,” Tonks said, steering Harry towards the front door.

Stepping out into the September sunshine was pure bliss on his aching ears. The trees in the square opposite were a yellowed green, poised on the precipice of tumbling into autumnal oranges and reds. They were prettier out here, without a windowpane of grimy glass staining them grey.

Beside him, Tonks screwed up her face. Her nose elongated, becoming hooked, and her skin shrivelled, wrinkling, as her hair faded to white. A better match for her lacy shawl and frumpy, patchwork dress.

Ron’s dad followed them out, blinking in the sudden light.

“Shouldn’t you be at work, Mr Weasley?” Harry asked.

“Arthur, Harry, please, and yes, technically, but Merlin knows where Sturgis has gotten to and without Alastor... Well, it’s all hands on deck here. I’m sure Perkins can hold down the fort for an hour or two.”

“How’s it going with Moody?” Harry asked as they made their way down the steps, sunlight and fresh air warming his skin for the first time in weeks.

Tonks grinned ruefully, shaking loose a few wrinkles from her shawl. “Well, Mad-Eye enjoys being locked up about as much as you’d expect given last year, and boy is he making it known.”

“Will Fudge send him to Azkaban?”

“He’ll try,” said Mr Weasley.

Tonks’s grin widened. “Don’t worry, Harry. Mad-Eye won’t let himself go there. He practically built those ministry holding cells – knows all the ins and outs. Only reason he hasn’t escaped yet is that it would make things difficult for us – for Dumbledore especially. Besides, it’s useful having someone on the inside – ”

“Tonks,” Mr Weasley said sharply.

“Right-o. Got your OWLs this year, dontcha Harry?”

After the disastrous end to his and Sirius’s conversation that morning, Harry didn’t press – why did the Order want someone inside the ministry? – but still, he ignored the segway. “Are you in Riddle’s guard?”

Tonks and Mr Weasley exchanged a quick glance, then, stiffly, Tonks nodded.

“What’s he like?”

“Um… Irritatingly polite, I suppose, and – Ow!”

Mr Weasley caught her arm, preventing Tonks’ second stumble of the day. A canine beast over half Harry’s height flew through the door and barrelled into them, tail wagging and tongue lolling. Despite it all, Harry grinned.

“Dumbledore said no, Sirius!” Mr Weasley hissed, glancing around them. “Get back inside!”

The dog showed no signs of obeying, barking happily and pounding over the quiet road, sending a flock of pigeons scattering.

“The station’s not far, Arthur,” Tonks said. “He can wait on the muggle side.”

Mr Weasley sighed, but, because who was he to deny Sirius an hour of freedom, made no further protests. They set off, the large, black dog bounding great circles around them.

As they crossed the road lined with white, stately, London townhouses and thin black fences, No. 12 Grimmuld Place disappearing with a pop behind them, Mr Weasley said, “Try not to worry about Riddle, Harry. If all goes to plan, it’ll be like he’d not even there. We wouldn’t be sending Ginny to Hogwarts if we didn’t trust Dumbledore with that. Not that she listens to us, mind...”

“I won’t,” Harry said, privately thinking that lasting the year without seeing Riddle at school would be some kind of miracle. “He’s already at school, then?”

“Arrived yesterday,” Tonks said.

“Has Dumbledore talked to him?”

“Don’t dwell on it,” said Mr Weasley. “It’s not your problem, remember? Now, can you tell me how exactly those work?” and he pointed to a mechanised gate, a Royals Royce with black, tinted windows pulling out. It honked at Sirius, sat in the road, innocently wagging his tail.

By the time they arrived at Kings’ Cross, Harry was in desperate need of a drink, having answered Mr Weasley’s questions the whole walk over. Unfortunately, no one had any muggle money to enable a trip to Marks and Spencers.

“I’ll wait on this side with Padfoot,” Tonks offered. “Go say goodbye to the kids, Arthur.”

Mr Weasley glanced at Harry, then shook his head. “Stay with him until he’s on the train. Alastor would kill us if we did anything else. I said my goodbyes this morning.”

“If you’re sure,” Tonks said.

Clasping Harry’s shoulder, Mr Weasley said, “Have a good term, Harry. Keep your head down, however tough it seems. I’ll see you at Christmas.”

“Thanks,” Harry said.

Sirius barked and Harry knelt, placing his arms around the dog, matted, black fur beneath his fingers, Sirius’s heavy paws pressed into his shoulders. The gesture was too humanlike, but Harry didn’t care: he liked hugging Sirius like this, his face pressed into the soft coat. It was so much easier than when he was human, so much easier to say goodbye.

Harry watched Sirius, Mr Weasley bending over to pat his shaggy head, smiling and waving, until he passed through the barrier.

Immediately, Tonks grabbed his arm, manoeuvring them away from an errant trolley steered by four tiny students, and straight into the path of two glaring, seventh-year Slytherins. With Harry muttering apologies, Tonks dragged him down the platform toward Hermione, the Weasleys, and their luggage. The two Slytherins stared after him. In fact, Harry had the prickling feeling that everyone was staring at him. He glanced over his shoulder. No, it wasn’t just a feeling. Everyone was staring at him. Staring and whispering.

Too busy looking the wrong way, Harry bumped into someone. Clearly, Tonks was not good with –

A burst of pain in his scar; he bit his tongue to not cry out.

Lucius Malfoy. The September sun shone off his white-blonde hair as the Death Eater sneered down his pointed nose at Harry, smoothing invisible crinkles in his elegant robes. “You ought to watch your step, Potter.”

Harry glared up at him, fighting the urge to rub his smarting scar. At least Draco must already be on the train, for only Narcissa Malfoy hovered by her husband’s side, pallid and tired, her sharp gaze dissecting him, nonetheless.

“You look awful,” Harry told her, mouth moving before he could stop it. “Had a stressful sum –”

“Harry!” Tonks yanked him away and the Malfoys disappeared into the crowd. “For Merlin’s sake, don’t talk to them you idiot!”

Harry grit his teeth, stumbling to keep up. Frankly, he wanted to do a lot more than just talk to the Malfoys.

“Harry!”

It was Ron – on his tiptoes to wave above the busy platform, the parents kissing their children goodbye. When they drew close enough, Ron asked, “Where’s dad?”

“Waiting on the other side with our furry friend,” said Tonks.

“He came?” Mrs Weasley asked, frowning. “Dumbledore explicitly –”

“I know, Molly, but there’s no stopping him. He’s an adult.”

“– And I don’t like that Arthur can’t say goodbye properly –”

“– I know, apparently he –”

The train honked, long and loud.

“Oh dear,” Mrs Weasley fussed, giving up on her complaints and yanking Harry and Hermione in for a tight hug. “I don’t know how we’re late every year. Have a wonderful term, you two, study hard, don’t get into trouble!”

“You know us,” Harry said, though with his mouth pressed into Mrs Weasley’s blouse, she probably didn’t hear him.

With one last affectionate squeeze, she let them go, instead gripping Ron so hard his face turned the colour of his hair. “Write,” she implored, reeling in Ginny too. As Mrs Weasley’s eyes turned misty, Harry looked away, waving to Tonks as he and Hermione tugged their trunks to the nearest train door.

“How’s Ginny been?” Harry asked her. Mr and Mrs Weasley had told her about Riddle apart from the others, and he’d hardly seen her since. On the platform, Mrs Weasley was still holding her, stroking her hair.

Hermione shrugged. “She says she’s okay, but…”

“She isn’t?”

“I don’t see how anyone could be.” She looked to him, and Harry was grateful he had the excuse of storing his trunk in a luggage rack to avoid her eyes. “Are you okay, Harry?”

“The headaches suck.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

The train’s horn blew again. Ron appeared and the three of them hoisted his trunk onto the train. Managing Pig’s cage was a struggle, the tiny owl zooming in circles. Back on the platform, Ginny had vanished. Tonks and Mrs Weasley waved furiously.

There came a great lurch, the train pulling away and bellowing thick, white steam into the autumn sky. Harry, Ron, and Hermione waved until Tonks and Mrs Weasley faded from view, the platform giving way to cables and graffitied concrete.

“Shall we find a compartment?” Harry asked.

Ron and Hermione glanced at each other.

“What?”

“Uh, we have to go to the prefects’ compartment,” said Ron.

“I’m sure it won’t be for the whole journey, Harry,” Hermione said quickly. “The Head Boy and Girl want to give us instructions, then we might have to patrol the corridors – but I promise we’ll come and find you as soon as we’re done!”

“Yeah,” Ron said. “It’ll be really boring. Ten knuts says we’ll be stuck with Malfoy – and they’ll lecture us on being nice to the munchkins. And on wearing our uniforms properly or something.”

“Well, I think it might be a bit more important than that, Ron –”

“It’s fine,” Harry said, feeling anything but fine. “I’ll save you some seats.”

“Okay,” Hermione said as Ron gave him a sympathetic smile. “See you later.”

“Yeah. Bye.”

After his friends vanished, Harry gazed glumly out of the train door window, a lump in his throat. He’d never been on the Hogwarts’ Express without Ron before. In his first year he’d been alone barely long enough to pull out of the station before the freckled red-head had barged in on him, offering corned beef sandwiches and friendship.

Harry mooched there until vegetation overtook the concrete walls and the blocky skyscrapers transformed into messy back gardens. Then, with a sigh, he set off.

It was as it had been on the platform, stares and whispers chasing him down the corridor. Did so many people read the Daily Prophet? Did so many believe the lies about him and Dumbledore?

Not everything about Dumbledore was a lie, murmured a voice in his head.

Harry poked his head into a compartment with Lavender, Parvati, Seamus, and Dean, relieved to see familiar faces – relief that lasted as long as it took for them to notice him and hastily shut up, giving Harry the distinct impression they’d been talking about him.

“Hi, Harry,” Dean said, lounging by the window in a West Ham football shirt. Mercifully, he smiled. “Do you want to join us? Budge your arse, Seamus.”

Seamus grudgingly moved a millimetre or two, allowing Harry to squeeze between him and the door. Opposite, Lavender and Parvati stared.

“Er, how were your summers?” Harry asked them.

“Good,” Parvati replied, right as Lavender said, “Fine.”

“How was yours, Harry?” Dean asked.

“Yeah. Alright.”

“Did you really get attacked by dementors?” Parvati asked in a rush.

“Uh, yes.”

“Don’t you live with muggles?”

“Yeah.”

“So, why did they attack you?”

“I don’t know.”

Seamus hadn’t said anything.

“I read about your trial,” Dean said. “I’m really glad you didn’t get expelled.”

“Thanks.”

Lavender leant forwards. “Is it true you were tried by a full court? And that Dumbledore was there?”

“Yeah.”

She nodded, sitting back. “Susan said so. Her mum’s a judge.”

“Madam Bones?”

“That’s right.”

“I liked her.”

“Yeah, she’s cool! She let us drink firewhiskey at Susan’s party.”

“Susan had a party? When was that?”

Lavender flushed, running a hand through her bouncy hair. “Oh, a couple of weeks ago. It was only a small thing, really. It’s not like we didn’t want to invite you! It just, er, sounded like you were busy...”

Harry stared at the faded carpet, a stinging in the back of his throat like he’d swallowed something sour. A party he wasn’t invited to. And they’d been gossiping about him. The silenced stretch on, awkward. Eventually, Harry asked, “Did you manage the Transfiguration essay alright, Seamus?”

Beside him, Seamus glowered at the floor, face half hidden by long, sandy hair.

“I left all my essays until last week,” Dean said. “McGonagall’s was a right bitch –”

“I haven’t done it,” Seamus snapped. Dean closed his mouth.

“Oh,” Harry said. “How come?”

“Mam didn’t want me to come back.”

Opposite, Lavender chewed her nails. They were a chipped, pale pink. Parvati tugged on her straight, dark hair, staring determinedly out the window.

“To Hogwarts? Why?”

“Why d’you think?”

“Because… Because of Riddle?”

Seamus looked up at him then, glaring. “No, Harry! Because of Dumbledore. And… And you.”

“Me?” They stared at each other, Harry’s heart beating fast. “Does…” he wetted his lips. “Does your mum read the Prophet?”

“Everyone reads the Prophet, Harry,” Lavender said quietly.

He swallowed thickly, hands sweating. “You can’t trust what they say. The Prophet’s been printing lies all summer –”

“Like Dumbledore’s blood pact with Grindelwald?”

“Er...”

Lavender raised her manicured eyebrows. “My grandpa said there were rumours about it in the 1940s – that Dumbledore and Grindelwald had once been friends. But, given that Dumbledore helped fight Grindelwald, it was covered up by the ministry. I don’t think that article was a lie.”

“Well,” Harry said, “Perhaps not that, but the Prophet won’t say Voldemort’s back –”

Lavender, Parvati, and Dean all flinched.

“Maybe that’s because he’s not,” Seamus said, supressing a shudder.

Harry stared at the boy beside him, sat so close he had to press his legs against the compartment door so their knees didn’t touch. Seamus’s overgrown hair, the hint of first stubble, his baggy jeans. “He is,” Harry said, hardly able to hear his own voice over the rush in his ears. “He is back. I saw it.”

“Saw what, exactly?” Seamus asked, finally looking up. “No one knows what happened that night – no one except you and Dumbledore, apparently. Was You-Know-Who hidden behind a hedge? He’s dead!”

“Shut the hell up,” Harry growled, and his throat was dry, and his hand was curling into a fist he’d dearly like to sink into Seamus’s disbelieving face. “What? Do you think Cedric had a fucking heart attack?”

“There was an escaped convict roaming the grounds,” Lavender said, timid, her eyes flicking to Harry’s wand. He didn’t remember drawing it. “Is it possible, Harry, that he attacked you both in the maze and you… misremembered?”

“I misremembered?” Wormtail’s breathy gasps, the splash of flesh striking liquid, the burning, red glow behind his eyelids, unable to twist his head away – “No, I didn’t misremember –”

  The compartment door banged open, whacking into Harry’s knees, and four girls tumbled in, giggling, oblivious.

“Quick – close the door!” gasped a red-head with tight, frizzy curls. The door slammed shut as the four threw themselves to the floor, tucking their knees up to their chests so they could all squeeze in.

With a start, Harry realised that the girl pressed against his and Seamus’s legs was none other than Cho Chang. Her pretty eyes went comically wide as she glanced up and recognised him, her cheeks flushing a light pink. “Oh – hi.”

“Hi,” he said, hastily folding his legs beneath him to give her more room. His heart and brain were doing something very weird, grinding like they’d gotten stuck switching gears between anger and embarrassment.

“Quiet!” one of the other girls snapped and they all fell silent, hands pressed to their mouths, the curly red-head still giggling.

A shadow crossed the compartment window. Harry glanced up to spot a head of cropped, blond hair, a stubbly, wide-set jaw, and broad shoulders: a sixth-year Gryffindor Harry vaguely recognised as being excessively loud in the Common Room. What was his name? Connor? Cormag? The boy’s thin eyes darted to the compartment as he passed, missing the girls pressed to the floor. Swiftly, he moved on.

“Is he gone?” The red-head asked.

Parvati nodded. She was staring at the girls and seemed to be in shock.

“Oh, thank Morgana,” breathed the girl closest to the door, the only one yet to speak.

Her words drew Harry’s eye and for a second he just gawked at her, transfixed. Her face must be perfectly symmetrical, glossy lips and large eyes, her hair twisted into braids, some held back with chunky, plastic clips. She climbed to her feet, cropped t-shirt and low-waisted jeans exposing a dark, flat stomach.

“Sorry for intruding!” she said brightly. “Cormac’s been owling me all summer and I really don’t fancy talking to him until we’re at least into Scotland.”

“S’fine,” Dean mumbled, mouth agape.

“You’re Natalie McDermott,” Lavender said. She’d sat up straighter, tucking her chipped nails beneath her thighs.

“That’s me,” said Natalie as the other three girls stood, brushing off their clothes. “Oh, this is Marietta Edgecombe,” the short frizzy red-head, “Cho Chang, and Roisin Walsh.” She indicated the girl who’d snapped – with thin, brown hair and a protruding nose, she was noticeably less attractive than the other three, not helped by the frown. Harry felt a twinge of guilt for thinking it.

“Lavender Brown.”

“Parvati Patil.”

“I know,” Natalie smiled.

“You do?” Parvati half whispered, breathless.

“Your sister lent me a pair of heels for the ball last year. She’s lovely.”

“She is.”

“He’s probably gone now, Nat,” Roisin said, still frowning. She had a thick accent.

Seamus leant forwards. “You’re from Northern Ireland?”

“Belfast,” she said, surprised. When Seamus made a face, she shrugged. “It’s life, you get used to it.”

Parvati raised an eyebrow.

“Well, we’ll leave you to it,” said Roisin.

“Thanks for sheltering us,” Natalie said. “Maybe I’ll see you girls around? Fifth-year’s the worst. Let me know if you need a hand with anything!”

Lavender and Parvati glowed.

Marietta snorted, mostly in a friendly way. “Why do you have to be friends with everyone, Nat?”

“It’s called being nice, silly.”

Roisin stuck her head into the corridor, peering after Cormac. “Alright. Coast is clear.”

“Okay! Bye!” Natalie said.

Marietta rolled her eyes.

“Bye, Harry,” Cho mumbled, tucking her shiny, black hair behind her ears.

Natalie, Marietta, and Roisin whirled around, Roisin nearly smacking her nose into the doorframe. The girls all stared at him, a pride of cats assessing a threat, and Harry had never wished so dearly for his invisibility cloak.

Roisin opened her mouth. “Harry Potter? You…” she paused, frowning, “You asked Cho to the ball last year.”

It was perhaps one of the nicer things she could’ve said about him, but that didn’t stop blood rushing to Harry’s cheeks. Why was he still holding his wand? And why had he not even attempted to brush his hair that morning? Did he still smell of hippogriff?

Lavender laughed, stifling it quickly with a hand.

“You did?” Dean asked, grinning.

At least Cho looked like she was also trying to melt into the compartment’s worn, red carpet.

“Er, yeah,” Harry said, mouth concerningly dry.

In unison, all three girls pursed their lips.

“Let’s go,” Cho said. “Please?”

Natalie glanced at her, then nodded, and the girls filed out. Cho didn’t look at him again.

“Merlin, I hate her,” Parvati sighed, dazed.

“Cho?” Seamus asked.

“McDermott.”

“You can’t be beautiful and nice,” Lavender said. “It’s not fair.”

“Is that why you two are so rude?” Dean asked, still grinning.

Parvati tilted her head. “I can’t tell if that’s smooth or not, Thomas.”

Harry stood up. “I… I just remembered… I said I’d, um, meet Neville. I’ll see you at school,” he said, then darted off before he could hear their false goodbyes, before he could see the relief on Seamus’s face.

In the corridor, he headed in the opposite direction to Cho and her friends, having to squeeze past a group of younger boys. They all smirked at him, and one barged his shoulder. And then, after Harry had shoved through, pushing on down the corridor, one of them shot a tripping jinx at him.

He caught his elbow on the wall as he fell, the boys laughing. Stumbling to his feet, face red, Harry whirled around, his wand flying into his hand. “Fuck off!” he snarled with such ferocity that the boy – who couldn’t be any older than thirteen – blanched, backing away.

Breathing hard, Harry left, ducking into the nearest toilet and slamming the door, bracing himself against it as the train rattled and shook.

Fuck.

For something to do – because he needed to do something – he grabbed the news clipping from his back pocket. There was Riddle, waving up at him, looking just as he had in the Chamber three years ago, all smug and suave and punchable. “Prick,” Harry told him, a fleck of spittle landing on the page. He scanned the article.

In a united front for the ministry, Head Auror Rufus Scrimgeour insists the rumours surrounding Tom Riddle’s identity are unfounded, though nevertheless reminds any worried parents that the time traveller will remain accompanied by an auror and segregated from the student body outside of his classes. “The protection is to limit Mr Riddle’s influence on our timeline,” Scrimgeour said last night, “We’re not anticipating any issues.”

It will not escape the notice of any avid readers of the Daily Prophet that Scrimgeour’s insistence on ‘limiting timeline influence’ appears a weak excuse given the extensive news coverage surrounding Mr Riddle, and the Minister’s personal involvement in the situation. Instead, one wonders whether the protective detail is to ensure Mr Riddle’s safety. Shock revelations earlier this week concerning Albus Dumbledore’s personal relationship with infamous Dark Wizard Gellert Grindelwald have sparked renewed worries about the Hogwarts’ Headmaster’s mental stability. Repeatedly, Dumbledore has baselessly claimed that You-Know-Who’s real identity is Tom Riddle. One only hopes that Dumbledore, or any encouraged impressional young persons (one name in particular springs to mind), will not take matters into their own hands.

Harry balled up the clipping and threw it from the bathroom window with as much force as he could muster. The wind whipped it away. He wanted to cry, or scream, or both at once. How were the Ministry so stupid? How did people lap this up?

A knock on the door. “Can you hurry up in there?”

Irritated, Harry shoved the door open, almost slamming it into the girl. Gazing up at him, wide-eyed, she went very pale. “S-sorry –”

“Save it.”

How was it possible to miss dismal Grimmuld Place already? Harry stormed down the corridor, head as low as he could manage, pulling in briefly to let the trolley lady past. The sight of its colourful sweets made him feel sick.

At the end of the train, he slipped into a compartment and found, to his great relief, Ginny, alongside Neville – toad and a cactus in hand – and a blonde girl so wispy the breeze might blow her away.

“Bad journey?” Ginny asked. She was curled up on a seat, leaning against the window.

“Awful,” Harry said, flopping down beside her. “Seamus, Lavender, and Parvati were tossers.” He glanced at Neville. “Don’t tell me you think I’m a nutter too?”

“If I did, I don’t think I’d be able to sleep a wink all year,” Neville said cheerfully. “Do you like my plant, Harry? It’s a mimbulus mimbletonia - it’s really, really rare. My great uncle bought it for my birthday.”

“It’s great, Neville,” Harry said, beyond grateful for the distraction, content to let Neville babble about Herbology, trying not to let his thoughts wander to Hogwarts, to Riddle.

As Neville chatted, the wispy, blonde girl kept glancing at Harry, peeking with pale, blue eyes over the top of a magazine called The Quibbler, which she held upside down. Harry determinedly ignored her; he was getting really fucking tired of staring.

“Do you know him, then?” she asked, when Neville took a breath between discussing how the adulthood stages of blistering begonias and trumpeting daffodils differed.

“Know who?” Harry asked.

“Tom Riddle,” she said, her voice dreamy and sing-song. “I heard you were brothers.”

“Uh, what?” he glanced at Ginny, but she was still leaning against the window, watching the English countryside speed past, lost in thought. “No. We’re not brothers – he tried to kill me!”

“That can happen sometimes, with family,” she said. A string of butterbeer caps hung around her neck, and she kept her wand tucked behind one ear. It emitted a trail of purple steam.

“We’re not family.”

“Alright,” she said, smiling like they were sharing a secret.

“We’re definitely not related.”

“If you say so.”

Finally, Ginny glanced over. “Oh, Harry, this is Luna Lovegood. She’s a Ravenclaw in my year. Luna, this is Harry and Neville.”

“I know,” Luna said. Lowering the magazine, she looked to Neville. “You and Professor Sprout cleared the botherot infestation in my dormitory last year.”

Neville’s eyebrows pinched together. “Botherot? Some panicking pansies had started sprouting – I– I don’t know what botherot is.”

“They’re bugs that lay eggs in your ear canal as you sleep. Supposedly, it’s unpleasant, but my father believes they give prophetic dreams.” And she pressed her lips together, as though disappointed Neville had prevented bugs laying eggs in her ears.

Nodding awkwardly, Neville looked to Harry for help. Harry looked to Ginny, who rolled her eyes. “Maybe you could catch one this year and test it out, Luna. I’m sure Professor Trelawny would be interested.”

“Are you making fun of me?” Luna asked. Her tone was curious rather than sad, as though she couldn’t tell.

 “No,” Ginny said quickly. “Of course not.”

“It’s alright if you are, everyone does. I suppose they’d just ignore me otherwise.”

“I wouldn’t mind being ignored,” said Harry.

The compartment door slid open. To Harry’s immense displeasure, Draco Malfoy sprawled in the entrance, blond hair slicked back, Slytherin robes donned, a prefect badge gleaming on his chest, and a smirk plastered on his pointed face.

“I suppose this is the only compartment that would take you, Potter: the fat, the mad, and the gullible.”

Flanking him, Crabbe and Goyle snickered.

“At least I could find somewhere to sit,” Harry said. “Still looking, are you?”

“I’ve been in the prefect’s compartment. I noticed you weren’t there.”

“Congratulations,” Harry said. “You learnt to see over summer, then. Did your new boss teach you?”

Malfoy’s lip twitched. “Apparently no one taught you. Were mummy and daddy too busy six feet underground?”

Ginny sat forward. “My, a glasses joke and a dead parents joke, Malfoy. You are original today.”

“Oh, hello, Weasley. Looking forward to seeing your boyfriend again?”

Wand in hand, Harry jumped to his feet. “Get out.”

Strangely enough, Malfoy took a few steps back, face blank. Harry slammed the door on him, heart thumping hard. For good measure, he closed the blinds.

“You alright?” he asked Ginny.

She nodded, retreating to her seat by the window.

“That was strange,” Luna remarked.

She didn’t expand, and Harry didn’t ask her to. Hot rage burned inside him. When the door opened again a short while later, he sprung up, ready.

“Woah, mate, it’s only us,” said Ron, grinning. There were crumbs on his cheek. “Hannah’s dad made cookies – we saved you one.”

“Hannah?” Harry asked, sitting down, trying to breathe.

“Abbott,” said Hermione, filing in after Ron and closing the door. “Her and Anthony Goldstein are the Hufflepuff prefects. Hi, Neville.”

“Hi,” he mumbled.

“Who’s Ravenclaw?”

“Padma and Ernie,” she said.

Ron made a face. “Padma doesn’t like me.”

“And why do you think that is, Ronald?” Hermione said.

Ginny snickered.

“Did you know Susan had a party?” Harry asked Hermione, shuffling up to make room.

She nodded. “Parvati invited me – she felt she had to, I think. But we were busy with – you know – and parties aren’t my thing, anyway.”

“They’re my thing,” Ron said. “How come I didn’t get an invite?”

“Parties are not your thing.”

“You don’t know that!”

“You didn’t get invited?” Harry asked.

Ron shook his head, and Neville said, “I didn’t either.”

Strangely, that made Harry feel better.

“Get any food?” Ron asked, priorities as straight as ever. “I’m starving.”

“I missed the trolley,” Harry said, but Neville tipped some sweets and pumpkin pasties onto the table.

The next few hours passed in relative companionable bliss, though there was a horrible feeling in Harry’s stomach, like a carnivorous creature was trapped there, gnawing at his insides to escape. At some point, Ron and Hermione left to patrol the corridors, or, ‘Put some munchkins in their place,’ as Ron put it.

Outside, the sun had fallen steadily toward the horizon and the passing yellow fields had transformed to rocky lowlands, the grey dusk occasionally broken by a smattering of pinprick lights as they’d pass a village.

“How are you?” he tentatively asked Ginny.

She gnawed at her lip, leaning against the glass. “Yeah. Not great.”

At least she hadn’t said fine. That was all Harry said nowadays. Opposite, Neville’s nose was buried in a Herbology book, and Luna was closely inspecting a chocolate frog card.  

“I keep thinking about them,” Ginny said. “Whoever he killed.”

Harry had too. The nameless, faceless victim. “He’s like the diary.”

She nodded, turning her head to gaze out of the train window. Her reflection shone under the yellow lights, a few specks of rain appearing to cascade down her cheeks.

“I lay there for hours, you know, before you came. I could barely move, only feel the life drain from me with every breath, unable to do anything to stop it, and knowing… knowing it was my fault. I’d been so stupid.”

“I knew he’d gotten Hagrid expelled,” Harry said, and it felt good to admit aloud, cathartic, like every word dislodged the creature a few millimetres. “And that he shouldn’t have been standing in the chamber like he was real. But I… I turned my back on him. I let him take my wand. I asked him to… to help.”

“He’s so fucking charming,” Ginny said – clearly, Mrs Weasley’s attempts to protect her ears over summer had been fruitless. “I used to run up to my dorm after classes and wrap the curtains around my bed and write to him for hours. His attention, it’s… it’s like you’re the only person in the world.” She rubbed at her eyes. “I can’t believe I have to see him again. To live in the same castle as him.”

“He’ll be separated,” Harry began, parroting what Mr Weasley had said that morning. Words he didn’t believe.

“It doesn’t matter. He’s still there. I’ll worry before every corner that he’ll be on the other side. That I’ll go for a run in the morning, and he’ll be stood in the grounds. That any day they’ll change their rules, let him eat in the Great Hall or…” tears threatened to spill over her lashes, and she trailed off, swallowing thickly. The soft skin around her eyes was a light blue, and despite her growth spurt over summer she appeared small, shrunken.

“I get it.”

“Do you?” she asked softly. “It seems different for you – it’s like you want to confront him.”

“Don’t you?” Harry asked, because Ginny was right. “Aren’t you angry with him?”

She scowled. “Of course I’m angry. I was moving past it – the guilt was starting to go. I managed a whole conversation with Justin at the end of last term.” Her laugh was derisive. “And now… I wanted it to be over.” She tucked her knees up to her chest, head dropping onto them so Harry couldn’t see her face. “I wish he would disappear.”

Across the carriage, Neville’s eyes peeked over his Herbology book, sad and sympathetic.

Harry gritted his teeth. Merlin only knew what Voldemort’s plans were. With those Harry was scrambling in the dark, Dumbledore refusing to light his path. But Tom Riddle? At Hogwarts? That was a problem he could solve.

After all, he’d done it before.

*****

From his window, Tom could just make out the trail of thestral-drawn carriages winding their way up the sloping lawn. Chatter wafted over the dark, still grounds, the noise of a hundred students eagerly anticipating a new year. The first day of term had always been Tom’s favourite: so many possibilities.

Did he feel that now? The optimism? Yes. He was here, wasn’t he? Not in Azkaban or scurried away in the depths of the Ministry. He had allies, powerful ones. The Minister of Magic, buffoon though he was. Enemies, too, but Tom had always had those. And Dumbledore had grown soft in his old age.

He glanced at the door, the ink stains along its base. A diagnostic attempt for Dumbledore’s wards. A little experiment using his new Ancient Runes textbook. He should wash them off before he went to bed.

Oh yes, Tom thought, taking a bite of the tuna sandwich the house elves had brought him. This new world might be unknown to him, he might be facing all manner of pitfalls and dangers, but he knew himself, he knew his capabilities, his charms. And this year… this year he would make the most of them. This year would turn out wonderfully for him. He would make sure of it.

*****

It occurred to Harry, at some point between realising he could see invisible death horses, and the sorting hat warning them Hogwarts was in grave danger unless they all joined hands and sung nursery rhymes, that he had the Marauders’ Map.

That Riddle was in Hogwarts.

That Riddle’s name would appear on the map.

And as soon as Harry had thought it, the idea wouldn’t leave his head. Like a parasite it lodged itself in his brain, distracting him from Ron and Hermione’s chatter at the feast, distracting him from his food. The latter was perhaps for the best because a couple of Gryffindor third years were taking immense joy in charming Harry’s dinner to dance away from his fork.

When a particularly invigorated carrot jived off his plate and onto the floor, and Harry dived below the table to fetch it, Hermione growling, “Right that’s it,” and stomping away to tell them off, Harry only found himself wondering whether there was time to open the map, concealed as he was from Hermione who would surely disapprove. Unfortunately, the carrot hadn’t gone further than Neville’s shoes.

There was, however, time during the speech by Dolores Umbridge, their new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor. She was the woman Harry recognised in the photo with Riddle, he could place her now: the witch from his trial.

Her speech was remarkably boring.

“…for our tried and tested traditions require no tinkering. A balance, then, between old and new…”

Hermione, somehow, was paying rapt attention. Harry quietly slipped a hand into his inner robe pocket and withdrew the map, trying not to rustle it. Ron raised a quizzical eyebrow as he balanced it on his lap, fishing around for his wand.

“… And as we strive to meet those expectations put upon us by our forefathers, to uphold their values and beliefs…”

“I solemnly swear I’m up to no good.”

He managed to mutter the words quietly enough to not draw Hermione’s eye. It wasn’t as though he wanted to hide this from her - he’d tell her, once he’d figured out where Riddle was – it was just... she might disapprove.

Harry wasn’t quite sure why he thought that. Figuring out Riddle’s location was sensible, a precaution. And that was all he was doing: learning where in the castle to avoid. Wouldn’t Hermione agree?

He’d tell her later.

“…We shall learn to question those who seek to divide us, and to accept those who hold our best interests dear…”

Half obscured by the table, Harry unfolded the map, Ron pressing against his arm to look. They checked the dungeons first, Harry having some vague image of Dumbledore keeping Riddle in a damp, dark cell, but nothing. He wasn’t on the ground floor either.

“…because some changes will be for the better, while others will come, in the fullness of time, to be recognised as errors in judgement…”

Nor on the second floor, nor the third. Harry was searching around the Charms classroom, (Peeves bobbing to-and-fro in a manner that made Harry hope he didn’t have Charms first thing tomorrow), when Ron elbowed him, pointing.

Tom Riddle.

It was a small room on the fourth floor, and he stood by the window.

Harry stared.

“…intent on preserving what ought to be preserved, perfecting what needs to be perfected, and pruning wherever we find practices that ought to be prohibited.”

Dimly, Harry was aware of clapping, of Hermione whispering, of Dumbledore talking.

Riddle.

Damp robes, the stone rough on his knees, a flaming smudge of red hair.

“… Harry?”

“What?” Harry croaked, looking across the table to Hermione.

“I said, the ministry are interfering at Hogwarts! Didn’t you listen to Umbridge’s speech? What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” Harry said, scrunching up the map, just as Ron said, “Looking for -”

They glanced at each other. Hermione raised her eyebrows.

Harry leant forwards, dropping his voice. “We were looking for Riddle on the map.”

Her gaze was contemplative and she didn’t immediately tell him off, so Harry relaxed a bit. “Did you find him?”

“West wing on the fourth floor,” Ron whispered. “By that portrait of Circe’s pigs playing polo.”

Slowly, Hermione nodded. “Don’t go there, Harry.”

“Why would I go there?”

She pressed her lips together.

“I’m not -”

There came a great clattering, hundreds of students scraping back the long benches, clambering to their feet all at once, chattering and laughing.

Harry glanced up to the high table. Dumbledore was deep in conversation with McGonagall, head bowed. He hadn’t looked at Harry once. He hadn’t mentioned Riddle either – Harry didn’t think, anyway: he hadn’t paid much attention to the second half of Dumbledore’s welcome speech.

“Oh, we need to take the first years upstairs!” Hermione exclaimed, barely audible above the din.

Ron groaned, eying the end of the table where a group of first years huddled together, glancing about nervously. One caught Harry’s gaze and her eyes turned as round as bludgers; ahe shrunk back in her seat.

Harry swallowed thickly. “I’ll meet you up there.”

“Alright!” Ron said, and with a brief wave, Harry’s friends disappeared - again - leaving him alone. Nearby, Dean, Seamus, Lavender, and Parvati were laughing; Harry clenched his teeth. He’d made that mistake once already today.

Instead, he strode from the hall, each point, jab, whisper, and hiss chasing him up the marble steps, through the concealed passages.

They don’t believe you. Red eyes in the dark, the squelch of damp grass. They think you’re a liar.

Harry slipped into an alcove, far enough from the well-worn path to Gryffindor tower than the voices were distant, a buzzing swarm of wasps. He was safe here, away from them all. The window overlooked the lake, dark and still in the night. He leant against it, a chill seeping from the glass through his robes, cooling the flush of rage. Twisting, he pressed his scar to to the glass, sighing in relief.

It had been aching.

Beyond the hot anger lay a gaping emptiness. A vast blackness Harry tilted on the edge of, threatening to consume him. Nails bit his fists, anger keeping the despair at bay.

West wing on the fourth floor.

Harry was on the fourth floor – unintentionally, of course. He had his invisibility cloak. He could... If he wanted... It would be so easy...

Harry slipped the cloak on, moving before he could think about it. Behind a tapestry, through a passage, down a narrow corridor, past that portrait of the pigs playing polo. His heart raced, his breaths fell quick.

There was an auror in the hallway beyond. She had plaited, thick, black hair and sat on a wooden chair, legs crossed and wand tapping on her knee.

Beside her was a door.

Harry paused, staring at it. Wooden and unassuming, a chink of yellow light spilling beneath. And was that a shadow?

Silently, he drew closer, hoping the auror couldn’t hear the beat of his heart as it pounded in his chest.

The shadow moved, accompanied by soft footfall.

Almost pressed to the door, Harry hardly dared to breathe. His scar hurt - a stinging ache sinking talons into his brain.

As Harry’s fingertips brushed the door handle - not to open it, just to… touch it? He wasn’t sure - a thought occurred to him. A thought so terrible guilt stabbed his chest for even considering it.

You could kill him.

You could kill Riddle.

He had his wand, his cloak, he could stun the auror before she knew he was here. Was the door locked?

Ink spilling over his hands like blood, Riddle’s piercing scream as his form shattered, burnt by light.

Harry turned and ran.

If the auror heard him, he didn’t care.

An echo. A memory. That thing from the diary - he hadn’t been real.

Harry ran and ran until he heard chatter once more. Normal, tangible people, laughing and talking, not ghosts from the past, hidden behind doors in shadowed corridors. He removed the cloak, stuffing it beneath his robes. What was he thinking?

“You alright, Harry?” Neville asked when he rejoined the tail end of the throng of Gryffindors. “You look like you ran into the Bloody Baron.”

“I’m fine.”

Liar.

“Peppermint soother?” Neville offered. “Gran says to chew one when I’m feeling anxious. It works quite well, actually.”

“No,” Harry said. “Thanks.”

He didn’t meet Hermione or Ron in the common room, though he saw them: Hermione, arms waving as she lectured the gaggle of terrified first years, Ron at her side, chest puffed, badge shinning, doing his best to look serious, nodding along with whatever Hermione said.

It should’ve made him laugh.

Seamus and Dean were in the dorm already, but Harry ignored them, ignored the way their conversation halted when he entered, ignored the knife that twisted into his stomach. In the bathroom, he splashed his face with icy water, he brushed his teeth, he pressed his forehead to the mirror. His reflection was pallid. He might’ve been a ghost himself.

With the hangings drawn, he tried not to listen to Ron inquiries, Neville’s explanations that he thought Harry was ill. In the morning, it would be better. The gossiping would die down, he’d have classes to focus on, OWLs.

But Riddle would still be there. A name taunting him on a map. A shadow behind a locked door. A ghost, sent to haunt him.

Chapter Text

“Sit down, books out – put that away, Mr Carmichael unless you’d like detention every night for a week – set your cauldrons to 107 degrees-Celsius. Today we shall concoct the Draught of Living Death. As you are NEWT students, I expect only the best–  

“Mr Belby, I’m aware that the presence of a new student in the class must be the most exciting event of your tediously droll life, but if your mouth continues to hang open like that you will inhale a lungful of potion fumes and I refuse to waste my time escorting you to the Hospital Wing. The same goes for the rest of you.” 

The Potions Master paused before Tom, glaring down a hooked, oily nose at him with distaste.

“Mr Riddle, when concocting the Draught of Living Death which ingredient is added after the potion turns lilac?”

Thankfully, Tom had brewed this potion for Slughorn on their first day of sixth year. It had turned out nicely. “The juice of the Sopophorous bean, sir.”

If the Potions Master was impressed, it did not show. “And what, Mr Riddle, is the optimal method of preparing the Sopophorous bean?”

Tom distinctly remembered slicing them because Avery, working alongside him, had caught the tip of his finger. He’d opened his mouth to say as much when he paused. ‘Optimal’ method implied a different answer. He cocked his head. “The instructions I recall said to slice it, sir, but perhaps crushing the beans would procure more juice.”

The Potion Master’s lips thinned, turning white against his yellowed skin and Tom had the feeling his answers wouldn’t be earning any house points. Not that he had a house anymore. His robes and tie were plain black.

Another one of Dumbledore’s games.

“Well then, Riddle, since you are clearly so well versed in the Draught of Living Death, perhaps you wouldn’t mind writing the recipe on the board?”

“I don’t have a wand, sir,” Tom said. 

The man’s lips quirked. “And why would you need one of those? You have a hand, do you not? Two, if my eyes don’t deceive me. There’s chalk on the desk.”

Tom fought the urge to glare at him. Writing notes on the board was so… muggle. One’s own notes, of course, should be handwritten: it helped commit the information to memory. The same was true for essays. But copying from a textbook?

It didn’t help, of course, that Tom was left-handed. In his first year he’d spent a fortnight teaching himself how to charm ink to not smudge. (Such ink could be purchased – Orion Black had used it – but at five times the usual cost).

Still, he smiled graciously and stood, swiping up his textbook. 

The Potions Master flicked his wand, the movement so quick it blurred, neatly summoning the textbook from Tom’s hand. “From memory, if you will.”

This time, Tom did frown. “Why would that be helpful… sir?”

“Are you questioning my teaching methods, Riddle?”

“Of course not, Professor,” Tom said, refusing to grit his teeth. “It’s only… I… don’t know it from memory. And I should think,” he added quickly, “That even if I brewed this potion daily, given its volatility, keeping the instructions at hand would be best practice.”

“Well, why don’t you give it a try?” the Potions Master asked, smiling nastily.

God, this man was either a highly, highly incompetent teacher, or despised Tom. Or both. “Yes, sir,” Tom said. Innocent, confused time traveller. He’d faced Dumbledore; this was child’s play in comparison.

From the front he could see the rest of the class more clearly through the cauldron fumes. It was so small - only ten of them, Tom included, and all from a spread of houses. Slughorn’s NEWT class had been twenty-two strong, and that had been only one of two classes. Perhaps they’d decided on smaller class sizes at some point? For a subject as involved as Potions, it made sense. Surely there were more Potions professors then. In Tom’s day it had been Professor Slughorn for the upper years, and Professor Mimas for the lower. If there was another Potions professor for the sixth-years, perhaps Tom could switch. Anyone would be better than this vindictive bat. 

Tom started writing, chalk shrieking in the silent classroom. The ingredients weren’t too complicated: wormwood essence and powdered root of Asphodel were well-known components of the Draught of Living Death, the Potions Master had already mentioned the Sopophorous beans, and Valerian root was a natural sedative. Making the base with water and salts was straightforward enough, then Tom remembered the order in which to add ingredients – roughly – but there he hit a dead end. How was he expected to remember whether he should stir counterclockwise eight times or thirteen? Or with his left or his right hand. It was ridiculous.

It was ridiculous… right?

What if academic expectations had drastically increased in the past fifty years? What if Tom wasn’t the cleverest in his classes anymore? 

He chanced a glance over his shoulder. The other students were staring at him wide-eyed and open mouthed, some curious, others betraying that same fear he’d seen in the eyes of Fudge’s assistant.

He’d be fine. Of course he’d be fine! If expectations had shifted, he’d simply keep up. After all, he had nothing to do with his evenings but study.

Tom finished the method in silence, straining his left wrist to avoid smudging chalk all over the blackboard. “That’s the best I can remember, sir.”

The Potions Master raised two thin eyebrows, and Tom was certain he’d gotten something wrong because the man radiated sick glee. “Sit,” the Potions Master commanded, sweeping to the front of the classroom. “Now,” he said, smiling as Tom returned to his desk. “Can anyone point out Mr Riddle’s errors?”

There were several, as it turned out, but Tom had gotten the gist of it. And, he told himself firmly, the task had been unfair to begin with. The students calling out the corrections – Greengrass (Slytherin, classic pureblood) and Carmichael (Hufflepuff, dorky) – were consulting books beneath the desk. No one could perfectly remember an advanced Potion’s recipe they’d followed once five months ago.

Still, the back of Tom’s neck prickled with heat.

“You have one hour and will be working independently. Carefully follow the instructions in your textbooks – except you, Riddle, you can follow the instructions on the board. For any draught receiving a grade lower than Exceeds Expectations, I expect a 12-inch essay on how and why you went wrong to be handed in at the beginning of our next lesson. Am I clear?”

There were general murmurs of assent. Tom wanted to curse the man. A nice blood expeller, or organ liquefier. Obviously his potion would turn out badly if he followed incorrect instructions. But wasn’t that the point? The bat was trying to get beneath his skin.

“Any questions?”

Tom raised his hand.

“Mr Riddle?” he asked with obvious reluctance.

“What’s your name, Professor? I don’t believe you gave it.”

The Potions Master’s eye twitched. “Professor Snape,” he said shortly.

Later, waiting in line for the store cupboard, Tom inquired of the clever Slytherin girl, Greengrass, “Is he always like that?”

She must’ve had excellent pureblood manners not to sputter and turn bright red. Merlin knew she looked like she wanted to. “Yes,” she said stiffly, before turning her back and hurrying to her cauldron without collecting her ingredients. None of the other students met Tom’s eye, but they stared and whispered behind his back, jumping whenever he got too close.

“That seemed unnecessary, Severus,” he heard Tonks – his tail today – mutter to the Professor when she thought he was busy cubing his Valerian root.

“If I asked for your advice in my classroom, Nymphadora, Miss Bradbury might still be missing an ear,” Snape replied.

When Tom glanced back, Tonks was flushed, nose deep in her stack of paperwork.

The draught Tom turned in was the desired black. Professor Snape narrowed his eyes.

“I thought it prudent to stir ten times anticlockwise, rather than the eight I erroneously recalled earlier, Professor, and not to forget the final cube of Valerian root. Otherwise, the potion would have bubbled over, converting into a sort-of Draught of Death, rather than Living Death,” Tom told him. “And I’m sure neither of us wanted that.”

“How responsible of you, Riddle, to treat your mortality with such care,” Snape said. “Provide an essay dictating why that change would’ve occurred, I’ll consider awarding you an EE, rather than an T for failing to follow my instructions.”

“Of course, Professor,” Tom said, smiling sweetly and running through a list of all the creative ways he could murder this sallow, black-swamped man with his oily, curtain hair.

None of Tom’s other Professors were quite so antagonistic, though most disliked him. McGonagall, the stern Transfiguration professor, ignored Tom, giving only the briefest, courteous nod when he perfectly answered three questions in a row, and, at his explanation that he was unable to complete the practical due to the lack of a wand, she said, “Oh, what a dreadful shame, Mr Riddle,” and sent him to the back to read a book in silence.

Flitwick, meanwhile, couldn’t bear to look anywhere in Tom’s general vicinity, which made teaching a bit awkward. He addressed the lecture to the wall, toppling off the stack of books he’d arranged to see over his desk multiple times and, halfway through the lesson, actually left the room for ten minutes.

Sprout had given Tom a pile of unicorn manure to dig through, Vector insisted he work his way through every test sheet she’d ever written, beginning with 1.0 What is a Number? (an excellent philosophical question, but a tediously boring exercise), and Umbridge gushed over him relentlessly – not awful on paper, but, given how instantly and universally his peers despised the woman, detrimentally affected his reputation.

At least Professor Binns was the same as ever. Tom could’ve strolled into the History of Magic classroom caked in blood and received nothing but a blank, ghostly stare.

Babbling, the Ancient Runes professor, was the only teacher who liked him. She was exactly the academic sort to be completely bemused by the presence of a new student and an auror in her classroom, then to promptly ignore the confusion and get on with teaching. They spent half the class in an invigorating debate on whether the ti rune or the chi rune best provided balance to a spell. Only one other student, Roisin Walsh (Ravenclaw, large nose) contributed.

The strangest thing of all was that Tom’s tiny Potions class had not been an exception. With thirty-two students, Charms was the largest class, and Defence and Transfiguration weren’t too far behind, but History of Magic had eight, and Arithmancy six. And there were no repeat classes.

There was no question about it: Hogwarts’ student population was less than a third of what it had been during Tom’s time. And that was… concerning, to say the least.

All in all, his classes were fine, but Tom was bored.

Each morning, he’d wake, ask the air for breakfast and, as long as he’d said please, a steaming bowl of porridge would appear. Ten minutes before the bell, an auror (there were five on rotation: Upton, Singh, Crawley, Tonks, and Doole, organised by order of preference) would unlock the door and march him to his first class. If Tom was lucky, they’d pass a student or two en route - usually, they squeaked and ran away.

In class only the professors talked to him. If they were doing pair work, he’d be on his own. If they were practising spells, he’d be writing essays. At lunch he’d be locked in his room again with only his textbooks and homework to keep him company. Then, the afternoon would roll around and it was rinse and repeat.

It was droll. Tedious. Tom was far too clever for the monotony.

The first Sunday, after speaking to no one since four-thirty on Friday afternoon, he’d stuck his head out of the window and plotted escape. The stone walls were jutted and there was a drainage pipe three metres to the left. He’d just swung his legs over the sill when a jolt of blue energy stung every nerve at once, and Tom found himself lying flat on the bedroom floor, staring at the ceiling.

Dumbledore.

His fucking wards.

In hindsight, that one might’ve been for the best.

He’d tried whispering parseltongue to the walls, calling to his basilisk, but had received no reply. He’d memorised his Potions textbook until he could recall each recipe perfectly. He’d scrawled new spell ideas on the back of his Ancient Runes homework. Particularly, one that might unravel the wards imprisoning him. Without further reference materials, he’d hit a dead end.

He showered more than usual, ate more than usual then exercised more than usual, masturbated more than usual, slept more than usual, all for something to do. He was bored. Bored, bored, bored. Tom liked peace and quiet, but he also liked people. Liked watching them, discovering how they worked, liked winding them up, watching them tick, breaking them. In the room, it was just him.

All alone, restless, and bored.

***

“I wish we could see him. It’s not fair that it’s only the sixth years!”

“He’s staying somewhere on the fourth floor, right? We could stake it out?”

“Romilda tried that this morning. The auror caught her and McGonagall gave her Saturday detention.”

“I just want to see what he looks like, what’s wrong with that?”

Comments like those - made by Parvati and Lavender at the Gryffindor table as Harry, Ron, and Hermione sat down to lunch on the second Tuesday of term - really made Harry want to punch something. Or someone. Maybe a specific someone. (Riddle).

It would make him feel better.

It hadn’t exactly been a great start to term. Within a week he’d: shouted at Umbridge and gained a week’s worth of detentions; missed Ron’s keeper tryout and pissed off Angelina, their new Quidditch captain; pissed off Sirius on their firecall by refusing to meet him in Hogsmeade; pissed off Snape by existing; pissed off every Hogwarts students that wasn’t Hermione, a Weasley, Neville, or Luna by existing; had Percy slag him off to Ron; and had completed essentially none of his homework, so was destined to fail his OWLs according to all of his teachers.

So yes, punching Tom Riddle in the face would make him feel better, thank you very much.

Lavender took a break from her Riddle-related pining to sip her tea, then noticed Harry half-glaring at her and nearly chocked on it.

“Dunno why they’d want to go to his room,” Ron muttered to Harry, pouring them both a glass of orange juice. “Bloody bonkers.”

Harry stuffed a scotch egg in his mouth, so he had an excuse to stay silent. He’d visited Riddle’s corridor thrice now, on those nights he’d rather stare at a door than have his mind plagued with long corridors, shadowed figures, and a dark graveyard. The aurors had never caught him.

Pulling out her planner and a stack of textbooks, Hermione raised an eyebrow at Ron. “You can’t think of a single reason why a girl would want to go to Riddle’s room?”

“‘Course not,” Ron said, grabbing a sandwich and stuffing crisps in it. “He’s a git.”

Snorting out a laugh, she disappeared behind her timetable.

Ron shrugged at Harry, who was trying hard not to think about all the reasons a girl would want to go to Riddle’s room and feeling faintly disturbed.

“Arithmancy and History of Magic this afternoon,” Hermione muttered to herself. “I can’t believe Vector’s already moving on from triangulation; the curriculum’s so fast this year! And Defence tomorrow – don’t get any more detentions, Harry–”

“Not planning on it,” he muttered. His hand still stung from last week.

“What have we got this afternoon?” Ron asked Harry around a mouthful of orange juice.

“Divination,” Harry said.

“Oh, wonderful.”

Harry grinned. “I added the grim to my dream diary, so hopefully Trelawny will be happy.”

“Only one?”

“Two’s a bit overkill, don’t you think?”

“For you? You could go up to four, I reckon. She does love predicting your death.” Ron wiggled his fingers and eyebrows, imitating Trelawny’s fatuous airs. “Har-ry, beware the cup of liquid gold–” he grabbed Harry’s orange juice and took a deep sniff “–for it has been tainted with the devil’s blood. Take nay a sip and it’ll whisk you off into endless slumber!”

Hermione rolled her eyes. Down the table, Lavender huffed loudly.

Ron glanced down, still holding the glass aloft. “Problem?”

Lavender frowned, eying them with disdain. “Don’t be rude, Ron. No one’s going to die.”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “That was the joke.”

“I’m just saying - I don’t think there’s anything to be worried about at Hogwarts this year.”

“I dunno,” Ron said, glaring, “There’s a mass murderer four floors up; I’d be at least a little worried about him if I was you.”

“Tom Riddle is not a mass murderer!”

“Maybe that depends on your definition of mass,” said Harry. “Personally, I think five counts.”

“He’s not a murderer!”

Ron shrugged at Harry. “No helping some people.”

Next to them, Hermione sighed, nose stuck in her homework planner. “Ignore her. She read that stupid Penny Trevaun article.”

“The what?” Harry and Ron asked.

“Dr Penny Trevaun isn’t stupid,” Parvati said. “You can’t just dismiss her argument - she’s an accredited historian who’s spent many years studying wizarding families –”

Hermione cut in, placing the planner down with a snap. “–To write gossip columns for any paper who’ll take her. Her degree isn’t even from a professional body –”

 “She knows more about wizarding families than you do,” Lavender said.

“What does that mean?” Ron asked.

Hermione continued. “Trevaun wrote some dreadful piece for Witch Weekly insisting that Tom Riddle couldn’t be You-Know-Who.”

“But he is,” Harry said.

“I’m aware.”

“No one actually knows that Tom Riddle is You-Know-Who,” Lavender said. “What if Tom Riddle disappeared from the past, not because he became You-Know-Who, but because he travelled to the future? So, he can’t be You-Know-Who!”

“I know,” Harry said. “He told me. Literally spelt it out.”

Lavender continued, ignoring him. “Dr Penny reasons that the real You-Know-Who is this mad wizard called Morfin Gaunt who escaped from Azkaban forty years ago. He was a descendent of Salazar Slytherin – a confirmed descendent – and also spoke parseltongue.”

Harry stared at her blankly. “Are you mental?”

She folded her arms. “You’re asking me that?”

Parvati frowned at her friend. “No one’s saying you’re mental, Harry. Just that everything bad we’re assuming about Tom Riddle is based solely off the word of you and Dumbledore and – well, Dumbledore clearly isn’t as good as everyone thought he was, and – uh, well, you know Harry, you’re sweet, but you – er –”

Harry glared, temper flaring up. “I what? I got kidnapped by Voldemort –” everyone flinched, “– last year? I saw what name was on that tombstone! He murdered his own father – he murdered Cedric – he murdered Moaning Myrtle! You can ask her! I’m sure she’d tell you all about handsome Tom Riddle.”

“You’d trust Moaning Myrtle?” Lavender asked. “She’s such an attention-seeker! The other day she called my freckles ugly –”

“They are,” Ron muttered.

“Anyway,” Harry said loudly. “Riddle tried to kill me and Ginny three years ago – he opened the Chamber of Secrets! I saw –”

“You’re just asking us to take your word for it again!” Parvati said.

“I’m not –”

“Stop it!” Hermione said. “Look, Trevaun’s argument doesn’t make sense. We know Riddle was awarded his NEWTs, there are school records in the library. This Riddle is younger.”

Parvati sighed, standing. Lavender joined her. “You can’t trust everything you read, Hermione. Especially things in Hogwarts.”

“That was my point!” Hermione said, annoyed, but the girls turned their backs and walked away.

Harry clenched his jaw. “How can any of them believe this crap? It’s not like we’ve been classmates for four years!”

Hermione’s annoyance faded to pensiveness. “They’re believing what they want to believe. Did you know that Lavender’s uncle died in the first wizarding war? If she accepts that You-Know-Who is back, perhaps it’ll feel like that sacrifice was in vain,” she paused. “He was only eighteen.”

“How do you know that?” Ron asked.

“Ginny’s friends with her younger sister.”

“No, how do you know that’s why Lavender believes bollocks?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I wonder how I would feel in their place, I suppose.”

Ron shrugged. “I only feel hunger.”

Despite himself, Harry snorted. “That’s not an emotion.”

“Maybe I’m a psychopath.”

“Then have I got a mate for you.”

They finished their lunch in a companionable silence, though tension sat heavy in Harry’s chest. As they stacked their dishes, he said, “You guys don’t have to stick up for me. I don’t want things to be awkward for you.”

“Don’t be thick, Harry,” Hermione said, her planner now full of tiny, cramped writing.

“Yeah,” Ron said, “We’ll always be on your side. By the way, I left my divination book in my trunk so we’re going to need to share yours this afternoon.”

Harry groaned. “I didn’t bring mine either! I thought you’d have yours!”

Hermione sighed loudly; they both ignored her.

Ron checked his battered watch then scrambled free of the bench, grabbing a cheese scone for the road. “Last to the dorm has to carry the book!”

Harry cursed, grabbing his bag and chasing Ron from the Great Hall.

They were late to Divination. Despite claiming to have foreseen their tardiness in the flakes of her breakfast pastry, Trelawny was not best pleased. She kept them for five minutes at the end of class to mourn the loss of the possible future in which they were not late, and the two of them had come into their full divine potential. Or something like that.

Anyway, it made them late to History of Magic.

Strolling slowly through the empty East Wing, taking the opportunity to discuss Ron’s keeping tactics (because would Binns really care about a few more minutes?), Harry’s scar begun to hurt.

“You alright?” Ron asked when he rubbed at it. “You’ve gone very pale.”

“Fine,” Harry said, rubbing more vigorously and blinking hard to chase away stars swimming in his vision. “Maybe Voldemort’s having a bad-”

Voices from the hall downstairs, floating up over the balcony.

Harry froze.

“…And Flitwick did perform the wand movements for the caterwauling charm erroneously - there’s an anti-clockwise half-turn of the wrist at the end, rather than a flick - it’s not so big of a difference, but it does decrease the durability of the spell…”

Harry knew that voice: rich, smooth, and low, so unlike what it would become. He’d heard it in his nightmares of a dark, quiet chamber, of distorted reflections and dripping water. And, before those, in a memory. In a diary.

Ron grabbed his arm. “We should go!” he whispered.

“… don’t you think, Crawley? If he’d have let me borrow his wand and demonstrate, I’m sure he would’ve understood…”

Crouching, Harry stole over to the balcony, peeking between the bannisters to the hall below.

“Harry!” Ron hissed, rushing after him.

An auror walked into view, the top of his head speckled and balding, tufts of white hair sprouting from his ears. Crawley. Harry recognised him from his second nighttime trip to Riddle’s door. He hadn’t stayed long: the auror had been remarkably alert.

“Do you ever shut up?” the older wizard grunted, striding for a door that would lead them down another set of steps towards the entrance hall.

“I’m only trying to make conversation,” came Riddle’s voice, and with it another wash of memories. A dark corridor, Riddle waiting by a door, Dippet’s office, Riddle’s reluctance to return to the orphanage. A strong, persistent sense of familiarity. “It must be awfully boring, a wizard of your accomplishments, attending school lessons all day.”

Even as Ron tugged anxiously on the sleeve of his robes, Harry pressed his face to the gap between bannisters, gritting his teeth against the sting of his scar.

Then, he appeared. Tom Riddle. Harry couldn’t see much: his dark, curly hair, his long, black robes. He was tall – taller than the boy from the chamber – almost as tall as Voldemort had been: bone-white and rising from a large, black cauldron.

What did his face look like? Were his cheekbones as gaunt as Voldemort’s? Or were they fuller, like the diary’s? Were there moles on his skin? Were there scars? Were his eyes a pitch black or a deep brown?

“Let’s go,” Ron hissed, tugging again on his robes.

Harry continued to stare. He wanted to shout, he wanted Riddle to turn and look up at him, he wanted to pull his wand out and curse him. Hurt him.

“Harry!” Ron snapped.

Too loudly.

They flung themselves backwards, away from the bannister, just as the footsteps paused downstairs. Breathing heavily, they stilled, half-lying on the floor. Ron glared at him.

“Don’t make me wait for you,” Crawley said.

Riddle’s footsteps resumed.

“Do you want him to see you?” Ron hissed.

It should’ve been a rhetorical question, but Harry found he didn’t know the answer.

Oh, he knew what his answer should be. It should be the same as Ginny’s: he should want Riddle to go away.

But, as they traipsed down the corridor towards History of Magic, Harry found himself wondering whether Riddle had heard Ron’s cry, whether he’d heard Harry’s name. Whether he’d paused in the downstairs hall and glanced up at the balcony, cocking his head in that childish way Voldemort did when he was curious, whether Riddle too had felt a strange tug in his head, in his heart.

A connection, drawing them together.

*****

Umbridge was a terrible teacher. It was Tom’s third Defence class on the second Wednesday of term, and they were reading again. Without a wand there wasn’t much else for Tom to be doing, but his classmates could’ve duelled and it would’ve been interesting to watch.

Instead, he sat in silence, dutifully reading the dullest and most useless book he’d ever come across and sending Umbridge a winning smile whenever she caught his eye.

Dolores Umbridge was many things, but she was no idiot. She knew Tom was buttering her up – she did the same to Fudge – but Tom thought she enjoyed it: having the roles reversed. Being the one with the power.

It curdled Tom’s insides but needs must.

BANG.

Hazily reading the same sentence for the fifth time, the sound - something smashing into glass, hard - made him jump.

Several students swivelled in their chairs to stare at Tom - as if he could’ve done anything. Pointedly, Tom looked at the window.

Duncan Doole, the twitchy, middle-aged auror who stuttered every time Tom spoke to him, leapt to his feet, apologising. Yanking open the window, a dazed, tawny owl flopped inside.

“Only had her a few weeks,” he said, awkwardly loud in the silent classroom as he wrestled with a letter clutched in her talons.

“That’s quite alright, Duncan,” Umbridge tittered from her desk, an odd smirk playing on her lips.

The class settled. Curious, Tom stole a glance towards Doole, the letter unfolded in his hands, a frown creasing his forehead. What was that about?

Ten minutes later, when the sixth years filtered out, the auror approached Umbridge, nervously twisting the letter.

Save for Singh, Doole was the auror friendliest with Umbridge - no doubt he was looking to switch to a nice cushy desk job.

The man rocked on his toes. Quietly, he said, “Dolores, my second youngest has had a little, ah, incident and I really must head home. I couldn’t use your floo to get Auror Crawley here early, could I?” He inclined his head towards Tom who’d started packing away his book, parchment, and quill, anticipating the boredom of his ensuing free period. Thankfully he’d picked enough NEWTs to not have many of them.

“There’s no need to bother Auror Crawley,” Umbridge said, smiling. “Thomas is no trouble at all. He can stay with me until Crawley’s shift.”

A break from routine? Tom’s heart leapt.

Doole’s thin eyebrows raised anxiously, caught somewhere between common sense and orders. “Ah… Are you certain?”

Umbridge gave a girlish laugh, her pointed, pearly white teeth flashing. “I am the ministry appointed Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, Duncan. I can handle a wandless teenager.”

Still, the wizard looked uncomfortable, even more so when Tom smiled and said, “I’ll read my book, Auror Doole.”

Umbridge clapped her hands together, stubby rings clacking. “That’s settled then! Why don’t you get back to your family? And by all means, use the floo in my office.”

Duncan Doole glanced around the empty classroom. Then, he seemed to arrive at the (dim-witted) conclusion that it would be Umbridge’s head on the block, rather than his, if anything went wrong. How that man became an auror, Tom had no idea.

He scurried off towards Umbridge’s office.

Fighting a smile, Tom reopened his book.

A moment later Umbridge approached, her kitten heels clacking on the polished, wooden floor. She perched on the desk before Tom, bulging eyes protruding from a round, powder-white face painted with rouge, nestled amongst short, wiry hair. She looked remarkably like a toad.

“Tell me, Thomas,” she said in her high, simpering voice. “Have you enjoyed the writings of Wilbert Slinkhard?”

Tom clasped his hands on the desk and leant forwards, wondering whether she’d croak like a toad if he strangled her. “I’ve only read the first five chapters, Professor, but I think he presents some contemporary ideas. His argument for the ability to correctly perform magics on the first time of casting given extensive theoretical research is novel and compelling.”

(Frankly, Tom thought ‘Wilbert Slinkhard’ was either an idiot or a squib. Or both.)

“Quite so,” beamed Umbridge. “And do you believe Wilbert to be correct on this matter?”

“I’m sure he has a far greater knowledge on magical theory than I possess, and I look forward to applying his work in your classroom.”

“Well, you certainly have the right approach to learning, Thomas,” Umbridge said, glancing at her pearlescent wristwatch and strolling back to the front of the classroom. “Unlike the sad majority of my students… It seems the fifth years will arrive momentarily.”

The bounce in her step brought Tom both unease and curiosity. He did not doubt she’d kept him here for some ulterior motive, though he struggled to conceive what it might be.

At least he’d see some new faces.

The murmur of voices swelled in the corridor outside, and a moment later Umbridge announced, “Hem, hem, you may enter now, children.”

The door burst open and the fifth years trickled through. The boy at the front, dark-skinned with curly hair stopped short as his eyes landed on Tom. The boy behind him slammed into his back with an Irish, “Ouch, Dean! What’re you doing?” Some other cries of, “Hey, move!” and, “Get out of the way, Finnigan!” followed.

Smiling politely Tom returned his gaze to Slinkhard’s book - though, unable to resist because the attention was fun, he twisted his body to watch the fifth years through his lashes.

“What are you waiting for, class?” Umbridge said sweetly. “Come and take your seats.”

Uncomfortably, the group entered. Gryffindors and Ravenclaws, Tom noted, about twenty students in total. A set of twin girls, one in each house; a Ravenclaw girl with bad acne; a pudgy, Gryffindor boy who let out a little squeak when he saw Tom; an attractive Gryffindor with carefully twirled braids who blushed; a red-headed Gryffindor Tom was fairly certain was a Weasley (he looked like Fudge’s assistant); and a haughty Ravenclaw who immediately upon entering fixed his eyes on Tom and said:

“My parents were under the impression he was to be accompanied by an auror at all times, Professor?”

“Mr Riddle is currently under my care, Mr Corner. I assure you I am quite capable. You have nothing to worry about. Sit, please.”

As Corner sat (reluctantly), Tom glanced back at the doorway to see a thin, Gryffindor boy with messy, black hair, round glasses and a curiously shaped scar above his right eye. The boy stared at him. His mouth parted as if to speak, but a Gryffindor girl with bushy hair hissed something into his ear and tugged him towards a chair.

Professor Umbridge ran the lesson just as she did with the sixth years (sit still, wands away, shut up, and read) and, predictably, the students spent half their time twisting in their seats to get a better look at Tom. Rather than spend another hour absorbing crap - he had a headache coming on - Tom watched the fifth-years.

No one was reading: the messy-haired boy had one hand clutched to his forehead and was glaring at the wall, a Ravenclaw and a Gryffindor girl were exchanging notes, and the bushy-haired girl hadn’t even opened her book. She was staring fixedly at Umbridge with her hand in the air.

Several more minutes passed before Umbridge decided she could ignore the girl no longer. She smiled down at her. “Do you have a question about today’s chapter, dear?”

“No,” the girl said, finally lowering her arm.

“Then I’m sure it can wait until after class, Miss Granger.”

“It can’t, ma’am,” Granger answered. “Professor Dumbledore made it clear Riddle was to be accompanied by an auror at all times and have limited contact with any students not in his classes, Professor.”

Umbridge pursed her lips. “As I explained to Mr Corner, I am quite capable–”

“But he shouldn’t be here!” The red-headed-probably-a-Weasley interrupted.

“Mr Weasley –” A correct assumption, “– I must insist that you raise your head before contributing in class.”

The Weasley boy raised his hand. Umbridge ignored him. “I assure you that no danger will befall you while in my classroom and I suggest you all take a leaf out of Mr Riddle’s book and sit quietly and do the reading as instructed.” She straightened the horrible black bow perched on her hair. The rest of the class shifted uneasily. Tom idly turned a page.

The hand of the messy-haired boy went up, the other still clutched to his head.

“Mr Potter,” Umbridge said. A glint in her eyes captured Tom’s attention.

“I have a headache, Professor,” Potter said curtly. You and me both, Tom thought. “I need to see Madam Pomfrey.”

Tom expected her lips to purse, but instead her lips twisted into a satisfied smirk. “I’m sure it’s not so bad that you cannot wait until after the lesson has concluded.”

“Oh, it’s quite bad, Professor,” the boy said, teeth gritted.

Granger had her hand back up. “Professor, I really don’t think it’s appropriate –”

“Miss Granger,” Umbridge snapped. “If you do not hold your tongue, you will be joining me for detention.”

That did the trick. The girl blushed and lowered her hand, shooting a concerned glance at the Potter boy.

“That’s quite enough chatter for today, children. I will be handing out a quiz on the contents of chapter three in thirty minutes time.” She paused to relish in the groans. “Anyone who receives a grade lower than Acceptable shall return this evening for – Mr Potter, get back to your seat at once!”

Potter had stood, sweeping up his book and bag with one hand, the other still on his head. Why, Tom did not know, but he felt a lick of anger curl in his stomach. Perhaps after his time as a horcrux he’d lost his tolerance for impotence.

“I’m going to see Madam Pomfrey.”

“You are not!” Umbridge said, brandishing her wand. The door clicked. She drew herself up to full height (about a metre and a half). “Perhaps the message hasn’t sunk in for you yet, Mr Potter, but while you are in my classroom you will obey –”

“He’s obviously not feeling great, Professor,” the curly-haired Gryffindor boy piped up. “Why can’t –”

“Potter feels fine,” Umbridge snapped, shaking back a few loose tendrils of wiry hair. “He is - as usual - indulging in attention-seeking behaviour. Foolishly, I believed last week’s detentions might do the trick, but apparently Mr Potter is incapable of staying out of trouble.”

The Potter boy span to face Umbridge. His fist clenched, dropping from his forehead to reveal the lightning scar, somehow angrier and redder than it had been twenty minutes earlier. Why didn’t the boy just suck it up and sit down? Tom could sit through an hour and a half of Umbridge’s classes! He made a concentrated effort not to curl his lip. His hand itched for a wand. He could teach this boy some manners.

“How could I possibly feel fine when fucking Voldemort is in my class?”

The reaction was instantaneous. The spotty Ravenclaw fell off her seat, the nervous Gryffindor boy squeaked, Weasley’s knuckles whitened on the table, and Corner exclaimed, “Harry!” Even Umbridge shuddered, her cheeks tinting pink. The foreign, hot rage coursing through Tom’s body flashed cold.

Lord Voldemort.

His counterpart.

So that, then, was what they whispered about. This fear his secret name inspired. He could not deny that it pleased him.

“Detention, Potter. All week.”

The Potter boy – Harry? – ignored Umbridge and wheeled towards Tom, a look of utter hatred flashed splashed across his face. Their eyes met. Behind those ugly glasses, his were a startling green.

“You know Voldemort’s back.”

It hadn’t been a question. It took every ounce of Tom’s being to quell the roiling rage, his desire to wring the stupid boy’s thin neck, to sink his fists into the soft skin until it blossomed purple and green and blue. Tom smiled. “I don’t know what Voldemort is.”

Potter glared at him with those bright eyes, his desire to spill Tom’s blood all over the classroom floor written clear as day upon his face. His lip curled upwards. “And I’m the liar.”

The boy spun, unlocking the door with a snappy alohomora, and marched from the room.

Almost immediately, Tom’s anger ebbed. Granger and Weasley made to follow their friend, but were kept to their seats, dismayed, by Umbridge’s threats of detention. The class took a while to settle, muttering to each other behind their hands.

“–I told you, mam said he’d gone nuts–”

“–It’s Professor Dumbledore’s influence, Harry was always so nice before–”

“–How can Umbridge force us to sit in a class with that monster–”

“–Oh, he’s definitely hotter in person–”

For her part, Umbridge remained infuriatingly self-satisfied until the class finished, even forgetting the quiz she’d promised – fortunate, given not a word of Slinkhard’s had been consumed. Tom stared blankly at the pages, thoughts racing.

Who was Harry Potter? Why did the boy hate him with such a lovely, striking vivacity? Why had he made Tom so angry? Why had he dared to speak Lord Voldemort’s name when everyone else feared it so delightfully?

To these questions Tom had no answers, but he was determined to find them.

Chapter Text

Harry wanted to kill someone.

Specifically, he wanted to kill Tom Riddle.

I don’t know what Voldemort is.

Fucking wanker.

His pacing about the astronomy tower, chill in the brisk, September air, did nothing to quell the anger. Even the unrelenting spiral staircase hadn’t been enough to gnaw at the knot of energy in his stomach, the one that Riddle’s presence had so kindly aggravated.

Why was Riddle here?! Why had Dumbledore let him into Hogwarts when he’d so obviously murdered to take this form? They knew how the diary worked! Yes, the ministry had power, but Dumbledore was the headmaster! He could refuse to take a student! Couldn’t he?

And fine, given the Order’s failed kidnapping plot, maybe keeping Riddle here under Dumbledore’s watch was better than letting him slip off into the wizarding world to wreak havoc but…

Wasn’t there another choice? Hestia Jones had suggested it.

They could kill him.

The thought had plagued Harry since he’d first entertained it, hovering outside Riddle’s room on the night he’d returned to Hogwarts. Then, it had made him feel sick. Now…

Riddle’s smug, polite charm. The way students gossiped about him, like he was a shiny, new toy. Something to be admired and coveted, something exciting. Like he was handsome and innocent and a fucking time traveller. Like he wasn’t tar, black and suffocating, coating every inch he could reach, oiled stains in his wake.

Lupin had said the Order didn’t kill, but Harry wasn’t part of the Order. They’d made that clear enough.

He could’ve done it, back in Umbridge’s classroom: he could’ve killed Riddle. When he’d met those dark eyes and blood pounded in his ears and his heart thumped against his ribs and he didn’t know if he could stop himself –

“Harry!”

“What?” he snapped, lips beared in a snarl, wand clenched in a fist. He span to see Ron and Hermione hovering atop the stairs.

“You alright, mate?” Ron asked, gaze dropping to Harry’s wand, wary.

Harry looked away, toward where the sun hung low in the sky, its yellow rays soaking the ferns and heathers of the dewy Scottish Highlands. “I want to kill him.”

In his peripheral vision, he caught the worried glance his friends shared, and he gripped his wand tighter, breath hissing through his teeth.

“You don’t mean that,” said Hermione.

Harry glared at her. “Yes, I do! He’s a murderer! He’ll kill again if we don’t stop him!”

“Dumbledore won’t let –”

“I’M SO FUCKING TIRED OF HEARING THAT! Dumbledore can’t watch him forever! Percy’s letter made it perfectly clear the ministry are trying to kick Dumbledore out of Hogwarts – what happens with Riddle then?”

“I’m sure Dumbledore’s got a –”

“A fucking PLAN? You’re sure? Because I don’t think Dumbledore has any sort of plan! I think he’s making it up as we go along!”

“That’s not true, Harry.”

“You don’t know!” Harry spat, scowling and turning back to the iron railings. Resting his elbows on them, cold seeping through his robes, he let his head fall into his palms. “I hope he doesn’t have a plan – at least then he’d have an excuse for ignoring me.”

He pressed his fingers to his aching scar. With so many thoughts tormenting his mind – Dumbledore, Voldemort, Riddle – breathing had never felt so hard.

His friends drew closer. Hermione patted his back – meant to soothe, no doubt, but Harry stiffened at the contact.

Ron leant against the balcony beside him. Softly, he asked, “Did it feel like… y’know – when you faced him before? With your scar?”

Eyes closed, Harry nodded. “Yeah. Worse, maybe. I mean, the pain was the same, but… the anger… it kept building and building until I –” Until he’d met Riddle’s eyes and didn’t know if he could stop himself reaching for his wand and –

“It shouldn’t have happened,” Hermione said. “I’ll bet Umbridge orchestrated it – trying to get a rise out you to suit her narrative.”

“Fantastic,” Harry muttered. “It’ll be all over the papers tomorrow morning: The Boy-Who-Lied threatens innocent sixth year and world’s best teacher.”

Grimly, Ron laughed. “Dumbledore’ll have a go at her though, don’t you reckon?”

“Not unless he wants retaliation from the ministry,” Hermione said.

Ron huffed. “Why’d you have to be so gloomy? Let me enjoy my daydream.”

Even with his eyes closed, Harry could sense Hermione opening her mouth to retort – something about being pragmatic, no doubt – so, lifting his head, he asked Ron, “Can I have my map back? I guess that’s how you found me.”

“Oh, yeah,” Ron said, fishing in his pocket and withdrawing a crumb-covered Marauders’ Map.

As Harry took it, Hermione asked Ron, “How come you borrowed it?”

“Needed to find George at lunch – he had my potions book. Did you know the seventh year boys lock their dorm room? Dunno why we never thought of that! Remember all those mornings Oliver Wood barged in at five am, Harry?”

Hermione didn’t give Harry the chance to answer. “Why did George have your potions book?” she asked, tone implying she knew Ron had done something she could chide him for.

“Mum packed it in his trunk.”

And off she went: “We’re two weeks into term – how have you not needed your potions book yet? And why does your mum still pack for you?!”

“I packed my underwear.”

“Very impressive, Ronald.”

Ignoring their bickering, Harry opened the map. His, Ron’s, and Hermione’s names hovered atop the astronomy tower. Instinctually, Harry folded the worn parchment to the fourth floor. Five o’clock must’ve been and gone because there, in his room –

“What are you doing?”

Starting, Harry angled the map away Hermione and her suspicious frown. “Just, er… checking Riddle wasn’t still with Umbridge. I’ve got detention...”

Her expression cleared. “Oh, good idea.”

“At least Riddle still doesn’t know about you,” Ron said. “The whole Boy-Who-Lived thing, I mean. I thought he looked a bit confused when you shouted at him.”

“He did,” Hermione said thoughtfully. “But I don’t think confusion is a good thing, not on someone like Riddle.”

“Someone evil?”

“Someone clever,” she said. “Confusion will make him curious.”

Harry chewed his lip. Riddle… curious about him.

Perhaps that ought to worry him, but… Harry’s boggart had never been Lord Voldemort. He’d never feared him, not in the way he feared the dementors, their creeping coldness. No, Harry wasn’t scared of Riddle. So, what, then, was this feeling coiling in his belly? A snake that writhed as he thought of Riddle... of Riddle being curious… about him…

Hermione mistook his expression. “Please don’t fret, Harry. As long as you stay clear, there’s no reason Riddle should find out anything about you.”

Ron nodded. “McGonagall spent the last prefect meeting banging on at us to remind the younger years she’ll give them detention for a month if they open their mouths around Riddle.”

“Yes – and I suggested putting up flyers in the bathrooms: ‘talking to Riddle risks the space-time continuum,’ – that sort of thing.”

“Catchy,” said Ron.

“I thought so,” Hermione said primly. She turned back to Harry. “Why don’t you write to Sirius? It might help you feel better.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Oh, don’t be stubborn! I’m sure he regrets snapping at you about coming to Hogsmeade; he’s only upset Dumbledore won’t let him leave the house.”

“I don’t care! He shouldn’t take it out on me!”

Dryly, Hermione raised an eyebrow.

Harry did tend to yell at them - still, he glared. “It’s not the same!” Sirius didn’t have a freaky emotional connection to a vengeful dark lord. Two vengeful dark lords.

“Well... Alright, but look, he’s your godfather, Harry – he cares about you, even if he doesn’t always show it properly. He’d want to know you bumped into Riddle.”

“He’ll find out at the next Order meeting - no doubt Dumbledore will tell them all about it.”

“Don’t be unfair.”

Harry pushed off the railing and strode towards the stairs.

“Where are you going?”

“Detention.”

Quickly, Ron said, “I’ll walk down with you – I want to get some flying practise in tonight. Last Saturday was the worst day of my life.”

“I’d rather walk by myself.”

When Ron stopped, his freckled face falling into a frown, Harry paused, hovering by the stairs. These were his friends.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “It’s just... I need to clear my head before meeting Umbridge.”

“Right,” Ron said, glancing helplessly at Hermione.

She smiled at Harry, but the expression was tight around the edges. “Okay – we’ll meet you in the common room later. Just... don’t do anything, Harry. Keep your head down and this’ll all work itself out.”

Her hopeless optimism was becoming a bit much for Harry to bear. Still, he returned her tight smile and said, “You know me. I won’t do anything.”

Unfortunately, Hermione and Ron did know him. Too well. As he left, he caught their shared glance, full of worry and fear. Perhaps Harry was being unfair. Perhaps he should try opening up to them, facing the anger instead of surrendering to it. Perhaps he should try ignoring Riddle, ignoring that corridor on the fourth floor, ignoring the ache of his scar. Perhaps he should try doing nothing...

*****

If Dumbledore’s plan was to drive Tom steadily mad - isolated and drowning in perplexity and frustration - it was fucking working. A gruelling week scraped by before Tom got vaguely close to the answers he so desperately craved.

After Umbridge’s little stunt, his aurors stuck to him like toad slime, Dumbledore having forbid them to leave the castle by any means except the front gates or the floo in his office. Duncan Doole had disappeared from the rota – whether via a promotion or a sacking, Tom wasn’t sure – replaced by Auror Maples, a young recruit.

At least the sixth years had become more familiar with his presence in class, no longer skittering nervously or flinching at every accidental eye contact. One girl, Natalie McDermont, Tom later learnt, even nervously whispered to him in Charms that she ‘was sorry Potter had been so rude’. Sadly, under the watch of his aurors, getting information from classmates was nigh impossible.

The best Tom could figure, from snatched whispers and hushed comments, the Potter boy was some pet of Dumbledore’s – certainly, their names were lumped together often enough. Lord Voldemort had gone away for a time (where? Tom didn’t know) and now Dumbledore and Potter were insisting he had returned, all while the ministry dragged their names through the mud vehemently arguing the contrary.

It explained the animosity between Fudge and Dumbledore.

And it was brilliant for Tom.

He didn’t think he could’ve played this game anymore perfectly. Of course, he’d been lucky with the timing of it all, but he really had made the best of what he’d been given.

Umbridge was vying for more power within the school, that much was obvious with these new ‘educational decrees’ she kept pushing through, and Tom could almost taste the eventual freedoms slipping his way as she fell further and further into the palm of his hand with each charming smile and after class chitchat. In the meantime, whenever the vexations of Tom’s imprisonment and involuntary ignorance grew too much to bear, he savoured that delectable, furious expression splashed on the Potter boy’s face: his pure, unadulterated rage.

No one had ever looked at Tom like that before.

Perhaps Dumbledore had felt it, but he’d never let it slip. Then, there had been others – at the orphanage, at the grand country house in Little Hangleton – who had known to fear him. Anger though…

Tom would break the boy. As soon as he had a wand, as soon as he was free of Dumbledore’s grasp. He would destroy that indignant spark, stamp it until it sputtered and died, leaving only shadows and smoke in his wake.

One dreary, late September evening, a lucky break came in the form of a sickly whiff of jasmine and honey, and a knock on his bedroom door. Tom opened it to see Professor Umbridge donned in a frilly, pink tweed cloak and matching bow.

“This is cosy,” she said, peering into his Hogwarts prison, the room meticulously kept because Tom hated mess.

“Exactly how a zealous judge may describe the cells of Azkaban,” Tom replied, smiling in the bland, charming way he had long since perfected.

“Then perhaps you’d enjoy a stroll around the castle? I’m sure Auror Upton can chaperone us if Dumbledore will not allow you a moment of freedom.”

Tom assented, stepping forward and closing the door behind him. He didn’t have anything incriminating in the room – he had no doubt it was being regularly searched – but he hadn’t enjoyed Umbridge’s snooping, nonetheless.

She strode away and Tom quickly followed, wondering (and half hoping) whether she’d bump them into Potter again.

“You strike me as an intelligent, young man, Thomas.”

“Thank you, Professor, but it is only my fascination with magic that fuels my desire to learn. I am always surprised by students who don’t feel the same way.”

She tutted. “Students nowadays have tired of hard work. The state of this school and its teachers has allowed them to grow complacent. Perhaps you’ve heard: I’ve been tasked with assessing the teaching quality of our professors. Our dear Minister only hopes that it is not too late to rectify the damage Dumbledore has inflicted.”

Tom let her talk, waltzing the sycophants’ sway of polite laughs, nods, and smiles.

A gaggle of younger students appeared at the end of their corridor. They squeaked as they saw Tom and Umbridge and for a moment seemed on the brink of running away - but they gripped each other’s arms and passed by quickly with their heads down.

Sensing his moment, Tom sighed. “I’m sorry, Professor. It’s been a confusing month. I’m trying to focus on my studies, but – well, it’s difficult when they all act so strangely. The other students, that is. I understand my situation is unusual, however I’ve had hardly a word with a classmate since I arrived.”

Umbridge steered them to the left, away from the more populous central stairways. Auror Upton hung back – a friend of the ministry, then. As Umbridge looked up at Tom, he felt the temptation, the desire, to take just a quick look...

He stared straight ahead. Legilimency was a bad idea - not when he was unaware of her capabilities.

“Thomas,” Umbridge said, in what she likely thought a kind tone. It dribbled with sugar. “You see… some believe, erroneously so, that the Tom Riddle from our timeline was a… bad person.”

“Erroneously?”

“Yes – there was a wizard, a very bad one, certainly. You’ve heard his name.” Lord Voldemort. She didn’t repeat it. “There is a belief that he is your future; however, it is not… obvious that you – Tom Riddle, that is to say – and this wizard are one and the same.”

Tom pretended to frown in confusion, though he understood: Lord Voldemort had changed his name and his face, his connection to poor, orphaned, brilliant Tom Riddle nought but mist on the air. There must be very few – Dumbledore, his old school mates, Slughorn – who knew the truth.

“Of course,” Umbridge continued, “I don’t believe that’s who you become.”

Tom’s breath caught in his throat. He forced it out. That had been a lie.

“It’s much more likely that You-Know-Who – the bad wizard – was someone by the name of Morfin Gaunt. Have you heard of him?”

A man, unkempt, robes tattered, fingernails dirty, tied to a chair in a crumbling shack, screaming as Tom practiced his Crucitas curse. Practice breeds competency, after all. He concealed his smile. “I don’t believe so, Professor.”

“The Gaunts were an ancient, pureblood family rumoured to be the last of Salazar Slytherin’s descendants – well-founded rumours given their unique ability to speak parseltongue. An ability You-Know-Who shared.” She paused. “You can’t speak parseltongue, can you, Tom?”

“No, Professor,” Tom lied.

“Good,” she said, mostly to herself. “Good. Well, Morfin Gaunt was always in trouble with the ministry for various crimes against muggles. They earned him a life sentence in Azkaban – most believed he died there, but, given recent revelations, Azkaban is perhaps not as secure as we hoped…”

However helpful these lies were for Tom, he could not resist the stirrings of indignation. How could they… how could anyone believe that Lord Voldemort – the wizard who’d delved further into magic than any of them could dream of, who’d surely accomplished many great and powerful feats – could have come from… that. He pictured his pitiful uncle again, his magic so weak he was barely more than a squib.

Umbridge was still going. “…And thankfully he is gone, dead for fifteen years. Ridiculous that this story still merits attention.”

Tom almost stopped walking. Dead. Lord Voldemort? He who had risen above mortality - dead?

Umbridge hadn’t lied, but she was mistaken. Lord Voldemort could not die. Tom knew that, as did Dumbledore. And, apparently, Potter.

“Not everyone believes he’s dead.”

Umbridge glanced at him.

“It was only what that boy said –”

“Ah, yes.” Her lips pressed into a thin line. “Professor Dumbledore and one of his treasured students insist that You-Know-Who has returned - back from the dead! Which, I assure you, Thomas, even for a wizard as powerful as him, is quite impossible.” She tittered.

Lord Voldemort’s death… it was a ploy! Something must’ve gone wrong with his rise to power – something Dumbledore-shaped, Tom suspected. His counterpart had needed to lay low for fifteen years, harnessing shadows, and now - now he was stepping into the light. Yes, that must be it.

And Harry Potter… Dumbledore’s acolyte, devoted to defending his word.

Umbridge straightened her bow. “That’s quite enough unpleasantries today, don’t you think?”

Tom did not think, but if Umbridge was done drip-feeding him information, there was nothing he could do. He nodded. “Professor – is there anything I can do to convince my classmates I mean no harm?”

“Oh, you’re well on your way to achieving that,” Umbridge said. “The problem lies with Professor Dumbledore. But it’s no matter,” she smiled, “The Minister and I have some ideas. I’ll certainly look towards giving you more freedoms soon, Thomas, if you keep up your exemplar behaviour.”

And help you further your political goals, Tom added in his head. If this woman honestly believed he grew to become Lord Voldemort and still was willing to let him rejoin the student population at his fancy just to take Dumbledore down a peg or two, then she was insane. It was brilliant.

Their stroll and conversation continued, though Umbridge seemed satisfied with the information she’d provided and did not speak further on Lord Voldemort, or Dumbledore, or this Harry Potter, instead conversing politely on the politics of Tom’s own time. She seemed quite fascinated by Grindelwald.

On their goodbye, Tom chanced one last favour. “Professor, would it be possible to receive the paper every once in a while? The timeline thing, I know, but – I do always feel so out of the loop.”

Umbridge glanced at Auror Upton, then back at Tom. “I’ll see what I can do,” she said, giving a girlish wink.

Finally, for the first time since regaining a body, he felt he had more answers than questions.

*****

Harry had never been any good at doing nothing. Growing up, Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon valiantly tried to drill it into him that he was a lazy, good-for-nothing, layabout - but Harry had never quite believed them. Not once did he take Dudley’s beatings lying down, nor could he stop himself retorting when the Dursleys said something particularly stupid.

Doing things made him feel in control.

So, when McGonagall drew him aside after class and made him promise to keep his nose clean; when Sirius fire-called him and Harry swore he’d keep out of Riddle’s way; when Ron and Hermione kept a careful eye on him, reluctant to let him wander Hogwarts unattended… Harry tried to do nothing. He really tried.

He was in the habit of slipping down to the fourth-floor corridor a few nights a week - when Upton or Maples were on duty (Tonks, Singh, and Crawley were more likely to catch him). Harry didn’t do anything, of course. Often, he dozed. Strangely, he napped well there, as cold and uncomfortable as the stone floor was, as much as his scar prickled. There was something reassuring about it, something relaxing, almost, about having Riddle less than ten metres away.

The most terrifying spider (Aragog aside) was the one he couldn’t see.

Other times he stayed awake, tracing Riddle’s name on the map, watching Dumbledore pace about his office. At least Harry wasn’t the only victim to late night troubles.

But tonight, a Thursday three weeks into term, Harry didn’t want to doze, nor stare at the map. He wanted to break into Riddle’s room.

It was Ginny. That’s who Harry thought about, staring at the dark canopy of his four-poster bed. How she huddled by the fire in the Gryffinor common room, ignoring the fainting first years surrounding her brothers, ignoring her friends as they giggled over their Divination homework.

Riddle had broken her.

Before he could think through it, Harry was out of bed and slipping on his shoes.

“Where are you going?” Ron hissed.

It was late, the dormitory black and silent, and Harry had thought him asleep.

“Bathroom,” he whispered.

Ron’s freckled face poked out from his crimson hangings. By the moonlight, he looked Harry up and down. “Why are you wearing trainers then?”

Oops.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Harry said, drawing closer so as not to wake up the others.

Ron glanced at the clock. “It’s not even midnight.”

“Yeah, I–”

“Hang on.” His friend sat up, drawing back the hangings with a squeak loud enough to make Harry cringe. “Are you sneaking out?”

Too late, Harry tried to tuck the bundled invisibility cloak behind his back.

“You are!”

“Keep your voice down!”

“What are you doing? Can I come?”

Ron made to shift off the bed, but Harry stepped closer, blocking him. “Seriously, Ron, I’m not doing anything exciting. I told you: I couldn’t sleep. Going for a wander helps clear my head.”

Forehead pinching, Ron frowned at him. “How often are you doing this? Is this why you’ve looked so tired?”

“Just… every now and then. I’ve looked tired?”

Ron nodded. “Yeah – I mean, no offense. You’re not sleeping?”

“Nightmares,” Harry said, and Ron grimaced.

“That’s shit.”

“Pretty much. Not going to wield your new prefect powers against me, are you?”

Lightly, Ron snorted. “No chance. Just don’t get caught, or we’ll both be in trouble.”

Harry indicated the cloak. “All set.”

“Sure you don’t want company?”

“You’re a prefect now. You can’t sneak out.”

Ron looked disappointed. “Yeah, I suppose. How about a game of exploding snap in the common room?”

Something about his tone – so eager and friendly – made Harry’s insides twist in guilt. He should want to play snap with Ron, to spend an hour laughing by the crackling fireplace then slip into bed, tired and happy. Yet…

“It’s alright,” Harry said, “Get some sleep.”

Ron’s forehead pinched further, but Harry gave him a half-smile and slipped the cloak around his shoulders, vanishing, feeling guilty for his relief. He loved Ron and Hermione, he did, but this - the connection he shared with Voldemort and Riddle, the compulsion he felt to protect others from their wave of destruction… They didn’t understand.

Ten minutes later, Harry stood outside Riddle’s door. The auror tonight was Doole’s replacement, Maples, a young recruit, her hair bushy and blonde. Already, she was dozing, mouth parted, discarded book on her lap. Harry felt an urge to rouse her – guarding Riddle should be their job, not his. Only Tonks and Crawley stayed awake all night. None of the others thought Riddle enough of a threat: a sleeping boy in a locked room.

Locked…

As quietly as he could, Harry tried the door handle. Unsurprisingly, it didn’t budge.

Was it so wrong that Harry wanted to talk to him? Well… yell at him. Maybe punch him. Wasn’t that a better outlet for his anger than having a go at Ron and Hermione all the time?

“Alohomora.”

He whispered it, heart hammering, keeping half an eye on Maples.

Nothing.

Unfortunately, it made sense: Riddle could probably cast that one wandlessly.

Harry stood there, rolling his wand between his fingertips. Fine, no getting through the door, but… the door wasn’t the only entrance to Riddle’s room…

Taking a minor detour to avoid Mrs Norris and her lamplike gaze, Harry rushed back to his dormitory. (“Again?” the Fat Lady cried when he blurted out the password. “I need my beauty sleep - looks like this aren’t free, you know!”)

Taking care not to wake his dormmates - Ron fast asleep by now, snoring loudly - Harry grabbed his firebolt. It was a product of his sleep-deprived mind that Harry considered flying into Riddle’s room in the middle of the night (to what? Kill him? He hadn’t thought that far ahead) to be on the more reasonable end of his hair-brained schemes.

Preoccupied by his determination, it was only upon later reflection that Harry realised the hangings around Neville’s bed were suspiciously quiet.

Rather than traipse all the way down to the grounds and risk crossing paths with Filch, Peeves, or Snape, Harry made for the fifth-floor open air bridge connecting Gryffindor tower to the west wing.

It was windy outside - winder than Harry expected - and, shivering, he wrapped his invisibility cloak tightly around himself.

Thankfully, Harry wasn’t the youngest Hogwarts seeker in a century for nothing. He pushed off, keeping his firebolt steady against the gale that threatened to slam him into the looming castle walls. A harder task was finding Riddle’s dark window amidst Hogwarts’ many hundreds. Harry had to pause on the Charms balcony to scan the moonlit map, wrestling with the wind to not have it snatched from his grasp.

It was hard to tell how long Harry spent flying back and forth, his toes growing numb, fingers turning blue. Was confronting Riddle really worth this?

Yes, it was.

Finally, Harry hovered beside a criss-crossed pane of dark glass. His reflection stared back at him, pale and determined, wand raised.

Part of him anticipated another dead end - for the interior handle not to lift as Harry charmed it, for the window not to creak open…

But it did, and suddenly there was nothing separating him and Tom Riddle but a thin curtain, flapping in the wind.

That same part of him - the part that sounded like Hermione - wanted to wait, to consider whether a confrontation was the right thing to do, whether it would bring him any satisfaction…

Harry ignored it.

He flew closer, until he could reach out and brush his fingers against the curtain. The gap wasn’t wide, but Harry was thin enough to squeeze through. He pitched forwards, leg grazing stone -

ZAP.

Harry’s nerves screamed. His vision dotted black, and he had the sensation of falling… falling…

No, not the sensation. Harry was falling!

“ACCIO!”

It was only the sheer amount of practise he’d had with the spell that saved him.

His firebolt shot towards him and, tumbling, Harry blindly swung his arm. A polished handle kissed his hand, and Harry gripped hard. For an instant, he stopped falling - then, pain shot through his wrist, racing down to his shoulder. He heard a light pop.

Yelling, Harry let go.

With a crunch he landed in jagged shrubbery, twigs jabbing his back and scratching his arms, his head swimming.

Ow. His shoulder fucking hurt.

Overhead, the night sky and the full moon wavered, his vision cloudy, and Harry tried to breathe through gritted teeth.

He’d flown into a repulsion ward. Ow. Dumbledore must not have expected anyone to approach via air. Somehow, Harry had been more stupid than Dumbledore expected.

Groaning, he felt for his wand and glasses, both of which he’d dropped. But moving his arm hurt like hell, so Harry stopped.

Far above him, a yellow light spilled into the dark night. Harry squinted up at it, trying to make out -

“There! I can see their wrackspurts.”

Footsteps trudged through wet grass. Harry turned his head to instead squint at two figures.

“Lumos - oh, Harry!”

A round face appeared, blotting out the moon.

“Hi, Neville,” Harry croaked.

“Hello,” Neville said, frowning. “You don’t look so good.”

No - invisibility cloak half twisted off, arms and neck stinging with scratches, his shoulder dislocated, and his glasses missing - Harry didn’t imagine he did. At least he wasn’t dead.

“I think you look roguish,” Luna said, smiling down at him. She retrieved the wand tucked behind her ear. “Would you like some help?”

Some of Harry’s dazed concern must’ve showed on his face because she added, “I’m quite good. I’ve practised a lot on parakeets.”

If Harry had been able to move without his shoulder screaming in pain, he might’ve tried to dodge the incoming blue light. As it was, he closed his eyes and hoped for the best.

Ice flooded his shoulder and there came another pop - Harry hissed sharply, but when the coldness receded, it left a sparkling warmth in its wake. Experimentally, he rolled his shoulder. Aside from a few twinges, and the poke of sharp branches into his back, it felt good as new.

“Thanks,” Harry said shakily as Neville helped him up, handing him his wand and shoddily repaired glasses.

“I’d have never guessed you were sneaking out to fly,” Neville said as Harry summoned his firebolt from where it hovered above the shrubs, some of its tail twigs bent. “You’re already so good!”

Pulling leaves out of his hair, Harry looked at him sharply. “How did you know I’ve been sneaking out?”

Neville laughed. “You’re not that quiet, and Dean and I are light sleepers. He’ll be so cross when I tell him you’re flying, he thought for sure you were meeting Cho.”

“I… he did?”

“Who’s your friend?” Luna asked, pointing up at the castle.

With his glasses now on, Harry looked up toward the yellow light, wind tugging strands of hair into his eyes. At an open window five storeys up a black silhouette. As Harry watched - a coldness unfurling in his stomach, his scar twinging in pain - the distant, shadowed figure raised a hand.

“Let’s go,” Harry hissed, stuffing his invisibility cloak into his robes and marching off across the grounds, heart thumping, refusing to turn around, Neville and Luna at his heels.

As they rounded the corner towards the front doors, Harry spotted a different figure striding towards them, this one with a halo of frizzy, blonde hair. Shit.

Grabbing Neville’s arm, he darted them left towards the ramparts. He, Neville, and Luna just managed to press themselves into the base of the stone wall as the auror passed by above them.

“Who’s that?” Neville whispered.

“One of Riddle’s aurors - she must’ve heard me fall.”

“Yes, we heard you too,” Luna said. “You screamed quite loudly - you must have good lungs.”

“Er - thanks.”

Under the moonlight, Neville had tinged pink. “We weren’t - Luna and I only bumped into each other by accident! We didn’t sneak out together.”

Harry had been too preoccupied with nearly plummeting to his death to wonder what Neville and Luna were doing in the grounds together at two o’clock in the morning, but with Neville’s wide eyes and frantic denials…

“What were you doing?”

“Oh, er, I’ll show you!” Neville fumbled with the clasp of his woollen robe. Momentarily that made Harry more confused, but he opened it to reveal his plaid pyjamas, and an inside pocket crammed with glowing, lilac blooms. “Lunae solutingua,” he said, embarrassment fading into a grin. “They only flower under the October full moon! They’re really cool - they’re used in veratasium for -”

More footsteps above, and Neville shut up. This time it was McGonagall - Harry had spent enough time sneaking around Hogwarts to recognise her from the clack of her boots and surety of her stride.

Once she’d passed, Luna said dreamily, “I lost track of time talking to the thestrals.”

Harry had no idea what thestrals were and was hesitant to ask. Instead, he offered the invisibility cloak (which Luna didn’t question) and the three of them shuffled quietly inside and up to the third-floor split between Ravenclaw and Gryffindor tower.

“Thanks for your help,” Harry said to her, meaning it. If Neville and Luna hadn’t come along… If Luna hadn’t healed him… Maples would’ve found him, and both her and McGonagall would’ve had a lot of questions about what he was doing collapsed on the bushes beneath Riddle’s window.

“That’s alright, Harry, I quite like you.”

“Thanks,” he said, oddly touched by her earnestness.

She smiled. “Don’t listen to what everyone else says. I don’t think you’re a liar, and I happen to find your nose charming.”

“My… What’s wrong with my nose?”

“Nothing,” Neville said quickly, just as Luna said, “It’s quite pointy.”

Self-conscious, Harry touched it. Was it pointy?

“Goodnight,” Luna said, “Watch out for the imps,” and off she skipped.

Harry and Neville watched her go.

“I found her in the forest talking to midair,” Neville said. “She’s odd, isn’t she?”

Experimentally, Harry shrugged his shoulder. “I think she’s brilliant.”

Neville flushed. “Well… yes. She has nice eyes - a bit scary, but nice.”

Harry hadn’t thought much about Luna’s eyes. They were very big. And very blue. “Yes, I suppose.”

“And her hair is pretty; it looks very soft…”

Later, as Harry stared at the underside of his canopy again, Neville having promised to keep their midnight adventure a secret, even from Ron and Hermione, his thoughts trailed back to that figure at the window. Had Riddle seen him sprawled beneath his window like some addled Romeo? Had he guessed Harry had tried to break into his room?

Harry flung his duvet over his head, groaning.

At least there was one comforting thought to tide him over: when Riddle eventually found out who Harry was - and Harry had no doubt that he would - Riddle wouldn’t get the satisfaction of murdering him if Harry accidentally killed himself first.

*****

Perusing the Daily Prophet hadn’t been as helpful as Tom hoped. Mostly, the topics were innocuous: Quidditch, a growing feud between Fudge and Scrimgeour, a fruitless hunt for some loose madman, an ongoing argument with the French wizarding government about charmed item imports. Boring. There were many mentions of Dumbledore (scathing), several mentions of Tom (glowing), the odd mention of Harry Potter (condescending), and no mentions of Lord Voldemort.

Tom also gathered that Potter had the odd nickname or two: the Boy-Who-Lied, the Boy-Who-Cried-Wolf, to name a few. Those, at least, made Tom laugh, even if he didn’t understand why Dumbledore’s irritating pet seemed to be famous.

At least Potter didn’t follow Dumbledore’s every order: Tom had the amusing suspicion Potter was trying to kill him. The boy had tried to break into his room.

Tom wasn’t too concerned - how dangerous could an imbecile who hadn’t thought to check for wards before he’d crashed into them and nearly killed himself be? Privately, Tom was glad Potter hadn’t died; he didn’t want their fun to be over before it had even begun.

More than ever, Tom wanted to talk to him.

Classes had improved: many of the sixth years were now more wary of Tom’s aurors than they were of him, and they met his eyes with cautious smiles. He’d even managed several brief conversations. This, Tom figured, was his best path to information: Hogwarts loved to gossip.

One Herbology class in early October, the opportunity presented itself.

“Hi.”

Carefully, Tom replaced the stopper of fairy tears he was supposed to be watering the mountain faefly with and looked up. “Hullo.”

An attractive, black Ravenclaw girl, her hair wound into braids and held back with chunky plastic clips smiled at him, soil dusting her left cheek. Natalie McDermott. Tom had had his eye on her for a while. Pretty, popular, and a prefect, she was revered by many - and that made her Tom’s perfect target.

“They’re gorgeous, don’t you think?” she asked.

“Lovely,” Tom said, glancing at the delicately vulnerable white flowers, their tiny heads just rearing above the surface, “And useful, too. Crucial in the brewing of amortia for their irresistibility, though ingesting them can prove deadly.”

She smiled. “Only if you consume too many at once.”

“An unlikely accident.”

“Exactly.” She held out her hand. “Natalie McDermott.”

Tom removed a gardening glove and took it. “Tom Riddle. I assume you knew that, but it would be impolite not to greet you properly.”

“I appreciate it.” Her gaze flicked over to Singh, sat on a wooden stool some five paces away. A defence book hovered by her nose, and she kept absently flicking away a feathered vine trying to turn the page.

“How are you doing, Tom? It must be hard leaving all your friends and family behind and not be given the opportunity to make any new ones here.”

He shrugged, smoothing his hair. Her eyes trailed up to watch his hand, and she blushed. “It’s been lonely, but I understand the ministry’s position. If I am to be sent back, the more information I have about the future, the more trouble I might bring to the past.”

“I’m sure they could use memory charms to rectify that.”

“Oh,” Tom feigned surprise, as if the idea had just occurred to him. “Have they gotten better? Where, or when I’m from they’re often rather… blunt.”

“Oh, yes,” she said, smiling. “They’re quite impressive – my mum’s an obliviator – they can remove memories with a high degree of accuracy and implant new ones, if needed.”

Tom raised his eyebrows. “That is impressive.” Then he frowned, “I don’t know why they wouldn’t have suggested that as a possibility. I wouldn’t mind. Anything would be better, really, than being by myself all the time.” He glanced over at Singh. “They’re not very chatty, you know.”

“Mum says they try to avoid using obliviate on anyone younger than twenty-five. Perhaps that’s why.” Natalie chewed her lip, watching him. Tom smiled in a sad sort of way that melted her big, brown eyes. “I’m sorry I didn’t say hello sooner,” she gushed. “You’re always very polite when you speak in class. Why don’t –”

“McDermott!” Professor Sprout appeared at the girl’s arm, tip of her witch’s hat barely poking above Natalie’s shoulder. “Come and give me a hand with these saplings, won’t you?”

Silently, Tom cursed.

“Yes, Professor,” Natalie said, sending him an apologetic look.

Sprout eyed his perfectly healthy flowers. “Careful you don’t overwater them,” she said, then harrumphed and tottered away.  

As Natalie turned to follow, Tom reached out and caught her hand. He dropped it quickly, hoping he was blushing. “Come and say hello again?”

She definitely blushed, then nodded. On the other side of the classroom, her Ravenclaw girlfriends gaped at her. “I’d like that.”

*****

Two weeks into October, any hope of a warm autumn had surrendered itself to the wilds of the Scottish Highlands. Drizzle and fog settled thickly in the valley, swirling through the tall, dark trees of the Forbidden Forest and chasing waves over the surface of the lake. Harry, Ron, and Hermione huddled together in the yard recasting a drying spell every few minutes as mist soaked their robes and socks.

Beneath them, just visible at the edge of the fog, Hagrid’s cabin stood forlorn and empty, unaware of the trail of damp Herbology students trudging past its shadowed windows. Glumly, Harry stared at it as Ron and Hermione bickered over their Charms homework. A full month had passed with no news on where Hagrid had gone and when he would be back. There was no news of Moody either, holed up in the ministry.

After the window disaster (he’d had to wear long-sleeves for a week until the scratches healed over), Harry hadn’t tried to break into Riddle’s room again, though he still returned there, night after night.

At least it felt like doing something.

Hadn’t the sorting hat encouraged them to stand united in the face of opposition? Why then could Dumbledore hide from the resentment and rumours in his office while Harry had to spend each tedious day staunchly ignoring Seamus’s glares and Lavender’s gossiping, the way the younger students stumbled from him in fear and the older ones stopped and stared.

“-Ron, no, you’re still doing the wand movement wrong! It’s flick, down and round.”

“That’s what I’m doing, Hermione! Flick, down and round, see!”

“No, that’s not what you’re doing-”

“Can’t you two give it a rest?” Harry snapped. All the three of them ever seemed to do nowadays was fight.

They turned to him, Hermione’s lips pressed tightly together. “Please don’t have a go at us again, Harry. It’s not fair.”

“I’m not having a go at you – I’m asking you to stop arguing. It’s driving me up the wall.”

“You didn’t need to be so snappy about it.”

“I did when –”

A haughty, drawling voice interrupted them. “– I hope he’s travelled to Russia. Father says they execute half-breeds over there. Really, it’s a kindness given how pathetic and miserable their lives are.”

Draco Malfoy and his henchmen sauntered across the yard, talking loudly. If it was a fight, Malfoy was after, Harry was more than happy to oblige. Anger sizzling in anticipation, he grabbed his wand from his pocket.

“Harry!” Hermione said, hand tightening on his arm. “He’s baiting you.”

“I’m aware,” he said, shrugging her off and ignoring the helpless look her and Ron shared – Ron! Who never turned down the opportunity to confront Malfoy! Teeth gritted he marched towards the pompous prat, leaving his friends to scamper after him.

The sodding git saw him coming and smirked.

“Perhaps you should take a trip to Russia yourself, Malfoy,” Harry said hotly. “If pathetic and miserable are the criteria. I doubt your father would miss you – hasn’t he been busy lately?”

“Oh, yes,” Malfoy drawled. “You must’ve learned of his promotion in the Wizengamot. There’s a lot of space at the top now the Ministry have decided they’re done with crackpot buffoons.”

“Gosh, well I hope he has enough time for all that alongside his Death Eater duties; I’ve heard torturing muggles is quite the commitment.”

Malfoy’s pale skin flushed an ugly red and his eyes narrowed. “I suppose the rumours are true then: Potter can’t finish a sentence without spouting lies.”

It was Harry’s turn to flush, his irritation so hot it made his scar prickle. “I’m not a liar.”

Malfoy smirked and said, dropping his voice, “But if no one believes you, Potter, is there a difference?”

A tug on his sleeve. Hermione. “Come on, Harry, let’s go.”

“You should listen to the mudblood, Potter. I’m a prefect now, you know. Funny that Dumbledore didn’t make you one. Perhaps he knows you’re not responsible enough.”

In one fluent motion, Harry stepped forwards and jabbed his wand under Malfoy’s chin. The blond prat’s eyes widened in alarm. “Shut the –”

“Harry! Stop!”

Another hand, much stronger, grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back. Angry, he spun, expecting Ron but instead coming face-to-face with a slightly panicked Tonks. For a moment, Harry just stared at her, struggling to complete the jigsaw of Tonks in the courtyard at Hogwarts. Didn’t she belong at Grimmuld Place? His pumping adrenaline wasn’t helping.

Gently, she pushed his wand down. “Malfoy, that language is unacceptable - I’ll be informing your head of house. Harry, go inside with your friends. Now, please.”

It clicked and Harry’s gaze shot over her shoulder, straight to the group of sixth-years fresh from Herbology, all watching his and Malfoy’s altercation with great amusement – and among them was Tom Riddle. As Harry watched, he turned to a pretty Ravenclaw – McDermott, wasn’t it? – and said something Harry couldn’t hear. She laughed. Then Riddle looked back and met his eyes evenly. Pain burst in his scar.

“Go, Harry,” Tonks said.

Ron tugged his robes. “C’mon, mate.”

He let Hermione and Ron pull him away, tearing his eyes from Riddle – Malfoy he didn’t spare a second glance. Until they crossed into the entrance hall, Harry was sure he could feel Riddle’s gaze, hot and searing on the back of his head.

“You have to stop, Harry,” Hermione said as soon as the three of them were alone. She’d led them to the lost and found and Harry sat down hard on a wooden chest stuffed with old school robes beside a box of broken wands, feeling strange and deflated. She crossed her arms. “I understand that everything’s been awful, Harry – and it has. You have every right to be upset and angry, but you can’t get wound up like this!”

He removed his glasses and put his head in his hands, pressing hard against his scar. The sharp pain had faded, leaving only the memory. Ron sat beside him.

“I am trying,” Harry said. As the anger ebbed, it left that strangled, overwhelming despair in its wake.

“You need to try harder,” Hermione said. “I’m sorry – I know that’s harsh. But Umbridge, Malfoy, the ministry, Riddle – the more aggressive you are, the more they benefit.”

“Yeah – I know that, I –” he paused. Tightness gripped his throat, and he swallowed thickly. “I know I keep snapping at you both - all the time. I know and I’m sorry. It’s just – he’s in my head – Voldemort, Riddle, I don’t know. I’m trying, I really am, I –”

“Yeah, we know,” Ron said, and Harry fought down another lump in his throat. For a lingering moment he longed for the rage to return; however destructive, however hurtful, it was better than this hollow gloom. This feeling that the edges of him were peeling away, dissolving into darkness. The anger gave him focus; it made him feel alive.

In the quiet, Ron patted his back. Guilt twisted his insides, and he pressed his hands tighter against his eyelids, spots forming in his vision. How could he prefer the anger – Voldemort’s anger – when it hurt his friends?

“We have Transfiguration,” Hermione said a few minutes later. “Hopefully he’s gone now.”

“I can tell McGonagall you’re not feeling well?” Ron offered. “Think I’ve even got one of Fred and George’s skiving sweets around here somewhere.”

“Ron!” Hermione exclaimed. “You’re a prefect!”

“Exactly. I confiscated it.”

“No, thanks,” Harry said, taking a steadying breath and wiping underneath his eyes. “I’d rather not die of blood loss.”

“Think it’s actually a vomiting one…”

“So, you’d die of dehydration,” Hermione supplied.

“Well, you don’t need to eat it anyway. I’ll just tell McGonagall you’ve gone to bed. Go take a nap.”

One last, deep breath, then Harry shoved his glasses back on and stood, fighting a head rush. “No, I’m fine. Let’s go. We shouldn’t be late.”

“You sure?” Ron asked, standing up too.

“Yeah,” Harry said, glad the dimly lit room obscured his face. “Whatever will I do with my life if I fail my OWLs?”

In Transfiguration, as Harry ignored McGonagall’s lecture and stared numbly out of the rainy window, he wondered whether the year would continue like this: cycles of fighting with the few friends he still had, his temper rising and rising until he did something stupid, then crashing away to let him drown in a silent, black sea until he could coax it back again.

But then Harry thought of the yard - of Riddle laughing with that girl - and he realised that no, the year couldn’t continue like this because he’d forgotten something: Riddle was charming. Riddle was calculating and manipulative, and wouldn’t want to be isolated.

And just like that, that strange, coiling feeling in his stomach returned. Things were about to change. A lot.

Chapter Text

It was funny, how much Tom had missed talking to people. In his time he’d needed to savour the snatches of peace and quiet, escape the: ‘Tom, Lestrange is being a brat,’ ‘Tom, can you convince Slughorn to let us throw a party?’ ‘Tom, teach me again how to perform the blood boiling curse’. The helplessness of his so-called friends had driven him mad, as much as he’d wanted them to rely on him.

But being alone for so long had reset all of that. Tom adored the chase, winning people over, making them love him. Natalie had opened the floodgates, and now his classmates were lining up to talk to him, to ask what he thought about their professors, to ask what the ministry was like, to ask how Hogwarts had changed.

There were personal questions too. Everyone knew a lot about him – the papers, Tom supposed. Apparently, Witch Weekly published a profile on him last week.

What was the orphanage like? Why does Dumbledore hate you? Did Hagrid really open the Chamber of Secrets?

Tom kept the facts vague but the details superfluous:

‘Oh, the orphanage was terrible, there was never enough food, and the Germans were always dropping bombs. What are bombs? A muggle invention: like a bombarda in a box. Yes, the muggles are horrible. And no, I don’t think acromantulas can petrify, but they are quintuple-X classified creatures –’

And so on, and so forth.

Three of Tom’s aurors – the ones he’d privately nicknamed ‘Umbridge’s bootlickers’ (Maples, Singh, and Upton) – had even started letting Tom dawdle in the corridors after class, continuing his conversations until the bell rang for dinner. A few of the fifth and seventh years (girls, mostly, and sadly no Potter) had caught on to this, introducing themselves and chatting happily until Professor McGonagall caught wind and furiously sent them away, and Tom back to his room.

That didn’t deter them for long, though – Tom had never been more popular.

Yet there was a problem. While Tom had spent the month prior savouring the merest drips of information, fighting to quench his thirst, now he was drowning in a tsunami: one that was more than half full of rubbish.

The students were careful, of course, with what they said and when. Many believed his time traveller nonsense and were reluctant (in a manner that was exceptionally irritating) to say anything useful. Others just didn’t want the detentions his professors were all too eager to hand out to anyone who dared ask Tom to pass the lacewing flies. Still, when Hogwarts wanted to gossip, it gossiped – and woe betide anyone who dared care for accuracy.

Take Harry Potter. According to the snatched whispers and overheard murmurs, he: was the deeply disturbed victim of a mad man; was a calculating, budding dark lord; was good at Quidditch: was bad at Quidditch; spoke parseltongue; was a friend of the merfolk; had driven a flying car into the castle; had killed a three-headed dog… etc, etc.

Suffice to say, Tom didn’t trust the rumours. Parseltongue? A Potter? And a budding dark lord? Tom had spoken to the boy for all of thirty seconds and even he could see how ridiculous that concept was.

But not everything was useless.

Resurfacing with such consistency that it must contain an element of truth was the claim that three years ago the Chamber of Secrets had reopened. And wasn’t that interesting?

No one knew who opened it, only that someone had. Supposedly, Dumbledore had caught them, but not one had ever been expelled. Naturally, Potter was suspect number one (probably where the parseltongue rumour had started), though there was a theory it had been some egotist Professor trying to play hero.

Of course, Tom knew the perpetrator. It should’ve made him happy, that his diary had fulfilled its intended purpose. His first horcrux had been a success! Yet all Tom felt was worry.

The only fruits of his labours were a handful of petrifications and the brief disappearance of a Weasley girl. That hadn’t exactly been Tom’s vision. And (allegedly) Potter had been involved in the girl’s rescue (that might’ve been another tall tale, but given how viciously the boy hated him, Tom had a niggling feeling it wasn’t).

What had happened to his diary? Had Dumbledore figured out how it worked? What it was?

Dumbledore... why had he been at the Riddle house moments after Tom’s resurrection? How had the headmaster seen a dead boy and a ring and known to send his followers out looking for Tom?

It was enough to make him panic – curled up on his bed at night and staring at his curtains, half-hoping Potter might leap through them and distract Tom from his anxieties. Potter never did, and so Tom was forced to channel his worry into redoubling his intelligence gathering efforts.

One Saturday afternoon in October, Tom had tea and cake with Umbridge, Auror Upton lingering outside. The cake was a Victoria sponge, dry and sickly. Clearly, Umbridge had not made a good impression with the house elves – perhaps she’d also bored them to death with detailed descriptions of the bureaucratic process of Educational Decree approval.

Tom was planning to kill her one day for that sin alone.

When she finally took a sip of tea, pausing her ramblings of when Rubeus Hagrid might return to Hogwarts so she could fire him, Tom said, “Professor, I’ve been conversing with some of my classmates in the corridors before dinner, but understandably McGonagall hasn’t been all too happy about it. I wondered whether I might sit with them in the Great Hall instead – with supervision, of course.”

Tom hated asking people for things, especially when he already knew the answer.

“What an excellent idea, Thomas,” she simpered. “I suppose the headmaster will insist you still take meals in your room, but I see no harm in a little extra supervised study time. I’ll clear everything with Cornelius.”

Thankfully, she didn’t ask for anything in return: Tom’s freedoms were good for her too.

He’d almost finished his tea when there came a knock at the door. Umbridge beamed and Tom wondered whether it would be Potter. He’d only seen the boy thrice: in Umbridge’s class, in a tangled heap beneath his window, and in the courtyard yelling at Malfoy, and Tom wanted more.

It was not Potter.

“Draco! How lovely. Take a seat, won’t you, dear?”

Umbridge conjured another pink armchair and, tentatively, Draco Malfoy sat. Donned in ironed Slytherin robes, he looked so much like Abraxas that it almost made Tom miss the stuck-up prat. Draco’s nose differed though, and he was shorter.

“Thomas, this is Draco Malfoy,” Umbridge said, “I thought it would be nice for the two of you to meet properly.”

“Hello, Draco,” Tom said, extending a hand. Draco touched it so briefly he might not have bothered. “I believe I knew your grandfather.”

This probably wasn’t the time to mention Tom had once fucked his grandfather in a broom closet (mostly to see what it was like – tolerable, he supposed, and it had made Abraxas exceptionally loyal).

“You did,” muttered Draco. He was staring at the wall behind Tom’s head which was interesting because that was Tom’s rather blunt technique for dealing with Dumbledore’s potent legilimency.

Tom smiled. “Abraxas and I got on well. It would please me if we forged a similar friendship.”

“Mhm,” said Draco.

Where had all that pompous boasting Tom witnessed in the courtyard gotten to? It was no fun when people started out afraid of him – watching that fear grow, a drop at first, then a flood. That was fun.

“How’s your mother, Draco?” Umbridge asked. “Lucius tells me she’s been feeling under the weather…”

Much to Tom’s annoyance, Umbridge then served more tea and Tom had to sit through more boring ministry stories. Slughorn had often told him he’d do well in the ministry; Tom couldn’t think of anything more tedious. If he wanted power, he’d simply take it. Bureaucracy was for the weak.

“Well, thank you, boys,” Umbridge said an hour later, even though Draco had said nothing, and Tom had just nodded along, smiling and laughing where appropriate. She vanished their cups with a flick of her stubby wand. “I’ll see you both soon. If you don’t mind waiting outside, Tom, I need a quick word with Auror Upton.”

“Of course, Professor.”

Then she made a show of manoeuvring herself between Draco and Tom, patting Draco on the shoulder and biding him goodbye. It was very suspicious.

“Actually,” she said, as if the idea had just occurred to her. “Would you mind walking with Thomas back to his room, Draco? Auror Upton and I might have a lengthy chat and I’m sure Thomas has homework to be getting on with.”

“Me?” Draco asked, eyes widening.

She smiled.

“I don’t bite,” Tom said. Biting was too muggle, and bad for his teeth.

“I don’t know where –”

“I’m sure Thomas can show you. Off you pop.”

They left, and Draco didn’t look happy about it. He was an alarmingly obvious Slytherin. Or perhaps Tom just made him nervous.

“Is your grandfather still around?” Tom asked as they made their way down the corridor. The castle was quiet on Saturdays.

“No.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Was he? Tom dwelled on it. He’d never see Abraxas again. Would never kiss him in their empty dorm. Would never watch the light dim in his eyes when Tom invited some girl to Slughorn’s parties. It was a shame, but Tom could find minions in this time too.

Minions like Draco.

“Do you play Quidditch?” Tom asked. When he’d started at Hogwarts, it hadn’t taken him long to realise that the stupid sport was all anyone wanted to talk about.

Stiffly, the boy nodded.

“Which position?”

“Seeker.”

It was like pulling teeth – pulling teeth was also horribly muggle, and not as fun as a crucio. They walked in silence through the central stairway until they reached a suitably empty corridor with no portraits. It wasn’t strictly en route, but Draco didn’t know that.

Tom stopped, turned, and held out a hand palm up, making it clear what he wanted.

“I can’t –” the Malfoy stammered, so Tom grabbed a handful of his robes and pushed him against the wall, rummaging in Draco’s pockets himself.

When he took Draco’s wand, a shock of pure bliss raced up his arm. Magic. Fuck. He felt alive. Tom waved the wand, and the air shimmered.

“W–What was that?” Draco stuttered.

“I was removing Umbridge’s eavesdropping charm,” Tom said. “Unless you’d like her listening in?”

Wide-eyed, Draco shook his head.

“Excellent. My diary – what happened to it?”

Any doubts Tom had that Draco might not have known about the diary vanished as the Slytherin turned a gory shade of green. It wasn’t a positive expression.

“Tell me.”

“It– It was destroyed.”

Tom stared at him.

“I didn’t know anything about it – I swear! M–My father didn’t realise it was so important, he –”

“Legilimens.”

As Tom pitched forwards – memories swirling, the world dissolving, Draco offering no resistance – he noticed that, like Abraxas, Draco’s eyes were a pale grey.

A domed ceiling, silken sheets. Draco lying frozen, screams echoing from below.

How foolish his father had been to give away the Dark Lord’s belongings – even if they’d believed him dead. His father deserved his punishment... he deserved it...

That’s what Draco told himself, hands clenching the sheets, gaze fixed determinedly at the stone ceiling as his father’s screams rang in his ears.

He deserved this...

Tom surfaced, breathing hard.

Draco was very pale, paler even, than he’d been before. His jaw flexed in resolve, his grey eyes hard, but Tom had tasted the boy’s fear in his memories, hot and sweet.

“You could’ve asked,” Draco muttered, watchful of the wand.

Tom ignored him, fighting to stay in control. His diary – destroyed. Lord Voldemort – dead? If the Malfoys had believed it...

Childish voices floated down the corridor, and that wouldn’t do because Tom wasn’t finished with Malfoy. Not yet.

“Did Dumbledore kill him?” Tom demanded, though he knew the answer. Who else could bring down a wizard as powerful as Lord Voldemort? At least Dumbledore’s efforts were for naught – the damage had been reversed, his counterpart had regained a body, and soon, soon Tom would have his revenge.

The voices drew nearer.

Draco didn’t reply. Instead, he said, “He wants you.”

Of course he did. Lord Voldemort wanted Tom back in the Gaunt ring. Too bad Tom’s old prison was with Dumbledore.

It was tempting to stun the gaggle of young Gryffindors rounding the corner, to jab the wand into Draco’s temple and take everything he needed, but Dumbledore... fucking Dumbledore… warning him to behave.

Shoving the wand at Draco, Tom tugged him back into step. Patience. Soon… soon he’d know everything.

*****

It felt like years since Tom had last stood in the Great Hall. Technically, it had been years. It looked the same as ever: the same five tables, each stretched beneath the miserable Scottish sky. When he entered, Natalie clutching his arm and Upton trailing at a distance, a hundred pairs of curious eyes turned to him.

“Ignore them,” Natalie whispered, driving them towards the Ravenclaw table (an ironic demand from one basking in the attention). Two Ravenclaw girls glanced up as they approached. Natalie had led them along the right-hand bench and Tom sat facing the Gryffindors.

“Tom – this is Roisin and Cho. You’ve talked, right?”

Tom nodded and Roisin – a tall, heavily freckled girl with a protruding nose – grinned. “We have Ancient Runes together – Defence and Transfiguration too. And Potions.” She said this all very quickly and in a thick Irish accent.

“I remember,” Tom said. “You drew an excellent convoctain circle on the board for Professor Babbling last week.” He had, actually, been impressed by it. Few managed to make any headway in Ancient Runes, let alone construct diagrams from the foundations up.

“You thought so?” she said, eyes sparkling, and then she launched into a long-winded speech (again in that fast, thick Irish accent) about her favourite runes.

It gave Tom, stomach curling in anticipation, the opportunity to comb the Gryffindor table for that crop of messy, black hair. When he found it, the Potter boy was already glaring at him, and a thrill shot through Tom’s spine. He twitched his lips in a half-smile, and Potter’s glower deepened. Tom could almost feel the waves of anger radiating from the boy.

Good. If Potter had had anything to do with his diary – his destroyed diary – Tom wished the brat nothing but anger, misery, and death.

Trying not to dwell on that thought too hard lest he accidentally set Potter’s robes aflame (presumably against Dumbledore’s stupid rules), Tom glanced back to Roisin.

He would’ve been happy to continue the Ancient Runes discussion beyond the five minutes they enjoyed, however, Natalie – not an Ancient Runes aficionado – hastily brought them back to their Herbology assignment: a four-page report including two labelled diagrams on the cell structure and magical properties of Snargaluffs. A page and a half in, Tom absently wondered whether he should mention Cho’s hostility.

The girl sat mutely, shoulders tense, pretending to read a Charms textbook – pretending, Tom knew, because she hadn’t turned the page in fifteen minutes, and he could hear her foot tapping on the flagstones.

Natalie broached the topic first. “Don’t you want to work on Herbology with us, Cho?”

“No,” she said, not looking up.

“Why? It’s due on Wednesday.”

“I just don’t want to, Nat.”

“Alright,” Natalie huffed.

Roisin laughed, nudging Cho’s shoulder. “What’s the problem? Do you believe your boyfriend?”

Cho snapped her book closed. “I don’t have a boyfriend, Roisin, in case you’d forgotten –”

It was almost funny how quickly that wiped Roisin’s smirk.

“–And I said I’d walk to the owlery with Marietta this evening, so... bye.” She swung her dark, shiny hair over one shoulder and marched off.

Tom caught Potter (he’d been keeping an eye on him) watch her go and a foreign sensation of happiness tickled the back of his head. He shook it slightly, uncomfortable.

Natalie must’ve mistaken this for confusion because in a hushed voice, she clarified: “Cho’s boyfriend died last year.”

“Oh,” Tom said, pushing the odd happiness from his mind and mirroring Natalie’s downcast expression. “Did he go to Hogwarts?”

Glumly, she nodded.

“It happened in the Triwizard Tournament,” Roisin explained.

The Triwizard Tournament - another source of rumours Tom struggled to make head or tail of.

“I thought they’d banned that,” Tom said. In his time they had, and it was a shame because Tom would’ve won it. Unfortunately, a consistent bloody track record was enough to halt such things.

“They had,” Roisin said. “But for some stupid reason someone decided it was a good idea to bring it back.”

“Well… we did enjoy it last year before… before the final task,” Natalie said.

“The dragons were cool.”

When Tom raised an eyebrow, Roisin expanded: “They brought a Welsh Green, a Chinese Fireball, a Swedish Short-Snout and a Hungarian Horntail onto the grounds.”

“And that didn’t kill anyone?” Tom asked.

“No – only some burns, I think.”

“I assume no one picked the Horntail? Did they get to choose?”

Roisin and Natalie glanced at each other. “Oh, no,” Natalie said. “There were four champions.”

Tom frowned. “Did they invite a fourth school?”

“No,” she repeated, smiling conspiratorially – Tom’s avid attention had perked her up. “Hogwarts had two.”

“Why?”

The two girls looked at each other again. That was getting irritating. “Um, you’ve heard of Potter – Harry Potter. He tricked the goblet into drawing his name,” Natalie said. “I don’t know how. He and Cedric were the Hogwarts champions.”

Whatever Tom had been expecting, it wasn’t that. He glanced over at Potter – the Gryffindor was whispering furiously with those two friends of his, plus at least two other red-headed-probably-Weasleys.

A Hogwarts’ champion.

“Who won the tournament?”

“Potter, I suppose,” Natalie said, frowning. “Though after… after the final task, no one really thought about who won.”

“He’s talented, then?”

Was that why he was Dumbledore’s little pet? An ambitious, attention-seeking brat desperate to show off some slightly higher-than-average abilities? Tom thought of that kindling of enraged defiance Potter had, eager for a spark. He was righteous and reckless and that drew attention, but was Potter the type to seek it?

“Not really,” Roisin said. “As far as I’ve heard he doesn’t get exceptionally good grades or anything, he’s just involved in a lot of ‘extracurriculars’. He did steal an egg from beneath a Hungarian Horntail, but that was on a broom – he didn’t use any clever magic.”

There was a sense of disappointment. For a moment Tom had wondered whether this adversary of his would… well, not match him in magical skill and intelligence, but at least be in the same ballpark. Although Potter had won the Triwizard Tournament… and at fifteen or sixteen… that wasn’t a feat to brush aside.

“He doesn’t like me,” Tom said.

When Natalie and Roisin did that glance-thing again he yearned, desperately, to curse them. Natalie’s wand lay on the table and his fingers itched to take it.

“Well…” Natalie began, then stopped as a black shadow slid over the table. Snape, oily and hook-nosed, loomed over them, diffusing the air with the putrid smell of toasted slowworms.

“And why, Miss McDermott, do you deem it appropriate to gossip when you have a five-page Potions essay on Golpalott’s third law due Thursday? Need I remind you of your grade for your latest assignment?” Natalie flushed. “I have high expectations of my NEWT students; if you cannot keep up with your classmates, you will be left behind.”

“Sorry, Professor,” she mumbled.

“And Miss Walsh, Professor Flitwick informs me that still you are not able to successfully cast a single spell non-verbally, leaving you remarkably far behind your peers. I suggest you concentrate your efforts there, and not on making new… friends.”

He looked down at Tom who met Snape’s gaze calmly, daring him to pick a single flaw in his schoolwork. So far, he’d received full marks on every single assignment completed – even Umbridge’s ridiculous quizzes on Slinkhard’s drivel.

Perhaps more concerningly, Snape said nothing, his thin lips only thinning further – if that was possible. Then he glided away to terrorise a snotty group of first-year Hufflepuffs who’d somehow set fire to the table. A split-second later Tom realised he hadn’t checked his occlumency shields.

“He’s the worst,” Roisin muttered, furiously grabbing her wand from her bag. “I bet Flitwick never even spoke to him. I bet they all ignore him in the staff room for being an ugly, mean creep.”

“Shut up,” Natalie hissed. “Marietta said he leaves eavesdropping charms on the tables.”

Why anybody would spend their spare time listening to the absolute nonsense students spilled over dinner was beyond Tom’s best guess – even for someone as unnerving as Snape. But, like Umbridge, Snape might have one on him. And he didn’t even have a wand to check.

Frightened into studious silence, the girls quickly bored him. Natalie made so many mistakes on her Snargaluff diagram that Tom didn’t bother to point them out, and Roisin kept jabbing her wand at a goblet, finding success at flipping it only when she mouthed the incantation with enough force as to just say the word.

So, Tom finished his Herbology homework and watched Potter. Several times, they made eye contact: Potter must’ve been watching him too. Tom liked that. The boy was so aware of him.

But why? Had he spoken to the portion of Tom’s soul in the diary? Was that why he was so sure of Tom’s identity while the rest of the student population was willing to lap up the Daily Prophet’s lies?

Tom wanted to know. He needed to know. If he could talk to Natalie away from prying, suspicious eyes… if he could gain her trust… surely, surely there was more she knew…

*****

Riddle had started hanging out in the Great Hall in the hour between the end of classes and dinner. It was fucking annoying, because now Harry had to do it too, and Hermione thought it was because he wanted to study more.

Harry did not want to study more. Three of Riddle’s aurors would let him get away with murder with the amount of care they put into the job, so someone had to keep an eye on him.

The trouble was, it was difficult to keep an eye on Riddle with a flock of students surrounding him. The lower end of the Ravenclaw table had become the place to be, or so he’d heard Parvati telling Lavender during Astronomy.

Opposite, Hermione chewed on her quill. “What did you get for question five? Umbridge only gave me nine marks out of ten and I don’t understand why.”

“Probably because you’re friends with me,” said Harry, preoccupied with trying to spy Riddle through the throng of adoring fans. He hoped Cho wasn’t among them.

Hermione frowned. “Marking doesn’t work like that. It shouldn’t work like that.”

A Hufflepuff girl shifted, and Harry caught sight of the prat, smiling and laughing like he wasn’t dying to kill them all. Awkwardly, Riddle glanced over and caught Harry looking. The smile grew wider and colder. His scar hurt.

“What?” he croaked, frantically shifting his gaze back to Hermione.

“Marking,” she repeated. “It shouldn’t be subjective. This is pointless!”

He looked at her properly then. Homework? Pointless? “Are you okay?”

“Umbridge is useless. She’s not teaching us anything! And we need to learn, Harry – Defence especially.”

“I thought we weren’t meant to get involved,” Harry said.

Thankfully, Hermione didn’t notice his bitterness. “We shouldn’t be involved, but we should be prepared – just in case.” She glanced over her shoulder towards Riddle. The crowd shifted, and he vanished again. “We should practice in our own time.”

“Who? Me, you, and Ron?”

“And anyone else who’s interested!”

Dubiously, Harry glanced around at the empty bench. No one sat within five metres of them anymore, as if they’d contracted some horrible disease.

“I’m sure Fred and George would join,” Hermione said. “And Ginny!”

“So, me, you and the Weasleys?”

“Why not? What about Neville? He likes us – and you get on well with Luna Lovegood, don’t you?”

Harry shrugged.

From beside him came a slamming noise: someone throwing their bag onto the table. Wondering what had gotten Ron into such a foul mood, Harry glanced up, only to blush as crimson as his tie.

“I don’t like him,” Cho said. “Mind if I join you?”

Even if she hadn’t already sat down, so close that their arms touched, Harry would not have minded in the slightest.

“Riddle?” Hermione asked.

“He’s so smarmy,” Cho snapped, taking out her Charms book. Her arm brushed Harry’s, and it was like his heart stopped. “And I swear he keeps giving us the wrong answers to our homework.” She threw the book onto the table and looked at Harry. Her eyelashes were long and dark. “Do you really think he’s You-Know-Who?”

“I know he is,” Harry said, as emphatically as he could manage. It was amazing his voice still worked.

“Fuck,” said Cho, and Harry blinked at her. In all his daydreams he’d never imagined Cho swearing. She ran a hand through her hair. “I think he and Nat are going to get together.”

“Like… snogging?” Harry asked, horrified.

Glumly, she nodded. “At least.”

At least...?!

Harry had never so acutely wished to plunge his wand through his ear canal and blast his brain to bits. Imagining Riddle having… doing… it was like picturing McGonagall having sex, or Hagrid. If they were his age. And handsome.

“She can’t,” Harry said. “He’s killed people!”

Cho worried her lip. “I’ve tried. She won’t listen. None of them will. You haven’t spoken with him, Harry. He’s so convincing.”

“He didn’t convince you,” Hermione said curiously.

“I know Harry wouldn’t lie,” said Cho. “Not about Cedric.”

For the remaining forty-five minutes until the auror forced Riddle back to his room, Harry was so dizzyingly happy that he almost forgot to keep an eye on the git, content instead to watch the brush of Cho’s hand over parchment, to inhale her light, warm perfume. When he did finally glance over, Riddle had one hand on Natalie’s arm, his lips close to her ear. She was giggling.

Shortly after, once McGonagall had sent Riddle back to his room, Cho marched from the hall with her head down, not staying with them for dinner, but not joining her friends either.

Ginny took her vacated seat, spooning vegetable lasagne onto her plate, then pushing it around with a fork.

“Where’s Ron?” she asked.

“Quidditch,” said Hermione.

“We don’t have practise tonight!” Harry said, glancing hurriedly down the Gryffindor table to check Angelina and Katie were there.

“He’s practising by himself.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t feel guilty, Harry,” Hermione said. “I think it’s good that you’re focusing a bit more on your schoolwork. You play plenty of Quidditch already. Really, Ron should…”

As Hermione continued, Ginny shot Harry a sharp glance – one that told him she knew perfectly well he wasn’t in the Great Hall to do schoolwork. Yes - Harry wasn’t the only one who felt Riddle’s presence like a thorn in his side.

He glanced over at the Ravenclaw table. Natalie and Marietta were laughing together. How long before Natalie too would be morose and silent? Before she avoided her friends and sobbed in the bathroom? Or maybe she’d be like Harry – following Riddle around like a scab he couldn’t help but pick at, preferring the wound to a scar.

He couldn’t let that happen.

*****

Trying to get Natalie alone reminded Harry painfully of asking Cho to the Yule Ball last year – except at least then Cho hadn’t been spending time all her with Voldemort.

Natalie and Riddle sat together in all the classes they shared, then hung out in the breaks, and in the hour before dinner. At mealtimes she’d sit with her friends in the Great Hall, and in the evenings she’d retreat to Ravenclaw tower. Briefly, Harry considered asking Luna to sneak him in, but it wasn’t as though Natalie was alone in there either.

On Friday evening, towelling his hair dry after Quidditch practise, he realised he couldn’t put it off any longer. Much to Angelina’s annoyance, Fred and George had released a bludger in the changing room, so sneaking out without the others – except Ron – noticing was easy.

“Where are we going?” Ron asked, peeking over Harry’s shoulder at the map.

“The music room.”

Ron peered closer. “Harry! That looks like a party! You might be famous, mate, but you’re not cool.”

Harry tucked the map away. “Don’t worry – we’re not going in; I just need to speak to someone.”

“Who?”

“Natalie.”

“McDermott?! Mate, she’s way too fit for you, and anyway, I thought you liked Cho.”

“I do!” Harry exclaimed, blushing, grateful the grounds were dark. “It’s not because I fancy her. It’s because of Riddle.”

“Riddle? What does he have to do with it?”

Harry shot Ron a sideways glance. “Riddle’s basically… dating her.”

“Is he?” Ron made a face. “Why would she date him?”

It was Harry’s turn to look incredulous. “What do you mean why? He’s the most attractive guy at school!”

“Really? He looks like a regular bloke to me.”

“No, he doesn’t. He’s tall, and has a decent face, and good hair, and, I don’t know, nice hands.”

“Nice hands?”

“Yes,” Harry snapped. “It’s not my fault you’re as perceptive as a skrewt.”

“Okay,” Ron said after a pause. “So, you’re going to tell the most popular girl at Hogwarts not to date the most attractive guy at Hogwarts?”

“You don’t have to come.”

“I’m starting to feel like I should.”

Harry stopped walking, shivering lightly in the cool breeze, broom over one shoulder. “At least Ginny never kissed him, Ron.”

His best mate looked away. Mud flecked his cheeks. “Shit,” he grumbled.

They hovered awkwardly outside the music room for over an hour, brooms leaning against the wall. There were about ten students inside, all of them upper years, and none of them people Harry and Ron had ever spoken to before in their lives, though Harry had played Quidditch against a few. Music and the stench of alcohol drifted beneath the door.

“Have you ever been drunk?” Ron asked.

Harry shook his head.

“No. Me neither.”

Another half an hour passed before Natalie and her friend – the frizzy red-head – stumbled from the room, heading towards the girls’ bathroom. Harry sprung from the alcove, chasing after them.

“Natalie!”

The two girls started, spinning around. “Potter?” Natalie exclaimed, incredulously raising her eyebrows as Marietta burst into giggles.

“Hi,” Harry said, mouth turning dry.

“What do you want?” she asked. Before, on the Hogwarts express, Natalie had seemed so kind and smiley, but now she was frowning.

“You can’t date Riddle,” Harry said, each word blurring into the next.

She straightened as Marietta giggled harder, clutching onto her friend’s arm. They smelt faintly of cranberries.

“I can’t?”

Feeling himself turning red, Harry said, “Riddle’s evil! The whole charming thing is an act – he did the same to Ginny.”

“The Chamber of Secrets girl? Tom’s never spoken to her.”

“He has,” Harry said. “Or another version of him has. There was this diary and he could talk to her through it, and then in the Chamber he came out of it -”

Natalie was frowning, and Harry sounded insane even to his own ears.

“It doesn’t matter – look, he’s a prick. He’ll hurt you.”

“So, you’re looking out for me?”

“Er, yes?”

She stared at him, her lips pursed. Marietta had stopped giggling. “Look, Potter, I think you’re trying to be sweet, even if it’s both condescending and delusional, so I’ll be nice. I can judge Tom’s character for myself, I don’t need your advice, and I’d appreciate it if you’d stay out of my business.”

“I’m trying to help –”

“I don’t want your help!” she snapped. “You know, unlike most people in this school, I don’t think you’re a liar, Potter. Whatever happened last year with Cedric – obviously it’s fucked you up, and someone’s taking advantage of that to whisper things into your ear. But even if Tom does turn out to be a dick – because he’s a jerk, not because he’s a murderer – it’ll be my mistake, and I’ll own it. I get that you’re the Boy-Who-Lived and everything, but you don’t have to try and save me.”

Mouth dry, Harry stared at her. “I don’t want to save you –”

“Yes, you do! That’s exactly what you’re doing! But you know what? I’m going to go and study with him tomorrow and you’re not going to stop me because I can make my own choices.”

“You’re what?” Harry croaked. “Don’t –”

Yanking her friend along, Natalie marched towards the bathroom, then paused, whirling around. “Also, stop spreading nasty rumours about Tom. It’s mean!”

She slammed the door behind them.

Ron popped up by Harry’s shoulder. “That went well.”

“Yeah, thanks a lot for the help.”

“Sorry… I couldn’t really get my mouth to move to be honest.”

Harry strode away, snatching up his firebolt.

“Hey, where are you going?”

“To see Dumbledore.”

“Harry! It’s gone curfew - I’m a prefect!”

“Yeah? Go and break up the party then.”

Pink splotches appeared on Ron’s neck as he hurried after him. “I can’t do that!”

“Hermione would.”

“Hermione has no shame – I think her brain grew too big and pushed it out of her ears as a baby. Can you slow down a bit? How are you so fast – you’re titchy!”

“I can’t believe Dumbledore’s just letting him talk to whoever he wants, it’s –”

Harry stopped so suddenly that Ron slammed into his back, broomstick colliding painfully with his side.

McGonagall raised a grey eyebrow at them. “Potter and Weasley,” she said. Beneath her pointed, green witch’s hat, her hair was down. “A bit late, isn’t it?”

Ron mumbled something about Quidditch.

Pointedly, McGonagall looked at her watch. Quidditch practice had finished nearly two hours earlier.

“I need to see Dumbledore,” Harry said.

“Professor Dumbledore is away and will not be back until tomorrow morning.”

“Away!” Harry exclaimed. “Where?” What could Dumbledore possibly be doing that was more important than controlling Riddle?

“That’s not your business, Potter.”

“But it’s important – it’s about Rid –”

Sharply McGonagall held up a hand, silencing him. She glanced around, then gestured to a broom closet.

Harry and Ron shared a dubious look.

Yet in McGonagall went, and they saw little choice but to follow.

Once inside, she snapped the door closed, trapping the three of them in a cramped, black closet that had probably housed its fair share of snogging students. As Harry and Ron pressed themselves closely together to give McGonagall as much space as possible, she waved her wand, and a faint shimmer rippled around the door. “Umbridge likes to eavesdrop,” she said by way of explanation. “Now, what is it? Speak plainly.”

“It’s Riddle, he’s…” Abruptly, Harry paused. He didn’t want to mention kissing or - God forbid - sex to a teacher. “…He’s manipulating other students. Professor Dumbledore’s meant to be controlling him, but now he sits in the Great Hall, and chats to students after class, and apparently has study dates!”

McGonagall’s sigh was very deep. “We know.”

“And?” Harry said. “What are you doing about it?”

“The best we can.”

“The best you–” Harry wanted to be polite, he really did, but his temper was overflowing again. How could the Order be so dense? Why were they doing nothing?

“He’s going to fuck up their lives! He’s killed a student before, he’ll –”

“Riddle won’t be killing anyone,” McGonagall said. “Dumbledore’s keeping a close watch –”

“Dumbledore’s not even in the fucking castle! And even if Riddle doesn’t kill, he’ll still hurt people – look at Ginny!”

“Do you think we have a choice, Potter?” McGonagall snapped, and it was the lack of admonishment for swearing that stilled Harry’s wrath more than anything else. “We’re having to choose our battles very carefully - the ministry is steadily turning the school board against Albus. If he steps too far over the line he may be forced from Hogwarts altogether – I do not wish to see your tonsils, Mr Weasley, close your mouth – and then our situation would be far worse. As powerful as Albus may seem, he is the Headmaster of a school. He does not work for the government - he cannot disobey their laws any more than you or I.”

She sighed again, passing a hand over her face and looking much older in the semi-darkness. “I’m sorry this is how things are. My best advice, as hard as it may be, is to not get involved.”

This she addressed to them both, but her eyes were on Harry.

“It’s important. Do you understand?”

Glumly, they nodded.

“Alright. I’ll escort you to the common room. Don’t let me catch you out of bed again – you’re a prefect now, Weasley, I expect you to act like it. And Potter, there is more at stake for you than detentions and a few lost house points.”

With the back of Harry’s hand still stinging from his many, many evenings with Umbridge, and the phantom pain tugging at his scar, that point wasn’t necessary.

*****

When Tom was alone with a girl, things tended to go well. Today, he determined, would not be an exception to that rule. It couldn’t be. Today there would be no interruptions, no nosy professors or grumpy aurors. Today was a day for learning.

Natalie’s knock came softly, like the timid breath of wind through a sapling’s branches. Opening his bedroom door, her expression too was young and hopeful. “Hi,” she said, shier than Tom had seen her before, Potions book pressed to her chest.

“Hi,” Tom replied, matching her tone. Her shoulders relaxed and her smile widened. So easy. He leant around the door, glancing at Upton, nose deep in today’s Daily Prophet. “Do you mind if we study?”

“Fine,” he said, without looking up. He didn’t even bother to take Natalie’s wand.

“Thank you,” Tom said, smiling at Natalie and holding the door open. Graciously, she entered, and they were alone.

“This isn’t… awful,” she said, glancing around, then wandering over to the window. “You have a view of the forest at least. The music room looks out the same way – at dawn the thestrals circle the trees on the crest over there. They’re pretty from a distance.”

“You can see thestrals?” Tom asked, moving to stand beside her, close enough that she’d feel the heat from his skin.

She nodded. “It’s nothing dramatic. My grandpa passed a few years ago at St Mungo’s.”

On a different day, Tom might probe further. Though he usually had little care for magical creatures (beyond their uses in potions), thestrals interested him. Supposedly, they were visible only to witnesses of death, but Tom had witnessed death - quite a lot of death - yet he couldn’t see them. He was an exception to the rule.

He only said, “I’m sorry about your grandfather.”

Natalie shrugged. “Thank you, but it’s fine. He was happy to go. We all have our turn eventually, I suppose.”

“Of course,” Tom lied. His turn would be waiting a very, very long time.

She turned from the window and remarked, “You’re neat,” possibly because death wasn’t a great first date topic.

“Force of habit. Professor Slughorn – my old head of house – would assess our dorms weekly. As first years we quickly learnt not to leave so much as a sock out of place.”

“I’m glad Professor Flitwick doesn’t do the same! Ours is a tip.”

Inwardly, Tom grimaced at the mental picture, but outwardly he smiled, leaning forward and tucking a stray braid behind her ear. “We might have to study on the bed if that’s alright. They only gave me one chair.”

“Oh,” she said brightly. “I’ll conjure us another! I’ve been practising.”

Tom did his best to conceal his puzzlement. Hadn’t she come here to snog? He’d already done his potions’ homework.

“Ah… that doesn’t look the most comfortable,” Natalie said, having conjured a wonky, three-legged stool. She tried again and the stool turned yellow. “Hm, sorry, I swear I could do this last week. Maybe I’m a bit nervous.” She blushed again.

“I can try?” Tom offered.

For a fraction of a second, she hesitated, then she smiled, holding the wand out. His heart thumped, and when he took it, a jolt shivered up his arm. His mind raced in a thousand different directions, but… no. He wasn’t aggravating Dumbledore. There was a plan.

Replicating his desk chair was easy. Unicorn hair: those wands were so trusting.

“Wow,” she said. “You did that non-verbally.”

Had he? He supposed he had.

“I find non-verbal magic so hard. Without words to focus, it’s hard to make your magic do anything.”

Tom pulled out his chair for Natalie, then took the conjured one. “As a child, I figured out how to control my accidental magic – moving objects, closing doors, the like. Wands and words enable power, but they come at the cost of forgetting the connection to your magic, feeling it inside you. It’s that connection you need for wandless and non-verbal magic.”

Natalie nodded, gazing at him with her mouth slightly parted. “You could control your magic as a kid?”

“Yes,” he said, then added, “Just a little.” It wasn’t smart to come across too powerful; not when people were finally convinced he wasn’t Voldemort. Still, he liked boasting.

“I vanished my hamster,” she blurted out.

Tom raised an eyebrow. “On purpose?”

“What? No! I was six, and I held it too tightly, and it bit me and… I told mum it escaped.”

“Wouldn’t she have been impressed by your magic?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. I was six and lying made sense at the time - it felt like I’d done something wrong. So, I cried and cried about losing dear Marmite but never told anyone I’d done it. Mum blamed the cat. I felt so guilty! I was ten by the time I did any magic again. Mum thought I was a squib for ages.”

Tom didn’t know how to respond. Crying over vanishing a hamster was ridiculous – they vanished animals at school all the time! Perhaps the teachers brought them back afterwards? He’d never thought about it. And why did guilt make people behave so erratically?

“Please don’t mention that to mum if you ever meet her. She still doesn’t know.”

“I won’t.”

“Thanks.”

“Is your father still around?”

She shrugged. “We write, and I see him ever now and then. He moved to Spain just before I was born. Hasn’t been back to the U.K. since.”

“Why?”

The look she gave him was quizzical, then it cleared. “Oh, I forget. You wouldn’t know. There was an er… please don’t tell anyone I’m telling you this… there was a war in wizarding Britain, back when I was a baby. Lots of people died or disappeared. I don’t remember it, of course, but you pick things up. Much of Europe took refugees – there was a lot of residual gratitude towards Dumbledore at the time for dealing with Grindelwald. Dad left, but mum wanted to stay.”

“Was the war to do with the dark wizard? You-Know-Who?”

She nodded, chewing her lip, then said, “Can I, um… Can I have my wand back?”

“Oh.” Tom hadn’t even realised he was still holding it. “Of course.”

“Yeah. You-Know-Who was behind it, all that death and destruction. That’s why no one says his name.”

No one except Dumbledore and Potter.

“What happened to him?”

“He… died.”

But, how? What had Dumbledore done? Where had Lord Voldemort gone wrong? Tom wanted to shake her. To press further, but already she had tensed. For now, time to withdraw.

“Sorry, I don’t mean to pester. It’s very frustrating, not knowing anything.”

“I’m sure,” she said, melting again. “Sorry, I don’t… Why don’t you ask me questions about other things? I can try and fill in the gaps. The Prophet said the unspeakables might not send you back for years. There’s no point in being miserable here.”

Tom smiled and nodded, biting back a snarl. He didn’t care about other things! He cared about Lord Voldemort, and Dumbledore, and his diary, and Harry Potter.

Still, he said, “I’d like that. Perhaps we could sit on the bed if we’re not going to study? It’s more comfortable.”

She paused, then nodded, her nervousness returning. Tom smoothed his hair, sitting beside her. Why was he having to try so hard?

They conversed for a while, discussing the mundane: World Cup Quidditch winners, the string of Minsters for Magic, who some of Tom’s old school peers ended up marrying. He did his best to charm her, smiling and laughing and flicking his eyes to her lips, fingers brushing against her knee. To his annoyance, his advances only made her more nervous. As the confident, attractive, popular girl in school, already eighteen, he’d expected her to pursue what she wanted, not sit around and wait for him to take the initiative.

Not that Tom wanted to kiss her. At thirteen he’d learnt that kissing was a cheat code to trust, loyalty, and information: three things he needed now more than ever.

“Can I kiss you?” Tom asked, halfway through her ramble about how dress robe fashions had evolved in the past fifty years.

Her cheeks coloured further, her head dipped. For a second, Tom thought he might be rejected. He’d never been rejected! But then:

“Okay,” she breathed, and their lips met.

To Tom, snogging was like pressing his lips against a wall. Unfortunately, the wall was slightly warm, moved, and often tasted unpleasant. Walls were also very demanding: one also had to place their hands in the right places at the right time or else the wall complained. It was very tedious. Especially as Natalie, clearly, had no idea what she was doing.

After a while, he pulled back. She was flushed and panting, eyes wide.

Please let that be it.

“Was that okay?” she asked, breathless.

“Yes,” he lied.

“Sorry, I’ve not kissed anyone before.”

Tom had very nearly let his surprise show. She’d never kissed anyone? How? In his day, the school been swapping snogging partners like spare quills, despite (or, perhaps, to spite) the prudish attitudes of polite, pureblood society.

“I couldn’t tell.”

“Oh, good. I always get nervous and chicken out.”

“You don’t have to be nervous with me.”

“I know.” She smiled shyly, then pecked his lips again. “I should go. I promised Cho I’d join her for a run around the lake.”

Go?

“Alright.”

Still smiling, she gathered her things, Tom’s chance dwindling. He stood, too.

“I really like you, Natalie.”

“I like you too,” she said, biting her lip. Merlin, it was like they were children. She tapped her fingers on the cover of her Potions book and dithered.

“Tom…”

He waited. Patience.

She laughed nervously, eyes flicking towards the window. “It’s silly, but… I’m worried about you.”

“Why?”

“It’s, um,” she twirled a braid between her fingers. “So, I know you’re not You-Know-Who - that’s ridiculous. It’s that other man – Morfin Gaunt. But… that’s not what Dumbledore and Potter say. They’re insisting it’s you. And… I mean, Dumbledore would never hurt a student, but…”

Potter. Trying to break into Tom’s room in the middle of the night. Of course.

“Look, he came to talk to me yesterday.”

Tom’s eyes snapped to hers. He pushed into her mind – just a whisper, barely noticeable. Potter in a dark corridor. Flushed, righteous.

“I think something horrible happened with Cedric and Potter saw. He’s fixated on you, and… he’s lost it a bit. I have some friends in Gryffindor and they’re saying Potter snaps loads, even at his friends. He tells anyone who listens that you opened the Chamber of Secrets and killed this girl – Moaning Myrtle, she haunts a girls’ bathroom on the second floor and is really rude. Anyway, just… watch out for him, won’t you? Don’t get in his way.”

“Of course,” Tom said, but he knew this all already. Potter was angry. Potter hated him. Potter was obsessed with him.

But, why? Why? Could Potter have destroyed his diary?

“I don’t understand what I did to him,” Tom said. “Is it the You-Know-Who thing?”

Slowly, she nodded.

“He says You-Know-Who killed Cedric last year, but You-Know-Who’s dead; it couldn’t have been him. But Potter insists he saw You-Know-Who return –”

“Potter saw Lord Voldemort’s return?”

Natalie twitched so badly she dropped her book.

“You-Know-Who, sorry,” Tom said, trying not to sound too intense. He couldn’t push her away when he was so close.

“That’s okay,” Natalie said breathlessly, picking up her book. “You didn’t grow up like us.”

“Why would Potter have seen You-Know-Who’s return?”

Why would he have been invited? Why wasn’t he dead?

“Well… he didn’t, Tom. That’s sort of the point. Either Potter’s lying, or he’s confused. There was this ex-convict on the grounds at the time. He was disguised as our Defence teacher, actually. Something happened – the Minister himself issued a Dementor’s Kiss on him later that night. I’m sure it was traumatic, and Potter thought it had something to do with You-Know-Who… Given his history, it makes sense.”

“His history?” Tom asked. It took all his willpower not to grab her face and access the information himself.

Lightly, Natalie snorted. “Yeah, Potter’s famous.”

“Famous for what?”

She bit her lip. “Don’t tell anyone I told you – it’s probably quite important for the whole timeline business. You will get obliviated before you go back, right?”

“Yes,” Tom said. This time traveller thing was irritating him. If only that other muggle boy hadn’t been at the Riddle house, if only Dumbledore hadn’t sent his followers after him in Diagon Alley.

“Er, right. So, as it goes, Potter’s parents fought against You-Know-Who in the war - well enough that he went after them personally. On Halloween fifteen years ago, he went to their house in Godric’s Hollow, and he… killed them. Both of them. And then… then he turned his wand on Potter. He was only a baby.”

Tom could see it in his mind’s eye. A dark, still night. A thatched cottage. A baby with jet black hair and bright green eyes, Tom’s own eyes scarlet.

“The lightning scar on Potter’s forehead,” – the one that had turned vivid red – “It’s from a curse. The killing curse.” Natalie wetted her lips. “It backfired. Harry Potter killed You-Know-Who.”

Chapter Text

The following week Tom struggled to focus on schoolwork, his mind preoccupied as it was with thoughts of Harry Potter’s death. He didn’t listen to a word of McGonagall’s introduction to multi-object transfiguration, nor Sprout’s reminder to watch out for bowtruckles when picking blood apples (which earned him a nasty bite), and on Tuesday afternoon when his befuddlement draught bubbled over and a delighted Snape gave him a T, Tom didn’t even care, so absorbed was he with plotting murder. In fact, the spilled potion gave him ideas – ideas like shoving Potter’s head inside a boiling cauldron, or splashing a shrinking potion into Potter’s eyes.

A basilisk’s stare and the killing curse: Tom’s previous instruments of murder. Clean, efficient demonstrations of his power. But with Potter... Harry Potter who had dared killed Lord Voldemort, who may have destroyed his precious horcrux... the boy didn’t deserve clean and efficient. No, once Tom extracted the answers he needed, it was a messy, painful death Potter deserved. Horrible, horrible pain, and death.

(In all of Tom’s murder fantasies, he conveniently neglected to remember Dumbledore existed, and would remove him from Hogwarts the instant he breathed in Potter’s direction. Such facts made for obtuse semantics).

The one area in which Tom could focus was his efforts to break Dumbledore’s wards on his room, reasoning that escape would grant him a wand, and a wand would somehow lead to killing Potter. It wasn’t his most sensible plan, but it was a plan, and Tom needed a plan, otherwise he might go insane. It was, at least, more sensible than grabbing Natalie or Roisin’s wand and casting an unforgivable in the Great Hall – a fantasy Tom had entertained multiple times that week.

His runes were close to working, thanks – in part – to Professor Babbling (easily Tom’s favourite teacher given she didn’t spend most of class glaring at him. In fact, she had completely forgotten Tom was supposedly a time traveller, instead excited by having such an intelligent, dedicated student in her class). When Tom approached her with his ‘purely theoretical independent research project’, she’d helped happily (and awarded Slytherin thirty house points, even though Tom wasn’t technically a Slytherin), and now, his runes worked perfectly: the wave of a wand and the wards would snap.

If only Tom had a wand.

So, Tom ignored his homework and convinced Umbridge to let him use the library, spending all his free time researching amplification runes. If he could make them powerful enough, he may be able to activate the runes wandlessly.

He spotted Potter a few times in the library, spying on him between shelves. It was frustratingly counterproductive for Tom’s escape efforts because he would then spend the next half an hour staring blankly at the page as he imagined kneeling over Potter’s prone form and smashing his skull in with a book or piercing his throat with a quill.

On Friday afternoons, Tom had double Ancient Runes. Despite the complaints from his classmates, he thought it a perfect end to the week, especially as that Friday Professor Babbling took them on a fieldtrip into the Hogwarts grounds to visit the castle’s runestones. It was the only moment all week when Tom managed not to think about either killing Harry Potter or figuring-out-how-to-escape-his-room-so-he-could-find-a-wand-and-then-kill Harry Potter.

Tom bombarded Babbling with so many questions that even Roisin, who enjoyed Ancient Runes almost as much as Tom, grew bored. Still, she hung around, long after Babbling encouraged the other students to return to the castle, her and Tom waist-deep in a conversation about wards. The sun had almost set by the time the three of them (plus Auror Crawley), started the long trek up the sweeping lawns, arriving in the Entrance Hall just as dinner appeared.

“Are you sure you can’t join us tonight, Tom?” Roisin asked after Babbling bade goodbye, “Friday nights are great. We always head up to the music room with some butterbeers after dinner.”

Tom looked over his shoulder at Crawley, smiling angelically.

“No, Riddle. Those are the orders,” Crawley barked, arms crossed. He’d been getting shorter and shorter with Tom of late, probably driven mad by the absolute tedium of following him. Maybe Tom should abandon his plans to win over the whole of Hogwarts just to spice up the lives of his poor aurors.

He rolled his eyes at Roisin.

“Fine,” she said. “Keep working on Umbridge – soon it’ll all be normal. Can you at least join us in the library on Sunday?”

“I’ll try.”

Smiling, she gave him a fleeting, one-armed hug, then followed Babbling into the Great Hall, leaving Tom alone with the old auror.

“C’mon, up we go!” Crawley said, but Tom had paused. By the Great Hall doors, a set of identical twins were staring at him – with their bright, red hair, gangly limbs and smattering of freckles, Tom was sure it was the seventh-year Weasley twins the girls had spoken of. But today, their supposed jovial, friendly nature was distinctly lacking: they smiled at Tom like sharks, blood in their eyes. In an instant, they had loped over to him.

“Hello, Riddle,” said one.

“We’ve been dying to meet you,” said the other.

Crawley stepped up. “Aren’t you two Arthur’s kids?”

“That’s us,” said the first, not taking his eyes off Tom.

“Wonderful,” said Crawley. “Then don’t make me report this to the Minister.”

The second eyed Crawley with great distaste. “Like that, is it?”

“Like that. Let’s go, Riddle.”

“Just a moment,” Tom said, pleasant. Thinking about death all week had sparked his craving for adrenaline.

Crawley drew his wand.

“Taken a trip to the second-floor girls’ bathroom yet, Riddle?” asked the first twin. “I daresay Moaning Myrtle would be pleased to see you.”

“Your friend below the school might not be though. No, I’ve heard there’s not much left of her at all.”

Tom’s smile froze in place. Did they refer to his basilisk? Surely not. His birthright? Dead? Yes, the Chamber had been reopened recently, his horcrux supposedly destroyed, but… he didn’t think…

“Fred! George!” The bushy haired Granger girl stormed out of the hall behind them, blanking Tom. “What are you doing?”

“Exchanging pleasantries,” the second one said.

Crawley gripped Tom by the elbow, fingers digging into his skin. “We’re leaving. Don’t make me hex you.”

“See you around, Riddle,” said the first.

Jerkily, Tom nodded, forcing himself to breathe. His eyes slid over the twin’s shoulder to the Great Hall door. There was that other Weasley boy, and beside him, Harry Potter. Their eyes met.

Tom’s diary. His basilisk. Lord Voldemort. Potter’s fault.

Tom looked back to the twins. “Say hello to Harry, for me, won’t you? I’ve heard a lot about him.”

The twins’ eyes widened.

Let Potter know. They all slept in the same castle.

He allowed Crawley to lead him away.

Tom spent all night working on his runes. He wanted to unlock the door. He wanted to unlock the door and find a wand. And then, Tom wanted to kidnap, torture and murder Harry Potter. He wanted it so badly his mind buzzed.

When Tom awoke late on Saturday morning, slumped over his desk, his runes were complete. It was funny, because he didn’t remember finishing them. But there they were, so he must’ve done. Maybe he was losing his mind. He felt like he was losing his mind.

Fucking Harry Potter.

He couldn’t wait around any longer. Tonight, he’d escape. Tonight, he’d get himself a wand.

*****

“How do you think he found out?” Hermione whispered.

It was Saturday morning, and Harry and his friends were huddled in a secluded corner of the Gryffindor common room, heads together.

“Could’ve been anyone,” said Fred.

Sagely, George nodded. “He’s always surrounded by dimwits.”

“I’m surprised it took this long,” said Hermione.

“Don’t worry, Harry,” Ron said, leaning over to clap him on the back. “McGonagall said they won’t let Riddle kill you.”

”Fantastic,” Harry said, “That’s very reassuring.”

Really, Harry thought Riddle had known about the whole Boy-Who-Lived thing for a while; they’d been staring daggers at each other across the Great Hall for at least two weeks. Besides, Harry had always known Riddle would figure it out eventually. It had been a matter of when. And now this Riddle was indistinguishable from the diary: biding his time until he could lure Harry down into the Chamber and murder him with a callous grin and a basilisk’s stare.

“Keep your cloak on you,” Hermione said. “And the map – oh, we could use it to keep a watch on him!”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “Good idea.”

Ginny glanced up from her homework, frowning. Harry caught her eye; she kept quiet, looking back to her parchment.

“We could kill him first?” Fred suggested.

Hermione frowned. “Don’t joke about things like that.”

“It’s not a joke,” George said. “Harry already got rid of that diary. That’s all this one is, right? Another diary.”

“I dunno if You-Know-Who is introspective enough to have more than one diary,” said Ron.

Harry and the twins laughed, but Hermione’s frown deepened. “You should take this more seriously. I know Riddle can’t do anything too overt without Dumbledore stepping in, but he could make something look like an accident! Maybe you shouldn’t play Quidditch anymore, Harry.”

Aghast, they all gaped at her.

“I’m going to keep playing Quidditch,” Harry said.

“But Quirrell –”

“Riddle won’t try anything until he’s talked to me first.”

“How are you so sure?”

Harry shrugged. “That’s what the other one did. He won’t let me die quickly – and he’s dramatic, he’ll want to say his piece - or at least figure out why the curse backfired.”

“Right,” Hermione said, looking a bit queasy.  Strangely, Harry didn’t feel queasy at all - he felt better. It was all in the open now. “Well, I’m going to go and tell McGonagall.”

“Enjoy,” said Fred. “I still vote kill him.”

George nodded. “Let us into the chamber and we’ll grab you a basilisk fang, Harry.”

“He’s got an actual body,” said Ron. “I say all you need is a knife from the kitchens.”

Huffing, Hermione left.

Later, once Fred and George were distracted by the possibilities of using basilisk venom in their joke products, and Ginny had disappeared upstairs, Ron muttered, “Seriously though, maybe you should stay in the tower after curfew.”

“Why? Riddle’s locked in his room at night.”

“I know, but – I don’t think you should be alone, Harry. Stick with us, alright?”

Harry gave a noncommittal noise. Dumbledore’s wards were plenty strong enough to keep Riddle in – the occasional ache in Harry’s shoulder was proof of that.

Ron opened his mouth to say more, but then Angelina yelled at them across the common room: “Practise begins in twenty minutes, you dolts. Get out of your pyjamas!” – and Harry, more scared of Angelina than he was of Riddle, scrambled upstairs.

*****

Harry had no intention of heeding Ron’s warning. Armed with his wand, invisibility cloak, and map, and sitting beside a snoozing auror (Singh today, she always fell asleep by one o’clock), what did Harry have to fear? Riddle couldn’t kill him through a locked door. Probably.

Tapping his wand on his knee, Harry thought. Were Fred and George right? Should they kill Riddle? When Harry was angry he certainly felt that way – he viciously felt that way. Everything wrong with his life seemed to be Riddle’s fault – Riddle or Voldemort’s. They were one and the same, really. But in a more rational, relaxed state of mind, Harry was less sure.

He imagined it: stunning Riddle in the library, standing over his slumped, unconscious body, and holding his wand to Riddle’s throat. Could he cast that spell? The one that had killed his father, his mother, Cedric. Harry wasn’t sure. Perhaps a simple cutting spell instead. His stomach clenched; he felt sick.

Moonlight streamed in through the arched windows, bathing Singh’s dozing form in a soft glow. He envied her. Sleep came so rarely these days, and when it did come, it terrorised him. Locked doors; Cedric’s blank, grey eyes; Wormtail’s wheezing gasps; Voldemort’s thin, skeletal figure rising steadily from a black cauldron; Riddle’s sly smirk.

And now Riddle knew.

Harry leant his head against the wall, closing his eyes, matching his breaths to Singh’s snores. Why did sleep come easier here, on a cold stone floor outside a psychopath’s cell rather than his soft bed? His scar tingled, but he felt a strange, tired comfort. Like something in the air willed him to relax.

Let sleep come. Just a few hours.

There was a noise. Blearily, Harry blinked opened his eyes. The moonlight had shifted; the sky lightened to those deep greys of early dawn. And something else was different: his scar didn’t hurt. He took a moment to appreciate that; his scar always hurt here. His scar…

Harry jolted upright, scrambling for the map. Singh stirred and he froze, heart hammering. But then she snored, and Harry – more carefully – unfolded the parchment.

Oh, fuck.

Riddle wasn’t in his room.

Harry flipped through the map, searching. There! On the third floor by the Charms classroom, alone.

Cursing, Harry scrambled to his feet. The ‘Tom Riddle’ name tag was moving steadily down the corridor towards an old servants’ staircase that led to the ground floor. Was he headed for the main entrance? Was he leaving Hogwarts to join Voldemort? Surely he couldn’t apparate without a wand.

A wand... Shit.

Yanking his invisibility cloak tight, Harry sprinted down the corridor. Riddle had a head start, but from his position, he couldn’t have known about the passageway hidden behind Catherine the Great’s portrait. Harry took the steps three at a time, pausing only briefly as Peeves whizzed past, whistling.

Lost and found, four turns away from the kitchens.

As Harry neared, he yanked the map out again. Riddle approached the room he’d sat in with Ron and Hermione several weeks ago, slipping in seconds before Harry rounded the corner. Racing, breath coming in gasps, Harry fumbled slightly with his own wand. He was invisible, Riddle wouldn’t know he’d been followed. He’d have the advantage.

It struck Harry, just as he burst through the door, that he had not for a moment considered waking Singh.

“Expelliarmus!”

The wand Riddle’s fingers had barely graced flew across the room, clattering against the far wall. In the darkness, Riddle was but a tall shadow ducking behind a teetering pile of boxes and rusted filing cabinets. Pain slammed into Harry’s scar, taking his breath away, causing his eyes to stream. Gasping, he fired blind stunners into the shadowy corner.

Something hard and round slammed into his shoulder, followed by the splintering sound of shattering glass. Harry conjured a shield just as two more crystal balls flew towards him, his shoulder aching. More echoes of smashing glass.

“Bombarda!” Harry yelled. The boxes obscuring Riddle scattered and burst, flinging a cascade of paper, tattered cloaks, and faded house scarfs into the air.

Riddle rushed through the debris, following the source of the spell, managing to dodge a hasty impedimenta and collide with Harry, throwing them both to the ground.

For a moment they tumbled, Harry kicking out, back stinging from landing on broken glass. His knee contacted Riddle’s abdomen, eliciting a sharp hiss just as his wand hand slammed into the floor, Riddle’s fingers curled tightly around Harry’s wrist.

With his free hand, Harry felt for a sliver of the glass, slashing at Riddle’s upper arm. Hot blood trickled down his hand and Riddle let out a satisfying cry. As the older boy scrambled to get the glass away from him, Harry managed to twist his wand hand and cast a stunner.

It missed.

The red glow briefly illuminated the room before it crashed into the ceiling, showering them both with flecks of stone. Scar exploding in pain, Harry tried to squirm free, tried to leverage his weight to flip Riddle but the git was both stronger and heavier than him, his hands finding Harry’s wrists and pinning them to the floor.

Harry did not give up. He thrashed, trying to kick Riddle anywhere he could reach, until Riddle sat on Harry’s thighs, and he couldn’t kick anymore. From above him came a breathy laugh.

“Fuck you,” Harry spat.

In one fluid motion, Riddle pounced, his knee pressing on Harry’s forearm, his fingers clawing at Harry’s fist until Riddle prised the wand from his grip. And suddenly, Harry couldn’t move. A sticking charm, he realised, gluing him to the floor.

Riddle waved Harry’s wand and a silver light swelled at the tip, breaking free then floating above them, bathing the small room in light.

Harry glowered mutinously up at Riddle. The prick was grinning. He didn’t look like he did during the day, perfectly polite and put together, a gleaming smile on his lips. Instead, his high cheekbones were flushed, his dark hair loose and tousled, sweat beading on his forehead, his chest rising and falling rapidly beneath stiff, cotton pyjamas. And his grin - it was a feral thing, a promise of pain.

Perhaps Harry ought to have been scared, but he only felt a blunt satisfaction that he could force Riddle to drop his mask like this, to be himself.

“Hello, Potter,” Riddle said. With Harry no longer able to move, he sat back on Harry’s chest and swept hair out of his eyes. His gaze flicked to Harry’s left shoulder, and he tilted his head.

“Is that an invisibility cloak?”

In the tumble, Harry’s cloak had scrunched up beneath him, and Riddle leant forwards, running the hem of the silvery material between his long fingers.

Thinking the question had been rhetorical (and not caring to answer if it wasn’t), Harry snarled with as much venom as he could muster, “Piss off, you fucking wanker.”

“Charming,” Riddle said, dropping the cloak and grabbing a fistful of Harry’s hair, yanking his head back and levelling his wand at Harry’s throat. Riddle might then have said something else, but the pressure of his palm against Harry’s head caused a fresh wave of pain in his scar. His ears rung and the dark room flashed white.

“Get off!” he cried.

Riddle ignored him. He trailed Harry’s wand upwards, using it to flick some stray strands of hair away from his forehead, then brushed his thumb against Harry’s scar. When Harry yelled, he cast a silencing charm on the door. Then, finally, he sat back onto Harry’ chest again and let go of his hair.

“That hurts you,” he said, curious.

Head spinning, Harry growled, “Very fucking astute.”

Riddle only smirked. “It’s like our own little crucio,” he said, and then - as if to prove his point - touched Harry’s scar again.

Blood pooled in Harry’s mouth as he bit his tongue to not cry out.

But this time, when Riddle pulled back, a frown had replaced his smirk, and he absently lifted a hand to touch his own head. Blinking away white spots, Harry didn’t pay this much heed.

“You’re fucking psycho!”

Riddle’s frown deepened. For a moment he stared down at him, and Harry had a brief, worrying vision of Riddle deciding to kill him then and there. But then his expression cleared and he moved, lifting the crushing weight from Harry’s chest and allowing some of the pain to ebb from his scar. Riddle settled cross-legged on the floor beside him, resting the wand on Harry’s throat.

“It’s kind of you to indulge me, Potter,” he said. “I’ve wanted to talk to you for so long.”

Despite Riddle’s casual tone, there was a murderous gleam in his dark eyes – murderous enough that panic fluttered in Harry’s stomach. Maybe he should’ve listened to Ron. Too late now.

“Talk?” Harry asked, trying to ignore the slam of his heart against his ribs. “I thought you’d want to kill me.”

“I’m thinking about it,” Riddle said, smiling. “But I haven’t made up my mind yet. Perhaps if you’re nice –”

“Go to hell,” Harry growled.

Riddle laughed, though it seemed pained. He held the arm Harry had slashed at an awkward angle. “I’ve heard all about you – the famous Harry Potter.” Riddle said his name slowly, as if deciding how it tasted. “How you defeated Lord Voldemort as a powerless child.”

Harry glowered up at him. He should play along, stalling Riddle until Dumbledore came to his rescue, but talking to this prick? Having a conversation that felt like deja-vu?

“You’re so expressive,” Riddle said. Lightly, his fingers brushed Harry’s face. “It’s partly why everyone thinks you’re crazy. That and all the lies we keep feeding them. Did you know some people think you killed that boy. What was his name? Cedric?”

“Don’t talk about him.”

“Why? Is that a sore spot, Potter? Don’t worry, I don’t want to talk about Cedric. I want to know why Lord Voldemort let you leave his little resurrection party.”

“He didn’t let me leave. I escaped.”

“Did you?” Riddle asked, amused.

“Yes!” Harry snapped. “Because Voldemort was so fucking arrogant that he wouldn’t let any of his minions touch me – he had to kill me himself.”

Riddle’s smile fell, like an anchor dropped into a stormy sea. “You know, you’re the only two who call him that: you and Dumbledore.” The headmaster’s name curled around his lips. “Aren’t you afraid of him, Potter?”

“I’m not afraid of death.”

“You should be,” Riddle whispered, and he touched Harry’s scar again. The pain burned.

“You can’t kill me,” Harry managed, struggling to make his mouth move. “Dumbledore –he won’t let you get away with it!”

“I can be gone long before he finds your body.”

“Gone where? To Voldemort? How well will that go?”

Riddle gripped his hair again, digging the wand further into Harry’s throat, watching ragged gasps fall from Harry’s lips. His expression turned ugly. “Maybe I don’t care about Dumbledore, Potter. Maybe I don’t care about consequences. Maybe I just want to kill you.”

Unfortunately, Harry didn’t think he was bluffing. Gasping, he said, “I thought you were smart.”

Riddle glared down at him, and for the second time Harry thought he might actually kill him. But, despite his anger, Riddle was smart; the back of Harry’s head smacked the floor as Riddle released it.

“Tell me what you know about the Chamber of Secrets.”

Harry glared. “No.”

“Fine,” said Riddle. “I’ll take it from your head. I’m very good at legilimency.”

Harry closed his eyes.

“Don’t be difficult, Potter.”

Harry had every intention of being difficult.

“I know it reopened three years ago and you had something to do with it.”

“I had something to do with it closing,” Harry said, unable to help himself. Carefully, he peeked through his eyelashes. Riddle didn’t look like he was immediately going to tear into Harry’s mind so he opened his eyes the rest of the way. “I know you opened it fifty years ago and killed Myrtle Warren.”

“Oh, was that her name?”

“You’re fucking awful.”

Riddle grinned. “How did it close?”

Harry said nothing.

“Would you like to scream again?”

Harry did not, and besides, he wanted to throw Riddle off balance. “I know you’re not a time traveller.”

A flicker crossed Riddle’s face, and Harry grinned, wild. “I met your diary.”

This time it was not a flicker, but a spasm. The wand at Harry’s throat blazed hot and Riddle’s eyes flashed red.

Maybe the pain was doing something funny to his head, but Harry wanted to laugh. “You’re like him, aren’t you? There was another diary, or another object. You had to drain someone’s life to be like this.”

“Show me what you know,” Riddle said, and the light, teasing tone was gone; he sounded angry, nervous even.

Harry screwed his eyes shut.

“Look at me.”

The words flowed through his ears, soothing the beating pain in his forehead, softly caressing his mind, fluttering his eyelids. It took great effort to push the voice aside, keeping his eyes squeezed closed.

“Fine,” Riddle snapped, moving the wand to his temple. “This’ll hurt more.” He slid a finger beneath Harry’s glasses and, despite Harry’s best effort to stop him, pushed his eyelid up. “Legilimens.”

He, Ron, and Lockhart in the damp, dark tunnel. The memory charm backfiring, a deafening crash, a wall of rubble. Ginny’s lifeless body draped over a wet, stone floor. The diary, lying open. Riddle, younger, calling forth a great serpent, sharp hisses that coalesced into words falling from his throat; the shudder as its huge, twisting body hit the ground. A heavy sword, blood, horrible pain, Fawkes. The diary, destroyed.

The black ceiling spun, pain pounded on Harry’s skull. He though Riddle might’ve said something, but it was hard to distinguish words. “What?” he croaked.

A hand gripped Harry’s chin. In the darkness, Riddle’s eyes shone bright. “How do you understand parseltongue?”

That was what the bastard focussed on?

Riddle’s fingers on his chin flexed. “Answer me.”

He’d used the same flowy words as before, and in Harry’s daze, he couldn’t prevent them taking hold. “Dumbledore believes Voldemort transferred some of his powers to me when he tried to kill me as a baby.”

For a moment, Riddle just stared. Then, he asked, “You speak it too?”

“Yes,” Harry said, in English, on the urge of vomiting. He swallowed hard. He didn’t trust Riddle not to let him choke.

“Go on, then.”

“I can’t do it on command.”

“When can you do it?”

“I don’t know – in front of a snake.”

Riddle dropped his hand from Harry’s chin and the pain blissfully subsided. The wand from Harry’s neck, tracing a complicated line through the air.

Harry realised what Riddle was doing a split second too late. “Wait! That wasn’t an invitation –”

The snake landed on his chest with a heavy thump.

He yelled, trying to squirm and throw it off, but the sticking charm held firm.

She looked at him, yellow eyes wide, pink tongue flickering.

“Get it off!”

Riddle said nothing, he only sat back and watched their exchange, eyes bright with fevered curiosity.

The snake’s tongue flickered again, tasting the stench of Harry’s fear. She drew her head back, the skin around her mouth tightening, revealing short, sharp fangs.

Harry tried more wriggling, but it was no use.

Her throat flared; her eyes flashed.

“Stop!” Harry yelled, this time (presumably) in parseltongue.

She disappeared with a light pop.

Riddle continued to stare.

“Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

Riddle remained silent; presumably, the answer to that was yes. Finally – after enough time passed that Harry began to feel a bit awkward – he asked, “Have you... inherited any more of our powers?”

“Why are you bothering to ask if you can just take the answer from my mind?”

Riddle tilted his head, considering. “Good point.”

As he raised the wand, Harry yelped. “Wait! I – I get dreams, or visions, where I see what he’s doing.”

Riddle’s eyes never strayed from his face. “Have you always had these?”

“Since he started regaining strength.”

“Have you seen anything from my mind?”

“Unless you dream about locked doors every night, I don’t think so.”

“I never remember my dreams,” Riddle said thoughtfully. “What else?”

“Er... Emotions. Whenever he’s really happy, or angry, I feel the same. Mostly angry.”

Riddle laughed dryly. “Yes, I’d noticed you have a temper.”

“It’s your fault,” Harry bit back.

Riddle cocked his head. “Can you feel my emotions?”

Harry thought. Could he? Riddle’s presence firmly locked him in fight or flight mode – thinking about emotions was hard.

“I feel yours,” Riddle said. “You’re panicking.”

“I am not!”

“Yes, you are. You do fear death, Harry Potter.”

Riddle gaze gleamed red at the edges, and he raised the wand. Perhaps Harry was panicking – just a little. Surely Riddle wouldn’t kill him, despite his cold anger. Would he really give up everything he had at Hogwarts – Umbridge’s trust and power, sanctuary from Voldemort – just to kill Harry? Harry wasn’t so special.

Riddle waved the wand, and Harry’s heart fluttered.

The sticking charm vanished.

Bemused, Harry lay there a moment longer - then, he came to his senses and leapt to his feet, springing as far back from Riddle as the tiny room would allow. A pile of books tottered on a bench beside him and Harry grabbed one, clutching it in a manner he hoped looked threatening.

“Why did you do that?”

Riddle stood. “I believe I can help with your anger issues.”

Harry froze, dumbfounded. “What?”

“The connection you have to Lord Voldemort. I can help you manage it.”

Harry had to repeat the words in his mind to make sure he’d understood correctly. “Why?”

Riddle smiled, twirling Harry’s wand in his left hand. “Because Lord Voldemort wants you dead and I haven’t yet decided whether my interests align with his. Also,” the smile sharpened, “You’re easily the most interesting person at this school and I’m bored.”

“That doesn’t feel like a compliment.”

“It honestly was.”

“You’re fucking mental! Why would I agree to be in a room with you ever again?”

Riddle cocked his head. “If you say no, I’ll kill you.”

Harry glared. “You just said you weren’t going to!”

“Alright, I’ll kill your friends. I’m not fussy.”

“None of these statements are helping your case!”

Riddle looked at him carefully. “Why did you follow me tonight?” he asked.

“To stop you stealing a wand and joining Voldemort.”

Riddle’s dark eyes narrowed. “Really?”

“Yes,” Harry bit out, hating how the smallest seed of doubt crept into his voice. At Hogwarts, Riddle was perfectly placed to feed Voldemort information – that was, if the two Voldemorts could even work together. And if Riddle had gotten a wand, Harry could’ve gone to McGonagall, or Dumbledore and they’d have confiscated it by morning. Then, there was the point that it didn’t even cross Harry’s mind to wake Singh up.

He flushed, hoping Riddle wouldn’t notice in the dark. Had he really thrown himself into danger for nothing?

Was it for nothing? A small voice seemed to whisper in his head. Didn’t it feel good to do something? Wasn’t it exhilarating?

“Have you tried occlumency?” Riddle asked.

“Occlu- what?”

Riddle nodded, satisfied. For a moment, he just looked at Harry, eyes glinting in the darkness, then he said, “I should go before I’m missed. I’ll see you again soon, Potter.”

“What?! I haven’t –”

The bastard fucking left, the door swinging closed and leaving Harry alone in the dark, about as confused as he’d ever been. “Hey!” he shouted a moment later. “My wand!”

Harry raced out into the corridor. Riddle had vanished, but his wand lay on the stone floor. “What the fuck?” Harry hissed, snatching his wand up. “Git!”

Rationalising that he should do at least one vaguely sensible thing tonight, Harry raced straight for Dumbledore’s office, checking the map as he went. It didn’t take long for the ‘Tom Riddle’ name tag to show up back in his room.

The stone gargoyle had its eyes closed when Harry skidded to a halt, out of breath. Hogwarts couldn’t invest in some escalators, could they?

“Uh, chocolate frogs?” he panted.

One eye creaked open. “If you don’t know the password, go away,” it said, its gritty voice grinding against Harry’s ears.

“No, I do, sorry,” Harry lied. “Fizzing whizbangs.”

“Nope.” The eye closed.

“Strawberry quills?”

“Listen kid,” it said, eyes still closed. “I’m sleeping, Professor Dumbledore’s sleeping. Why not come back in the morning?”

“It’s urgent!”

“It’s always urgent.”

“Candied kittens?”

“Go away.”

“Ah, Harry.”

Nerves strung taught, Harry jumped, spinning. Dumbledore walked down the corridor towards him, a steaming ‘I Found the Thirteenth Use for Dragon’s Blood’ mug in hand, wearing a purple, starry dressing-gown, matching fluffy slippers, and floppy wizard’s hat. It was the first time they’d been this close since Harry’s hearing.

“What’s the midnight emergency?” Dumbledore asked conversationally. He kept his eyes on his mug, half-moon glasses fogging as he took a sip.

“I ran into Riddle.”

“Ah,” Dumbledore said, taking a second, much deeper, sip. “Would you mind, Feldspar?”

The gargoyle, whose eyes had opened upon Dumbledore’s arrival nodded, looked as disappointed as a stone could manage, then froze in place.

Dumbledore turned towards a nearby window, the light of dawn illuminating his profile. “How did it go?”

To the best of his ability, Harry recounted the tale, omitting only a few ‘unnecessary’ details. Staring intently at Riddle’s name on a map outside his bedroom wasn’t too dissimilar to studying late and nodding off past curfew.

Dumbledore hummed along to his story, staring off into the distant trees of the Forbidden Forest. Once Harry finished, he stayed that way for a while, cocoa slowly cooling in his hands.

“I am sorry this happened, Harry,” he said eventually. “It is unfortunate that Tom must remain at Hogwarts for now.”

“He couldn’t go to Azkaban?” Harry asked hopefully.

“No, not Azkaban. Alas, there are few remaining places out of Voldemort’s grasp.”

A shiver ran down Harry’s spine.

“Though I am regretful how it came about, the information you have provided has been remarkably insightful and has confirmed one or two of my theories.”

“That Riddle is like the diary, Professor?”

“Precisely, Harry.” Still, Dumbledore had not looked at him.

“Do you know what it- he is? Last time, you said the diary was like a memory? But Riddle’s real.”

Dumbledore paused, then said, “I have an educated guess. I’m afraid it’s not information I’m willing to part with yet.”

“Oh.”

“Occlumency,” Dumbledore said, moving swiftly on. “It is a method of protecting your mind from magics that may seek to infiltrate it.”

“Like the connection between me and Voldemort?”

“Yes, like that. Learning it is a good suggestion. Professor Snape is an expert; it may be wise to arrange some lessons between the two of you.”

Harry blinked at him. His choices were Riddle or Snape? “I don’t know, Professor. Is there any chance Draco Malfoy might teach me instead?”

Dumbledore chuckled and started as if to glance in his direction before hastily pulling his gaze back towards the window. Harry’s stomach clenched. Why couldn’t Dumbledore at least look at him?

“If you’re not willing to work with Professor Snape then I’m afraid Tom is your alternative.”

“Is that… wise?”

“Not particularly, no. As Headmaster I am responsible for your wellbeing at Hogwarts and – while I do not believe Tom poses an immediate threat to your safety, as tonight has proved – I would be foregoing my duties if I encouraged you to spend time together, no matter how much useful information he may possess.”

Slowly, Harry nodded.

Dumbledore must have seen him through the faint reflections on the window. “I’ll speak with the house elves and ensure there are no more wands left lying around, so please don’t worry yourself with that. Tom did break my wards quicker than I anticipated - I thought another two weeks at least. I shall have to try harder next time.”

“Okay, thank you, sir.”

“Is there anything else, Harry?”

Harry paused, wetting his lips. There were many things. Where Hagrid was, what the Order were up to, why Dumbledore had left him alone to deal with Umbridge and a mob of students who hated him. But here - in front of Dumbledore - bringing those up suddenly felt like failure, an admission that Harry couldn’t handle the pressure.

Instead, he said, “Um, Professor, can I ask… What the papers said about you and Grindelwald...?”

Dumbledore sighed. “I’m afraid one does not become as wise as I without making a great many mistakes, and my mistakes were both great and many. For those who grew up without it, unconditional attention is a powerful drug, Harry.”

“Right.”

“And Harry? Before you go, I’m afraid I must deduct ten points from Gryffindor. We are about seven hours past curfew after all.”

“Oh, yes, sorry, Professor.”

“Let’s try our best to keep these midnight wanderings to a minimum, shall we? There are several other members of staff who are far stricter than I.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Goodnight, Harry.”

“Goodnight.”

As Harry left, he caught Dumbledore’s reflection turning to watch him. The shame he’d felt earlier for rushing after Riddle with abandon washed away, leaving a strangled sense of victory. Harry may be rash, but he was also useful. There were no other Order members Riddle would speak with. How long had Tonks been babysitting him now? A month and a half? Yet Harry was the one to get information. After one conversation! Information that might help them defeat Voldemort. He had done something, and it felt good.

Chapter Text

“Harry, what did you do?! You dim-witted, unbelievably stupid, impetuous little –”

“Hermione!”

“–Are you trying to get yourself killed? Are you –”

“Hermione, stop!” Ron managed to grab the pillow she’d been whacking Harry with.

“Thanks,” Harry said sheepishly, rubbing his arm.

“I’m not finished! Ronald –”

“You might kill him if you’re not careful –”

“Give that –”

“No.” Ron chucked it over to Neville’s bed, hopefully out of her grasp.

Furious, Hermione turned to Harry, trying to murder him with a steely glare instead. “And why did you think running after You-Know-Who was a good idea?”

“Well, I didn’t –”

“You didn’t think!” Hermione finished.

Harry looked helplessly to Ron, who shrugged. “I can’t support this, mate.”

“I told you: I talked to Dumbledore!” Harry said, and Hermione frowned, as if trying to figure out why Dumbledore would encourage his stupid plan when Ron Weasley wouldn’t. “…Afterwards.”

She rolled her eyes.

“But we now know Riddle’s like the diary! He’s not a time-traveller, Hermione! Whatever that diary was, Voldemort made more of them. We need to figure out what they are – what he is. Dumbledore agrees it would be useful!”

“And did Professor Dumbledore specifically say that he wants you to get this information from Tom Riddle?”

Harry wetted his lips. “Well, sort of.”

“Sort of?”

“I mean, he didn’t want to suggest that I do anything dangerous –”

“So, he thinks this is dangerous –”

“–But I think he was hinting that I should –”

“Hinting?”

“That does sound like Dumbledore,” Ron said.

Hermione sighed. “Well, we should at least investigate occlumency. We can find some books, and you can set up a session with Professor Snape.”

Harry groaned and flopped back on his bed. “I don’t want Snape rifling through my thoughts.”

“And you’d rather have Tom Riddle do it instead?”

“No,” Harry huffed. Riddle’s intrusions into his mind last night had been exceptionally unpleasant, but having Snape read his most private thoughts? At least Harry could get away with cursing Riddle.  

“Maybe it’s just meditation,” Ron suggested.

“While someone jabs at your mind with a poker,” Harry said. “Really relaxing.”

“And Riddle did that to you?” Hermione asked, concerned. “I can’t believe he’s not getting expelled – or sent to Azkaban! Non-consensual legilimency is illegal.”

Lying on the bed, Harry shrugged, the red and gold duvet ticking his ears. “I can’t prove anything, and my word’s as good as mouldy bread nowadays. Anyway, it didn’t hurt that much.”

The pain from his scar had been worse. Not that he’d tell Ron and Hermione that – they’d only worry more.

“At least he didn’t kill you,” said Ron.

“Yeah – must’ve realised what great company I am.”

“Or he’s afraid of Dumbledore,” said Hermione primly, because that was, of course, the truth.

Although...

Thinking back on it, Harry had worried on multiple occasions during his and Riddle’s late night encounter that Riddle would kill him. Sure, murdering Harry wasn’t rational, but clever as he was, Tom Riddle could be driven by his emotions just as much as Harry, and he’d certainly seemed – felt – angry enough for murder. Only his need for information had stayed his wand. But then, after quizzing Harry on his connection to Voldemort, Riddle had abruptly changed moods. Why?

Harry didn’t even know where to start guessing. Perhaps he shouldn’t overanalyse the actions of a madman.

“Let’s start with books,” Hermione said, jumping to her feet, energised by the impending prospect of a Sunday morning spent in the library.

Harry and Ron exchanged a glance. Books ranked only slightly above Snape and Riddle as far as occlumency teachers went. Still, if Dumbledore didn’t want to teach him, books were the next option down. Harry sighed, sitting up and grabbing his jumper. “Alright. Let’s go and read.”

Hermione almost sprinted to the door.

*****

Tom’s mind was reeling, his arm wrapped and stinging where Potter had cut him, and for once he was grateful it was the weekend and he had nothing to do but lie on his bed, stare at the ceiling, and think.

Usually, Tom tried not to jump to conclusions. Conclusions required thorough research and careful consideration, a hypothesis and meticulous experimentation. Conclusions required evidence.

Yet, Tom had jumped to a very far-fetched conclusion. And, somehow, he had evidence.

He and Potter shared emotions and physical sensations; Potter was a parselmouth; Potter shared dreams with Lord Voldemort; Potter could slip, unnoticed, into his counterpart’s mind; and, when Tom had entered Potter’s mind, he’d felt something – a pull.

Harry Potter was a horcrux.

Closing his eyes, Tom felt for that connection with his counterpart, that invisible thread tying them together. There it was: cold, closed, stretching out across inky blackness. Just as Tom liked it. Leaving it, Tom searched in the other direction, thinking of the Potter boy. It was faint, so faint, but – there. A thin, warm cord, indistinct emotions shivering along its length. Tom was right, he was sure.

A horcrux.

Was it intentional? Did Lord Voldemort know? Surely he wouldn’t be trying so hard to kill the boy if he knew? Although, perhaps with seven horcruxes you could afford to lose one – especially one tied to an irritating, suicidal, bratty teenager.

No, Tom couldn’t make assumptions about Lord Voldemort’s knowledge yet.

So… What to do?

There was something undeniably thrilling about the discovery. Before Tom, no one had ever even created more than one horcrux, let alone placed one inside another, living human. What effects would there be? Why hadn’t the horcrux manifested itself more into Potter’s personality? (No horcrux of Tom’s should be as careless with its survival as Potter was). Tom wanted to study the connection further, even if that did mean spending more time with said irritating, suicidal, bratty teenager.

And he had another goal: to safely remove the horcrux. (‘Safely’ meaning maintaining the integrity of the horcrux, not maintaining the life of the Potter boy. In fact, he’d consider Potter dying in the process an upside).

The thought cheered him. Dumbledore’s threats be damned, Tom had been tempted to kill the boy last night – before the horcrux revelation, obviously – with Potter all dishevelled from their fight and defying him so deliciously. The 180-degree pivot to suddenly needing to keep Potter from jumping off the Astronomy tower, or crashing from his broom onto the Quidditch pitch, or having his brains bashed in by trolls in the Forbidden Forest or whatever other idiotic antics the Gryffindor dimwit got up to in his spare time was exhausting. This was why horcruxes went in nice, pretty, important objects, not living creatures.

(Tom decidedly ignored the fact that he was a living horcrux, too. Being a horcrux had been death and life was far more entertaining, so he didn’t dwell on it).

Abruptly, he pushed himself up and off the bed and stuck his head out of the door.

“Auror Upton, may we make a trip to the library? There’s a book I need for my Ancient Runes homework.”

Two minutes later, they were on the way to the library, Upton trailing behind him, an irksome shadow Tom hoped wouldn’t get in the way of his research. Herbert Upton was one of the bootlickers: a bald, weak-willed man Umbridge used to spy on him. Did that woman really think she was clever? Tom could hide anything he wanted from Umbridge. No, Dumbledore was the one to worry about, the one who knew too much –

Tom nearly missed a step.

His diary! Dumbledore had known about his diary for three years, he’d know about the Riddle from Potter’s memories. Could he have stumbled upon horcruxes in three years? How far would Dumbledore submerge himself in dark magic to stop Lord Voldemort?

Oh, fuck!

Dumbledore at the Riddle house, Dumbledore taking his ring... and Potter... Dumbledore had been the one to theorise some of Lord Voldemort’s powers had transferred to the boy when the killing curse backfired... could he guess Potter was a horcrux?

Then – if Dumbledore did know about Tom’s horcruxes, if he did know about Potter… He must know that for Lord Voldemort to be defeated, Harry Potter must die.

Unless…

Unless the horcrux was extracted.

Tom stopped walking.

Upton almost ambled into his back.

Was this Dumbledore’s plan? Let Tom, the local horcrux expert, do the old man’s dirty work and extract the horcrux embedded in Potter’s brain. Trick Tom into saving Potter’s life so Dumbledore could swoop in and destroy the horcrux, then he’d destroy Tom too.

“Riddle,” Upton said, reaching for his shoulder.

The auror let out a yowl, too loud in the silent, empty corridor. Cursing and wringing his hand, the man jerked away, tears spilling over his lashes as Tom’s magic sung. He truly was a dreadful auror. Tom should be offended the ministry thought him worth this.

Upton’s wand stuck out from his pocket, and Tom grabbed it. Before the auror could open his mouth, Tom cast the imperius curse, and the man’s gaze dulled.

Control.

After Tom’s momentary panic, it felt so good. The thrumming of magic in his veins, how it bent Upton’s will to Tom’s whim, making him his.

Tom glanced at the pale wand in his palm; would the spell hold when he relinquished it? Yes, he thought. His curse was strong, tendrils tangling into the auror’s brain, sinking their hooks, mindlessly batting away any resistance. The unforgivables had always been his specialty.

Sliding the wand back into Upton’s pocket, Tom patted his clean-shaven cheek. “Good boy,” he said to the man, at least fifteen years his senior. “Follow me.”

Of course, Tom needn’t give commands aloud, but it made him feel better. It made him feel powerful. More powerful than Dumbledore. How many horcruxes did the headmaster know of? Had he destroyed any others? How many were there? Seven? Eight, if Potter was accidental?

Right now, that didn’t matter. Tom would research extracting Potter’s horcrux – let Dumbledore think his plan was going smoothly – but he knew now how careful he must be... And how quickly he should kill Potter in the aftermath.

Tom hastened his pace. There was work to do.

*****

The library was Tom’s favourite place in Hogwarts. The knowledge and power thrumming between dusty pages, all those possibilities... plus the permission to tell teenagers to shut up. He settled at an empty table on the upper floor and took a moment to savour the smell of parchment and varnish, the feel of worn wood beneath his fingertips, warmed by the thin rays of October sun.

He had Upton sit opposite, unfolding his newspaper as usual. For a moment, Tom watched the man’s robotic movements then, reluctantly, loosened his hold on the curse until there remained only a thin tether between them. Upton settled more comfortably into his body.

As enjoyable as full control was, it wasn’t best practice for a long-term imperio. No, better to keep the leash long and imperceptible, then reel the auror in when needed.

“I’m going to browse,” Tom said, standing.

Upton shrugged, disappearing behind the paper. If Tom hadn’t spent so much time with this utter louse of a man, even he might’ve suspected an imperio.

His first stop was Ancient Runes – not for anything horcrux related. It was prudent to maintain a cover story (besides, Babbling did appreciate extracurricular reading).

Next, healing. The section had expanded since Tom’s days, brimming with glossy covers and thick research papers. A younger Hufflepuff was fishing out a book on basic healing charms. When she noticed Tom, she squeaked, dropping the book on her toe and fleeing.

Rolling his eyes, Tom rescued the discarded book, straightening its bent pages and wishing he could cast one of its spells on his injured arm. The cut stung like hell. He placed the book atop his Ancient Runes ones – he could probably bully Marietta into healing him. She was gullible enough to believe he’d injured it by dropping a razor or something. Or he could get Upton to do it.

Stupid, violent, Gryffindor horcrux.

Right, extractions.

It quickly became obvious that this was the wrong section. Healing was all about the physical: splinters, organs, bones, harpsichords... anything with a quantifiable volume could be removed from a human body. Souls, however, were anything but quantifiable.

Annoyed, Tom chewed his lip, thinking. Souls. Where would he find books on those? Back in the 40s, he’d tried to do his research – given his plan to split his own, it had seemed prudent. But information was scarce; souls were poorly understood.

What about memories, then? Both intangible and extracted from the body, they weren’t so different to souls. As good a next step as any.

Tom knew where to find books on the mind – legilimency was his earliest and greatest talent. As he approached the corner of the library near the restricted section, however, he heard voices. And one particular voice, Tom knew.

“But how am I supposed to think of nothing? Surely if I’m thinking of nothing, I’m thinking of something?”

“No, nothing is the absence of something –”

“What the hell does that mean, Hermione?”

“Yeah, you’ve lost me there, too.”

“We lost you at thoughts, Ronald –”

There came a yelp – Potter. Tom stilled in the row beside them, obscured by tomes and towering shelves.

“Your scar again?”

That was the Weasley boy, whispering. Tom pressed closer to the bookshelf.

“You need to tell Dumbledore, Harry!”

Tom heard Potter scoff. “What’s the point? ‘Excuse me, sir, I think Voldemort might be nearby’ – Ow, Ron! That hit my knee!”

There came a muffled, “Sorry.” Tom smirked.

“Still, I think he’d want to know –”

Potter snorted. “I don’t. He wouldn’t even look at me last night.”

So, Potter had run straight into Dumbledore’s arms after their conversation. No surprises there. But the headmaster wouldn’t look at him? Trouble in paradise?

“I’m sure –”

“I’m not telling him; can you just drop it?”

“What about writing to Snuffles?”

“Umbridge is reading my mail, I don’t want to risk it.”

“Fine – at least see Madame Pomfrey.”

“Somehow I doubt she has anything for soothing killing curse scars.”

“She might –”

“No, Hermione.”

“Don’t get mad at me, Harry. I’m only trying to help.”

“I’m not mad!”

But he was. Tom could feel it: an anger simmering beneath his skin, hot enough to scald. Perhaps…

He leant against the bookshelf and closed his eyes, breathing deeply, envisioning a sea of darkness, his connection to the boy a beam of green light. Physically close, it burned bright. Tom imagined it dimming, like starving an open flame, the beam growing darker and darker until… nothing.

Blissful emptiness. Closed, just like his connection to Lord Voldemort.

Much better.

He thought he heard Potter sigh. Did closing the connection ease his pain? Pity.

“Tom!”

His eyes flew open. Roisin Walsh. She grinned at him from the end of the row, Ancient Runes textbook tucked beneath her arm.

“I thought I wouldn’t see you until later! Do you like studying on Sunday mornings too? The library’s so peaceful at this time.”

Yeah, Tom had thought it was.

“What are you looking for?” she asked, joining him and peering at the nearby titles. “Pensieve Depths: Taking the Dive – interesting.”

“Ancient Runes actually,” Tom said, indicating his books, aware of how far his voice carried in the quiet. There was no way Potter couldn’t hear him. “Though currently I’m hiding from Upton. Being under constant watch is exhausting.” He gave her a rueful smile.

From the row beside them, there came a cry of, “Harry – don’t!” then Potter appeared at the end of the aisle, wand in hand, black hair messy, raring for a fight. Tom bit back a grin. Fighting hadn’t worked out so well for Potter last night.

“Eavesdropping, Riddle?” Potter hissed, eyes flashing behind those round glasses.

“No!” Tom said, trying his best to look indignant, gaze flicking to Roisin, assessing her reaction. Confusion: he didn’t blame her, it certainly looked suspicious. A different tack then. “I wasn’t! It’s just – I heard you with your friends and wondered… I wondered whether you could heal my arm.”

Potter stared at him, flanked now by Granger and Weasley. Roisin stared at Tom too, eyes on his sleeve as though trying to see through it. “What happened to your arm?” she asked.

“Potter and I got into an altercation yesterday.”

“You and… An altercation?” she repeated, glaring at Potter. The idiot was still gripping his wand with threatening menace. “What happened?”

“He was trying to steal a wand!”

“I was in bed.”

“No, you weren’t!”

“Show me your arm,” Roisin said to Tom, taking his books. “And put your wand away, Potter, for Heaven’s sake.”

Predictably, the boy didn’t lower it an inch, maintaining his glower as Tom pulled his jumper off. Blotches of red stained the strip of t-shirt he’d wrapped around his bicep last night. Gingerly, Roisin helped him unwrap it. The gash was a few inches long, as smooth as if caused by a slicing jinx, blood congealing along its length.

“Oh my God, Tom,” she exclaimed. “Why didn’t you go to the hospital wing? This could become infected!”

“I didn’t want to cause any trouble,” he said. “Professor Dumbledore’s suspicious enough of me already – I know he’s just looking for an excuse to lock me in my room. Please, don’t tell anyone, Roisin.”

Potter still had that delicious look of enraged fury splashed across his face, and Weasley was staring at the wound with obvious satisfaction. Only the Granger girl showed anything in the same wheelhouse as concern. (Probably, concern Tom could try and get Potter expelled. She needn’t have worried, Tom didn’t want Potter going anywhere).

“Fine,” Roisin said. “But sit down. I’ll try my best. And can you three go away? You’ve done enough damage.”

Potter looked angry enough to curse him. “It was self-defence!”

“I’m sure,” Roisin said dryly. “And are you injured?”

Potter flushed. Tom hoped he’d say something ridiculous like: ‘He made my scar hurt,’ but alas, apparently his horcrux had a modicum of restraint. The Gryffindor settled for snarling, “You’re such a liar!”

Roisin sent the trio a reproachful glare, then dragged Tom to the nearest desk.

The Granger girl tugged on Potter’s sleeve. “Just leave it, Harry,” she said.

Potter glared a moment longer and Tom took the opportunity, when Roisin’s back was turned and Granger and Weasley were angled away, to wink. Because yes, he had excellent self-control; so excellent, in fact, that he allowed himself the occasional indulgence in theatrics.

It sent the boy to the brink of murder. Not that Potter would go that far… Tom thought. He seemed like the type to be morally resistant to murder. Unfortunately, Granger pulled his horcrux away before Tom could test his hypothesis.

Once he and Roisin were seated, she poked her wand at his arm. Hopefully, the girl knew what she was doing. “I can’t believe you brought a healing book over,” she said, disgustingly fond. “Potter hates you.”

“I’m aware.”

“I don’t really blame him though – I’ll use the medela charm, if you don’t mind. It won’t heal the wound completely, but I know I can cast it.”

“That’s fine – Why don’t you blame him? Am I that horrible to be around?”

She smirked. “No, you’re nauseatingly charming, Tom. But Potter does seem to believe that you’re… you know. And if you were, I’d hate you too.”

“How are you so sure I’m not? I don’t know what my future is.”

Snorting, she said, “You’re not really worried about that, are you? None of us know what our futures hold – stay still – but last Thursday you offered Katie your Transfiguration essay when Alica accidentally turned hers into a pigeon, even though McGonagall gives out detentions at the drop of a hat now we’re doing NEWTs. Besides, you don’t speak parseltongue.”

Of course, Tom had only offered his homework to Katie Bell because McGonagall would get the most delightfully irritated expression anytime she caught him being nice (and his essays were certainly identifiable), and because Bell was an in to the Gryffindor Quidditch team – a perfect place for a Potter-related ‘accident’. With some annoyance, Tom reflected that he’d now need to exploit that relationship to instead keep Potter on a broom.

Roisin flicked her wand, and a numbing warmth spread along his bicep, the skin knitting itself back together as she frowned, concentrating.

Tom was beginning to resent Umbridge too for encouraging him to lie about speaking parseltongue. A connection to the Slytherin line was easier to explain from the get-go rather than having it come out unexpectedly halfway through the year. He wouldn’t let that happen, of course, but now knowing Potter was a speaker… He’d need to keep his guard up.

“All done,” Roisin announced. “There’s still a mark, but it shouldn’t stick around long.”

“Thank you,” Tom said, inspecting his arm. She’d done a decent job; only a thin, pink line remained. He pulled his jumper back on. “I didn’t think they taught healing until seventh year.”

“They don’t. I… taught myself a few things.”

“How mysterious.”

She stood, gathering their books. “My parents practice. I help out.”

“I thought you were muggleborn?”

“I am. I meant they practice muggle medicine. Do you have a table? We can make a start on Babbling’s runes.”

“Upstairs.”

“Excellent.”

On the balcony, Tom caught her wrist. “You won’t tell anyone, Roisin, about the fight with Potter? Not even Natalie?”

The Ravenclaw bit her lip, but sighed, just as Tom knew she would. Not even Natalie. Everybody loved to be special.

“No, not if you don’t want me to. But Tom – it’s very sweet that you went to Potter for help because you didn’t want anyone else to know – but, next time, and I hope there’s not a next time, come to me.” Me, not us. “I know you think you can charm him – heaven forbid, you could charm the tail off a Blast Ended Skrewt – but not Potter. You can’t. Stay clear of him.”

Tom promised he would, and they rejoined Upton, extracting parchment and quills. Frustratingly, he’d need to find another time to pursue his extracurricular. Harry Potter was his extracurricular. Harry Potter and that errant sliver of soul lodged in his forehead.

You can’t charm him, Roisin had warned… And didn’t that just sound like a delightful challenge?

Chapter Text

“He’s such a fucking prick,” Harry spat, squishing his flobberworm so viciously that juice shot across the desk, landing with a splat on Ron’s cheek.

“Thanks, mate,” Ron said, wrinkling his nose and wiping it off.

Harry scraped the rest of the worm into the cauldron, remembering too late that it was the juice he needed, not the body. The potion turned a fleshy pink and started spitting.

“Why doesn’t Umbridge make him carve up his hand? That bastard lies every time he opens his mouth!”

“Yeah, I know. Are you done with the Alaskan salts?”

Harry slammed the shaker down beside Ron, spilling salt onto the workbench. “And have you seen how he interacts with those Ravenclaw girls? Like he’s some perfect Prince-fucking-Charming and not a sadistic, murdering git. ‘Oh, Potter attacked me, Roisin, I’m so innocent’. Like hell, you sod.”

“You know their names?”

“Yes. Don’t you? No way Riddle keeps up the model student act all year – he’ll hurt one of them. He’ll get bored or will decide he needs human entrails for a ritual or something. He’ll snap.”

“Mmhmm.”

“Are you listening to me?” Harry hissed.

“Yeah, Harry, but I’m also trying to make my potion. Snape said if I don’t get an EE this week, he’ll owl my mum. And… you know, mate… I’m glad you’ve found a better outlet for your anger than snapping at me and Hermione, but it’s –”

“Didn’t you see him in the hall yesterday, making them giggle? He’s awful, and I bet he’s not even funny. If he wasn’t so bloody good-looking, they wouldn’t even give him the time of day.”

“Right,” Ron said, carefully shaking salt into his potion. “At least it gives Cho an excuse to sit with you.”

“Oh, yeah,” Harry said, brightening. He and Cho had agreed to make a habit of doing homework together in the Great Hall on Thursdays before Cho’s Quidditch practice. “Still, it’s like they don’t even realise they’re hanging out with baby Voldemort –”

Ron swore. He’d jumped at the name and dropped the saltshaker into his potion. Fumes thickened the air, stinking of rotten fruit.

“For Merlin’s sake, Harry!” Ron snapped, levitating the shaker free. “Trust me, I hate that slimy git as much as you do – it was my sister he messed with – but do you have to bang on about him all the time? Can’t we just pretend he doesn’t exist?”

That was all well and good for Ron to say; he didn’t have a scar that burned any time Harry and Riddle got within ten metres of each other, or if Riddle was in a particularly foul mood.

“You’re just… I think you might be a tad obsessed.”

“I’m not obsessed!” Harry said. He wasn’t! If he watched Riddle move around the map, if he knew Riddle’s schedule, if he slept outside Riddle’s door, it was because he had to.

For safety.

“My goodness,” drawled an oily voice behind them. Ron and Harry stilled. “Here I thought we were brewing the antidote for toxin inhalation, Weasley, not causing it, and I don’t know what that mess is, Potter. Distracted, are we?”

“No, sir,” Harry bit out.

Snape flicked his wand and Harry’s potion vanished. “Another fail,” he said softly. “My, my, Potter, I do hope you’re not as abysmal in your other subjects as you are at potions. Three OWLs are the minimum requirement for sixth-year and wouldn’t we all be devastated if you didn’t return?

“And you, Weasley, five points from Gryffindor for attempting to asphyxiate the class. If you figure out how to prevent your potion smoking like a middle-aged housewife, I’ll consider awarding you an A – Acceptable is below Exceeds Expectations, Weasley, in case you'd forgotten.”

And Snape flapped away, off to interrogate Dean who had flames lapping along the surface of his potion.

“Twat,” Ron muttered. “Are you still going to talk to him after class?”

“You should, Harry,” Hermione said from across their table, just visible through the fumes. Her potion was a perfect, gleaming magenta.

“Have you been listening in the whole time?” Ron asked.

“You weren’t very quiet.”

Ron grumbled something about how he’d been perfectly quiet, and that Hermione could’ve dealt with Harry’s ranting for a change.

“Talk to Professor Snape, Harry, please?” she said. “We’ve tried our best with the books, but you need to practice with someone who’s good at occlumency.”

“Yeah. Fine,” Harry said, dully clearing up. Dragging himself to the dungeons twice a week for potions was difficult enough – to do it again so Snape could poke around his mind? But, as usual, Hermione was right: he needed a teacher. If he read the words ‘clear your mind’ and ‘breathe’ one more time, he might punch someone. Riddle, preferably.

Later, as the rest of the class filed out, Ron gave him a sympathetic pat on the back, and Hermione whispered, “Good luck! We’ll see you in Charms after break. Remember, Harry, occlumency’s important!”

Dread settling in his stomach, Harry nodded stiffly. Why couldn’t Flitwick be a master occlumens? Hell, he’d take Trelawney.

His dread only mounted when Malfoy and his cronies hung back too, in less of a rush to escape Snape’s greasy presence than the Gryffindors. Malfoy must have said something extraordinarily witty because Pansy Parkinson was in peals of laughter.

“Run along, now,” Snape said to them, tone verging sickeningly on friendly. “I have another class to prepare for.”

That was Riddle’s class, Harry knew. Double Potions after morning break on a Tuesday. (This he knew for his personal safety. Not because he was obsessed).

Half-hidden by a stone pillar, Harry loitered by his desk. The Slytherins were taking their sweet time packing away.

“Is it true that Trelawny might get sacked, Professor?”

Thinly, Snape smiled. “I don’t doubt Professor Umbridge will try to remove her, Miss Parkinson.”

“Thank Merlin, she’s awful –”

“Potter!” Malfoy said, catching sight of him awkwardly trying to hide behind a cauldron and grinning in glee. “What are you doing here?”

Behind his desk, Snape’s gaze shot to Harry, lip curling in distaste as though Harry was a slop of pig’s entrails someone had forgotten to mop up.

“Can I, er, speak with you, sir?” Harry asked him, ignoring Malfoy.

Snape stared at him, the stench of mutual dislike and the lingering remainder of Ron’s foul potion fumes hanging thick between them. He quirked an eyebrow. “You’d like to speak with me, Potter?”

The Slytherins snickered.

“Well, I don’t particularly want to stare at you, sir.”

Thank Merlin, Parkinson’s shriek of laughter had drowned out Harry’s comment, but Snape caught the gist, and his black eyes narrowed. “Go on, then.”

“It’s, uh, private.”

“Private? Is that so? If this is about your abysmal potions' performance, Potter, there’s no need to be diffident. Perhaps Mr Malfoy can assist you in class – it would do you good to learn to follow directions.”

“I’d be more than happy to correct Potter’s mistakes, Professor,” Malfoy said, smirking. His smirk, Harry noticed, was different to Riddle’s. Where Riddle’s was sly, calculating, and dangerous, Malfoy’s was wide, childish in comparison.

“I don’t need potion’s help,” Harry said, teeth gritted.

“As the one with authority on the matter, I disagree,” said Snape. “You will sit beside Malfoy for the rest of term. Best to temper those distractions.”

“What?! That’s so – That’s not – I – I need to talk to you about something else. Professor Du –”

There was a knock on the door.

Snape frowned, irritated at the interruption to his piss-off-Harry-Potter party. “Enter.”

The twinge of pain in Harry’s scar was the split-second warning he needed to draw his wand. The auror entered first – Crawley, the grumpy, old man – and Riddle followed, nose in a book. Distantly, Harry was impressed (though disappointed) by how gracefully the prat avoided bumping into a desk.

Crawley paused upon noticing Harry and the Slytherins – Malfoy’s pale face, his grin sliding away. The auror’s shrewd eyes then flitted to Snape, and Riddle glanced up.

For a moment, as his and Harry’s eyes met, Harry was certain delight flickered over Riddle’s features. Then, his face became perfectly blank, unreadable.

“We’ll wait outside,” Crawley said.

“No need,” said Snape. “Potter was just leaving.”

“But I –”

“Out!”

Wand clenched, Harry stood his ground. “I didn’t want to talk to you about potions, Professor.”

 Snape drew himself up, a flapping mass of black robes and greasy hair. “As your superior in this school, Potter, when I give you an instruction, I expect you to follow it.”

“Perhaps if I respected you I would, sir,” Harry said, before he could stop himself, and the room went very quiet. It was Riddle’s fault – the anger burning in his chest – Riddle’s, Voldemort’s.

Softly, words laced with rage, Snape said, “Detention, Potter. 7 o’clock tonight. And ten points from Gryffindor.”

Glowering, Harry stalked from the dungeons, breath needles in his chest, scar stinging. He’d wanted help from Snape? Help? He willingly wanted to spend time with him to learn a branch of magic that seemed more like breathing exercises than anything else. He’d have to be calm with Snape? Was Harry insane?

In Charms, Ron asked brightly, “How’d it go?” Flitwick had them practising the colour change charm, and Ron’s robes were a sickly shade of yellow.

“Awful. I have detention tonight.”

“Detention? How?” asked Hermione, expression so aghast that Harry might’ve told her OWLs had been cancelled. “What did he say about occlumency?”

“I didn’t get the chance to ask.”

“Maybe detention’s not the worst thing, then. Ask tonight! And it’s colo-VAR-ria, Ron, that’s why the shade’s wrong, and angle your wand more. Yes, like that.”

The evening rolled around far too quickly for Harry’s liking; he’d barely swallowed his final bite of fish pie before he was dragging his feet back into the bowls of the castle, the air damp and chill.

“Sit,” Snape said as he entered the classroom, pointing to a desk in the corner set up with a cauldron. “Argus Filch requires a top-up of his cleaning supplies. The recipe is provided, and the ingredients are in the store cupboard. If you dare disobey me again, Potter, or speak out of turn, or produce another sub-par potion, you’ll be back tomorrow – and I’m sure you’re loathe to miss your precious Quidditch practice.”

Biting his tongue to stem a retort, Harry dropped his bag by the cauldron, figuring that if he could stay silent and keep Snape happy for an hour or two, he’d ask about occlumency later. Not that he was putting it off...

As Hogwarts’ detentions went, potion-making wasn’t the worst he’d had, not by a long shot. Yes, the recipe involved a tedious amount of stirring and several stomach-turning ingredients (armadillo bile and cowlip testicles), but Snape might’ve been more sadistic. Harry was just adding five ounces of frogspawn when pain peppered his scar and he jerked, the frogspawn landing on his shoe instead.

Then Tom Riddle waltzed in.

With dawning horror, Harry watched as Upton, the auror on evening watch, talked briefly with Snape before settling into a chair on the other side of the dungeon, shaking off his pointed hat and revealing a shiny, bald head.

Snape strode towards Harry palm up, sneer satisfied, Riddle two paces behind. “Wand, Potter,” he said. Reflexively, Harry had drawn it. Snape’s sneer grew. “We wouldn’t want any… trouble.”

Harry’s knuckles whitened. He glared at the two of them, Riddle at Snape’s side in ironed robes, all tall, polished, and oh-so-innocent.

“What did I say about orders, Potter? Don’t make me ask twice.”

In his mind, Harry evoked the sensation of flying, of merging with the clouds, stomach swooping as he dived, the grins of his teammates. Angelina’s face if he couldn’t make practice tomorrow. He thrust his wand at Snape, glowering.

“Very good,” Snape said, and Harry wanted to break that stupid hooked nose. In the dim light, Snape’s black eyes gleamed. “I trust you’ll be able to work together.”

Yes, that was how sadistic Harry had expected Snape to be.

“Does Dumbledore know about this?” Harry asked, then, with effort, added, “Sir.”

Snape smiled thinly. “It is not in Professor Dumbledore’s job description to manage my detentions, Potter. Now, unless you wish to stay until midnight, I recommend you get on with it and quit your ceaseless whining.”

Harry glared, hoping he was angry enough to trigger his accidental magic – maybe set Snape’s robes on fire, or vanish Riddle’s hair. Nothing happened, so without another word, Harry span on his heel and strode to the store cupboard.

Harry hated him: Snape and his sick enjoyment of Harry’s suffering. No doubt the bat had been dreaming of this moment since he’d heard Riddle was going to Hogwarts. And he’d had the gall to tell Sirius and the rest of the Order that Harry’s safety was a ‘top priority’! Heart racing, Harry snatched up the bag of fruit flies, envious of their black, dead bodies. They didn’t have to worry about freaky curse scars or teachers who despised them or teenage dark lords.

When he returned to their workbench, Riddle was adjusting the dial on the burner, his outer robe removed, and shirt sleeves rolled up.

“You got a detention?” Harry asked, seething. The liquid was bubbling and, across the dungeon, Snape and Upton wouldn’t be able to hear them. “What did you do? Answer too many questions correctly?”

“Something like that,” Riddle said. He pushed an errant curl of dark hair off his forehead and peered into the cauldron. “Did you add the frogspawn already?”

Harry dumped the bag of flies between them, worried that if he held them any longer the temptation to tip them over Riddle’s perfect hair would win out. “You wanted one, didn’t you?”

“Why would anybody want a detention?”

Harry glared at him and Riddle looked up, one eyebrow raised.

“My, how arrogant, Potter. I have better things to do with my time than chase after you.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

Riddle’s gaze swept over him, head to toe. To anyone else the look would’ve been curious, almost flirtatious. To Harry, it was hungry. He shivered, remembering Riddle leering over him in the dark, wand at his throat, pain bursting in his scar.

A silver knife lay on the table; Harry grabbed it.

“Good idea,” Riddle said, looking away and breaking the moment. “You can chop the testicles.”

Harry knew whose testicles he’d rather be chopping.

The silence stretched for as long as Riddle allowed it, the older boy working precisely and effectively, in opposition to Harry’s chaos. Twice he prevented Harry adding ingredients too early, not seeming to realise that Harry didn’t care, he just wanted to leave.

“You’ve started practising occlumency?” Riddle asked, stirring while Harry poured in alcohol.

“Normally when you eavesdrop, Riddle, you avoid bringing that information up in conversation.”

Still stirring, Riddle smirked. “You really hate me, don’t you?”

“You tortured and tried to kill me!” Harry hissed. He hadn’t let go of the knife even for a moment. It had made siphoning armadillo bile more difficult than it needed to be.

“If I’d have tried, you’d be dead.”

“That’s bold talk from someone who died the way you did.”

Riddle’s eyes flicked briefly to his scar. “Oh, so you can replicate that, can you? Tell me –how did you survive a killing curse? I’m sure you remember it so well. Such a shame you couldn’t offer the same protection to your parents.”

Quick as a flash, Harry turned, pressing the flat of the knife to Riddle’s stomach. They both paused, glancing over at Snape and Upton, the former marking essays, the latter doing a crossword. The cauldron obscured them.

“What is this, Riddle? You got yourself a detention because… why? You get off on winding me up?”

That hungry look returned. Riddle leant forwards and Harry relaxed the knife. It was for self-defence… wasn’t it?

“Do you want me to get off to you, Potter?”

A flush heated Harry’s neck. He pushed the knife forwards again, their faces inches apart. “No! What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Softly, Riddle laughed, quiet enough to not be heard, raising the hairs on Harry’s arm. “I wanted to ask whether you’d consider practising occlumency with me.”

Harry stared at him. “Really? And you thought antagonising me was the best way to go about that?”

“Being nice would’ve made you suspicious.”

“At least –”

“Is there a problem here?”

Harry started, tucking the knife behind his back.

“There’s no problem, sir,” Riddle said, and it was creepy how quickly he returned to bright, charming, polite Tom Riddle.

Snape, who’d fluttered over, wanting to be a first-hand witness to murder, raised an eyebrow at their potion. “You should’ve been stirring consistently; I thought you knew that, Mr Riddle. This potion requires constant attention.” He flicked his wand, and the potion emptied. “Start again.”

Furious, Harry opened his mouth. Under the desk, Riddle pressed on his foot.

“Of course, Professor,” the prat said. “Right away.”

When Snape left, smirking as if this was the best entertainment he’d have all year, Riddle frowned and said, “He doesn’t like me.”

Harry screwed up his face. “God, did you just give me something in common with both you and Snape?”

Riddle hummed. “Yes, he does seem to have it out for you. I assume it’s the impertinence. You don’t mix well with authority, Potter.”

Snape hated him for a lot more than impertinence, but Harry didn’t correct him. The last person he wanted to talk about his father with was Riddle.

“Why doesn’t Snape like you?” Harry asked, though he had some ideas.

Riddle shrugged. “I’m not sure. We need more frogspawn, by the way.”

Once their second attempt was bubbling away, Harry stirring this time, determined to get everything right so he could leave, Riddle said, “So occlumency. You need to practise with someone. How many legilimens do you know?”

“Dumbledore.”

Riddle leant against the desk, watching Harry stir and tapping his fingers. Slyly, he said, “Legilimency requires eye contact.”

Harry paused, heart pounding. Riddle had heard that?

“Is there no one else? I hear Granger is exceptionally talented.”

“Don’t talk about her.”

“Hm, touchy. I don’t suppose Weasley’s any good. And look, I seem to have run through your allies already.”

“You’re such a prat.”

“As you keep saying. I’m an excellent teacher, though. And you do want to understand our connection, don’t you, Potter? Stop these little temper tantrums of yours.”

“Are you going to keep pestering me until I say yes?”

“I’ll certainly try.”

“There is someone else, actually.”

“Oh?” Riddle raised an eyebrow. It was nonchalant, but Harry could taste his intrigue.

“I’m not telling you.”

Riddle straightened up, pretending to peer into the cauldron. “Look at me, Potter,” he murmured, the words worming their way into Harry’s mind, scratching an itch and he wanted to –

“That doesn’t work on me,” he said, teeth gritted.

Riddle leant closer, their arms pressed together, breath soft on his cheek and Harry wanted to move away, but if he stopped stirring Snape would vanish their potion again and he’d be stuck here for another hour.

“I thought about killing you,” Riddle whispered into his ear. “Before I changed my mind.”

“Before you remembered Dumbledore wouldn’t take kindly to that, you mean.”

Riddle ignored him. “There are so many ways accidents can occur in a castle this big. A fall down the stairs, a malfunctioning broom, a potions mishap. That wasn’t what I fantasised about, though – keep your stirring even, Potter – do you want to know what I fantasised about?”

“Not even slightly. I’m not looking at you –”

“I thought about tying you up, having you under my control, at my mercy, begging as I tortured your friends. Granger first, then –”

“Piss off!”

It was enough. He’d turned. Desperately, Harry tried to think of nothing, to stay calm, but locked in place, his scar burning, he couldn’t –

It was over in an instant. Riddle grinned, stepping back. The burning in his scar ebbed to an itch.

“Him?” Riddle asked, nodding toward Snape, gleeful. “Merlin, Harry, you are in a pickle. And you weren’t any good at stopping me, in case you didn’t realise. Books don’t help when it comes to the mental arts.”

“I hate you,” Harry said, with feeling.

“Don’t like him much either, do you? Was that what you tried to ask him earlier? And he gave you a detention for your trouble?”

Harry returned to the cauldron, focusing. They were so nearly done.

“Next Tuesday evening, 8 o’clock. I know you’re free, as long as you don’t score yourself another detention – though I suppose that’s probable. Come to the Astronomy tower.”

“You’re delusional.”

“Think about it.”

“Don’t you have a babysitter?”

“Upton does Tuesday evenings,” Riddle inclined his head towards the short, wiry man, tongue stuck between his teeth as he tapped a quill against his chin. With a rush of annoyance, Harry reflected that Tonks wouldn’t have allowed Riddle to pester him unsupervised for two hours. Riddle smiled. “He does whatever Umbridge tells him.”

“And Umbridge wants us to spend time together, does she?”

Riddle scoffed. “She won’t know. I’ll make something up.”

“What would you get out of this?”

“Your charming company, Potter.”

Harry scowled. “That wasn’t even a good lie.”

“Because you’re not charming?”

“I– I’m not trying to be charming.”

“Oh, you’re not trying? And here I thought you spent every conversation insulting people: Malfoy, Snape, me, your friends. You can’t blame me for believing it. But I suppose you must be doing something to make Cho giggle so much –”

“Keep my friends out of your mouth or I’ll never say yes.”

Triumphant, Riddle grinned. “You’re considering it.”

“I’m not –”

“Professor,” Riddle called, raising an arm, all polite again. “We’re finished.”

Snape stalked over. He’d been watching them above his essays, Harry was sure. Watching Harry grow more and more frustrated, more and more angry. His gaze barely flicked to the potion.

“Acceptable. I take it this is your work, Riddle.”

“Not at all, sir. Potter took the lead. He’s very talented.”

“There are many words I’d use to describe Potter, Mr Riddle; talented has never been one of them.”

“Perhaps we use different dictionaries.”

Viciously, Harry glared at Riddle. The bastard didn’t think buttering him up in front of Snape would work, did he? Or perhaps he knew it was another way of irritating Harry.

“I’m sorry, Potter,” Riddle said, noticing Harry’s expression. The way his eyes softened was masterful. “Have I done something to offend you?”

Then, it dawned on Harry that Riddle didn’t know of Snape’s involvement in the Order; Riddle actually thought his modest-definitely-not-a-dark-lord-in-the-making act would work. On Snape. Suddenly, he wanted to laugh.

“Oh, nothing.”

Snape’s eyes narrowed. “You may go, Potter. Riddle, same time tomorrow.”

A flicker crossed Riddle’s face. The merest suggestion of a break in the mask. “Why, Professor?”

“Because I said so. That should be reason enough.”

Riddle’s jaw twitched, but he only said, “Of course, sir.”

“Get out. Both of you.”

As Harry made to leave, grabbing his wand off Snape, Riddle caught his eye, his intention as clear as if he’d spoken. 8 o’clock next Tuesday. Think about it.

Harry was halfway up to the Gryffindor common room before he realised he’d never asked Snape about occlumency.

“Survived then?” Ron asked when Harry slumped into the armchair beside him. The common room was deliciously cosy; he didn’t understand how the Slytherins coped down in the dungeons. He’d ask Riddle, but it was possible the prick wasn’t human enough to feel the cold.

“Just.”

Something about his tone caused Ron to glance up from his and Hermione’s chess game. “That bad?”

“Riddle was there.”

Ron gaped at him.

“Riddle?” Hermione repeated. She was losing: her pile of white pieces groaned weakly. “Why was he there?”

“Detention.”

“He… Riddle had detention? But he’s so…” She paused, lips pursed. Polite? Respectful? Kept his temper in class? Nothing like Harry? “...You know. Or he pretends to be anyway.”

“He knew I had detention and wanted to talk to me. Snape obliged.” Harry sunk deeper into his chair, suddenly exhausted. Conversations with Riddle were like running a marathon. He needed sleep.

“I can’t believe Snape,” Hermione said. “That’s so irresponsible! What if Riddle attacked you?”

Harry frowned. “He wasn’t going to attack me in front of Snape and an auror. Just annoy me, which was exactly what Snape was hoping for, I’m sure.”

“You don’t know that, Harry! This is… it’s…” She wetted her lips. “It’s Voldemort we’re talking about – Oh, Ron! Never mind, I was losing anyway.”

“Riddle’s not an idiot,” Harry said, as Ron dived to the floor to rescue the chess pieces he’d accidentally flung there. Riddle was, in fact, quite the opposite. “If he does anything too insane Dumbledore will…” What? Kill him? Lock him in a room in Grimmuld Place? “...There’ll be consequences.”

“Maybe we should goad him into doing something insane,” Ron said, groping beneath his armchair for the knight that had cantered beneath.

“He could murder Snape,” Harry said.

“Could you ask? Bet he’d consider it if you did. I really don’t want to do this flobberworm essay. No way flobberworms come up on the exam.”

“Just because you like to laugh at the word, Ronald, doesn’t mean they don’t have uses. What did Riddle want to talk to you about, Harry?”

“Occlumency.”

“Oh,” Hermione sat forwards. “Did he mention anything useful about the connection?”

“Funnily enough Riddle’s not exactly forthcoming with information.”

“What did he say then?”

Humourlessly, Harry laughed. “He offered me occlumency lessons.”

Ron and Hermione stared.

“He’s joking, right?” Ron said. “No way you’d ever agree to that.”

Hermione frowned. “You’re not considering it?”

“Why would Harry consider it?” Ron asked, grinning as he sat back on his chair. “The guy’s mental.”

But Hermione’s frown deepened. “You’re not considering it, Harry?”

“No – no! I just had a shit two hours. Do you think I want to repeat that every week?” Riddle’s sly fucking smirk. His breath on Harry’s ear as he whispered murderous sweet nothings.

“Exactly,” Ron said.

“I’m just saying,” Hermione continued, still frowning. “If you think you can get information from Riddle –”

“I don’t think –”

“He’s known you exist for less than a month. There’s no way he knows more about the connection than you and Dumbledore do. And I don’t care if Riddle’s scared of Dumbledore; being anywhere near him is a bad idea, Harry.”

“I already said I wasn’t going, didn’t I? You don’t have to convince me.”

“I’m serious –”

“So am I,” Harry hissed, exhaustion forgotten, anger greedily flooding back.

“He said he’s not going, Hermione. Can’t you drop it?”

“No, Ron, I can’t because Harry keeps doing stupid things and you don’t seem to realise!”

“Are you calling me a liar?” Harry asked. It came out low and surprisingly dangerous and that little voice in the back of his head told him he sounded like Riddle.

Hermione flushed. A few frizzy strands of hair had fallen from her ponytail. “I – No, Harry, of course not. No. But… you did chase after Riddle by yourself, and I still don’t understand why you didn’t wake Ron up, or why you didn’t get a teacher, or an auror! Or why you were awake and watching Riddle on the map at four am in the first place!”

“I wasn’t in the dorm,” Harry said. “That’s why I didn’t wake Ron up. I haven’t been sleeping well and sometimes I go for a walk. It’s not a big deal.”

Hermione’s expression told him that she very much thought it was a big deal. “You leave the tower?”

“This is exactly why I didn’t tell you!”

“Why you didn’t tell me?” She turned on Ron, who was staring at the floor as if there were still some chess pieces hiding down there. “Did you know about this?”

“Uh, maybe.”

“Maybe?! Don’t you know how irresponsible sneaking out is, Harry? Everyone’s doing their best to keep you safe and you’re throwing it right back at them!”

“It’s not irresponsible! I always wear the cloak and I’m still in Hogwarts –”

“But you’re not in your dorm, where everyone assumes you are, where you’re safe. You have enemies in this castle!”

“Oh, really?” Harry said, eyes narrowed. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“Did you even ask Snape about occlumency?”

“I–” He stammered, thrown off.

“You didn’t, did you? Occlumency is important! You need to figure out how to manage this connection, Dumbledore said so. You can’t decide you’re not learning it because you and Snape don’t get on. Snape’s an Order member and no matter what you think, Dumbledore trusts him. Riddle is Riddle. He’ll stab you in the back the first chance he gets. Don’t kid yourself that he won’t.”

“I’m not kidding myself about Riddle, I know him better than you do –”

“Then you know that going anywhere near him won’t end well. Ask Snape –”

“I did,” Harry said, furious and wanting her to stop. “I did ask Snape.”

“You –” Hermione faltered. “You did?”

“Yes. He’s teaching me next Tuesday. But thank you for the lecture.”

“Oh,” she said, and Harry felt a surge of vindictive satisfaction, despite the lie. It wasn’t as if the lie mattered: he would ask Snape. Clearly the man had nothing better to do on a Tuesday evening than terrorise Harry. He’d probably enjoy it.

“Right. Well, that’s good, Harry.”

Getting to his feet, he made a noncommittal grunt. “I’m going to bed.”

“Don’t you have an astronomy chart to update before tomorrow?”

“I’ll do it in the morning,” Harry said, already halfway towards the staircase. Fred and George had given enchanted sparklers to a couple of second-years and they were busy spelling out shimmering swear words. Half-heartedly, he ducked beneath one.

“Don’t worry about her,” Ron said, catching up to him. “I’m sure you’ll both be over it by breakfast.”

“She doesn’t trust me.”

“It’s not that, mate. She just cares about you – she doesn’t want you getting hurt.”

“Well, she’s got a funny way of showing it.”

“Yeah, for all she bangs on about empathy, she’s not got the most tact.”

As they reached their door, Neville and Dean’s voices drifting from below, Ron touched Harry’s shoulder. “You’ll try really hard to avoid Riddle, won’t you?”

Ron’s open face was too pleading, too concerned, that Harry could do nothing but nod.

And that wasn’t a lie… right?

Chapter Text

Snape gave Tom three detentions in the end, in addition to that first one. That one had been enjoyable. Exceptionally so. The only thing Tom would rather do with his evening than wind Potter up, was research how to extract his soul from the boy, and the library was busy on weekdays. The other detentions, however, were tedious. Hoping to drive Tom insane, Snape had made it his personal mission to stick him with the most mind-numbingly dull tasks he could conjure up: scraping cauldrons, scrubbing floors, sorting dead insects... If Tom had had his usual freedoms the Potion’s Master would’ve succeeded, but as it was, dungeon or prison cell, Tom had nothing to do but think about Harry Potter.

Tom knew he had a tendency toward obsession. Something would draw him in: a stranger, a spark, a secret. And he’d pick and pick and pick until the novelty wore off, until he’d uncovered everything there was to know, until there was nothing left but dust and broken parts. Then, he’d find something new.

Harry Potter was his latest obsession. If Tom was honest, he had been for a while. Possibly since the moment they’d first locked eyes in Umbridge’s classroom, since that defiant, green fire first stole his breath.

After Potter left their detention, Tom had pocketed the silver potions’ knife his horcrux had held to him, a reminder of that righteous fury. And every day since, Tom awoke anticipating the hour he spent in the Great Hall after classes, the hour his horcrux spent glaring at him, the hour Tom spent hoping Potter would accept his invitation to study occlumency.

Tom was sure he would. For as much as Potter clearly despised him, they were drawn together. Soulmates, in a twisted sense. Potter couldn’t deny him.

There was one upside to Snape’s detentions (besides Tom replaying his and Potter’s conversations over and over as he filleted eels): Tom had stolen a sleeping draught, and he intended to put it to good use.

“How are you, Thomas?” Umbridge asked after Defence on Monday, perched on the edge of her desk like a self-satisfied squirrel on a bird-feeder. “I hear you had a little blip last week.”

Tom ducked his head, faux bashful. “I’m sorry, Professor. I ought to have shown Professor Snape more respect, but I confess I lost my temper. He doesn’t like me.”

Umbridge’s pink-stained mouth twisted grotesquely. Tom thought she might be going for sympathy. “Don’t you worry,” she crooned. “A boy as charming as you will win him over eventually. Why don’t you come into my office take a seat? Would you like a tea? Auror Singh, tea?”

“Please,” Singh said, following them in and taking the seat beside Tom. The auror was always doing that, nosing in on his conversations with Umbridge. Tom hated it. He hated his aurors (bar Upton, who’d become more tolerable of late – Tom’s imperio was holding firm). Tom wanted them gone.

But he let none of that show on his face. Graciously, he sipped the tea, tongue tingling with the sweetness from the added sugar. “Professor, I wondered if I could ask a favour?”

“Ask away, Thomas. Anything for my favourite student.” Umbridge winked. Tom imagined throwing the scalding tea in her face.

“My girlfriend, Natalie – her favourite planet is Venus. It’s bright this week, and I thought it might be nice for us to view it together from the Astronomy Tower tomorrow evening. Would that be possible?”

 Umbridge preened, and Tom had to remind himself that he was using her. She’d just opened her mouth to doubtlessly agree when Singh cut in.

“A girlfriend? Whatever happened to preserving the timeline? ...Ma’am.”

Dismissively, Umbridge waved a hand. “Thomas has been here two months and the universe hasn’t exploded yet. Let’s let him be a teenager, Chanda.”

Singh opened her mouth – to protest or acquiesce, Tom wasn’t sure – but Umbridge cut over her. “What a wonderful idea, Thomas, of course you can go. What I wouldn’t give for a partner as thoughtful as you.”

Tom took a long sip of tea so he wouldn’t have to smile at her.

She continued, “Perhaps we could ask Auror Upton to wait at the bottom of the stairs, hm? Give the two of you some privacy? Not for anything untoward, of course, but I understand how it is with young love.”

“Thank you, Professor, Natalie would be grateful. The aurors make her uncomfortable – I mean no offense, Auror Singh, only that it’s strange to be watched all the time.”

“Perfectly understandable,” said Umbridge. “Quite why we’re having aurors watch the best behaved student at Hogwarts is beyond me.”

Singh said nothing.

Adjusting her wiry curls, Umbridge said, “On the topic of how charming you are, Thomas, I’m afraid Witch Weekly have been owling me incessantly for an interview… would you mind?”

“Not at all, Professor,” Tom said. If that was the trade, it was easy. Tom liked interviews. He liked people reading about him, thinking about him, talking about him. (Mostly, he wanted Harry Potter to think about him).

Umbridge smiled. A deal well made.

*****

The following evening at six-thirty, Tom met Natalie outside Ravenclaw Tower. Dressed in a fur-lined, pale-yellow cloak, she reminded him of the other pureblood girls he’d dated: elegant and proper. Tom had a type – he just didn’t like any of them.

She smiled, slipping her hand into his and garnering jealous glares from the nearby Ravenclaws (just who they were jealous of wasn’t clear). Marietta, Roisin, and Cho hovered by the door, watching them. Only Marietta looked pleased for her friend.

“I can’t believe you got the evening free,” Natalie said, beaming as they strolled towards the Astronomy Tower. “Dumbledore must be coming around.”

“Not exactly,” said Tom. “I asked Professor Umbridge – Dumbledore doesn’t have much choice but to agree: he doesn’t want to anger the board. I think Fudge is trying to goad him into overstepping, so they’ll kick Dumbledore out.”

Natalie’s face fell. “I hope Dumbledore doesn’t leave! Morgana, can you imagine what Hogwarts would be like if Umbridge was in charge? We haven’t used magic in Defence once this year!”

“At least I might not be locked in my room all the time.”

“Oh, that’s true,” Natalie said. She squeezed his hand. “I don’t think it’ll be much longer before things are back to normal. They’ve been letting you out more and more, right?”

Tom nodded, then hedged, “I’m hoping they might get rid of the aurors soon.”

“Really?” she said, glancing over her shoulder at Upton. He trailed them at a distance, just as Tom desired.

“They work for the Ministry, not Dumbledore. Besides, I’ve given them nothing to do for two months – they constantly grumble about how boring the job is. It’s a waste of public funds.”

Natalie smiled. “I hope they leave. Then we’ll have you all to ourselves.”

At the base of the Astronomy Tower steps, Upton took up post. He wouldn’t be an issue for Potter – his horcrux could use that invisibility cloak to sneak past. And it wasn’t as if Upton would do anything, even if he did spot the boy. Because he was in a good mood, Tom made Upton lick the damp castle walls behind Natalie’s back as they started up the stairs.

“I got us butterbeers,” he told the girl, once Upton was out of ear shot.

“Oh, thanks! Where from? Surely you didn’t go to Hogsmeade?” There were many steps, and her breathing was slightly laboured.

Tom shook his head. “The house elves keep a stock in the kitchen. They’ll get you anything you want if you ask nicely.” He had Dumbledore to thank for that trick. Not that Tom ever intended to thank him.

Eventually, they reached the top. The sun had set an hour ago, and wispy clouds trailed across a night sky peppered by stars. Natalie rushed to the railing, gazing out over the black, jagged forms of the highlands, the sweep of the dark valley.

“This is the prettiest place in Hogwarts,” she declared.

Tom placed the butterbeers off to one side and joined her, the railings cold through his robes. “Can you see Venus?”

She nodded, pointing. “It’s there – the bright one in the west. It’ll be easier to see with the telescope.”

As Natalie set one up, Tom lamented not owning a watch. He didn’t think it was much past seven. Eight o’clock, he’d told Potter.

He’d come.

He would come.

Dumbledore wanted information about Lord Voldemort, didn’t he? The fool probably thought Potter his spy. That was why Tom hadn’t gotten in trouble for sneaking out the other week. Why Dumbledore hadn’t pushed too hard when Umbridge relaxed his restrictions. Probably, Potter was too naïve to realise Dumbledore was manipulating him.

“Can I borrow your wand?” he asked Natalie, once she’d gazed down the telescope for long enough that he’d gotten bored.

She hesitated, then looked up, smiling. “Sure, Tom.”

Just as before, the unicorn hair bent to his whim, and Tom felt the stirring in his chest, the temptation, the pull of dark magic... He took a breath, then conjured a rug, blankets, and pillows, and settled down.

As Natalie finished with the telescope, pointing and commenting on various stars, Tom wandlessly popped the cap on her butterbeer and swirled in the small vial of sleeping draught. He’d worried about doing this unnoticed, but preoccupied, Natalie didn’t look over her shoulder once.

“Come and join me?” Tom asked.

Turning, Natalie caught sight of the blankets, and her face lit up. Tom didn’t understand how anyone ever fucked up romantic relationships; they were easy.

“This is so sweet,” she said, sitting and taking the offered wand and butterbeer, watching as Tom popped the cap on his. “You do that a lot,” she said, taking a sip. “The wandless stuff.”

“The past two months haven’t given me much choice.”

She frowned. “Yes, but it’s not just that. I’m a pureblood and I’d probably still have brought a blanket up here. You use magic for everything.”

Tom raised an eyebrow. “We have it, don’t we? Why not use it?”

“I suppose,” she said, sipping again. “I don’t think it comes as easy to the rest of us mere mortals.”

Of course it didn’t. But, to be modest, Tom said, “I practise a lot.”

She laughed, drinking and relaxing back, upturning her face to the night sky. “Do you have a favourite constellation?”

Tom thought, giving her time to take another sip. He pointed to a group of stars clustered above the southern horizon, four of them bright. “Aquarius.”

“The cup-bearer. Good choice. I like–” she yawned, “– oh, sorry! I slept loads last night. Must be all this NEWT homework.”

Tom lay down on the blanket beside her. “That’s alright. Why don’t you lie with me? It’s easier to see the stars.”

She smiled, taking a final sip before placing her butterbeer off to the side and snuggling in next to him. Absently, Tom trailed his fingers along her arm as she mumbled on about something, her eyes dropping.

A minute later, she was asleep.

Perfectly executed.

Tom indulged himself in a real smile, all teeth, then sat up, taking her wand again and casting a quick warming spell on her (it wouldn’t do for her to die of hypothermia). Then, so Potter wouldn’t complain about sitting beside a body – and Tom could just hear the boy – he levitated Natalie into the telescope storage closet and shut the door.

Tom slipped downstairs, checking Upton’s shiny wristwatch: seven-thirty-six. That gave him around twenty minutes. He drew a detection line on the first step – advance warning should Potter sneak up on him in that invisibility cloak of his – and had just started up the steps when he paused, glancing back at Upton, the auror’s nose buried in the evening’s Daily Prophet.

“Give me your watch.”

Blandly, the man obliged.

The leather strap was soft on Tom’s wrist, and he smiled down at the twelves hands and rotating planets on the watch’s face. There had been no one to give Tom a watch on his eighteenth birthday as per wizarding tradition, but that didn’t matter. Gifts meant nothing when he could take what he wanted.

Tom returned to the tower, blissfully alone. And with a wand.

Grinning, he waved it. That feeling. Magic flowing through his veins, channelled by the wand, obeying every thought, every whim. Addictive.

Reluctantly, Tom avoided dark magic, unsure how Natalie’s wand might react, and instead tested everything they’d learnt in class since September, everything he’d had to watch the other sixth-years struggle at. For him, the spells flowed flawlessly. So flawlessly that he forgot to worry whether Potter would show. Forgot to concern himself with how much he wanted Potter to show.

The triggering of the detection spell came as a surprise.

Tom vanished the evidence of his experiments and sat on the blankets, hastily swapping the wand for the occlumency book in the pocket of his cloak, heart thumping oddly fast. It wasn’t nerves – of course not – it was anticipation.

Five minutes passed. The book was open to chapter one. Tom had spent the week reading it, making sure he understood the basics perfectly. He hadn’t lied to Potter. Tom was a good teacher, and he enjoyed it. If Potter wanted to learn occlumency, Tom would teach him. And if that came with the added benefit of rooting around Potter’s mind for information or exploring their interesting soul connection, so be it.

Another few minutes passed. That had been Potter triggering the detection charm, hadn’t it? He must be stood around beneath that invisibility cloak of his, watching him. Tom smoothed his hair.

Time slowed, Tom turning each page with bated breath, then, finally, a noise: the creak of wood. Tom waited.

When Potter spoke, his voice came from thin air, somewhere near the balcony. “What did you do to Upton?”

Fighting a smile, Tom kept his gaze on his book. “Nothing. Isn’t he waiting around downstairs?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Tom caught a shimmer of silvery fabric as the boy materialised. It was nice, that cloak. Maybe, when Tom eventually ended Potter’s dismal existence, he’d take it as a trophy.

Potter strode towards him, wand out (because of course it was. Would they ever manage a conversation where one wasn’t held at wand or knife point?). “What is this?” Potter asked, flicking his wand at the pillows and blankets. “A date?”

“Do you want it to be?”

Potter glared. “No. What’s the book?”

He’d asked it so suspiciously that Tom couldn’t help himself. “The history, intricacies and utility of human sacrifice.”

“What the fuck, Riddle?” Potter hissed (in English). “What is wrong with you?!”

Tom laughed. “Just a joke, Potter.” He waved the book at him. “An Insight into Occlumency, by Augusta Rivera. I’ve never taught occlumency before and wished to refresh myself on the basics.”

Potter huffed in annoyance. His gaze slid off Tom and darted around the empty Astronomy Tower as if looking for a body. Tom was grateful he’d had the foresight to hide it in the closet.

“Are you going to stand there all evening?” he asked. “I’d rather not crick my neck staring up at you.”

But Potter made no move to sit. He kept glancing at the storage closet, and Tom swallowed a shiver of unease before it could saturate the connection. The boy couldn’t know about Natalie, could he?

“How did you convince Upton to let you up here alone?” Potter eventually asked.

“Does that really matter? I’m an excellent liar, as you love pointing out.”

The boy’s eyes narrowed. It was too dark to pick out their shade of green. “Does Umbridge know you’re here, then?”

Rolling his eyes, Tom said, “Do you always ask this many questions?”

For some reason, that made the boy snort. He glanced back to Tom, then, taking a breath as if readying himself to jump off the tower, or stick his head inside a basilisk’s nest, sat down. He perched on the furthest possible cushion from Tom and rested his wand on his knee, the tip aimed at Tom’s chest.

 When Tom raised an eyebrow at the wand, Potter said, “I can’t trust you. You’re always up to something.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Tom smoothly, all schoolboy innocence.

Potter snorted, a rather undignified noise. “Yeah, you fucked up your chance at that working long ago, Riddle.”

“It irritates you though,” Tom said. He leant forwards, resting an elbow on his knee. “Because it works so well on everyone else. And, because it would work on you, if you didn’t know me.”

“I do know you,” Potter said, “So that doesn’t matter.”

But Tom felt something: a flare of anger, a spark sizzling along the connection. He tapped his fingers on his chin. “How much contact did you have with the diary before you so kindly destroyed it?”

The anger burned. And there was something else too: a pang in Tom’s stomach, a tightening of his throat. The boy’s embarrassment.

“Piss off,” Potter said, raising the wand again.

It was an admission, and Tom’s lips curled into a smile. “Did you like me?”

“You reminded me of Percy Weasley.”

“I don’t know who that is.”

“Ron’s older brother. He’s a pompous, stuck-up prat.”

There was venom in Potter’s words, Tom could feel its sting on his tongue. Betrayal. And then Tom realised he did know Percy Weasley: Fudge’s obsequious coffee boy.

Potter continued, “Only I believed you were stupider than Percy for thinking Hagrid was the heir of Slytherin and for getting him expelled –”

“Hagrid should’ve been expelled. He kept an acromantula in a cardboard box-”

“You had a basilisk!”

“She was exceptionally well trained.”

“And you used that training to kill someone!”

Glaring furiously at him, Potter was all hot, searing anger. At first, Tom had been able to push it down, to stay calm and view the blazing ball of destruction with detached indifference, just as he did with his own emotions. But it was getting too much. Potter wasn’t fun, he was annoying, and Tom wanted to kill him for daring to sabotage Voldemort’s plans, for murdering his basilisk, for destroying his horcrux, yet he couldn’t because his counterpart had fucked up and stuck a bit of his soul inside the boy! Also, Tom’s head hurt.

Gritting his teeth, Tom looked to the night sky, breathing, searching for that connection between he and Potter – now hot and inflamed – and dimming it. Strangling the beam until its light died.

In an instant, Potter’s anger vanished, its scalding heat diminishing like a doused fire. As Tom basked in the sudden serenity of his own composed emotions, the boy let out a shaky breath, rubbing at that lightning scar.

Tom cocked his head. “Did the pain disappear?”

Frowning, Potter nodded. “What did you do?”

“No ‘thank you’? How rude.”

“I’m not thanking you! Tell me what you did.”

Drumming his fingers on his knee, Tom said, “There’s a connection between us, like the one you have to Lord Voldemort. I believe you sense my emotions. The closer we are, the stronger the bond is.”

“And it hurts me,” Potter said, lifting his fingers to his scar again. Tom wanted to touch it too. “How did you make it go away?”

“I closed the connection.”

“Forever?”

He sounded so hopeful.

“No – it’s temporary.”

“Can you close mine and Voldemort’s?”

Tom shook his head. “Lord Voldemort, and no, that’s separate; you need to do it.”

“How?”

Tom smiled. “Occlumency.”

Staring at him, Potter wetted his lips. “Right. That was your sales pitch then?”

“Did it work?”

The boy watched him, eyes pinched behind those ridiculous glasses, thin and pale in the starlight, and Tom suddenly regretted closing their connection, losing his easy access to the boy’s emotions. It was too dark for wandless legilimency.

Potter ignored him, chewing on his lower lip. Finally, he said, “You said we were similar – the other you. The diary.”

“Did I?”

Potter nodded. “Both orphans, halfbloods –”

“You’re a halfblood?”

“Did you think I wasn’t?”

“You’re a Potter,” Tom said. “I assumed you were a pureblood.”

“My mum was muggleborn,” he said slowly, gauging Tom’s reaction.

Tom didn’t give a toss. Potter could’ve been a descendent of harpies for all he cared, Tom wanted him dead regardless.

“The hat tried to put me in Slytherin,” Potter said.

Softly, Tom laughed. “You’re not a Slytherin.”

It was Tom’s soul the hat must’ve sensed – and the diary too – because he and Potter were nothing alike. Halfbloods, fine, but so was half of the school. Orphans, sure, but from what the girls had said, Potter had grown up with family, not in a horrible, muggle orphanage, knowing nothing about the world to which he belonged. And in personality, in temperament, in beliefs, they were as different as the stars and the moon.

“Shall we start?” Tom asked, holding up the book.

Potter’s eyes narrowed. “If you do anything horrible, I’ll leave.”

Tom shrugged.

“And why did you pick somewhere outside at the end of October?”

“Maybe if you’d brought something warmer than an invisibility cloak, you wouldn’t be complaining.”

But Potter ignored him again, waving his wand and conjuring a handful of bluebell-coloured flames. They were pretty, gently licking the wooden floorboards, yet not charring them. Tom had already cast a warming charm on himself, but some animalistic instinct whispered for him to draw nearer to the fire. He restrained himself.

“How good are you at lying?” Tom asked.

Potter frowned. “I don’t see why that’s relevant.”

Rolling his eyes, Tom made himself more comfortable on the blankets. “Do you want to learn occlumency or not? If you continue to argue every time I open my mouth, we won’t get anywhere.”

In his head, Tom counted to ten, watching Potter’s jaw clench and unclench. With the lilac under light, his eyes were in shadow. Tom had reached twenty-three by the time Potter said, “Fine. I’m fine at lying, I guess. Why?”

“There are two approaches to occlumency,” Tom said, feeling himself slip into his teaching mode. “Dynamism and manipulation. Dynamism is like a block, a blunt method to force foreign agents from your mind. I used it to temporarily sever the connection between us. It’s simpler to learn and easier to implement but, given who you need to protect your mind from, inappropriate. Even accidentally, Lord Voldemort’s force of will would blast through any barrier you built.”

“I appreciate your faith in me.”

“I have faith in myself.”

“Course you do. What’s the other option then?”

“Manipulation.” Tom leant forwards. “Difficult, but considerably more effective. Imagine that you possess information I wish to obtain–” Potter frowned, and Tom smirked “–the person you covet most, for instance.”

“So you can threaten them?”

“Sure,” Tom said. “Using dynamism, you would lock the door to your mind. To obtain entry I would have to force my way in. Whether I succeed or fail, I would know that you locked the door. With manipulation, there is no door. You let me in freely and while I peruse at my leisure, you inconspicuously present Draco Malfoy as your favourite person, suggesting lovely memories of the two of you boating, perhaps. I leave, thinking I have everything I came for and your knowledge is secure.”

“Do you then kidnap Malfoy?” Potter suggested, somewhat hopefully.

Tom ignored him. “Ergo, in occlumency, manipulation is remarkably similar to lying.”

“Sure, but Voldemort isn’t trying to get information from me. I get his emotions and dreams by accident. So, how would lying – manipulation, whatever – help me when I’m angry?”

“It’s a good question. Firstly, Voldemort isn’t abusing your connection yet. He will find out about it and when he does, understanding manipulation will be essential. Secondly, practise. To untangle your emotions, dreams, and memories from ours, you’ll need to be familiar with mental magics. You’ll need to remain calm as someone invades your head. Remain yourself. I think manipulation will better help you achieve this. Dynamism usually involves a lot of panicking.”

And thirdly, if Potter got too good at blocking, he might learn to keep Tom out of his head or learn how to control their connection himself, both of which would be bad. Of course, Tom kept reason that to himself.

Potter glanced away, gazing over the dark landscape, gnawing at his lower lip again. A terrible habit. He looked back. “You want to poke around my head.”

Tom smiled. “This endeavour will be mutually beneficial. As long as you’re not a dreadful student, I believe I can help you close your connection to Lord Voldemort before Christmas.”

“That’s a lot of hanging out with you.”

“We’ll do one hour a week. I’m sure you’ll survive.”

“I’m not,” Potter muttered.

“You can go and ask Snape if you’d rather.”

The boy huffed, tugging on the sleeves of his school cardigan. “Fine. Whatever. Let’s do tonight. But if you’re creepy I’ll leave!”

“Define creepy.”

“You shouldn’t have to ask, Riddle!”

Tom shrugged. “You can leave whenever you want.”

Potter looked like he wanted to leave now, but he remained seated. He took a deep breath, then said, “Alright. Where do we begin?”

And that was how Tom spent an hour atop the Astronomy Tower on his best behaviour (he didn’t even peek into Potter’s mind once, and certainly wasn’t ‘creepy’), teaching Dumbledore’s golden boy to lie.

Unsurprisingly, Potter was a terrible liar. He flustered easily and struggled with guilt, both problems Tom had never experienced. Still, they made some progress, despite Potter’s insistence on being a difficult student. Preparation, relaxation, and confidence were key. And if one could convince themself, even temporarily, that their lie was the truth, it became trivially easy.

“Next week we’ll try legilimency,” Tom said, as Potter gathered up his invisibility cloak.

“Next week’s Halloween,” Potter said. “I can’t – there’s the feast.”

“We can meet after curfew,” said Tom. “Ten o’clock. And bring a pack of cards.”

“Why?”

“We’ll play poker.”

“Why?”

“There’s no need for the attitude. I thought you’d appreciate lying with low stakes.”

Standing, Potter grumbled to himself. Then, louder, he said, “Can we meet somewhere else? This is freezing.”

“Let’s use the Charms practice room on the third floor.” Tom would need a different excuse for Umbridge next week anyway.

“Fine. Do these blankets go in the storage closet?”

“Don’t think so. They were here when I arrived. Someone probably had sex on them.”

Potter wrinkled his nose, jumping away.

God, Tom was good.

Without so much as a goodbye, the boy disappeared beneath his cloak. The bluebell flames spluttered and died.

“Lovely seeing you too,” Tom said to thin air.

The door to the spiral stairwell opened, then closed, and Tom was left alone. Smiling, he lounged back on the blankets, gazing up at the night sky. Their first meeting had gone well, all things considered. He doubted his and Potter’s relationship would ever be amicable, but when they both wanted something – something only the other could give them – they could suffer through a conversation without murdering one another. Yes, as long as Potter knew nothing of horcruxes he’d throw himself at Tom, offering up his mind, his secrets...

For a while, Tom mused on that, congratulating himself on how excellently everything always went for him. Suddenly, it occurred to him that five minutes had come and gone, and Tom’s detection line had not been crossed.

Had Potter not left yet? If he was hanging around somewhere, he needed to go soon. Natalie wouldn’t stay asleep forever.

Tom closed his eyes, feeling for his and Potter’s connection. The block was still there, and Tom removed it. Their connection was bright: Potter was close by.

Hastily reinstating the block, Tom strained his ears. He thought he heard a rustle from a few metres to his left, the sound of dry parchment. Had Potter opened and closed the door only to stay on this side of it? Would he stay until Tom left?

He glanced at his new watch. Ten minutes now. How long did he have until Natalie came to? Could he talk himself out of her waking up in a cobwebbed closet?

Pushing himself into a seated position, Tom let his eyes trail around the tower, his left hand slipping into his pocket, brushing Natalie’s wand. There wasn’t time to wait. Softly, he said, “I know you’re there.”

A moment passed, as still and silent as the endless night sky. Then-

“Expelliarmus!”

Tom didn’t let Potter disarm him for a second time: his shield was up before the spell had left Potter’s lips. Leaping to his feet, Tom backed away, retreating until his hand found the tower wall. He still couldn’t see Potter, but at least the boy couldn’t attack him from behind.

“And we just survived such a pleasant hour,” Tom said, wand aloft, searching.

“Pleasant?” came Potter’s snarl, over by Natalie’s telescope.

Tom sent a few choice spells in that direction. Nothing seemed to hit him.

“Where’s your girlfriend, Riddle?”

Over by the northern railings now. Potter was fast. But, this time, Tom didn’t cast, the boy’s words catching up with him. Natalie. Had Potter seen them go up the tower together?

“Why do you think –” Tom started, but Potter hit the cupboard door beside Tom with an accio. The hinges held – just – but the door crashed open, revealing Natalie’s booted feet.

Across the tower, Potter’s head appeared, the bare of his teeth a victorious snarl. For a moment, Tom forgot where they were. It was the forties and he’d just stumbled upon a student he needed to collect, a capable, clever addition to his carefully curated knights. Never mind that they worked against him now, Tom knew how to persuade people, he knew how to plant himself so firmly into people’s lives that they couldn’t let him go.

But, it wasn’t the forties, and this wasn’t a possible recruit. This was Harry Potter. His enemy. His horcrux.

Potter had rushed over to the girl and was kneeling by her side, checking her over, and moving to stand behind them, Tom lost any sense that Potter would make a worthy follower: in the boy’s concern, he’d turned his back on Tom. Still, no use in stunning the boy. Not when he wanted his horcrux to continue with their lessons.

“It’s a sleeping draught,” Tom said, leaning on the doorframe. “She’s fine.”

Evidentially satisfied the girl wasn’t in any imminent danger, Potter shot up, spinning to face Tom. The storage cupboard was cluttered – especially so with Natalie’s body – and they were close enough that Potter’s wand touched Tom’s shirt, the boy’s outstretched arm shifting the folds of the invisibility cloak and revealing his torso.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” snarled Potter. “You couldn’t have told Umbridge you wanted some astronomy practice alone?”

 Tom shrugged. “I already had the potion, and I thought a date would make Natalie happy.”

“You – You thought! Happy? You drugged her!”

Taking a small step back, Tom smoothed his shirt. Potter’s wand had begun singing a hole in it, and Dumbledore hadn’t given him enough shirts to go around burning them.

“Oh relax, Potter. She’ll think we fell asleep beneath the stars. Maybe you don’t have much experience in this area, but that’s considered romantic.”

“She won’t think it’s romantic if I –”

“If you tell her? Don’t be stupid. Did you know it was Natalie who told me about your history with Lord Voldemort? She wanted to warn me about you.” Tom smiled, enjoying the downturn of Potter’s mouth. “She thought you might be dangerous.”

Potter glared up at him, and Tom cast a silent lumos so he might better see the gleam of hatred in his horcrux’s green eyes. He was quite enjoying having a mortal enemy.

“Fine,” Potter said slowly. “Pretend you had a romantic evening with her. But, you know, Riddle – this?” He gestured to the girl, her chest steadily rising and falling. “This counts as creepy. If you think I’m meeting up with you next week, you’re insane.”

Tom stared down at him, feeling his heart rate kick up a notch. “I know you don’t mean that,” he said. “If you’d seen Natalie and I come up here together, then you suspected I’d done something to her before we talked, yet you waited until now to kick up a fuss.”

Potter had the decency to look guilty, chewing on his lip again. “I thought you’d stunned her. I knew you weren’t dumb enough to hurt her.”

“I’m not,” Tom said, “and I’m glad we managed to talk. It was useful for both of us, wasn’t it? We have so much to learn from one another.”

“Right...” Potter croaked. There was something in his eyes, something lost, something that reminded Tom of the babies at the orphanage, grasping for him with chubby, little fingers, desperately seeking affection in a house devoid of warmth.

Absently, Tom reached out, straightening Potter’s tie. “We can’t stay away from each other, can we?” he murmured. “Even now, you’d rather talk than fight.”

Potter’s eyes flicked down, staring at Tom’s hand, at his fingers pinching the end of his tie, making no move to back away –

“You’ve got a new watch.”

Tom blinked. “Yes, it’s a gift from Umbr –”

“It’s Upton’s,” Potter said, and his voice had turned hard. “I noticed he wasn’t wearing it downstairs.”

Tom stared at him. How in God’s name was Potter that perceptive? Had he spent hours staring at Upton’s wrists? Tom had barely seen him around his aurors.

The tie was yanked from his grasp, and Potter stepped over Natalie, making it out of the cupboard before Tom’s fingers could close around his wrist, nails digging into Potter’s skin.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“Away from you!”

There was a brief moment in which they glared at each other, Tom knowing – even without legilimency, even with the connection closed – that they were both considering a fight. But at such close range, Potter must’ve known he would lose in a duel, and Tom knew Natalie could wake up any moment. Sure, he was an excellent charmer, but even Natalie might be put off by a bruised and bloodied Potter struggling beneath him.

Potter ripped his wrist free. “I’m not meeting you next week.”

“Yes, you are!”

“No, I’m not!”

“What, are you going to go and study occlumency with Snape?”

“No, I’ll study it by myself. Thanks for the introduction.”

“Don’t be so sarcastic.”

“Don’t be such a horrible, thieving bastard!”

“I’m not a bastard!”

“I don’t give a shit!”

And with that, Potter yanked up his hood and vanished. This time, when the tower door opened, it slammed shut, leaving Tom in a very foul mood. So Potter claimed he wouldn’t meet him next week, did he? Potter was the one who couldn’t stay away from him, staring at all day and trying to break into his room at night! He was Tom’s. His! And Potter though he could condition Tom like a dog, convincing him to play nice by offering scraps of his time. Potter should be the one begging for Tom’s attention!

He only just remembered Natalie existed in time to levitate her onto the blankets, slipping the wand into her pocket, vanishing the tainted butterbeer, and pretending to wake up alongside her. If she noticed his mood shift, she said nothing.

It didn’t matter what Potter said, Tom tried to remind himself, breathing sharply through his nose as Natalie packed away the telescope, disappointed they’d slept their date away, because Potter needed him. He couldn’t study occlumency by himself, he couldn’t learn to control his connection to Lord Voldemort without Tom. And if Potter was foolish enough to believe otherwise... well, Tom would have to prove him wrong.

Chapter Text

For a little less than a week, Harry felt fantastic. For as much as he wanted to continue his and Riddle’s meetings, to continue probing the manipulative, arrogant, dramatic teenage dark lord for information, something about denying Riddle brought Harry indescribable joy. On the Thursday, when he, Cho, and Hermione had sat at the Gryffindor table studying Charms, Harry had even smiled at the prick.

Riddle had stared right back at him, expression cold, and Harry’s stomach clenched in anger. It took him a moment, breathing sharply through his nose, but Harry realised those stirrings of indignation weren’t his – they were Riddle’s.

See? Harry didn’t need occlumency lessons! He was doing great by himself.

Then, Monday happened.

“For goodness sake, Harry!” Hermione scolded him at dinner. “That’s the third time! I thought you were being careful!”

“She makes it very hard to be careful,” Harry grumbled, stuffing a massive spoonful of stew in his mouth because it was nearing six o’clock and showing up late to the first of his weeks’ worth of detentions with Umbridge was more trouble than it was worth.

“Angelina’s going to kill you,” Ron said helpfully, buttering a slice of bread.

“Never mind that – you’re going to miss out on an entire week of homework!”

“Homework won’t matter if he’s dead, Hermione!”

“You’ll miss occlumency with Snape, too,” she said. “You should ask for a catch-up session on the weekend.”

“The Slytherin game’s this weekend.”

“Only on Saturday morning!”

To avoid lying, Harry shovelled more stew into his mouth, wrestling the lump of guilt swelling in his chest. He hadn’t told Ron or Hermione about last week’s lesson with Riddle. He’d wanted to – he really had! Only... there’d be shouting and Hermione would scold him, and they’d tell him to stop which was entirely unnecessary because Harry had already stopped! He’d entertained Riddle for a night, it had gone poorly, and that was that. No more. No need for them to know.

Except, now he didn’t know how to tell Ron and Hermione he was ending his fictional lessons with Snape. Hermione would shout at him for that too, even if he had been working really hard on teaching himself occlumency. (Spending ten minutes ‘clearing his mind’ before bed every night felt silly, but in his determination to proving Riddle wrong, it was a task Harry was viciously dedicated to).

“What did you even do?” Hermione asked.  

“Shouted at her.”

“I assumed that. Why?”

Harry sighed, reluctantly resting his spoon against the bowl’s rim. “After Sprout kept me in Herbology clearing up that compost, I ran up to Transfiguration late and saw her telling Ginny off...”

Ron frowned. “Ginny’s part Fred, part George: she doesn’t care about getting in trouble.”

Harry looked to Hermione, a little helplessly. “She’d seen Riddle in the corridor...” Hermione’s mouth formed an ‘O’, and she nodded. “Anyway, I told Umbridge Riddle was a lying bastard who’d murdered his father and would probably happily torture and murder both of us if he thought he could get away with it… Or something along those lines.”

Hermione groaned, tipping her head into her hands. Ron had stopped filling his bowl with stew and his hand hovered part way between, ladle dripping splodges of brown goop onto the table. “Where is she?”

“Umbridge?”

“No, Ginny.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Said she was going to the common room.” Knee jogging, Harry paused, thinking of Ginny’s small frame and downcast face. She’d looked so alone. “I wanted to help.”

And, perhaps, he’d felt guilty. On the Hogwarts Express, Ginny had accused him of being eager to confront Riddle when all she’d wanted was for him to vanish. She’d been right.

They didn’t speak for the rest of dinner – at least Hermione ceased her admonishments. Ron pushed his food around his bowl, miserable. For Harry, having an excuse to rush off was almost a blessing (almost, because ‘blessing’ and ‘Umbridge’ weren’t words he could in good faith use together).

The detention was exactly as miserable as Harry predicted, and by Tuesday morning, his hand stung like hell. He had to change his bandages twice that day and when he washed the dried blood off in the bathroom at lunchtime, crimson words shone up at him, vivid against his skin: I must not tell lies.

It was with great reluctance that he bade Ron and Hermione a happy Halloween as they parted ways in the Great Hall after Care of Magical Creatures, making them promise to save him a slice of treacle tart from the feast.

Umbridge’s office showed no sign that it was a day of festivity, the pink walls adorned only with the usual porcelain cats, mewing pitifully as Harry sank into his usual seat. Still, at least Umbridge looked like a hag. Figured that she’d rather spend her Halloween terrorising Harry than drinking and eating with the other professors.

“Good evening, Mr Potter,” she said, smiling down at him. Her thick, flowery perfumed threatened to suffocate him as he picked up the black quill.

“Good evening, Professor,” Harry replied. If she said anything else after that, he was determined not to hear her. 

The sun sunk quickly. Harry tried to concentrate on the faint sounds of laughter and chattering drifting up from the Great Hall and not on the persistent stinging itch on the back of his hand, nor on the feel of Umbridge’s eyes on the side of his head. It was easily his third-worst Halloween; his only consolation was that at least his scar did not hurt – and that reprieve lasted for a good few hours, right up until Riddle knocked on the door.

Harry was getting very good at honing his Riddle detector. A shiver up his spine and a zap in his scar, and Harry knew the teenage dark lord was nearby. There was just enough time for him to shove his injured hand beneath the desk, hoping the blood smeared across his parchment would pass for red ink, before the prick entered.

“You wished to see me, Professor?” Riddle asked. His dark eyes swept briefly over Harry and hot irritation surged through their connection.

Harry countered it with his own spike of vindication. If Riddle wanted to be mad at him for refusing to hang out again despite Riddle being the one who’d behaved like an absolute prat, then he could go right ahead.

Pointedly, Harry stared at Upton’s watch, still sitting snugly around Riddle’s wrist.

“Yes,” Umbridge said, oblivious to their wordless exchange as she smoothed her pink, tweed robes. “Come in and take a seat – close the door behind you, Thomas. I’m sure Auror Upton will be fine to wait in the corridor for a few moments.”

Riddle sat in the other chair, crossing his legs comfortably and ignoring Harry.

Umbridge, however, smiled at him. “I don’t recall telling you to stop, Mr Potter.”

And that was all it took for Harry’s temper, which he’d been doing a wonderful job of keeping in check, to snap. He didn’t think he’d ever wanted to stab someone in the eye with a quill as much as he did right then. Even if Umbridge couldn’t feel his murderous rage, Riddle could: their connection closed. At least the burning in Harry’s scar stopped.

Tucking his injured hand under his thigh and gritting his teeth, Harry picked up the black quill and very slowly, very deliberately, wrote the ‘I’.

“Lovely,” Umbridge said, then she turned to Riddle. “Regarding our last conversation, Thomas, I have good news.” 

“Really, Professor?” Riddle said and from his body language – shifting forwards in his seat, one forearm on the desk – Harry thought he was actually interested, and that filled his stomach with dread. Aware of the quiet in the office without his quill scratching, he added the ‘must,’ teeth clenched against the pain.

“Oh yes, I did tell you that Cornelius is a sensible man. The Minister quite agrees that, given the lack of any timeline disturbance combined with your excellent behaviour, it’s a misspend of public funds. In fact, there are many others at Hogwarts who pose a far greater threat to the wider student populace than you and they are not kept under ministry guard.”

She paused and Harry was sure she gave him a pointed look, though he kept his eyes glued to the parchment, crossing the t in ‘not.’ Dread had morphed into horror, spreading from head to toe as quickly as the blood soaking into his robes.

“– Yes, it’s wholly unnecessary. The Minister requires a few days to smooth things over with the public, you understand –”

With heroic effort, Harry added ‘tell.’

“– But, if all goes to plan, I’m sure the aurors will return to their regular duties by the end of the week. Then there’s no reason why you shouldn’t be treated as a student, the same as everyone else – Mr Potter, did I tell you to stop?”

Harry didn’t trust himself to answer that. He’d dropped the quill on the parchment, a bead of blood shimmering on its nib. His heart hammered against his ribcage. They were getting rid of Riddle’s aurors! Harry didn’t need their stupid connection to know how Riddle felt about that. Smug git.

“Thank you, Professor,” Riddle said, breaking the silence.

Umbridge gave him a simpering, sickly smile and no, this was now the most keenly Harry had ever wanted to stab someone in the eye with a quill – and if he could stab Riddle while he was at it that would make the moment all the sweeter. The bead of blood dripped onto the parchment.

Umbridge looked back to Harry, her horrid smile widening. “Is it your bedtime already, Mr Potter?”

“What?” Harry asked, jerked from his murderous fantasy. How late was it? Was the feast even over?

“Well, you seem to have decided that you’re finished.” She eyed his discarded quill.

Harry glanced at it too, wondering whether he could leg it from her office before she stopped with the sarcasm. But the moment stretched, Umbridge’s face frozen into that ugly expression, and still she said nothing to the contrary so Harry stood up, careful to pull his sleeve down over his injured hand. Riddle was watching.

As he picked up his bag, hardly daring to hope that might be it, she held out a pudgy palm. “Show me, Mr Potter.”

Harry froze, heart thudding.

Umbridge waited patiently, hand outstretched.

Still Riddle was watching, as polite and impassive as ever, but Harry could’ve sworn his dark eyes glimmered with curiosity. Umbridge beckoned again and a sudden, horrible thought occurred to Harry: was Umbridge showing off? To Riddle?

“Mr Potter,” Umbridge prompted. “Don’t make me ask again.”

She was showing off! But... if Umbridge thought Riddle the type to enjoy corporal punishment (which he was)... what else did she think about him?

Feeling sweat bead on the back of his neck and his cheeks prickle with heat, Harry pushed up his sleeve and shoved his hand into Umbridge’s. Humiliation burned in his throat. Unseeing, he stared straight ahead, refusing to look at Riddle, to look at Umbridge – her thick, soft hands brushing over his sore, tender skin. Fighting not to ball his hand into a fist and wrench it away.

“We’re getting somewhere now, aren’t we?” she said, quiet in the still office, a spider swaddling its prey in silk.

Harry didn’t reply.

“Yes, by the end of the week, I should think…”

She let go of his hand then and he shoved it into his pocket, skin prickling with the ghost of her touch.

“Have you learnt anything this evening, Mr Potter? Is there anything you’d like to say to Mr Riddle?”

Oh, there were many things Harry wanted to say to Riddle.

“No, nothing, Professor.”

“Really?” Umbridge said, smiling that horrid smile. “You see, I think an apology is in order…”

If there was a hell designed specifically for Harry, this was it. He ground his teeth, refusing, still, to look at Riddle. “What for?”

“For spreading nasty falsehoods, Mr Potter.”

“I don’t recall spreading any of those, Professor.”

Nestled in her rosy face, Umbridge’s eyes glittered. She sighed. “It seems the message isn’t sinking in as effectively as I’d hoped… Perhaps another week of detentions would do the trick.”

The back of Harry’s hand twitched in protest. Another week? Trying to remember how his occlumency book told him to breathe, Harry glanced over at the wall above Riddle’s wavy hair. “Sorry,” he said, quick and short.

Umbridge clicked her tongue. “Now, now, Mr Potter, that just won’t do. I suppose your parents never did get a chance to teach you properly. Why don’t we try again, hm? Eye contact is a good starting point.”

 Harry dragged his eyes down. It was strange how Riddle could exude so much power when Harry was the one stood over him – but he met Harry’s gaze so leisurely, lips twitching just so, that it was all Harry could do not to cower at the nakedness of it. Although, Harry had never been one to cower. He drew a breath, stared deeply into Riddle’s dark, cold eyes and pictured with as much vividness as he could muster drawing his wand and hitting the prick square in the chest with a blasting hex.

“I’m sorry, Riddle,” he said. “I promise to never lie about you ever again.”

Softly, Riddle said, “Apology accepted.”

“Well done,” said Umbridge. “Don’t you feel better now?”

The only thing that would make Harry feel better was his quill stabbing plan. Tactfully, he kept that to himself.

“That’s all for tonight. Six o’clock tomorrow, Mr Potter. Run along now.”

That was one order Harry was happy to follow. He managed to hold his sprint until the end of the corridor, then, the moment Riddle’s auror was out of sight, he ran until his lungs burned, until his heart pounded and his brain ached. Sprinting up two flights of stairs, his muscles groaned, sapping his oxygen and leaving him blissfully unable to think. If Umbridge and Snape were in a competition to design the worst detentions imaginable, Umbridge was in the lead.  

When Harry scrambled through the portrait hole ten minutes later, the Gryffindor common room was brimming with a happy, festive spirit that made him want to vomit. Ron, Neville, and Dean sat in the corner playing exploding snap; Neville had lost half an eyebrow and Dean’s fledgling stubble he’d boasted about last week had gone.

Beside them, Hermione was nose deep in a Arithmancy textbook. “Oh, Harry!” she exclaimed as he approached, barging past a group of third years playing catch with a fragile-looking pumpkin. “You’re back early. Sorry, I’ll run up and get the –”

“They’re getting rid of Riddle’s aurors,” Harry said.

Hermione and the boys stared at him. Ron’s sleeve was on fire.

“You sure, mate?”

“By Friday. Umbridge told him in front of me.”

“That horrid woman,” Hermione exclaimed.

Neville nodded vigorously as Ron swore loudly, causing several students to glance over. Dean, unsure, swatted at Ron’s wrist. Harry’s gaze slid past them – to Ginny, sat with her friends on the other side of the common room. One of them said something and she smiled absently.

Fred leaned on the back of Ron’s chair. “That’s something mother wouldn’t approve of, little brother.”

“I don’t give a toss what mum thinks – Harry said they’re getting rid of Riddle’s aurors!”

“When?” George asked.

“Friday.”

“They can’t!” said Hermione. “Dumbledore –”

“Dumbledore can’t do anything,” Harry said bitterly. “Aurors are the ministry’s domain.”

“He could bring in –” she stopped, glancing at Dean and Neville’s curious expressions.

“He can’t do anything,” Harry repeated, his voice low. What would Umbridge say if members of the Order started infiltrating the castle? “And besides, Riddle’s scared of Dumbledore. As long as he’s around, Riddle won’t –”

“HARRY!”

Harry started, whacking his hip on Hermione’s armchair.

A very angry Angelina had spotted him and was storming her way across the common room, braids flying behind her. “YOU’RE MISSING PRACTICE AGAIN? We’re playing Slytherin on Saturday! SATURDAY! DID YOU FORGET? Or are you not as COMMITTED as I thought you were?!”

“I –”

“NO EXCUSES!” she yelled. “You’d better hope you catch the snitch on Saturday lightning boy or else I swear to Merlin I’ll –”

“Angelina,” Fred said quietly, though half the common room was already listening in. “Riddle –”

“I do not give a single shit about Tom Riddle or Umbridge or You-Know-Who, Frederick! I don’t want to hear you utter a single sentence that doesn’t contain the words bludger or beater from now until Saturday –”

“The ministry are removing Riddle’s aurors,” George said.

“Fantastic,” Angelina said. “That’s another Slytherin who can come and watch us lose because Potter can’t stop scoring detentions, and you two –”

“They’re getting rid of Tom’s aurors?” Lavender repeated, loud enough for the whole common room to hear. It went very quiet. There was a squelch as the pumpkin flew into a wall.

“Since when have you called him Tom?” Ron muttered.

Unfortunately, Lavender heard him.

“Since he helped me with my essay on vanishing charms and was very nice about it and did not call me ditzy, Weasley.”

Ron glared at her. “If you believe all the crap ‘Tom’ and Umbridge and the Daily Prophet spout, maybe you are ditzy!”

Lavender glared right back. “What do you expect us to believe? Dumbledore’s been lying to everyone for years about how he defeated Grindelwald, and Harry –” she glanced at him, still cowering away from Angelina “– well, he flips out enough on you and Hermione all the time and you’re supposed to be his friends! And Dean and Seamus say he spends half the night hissing in parseltongue –”

“Sorry,” Dean muttered, turning bright red.

Seamus, sat beside Parvati, said nothing.

“– And, yes, Umbridge is awful, but Tom’s always been polite, and I’m glad the aurors are leaving because he’s had a really tough time adjusting and –”

But Harry had stopped listening to her. Darting through the Gryffindors, he bolted to the bottom of the steps to the girls’ dormitory, managing to grab Ginny’s arm just before she could vanish. When she turned to face him, she was very pale, her freckles a stark orange.

“Ginny –”

“I don’t want to talk to you,” she snapped, not particularly quietly. Lavender and Ron were still arguing, but several students had swivelled to watch Harry and Ginny instead.

“Why?” Harry whispered. “What did I do?”

When Ginny glared at him, Harry realised that Ron had been wrong: yes, Ginny was part Fred part George, but she was also part Molly Weasley. “You like this! Him – being here.”

It was as if he’d pulled his firebolt into a steep dive. “I – I don’t know what you’re –”

“Yes, you do! You follow him around on the map and have staring contests in the Great Hall – you confront him just so you can play the hero –”

His insides twisted. “I’m not playing the hero!”

“You are and it’s making everything worse! Why can’t you just do what I do and avoid him?”

Before Harry could answer, from across the common room, Lavender asked, “Why are you avoiding Tom?”

“Because I also thought Tom Riddle was cute and clever and charming, right up until he wasn’t!” Ginny’s eyes flashed as she glared at Harry again. “I don’t need you standing up for me!”

And she left, long, ginger hair swishing behind her.

For a moment, the common room was silent, Harry breathing heavily. Then, Seamus asked, “What did she mean – you confronted Riddle?”

“I – er –”

“Did you fight?” Alicia asked.

“Did you win?” asked Colin Creevy excitedly.

“No! Well, not no – I mean – er, we had detention together –”

“Roisin said you attacked him in the middle of the night,” stated Lavender.

Parvati whacked her friend’s arm. “And she said Tom asked her not to tell anyone, Lav!”

Lavender shrugged. “Then she shouldn’t have told us.”

“I did not attack him,” Harry said hotly. “He was –”

Lavender had started talking to Seamus. “Apparently, his arm was super mangled –”

“No, it wasn’t!” Harry exclaimed, forgetting everything he’d read that week about occlumency and staying calm. “It was barely a cut, and it was in self-defence! He tortured me!”

“Really?” Lavender asked, and there was something about her tone, something about the words carved into the back of Harry’s hand that just –

“YES! CALL ME A LIAR ALL YOU WANT, BUT YOU KNOW WHAT? SOMEDAY YOU’LL ALL REALISE I WAS TELLING THE TRUTH! WHEN YOUR FAMILIES ARE MURDERED BY VOLDEMORT –”

The whole common room jumped. A first-year girl nearly toppled into the fire and a seventh-year had to douse her robes with water.

“Harry, mate, do you mind?” George asked weakly, one hand on his chest.

“If you could calm it a bit with the yelling, too…” Fred added.

“NO!” Harry yelled, even though he wasn’t really mad at Fred or George. Or Lavender. Or Seamus or Dean or Angelina. Umbridge’s dark office and Riddle’s gleaming eyes haunted his mind. His hand stung and his head hurt, and Ginny dared to accuse him of liking this?

“I’M SO FUCKING FED UP OF BEING TOLD THAT I’M LYING ABOUT RIDDLE, AND VOLDEMORT, AND CEDRIC –” He cut off abruptly, throat swelling.

Not here. He wasn’t going to cry here.

“Can you all just – fuck off!”

Breath coming in shallow gasps, he marched across the room, half-sprinting up the steps to his dormitory and threw himself onto his bed, yanking the curtains closed and tearing off his glasses to better bury his head into the pillow. He could imagine them all downstairs: their stares and whispers and giggles and he screamed in frustration. Fuck Umbridge! Fuck the Ministry cowards with their lies and coverups! Fuck all of his classmates for refusing to see what was so blinding obvious!

And Dumbledore! Dumbledore who hadn’t even looked at him since… when? The leaving feast last June? Dumbledore who’d kept him in the dark all summer. Who’d let Tom Riddle come to Hogwarts. Who was letting him waltz around like he owned the place.

And Riddle.

Now that the aurors were leaving, how long until he’d get a wand? Not long at all if Umbridge had a say. And then what? How long could Dumbledore cling to Hogwarts? How long until Riddle was free to come after Harry? After his friends?

Harry sat up so suddenly stars spotted his vision.

He could fix this.

Riddle had broken the wards on his door. Auror Maples would be asleep by midnight. Harry had a wand, he had his invisibility cloak. And Riddle... it wasn’t as if he was real... right? Harry had stabbed the diary. He’d made that Tom Riddle disappear in a spray of light and ink. Wasn’t this the same? Did it make a difference if Riddle was wandless and defenceless?

Riddle murdered, he manipulated. Look what he’d done to Ginny... what he was doing to Natalie, to half of Hogwarts...

Harry had just grabbed his wand and glasses when a chink appeared in his hangings, and Ron’s freckled face poked through.

“Mind if I join?”

Harry blinked up at him. For a moment, he’d forgotten anyone else existed except him and Tom Riddle. With effort, he forced his fingers to loosen their hold on his wand.

“Um, yeah, go for it.”

The mattress dipped as Ron sat down, drawing the hangings closed behind him. Briefly, they sat and stared at each other in the dark, breaths shallow. Then, Ron’s arm wrapped around his shoulder, and he pulled Harry into a rough, sideways hug. Harry stiffened.

“Sorry,” Ron said, releasing him. “That’s what mum always does. That and tea.”

Harry wiped his palms on his knees. He didn’t mind tea.

“Are you... okay, Harry?”

“Yeah,” he said. Riddle could go fuck himself: Harry was a great liar.

“Right...” said Ron. “You know, if you’re not, that’s cool.”

“Did Hermione put you up to this?”

Ron sighed. “She said I should come and talk to you, but to be honest I already had one foot on the stairs.”

Staring at his lap, Harry rolled his wand between his fingertips. It was nice of his friends to try and comfort him, but Harry knew now what would make him feel better, and it wasn’t something Ron or Hermione could understand.

Ron continued, “It’s just, since... y’know, what happened at the end of last year.”

Cedric’s death. Voldemort’s resurrection.

“...Since that, you’ve been a bit… different. And, y’know, if you ever need to chat with anyone…”

Awkwardly, Harry nodded. His throat was tight, and his head hurt.

Quiet descended. Ron was still, but Harry was buzzing. He needed to act. He hated the silence, the stillness, the despair that gnawed inside him. It reminded him of the dementors.

Eventually, Ron said, “I’m scared. I keep thinking that… whatever we do, however prepared the Order are… we’re not all making it through this. I have dreams that… my family…” He coughed, his voice thick and Harry felt his resolve harden.

How many would die to sate Voldemort’s ego? Would Ron survive? Would Hermione?

“I’m so glad you didn’t die, mate – last summer. I know that’s a really thick thing to say, but I’m so glad you came out of that maze. We both are.”

“Thanks,” Harry said, which was also a thick thing to say, but he didn’t know how else to express the gratitude he felt for his friends.

Rin gave him a shy smile, then rummaged around in his pocket, extracting a lumpy orange napkin. “Your treacle tart – oh, and the murtlap essence’s in here somewhere too.”

Suddenly, Harry wanted to cry again. He didn’t, instead swallowing hard and taking the sticky slice of treacle tart from Ron. Not trusting himself to talk, Harry took a large bite.

After a moment, Ron asked, “You don’t think I’m too mean to Lavender, d’you? I know Hermione said Lavender didn’t want You-Know-Who to be back because of her uncle or whatever, but Merlin, she drives me up the wall with her prattling.”

“I don’t think so,” Harry said, the familiar sweetness of the tart pulling him away from the brink of despair. “Though I wonder, sometimes... if I hadn’t seen him return… if I wasn’t… me. Would I believe it? Would I want to?”

“I don’t want to,” Ron said with a sigh. “But that’s the irritating thing about the truth, isn’t it? It can be bloody inconvenient.”

*****

Harry lay in bed until long after Ron and Dean’s soft snores began, listening to the howl of the wind outside and the tick of Neville’s alarm clock. Was it gone midnight? He clenched his wand, tapping it on his chest. This was a good plan. Things couldn’t go on as they were – for Ginny’s sake, for Ron and Hermione’s, for his.

He’d tried this plan once before and Dumbledore’s wards had stopped him. This time though... how many freedoms had Riddle managed to worm from Umbridge? Freedoms like not being locked in...

Noiselessly, Harry slipped out of bed, grabbing the map and his beat-up sneakers, and wrapping the invisibility cloak around his shoulders. The endless thinking was driving him insane. He had to know.

He had to know if he could kill Riddle.

Save for the rattling wind, the castle was silent, eerie. Harry kept an eye on the map nonetheless, grateful Peeves appeared preoccupied bouncing around Filch’s office.

Maples was slumped in her chair, chin on her chest. Even as Harry quietly did what he’d often thought about doing and stunned her, she didn’t budge. Maybe the aurors leaving wouldn’t make all that big a difference.

Harry checked the map first, just to be sure Riddle wasn’t poised behind the door ready to strike.

He wasn’t, so, bracing himself, Harry touched the door handle, and pushed.

Riddle’s door swung open. If any alarms were raised, Harry couldn’t hear them.

The room beyond was long and narrow: a desk and chair against one wall, a wardrobe and bed against another. Two pairs of shoes were tucked neatly by the door, there was a uniform folded on the chair and school books stacked on the desk, a potions essay in tidy handwriting and a half-empty glass of water on the bedside table.

And in the bed lay Riddle, asleep.

Stepping inside and pulling the door closed, Harry stared at him, ignoring the familiar prickle in his scar. He’d never pictured Riddle sleeping, but if he had, he would have imagined a vampire in a coffin: straight back, arms by his side, solid and still. Maybe the prick would even have his eyes open. But before him, Riddle was curled on his side breathing softly, one hand tangled in the sheets, lips parted, a silver-grey moonlit sliver falling from the chink in the curtains and slicing his cheek. How remarkably… human.

Could Harry kill him like this?

He thought about it. Really thought about it.

He’d have to flee Hogwarts, of course, but that was okay, if a little sad. He could stay with Sirius at Grimmuld Place. It wasn’t as if he’d enjoyed the past two months at school. And Riddle... Riddle deserved this.

Harry’s fist clenched and unclenched around the wand.

Riddle wasn’t real.

Only... he looked real, and even as Harry stood there, hating him, he knew he could never kill someone like this.

He pulled his cloak off. Did enervate work on sleep? He settled for levitating Riddle’s water and tipping it over his head.

Blearily, Riddle blinked, swiping at his wet face with his duvet, eyes focussing on Harry, confused, then he jolted upright.

“Don’t move!” Harry hissed.

Riddle froze, wary, eying Harry’s wand. It was pointed at his head. “What are you doing, Potter?” Sleep thickened his voice.

What was he doing? Could he kill Riddle like this? Wandless, defenceless?

No. The answer came to him quickly. Riddle wasn’t attacking him. But if he was, a sly voice whispered in his head, he’d get you first.

You don’t know that, Harry thought back, irritated that his own consciousness didn’t have faith in his abilities.

“Have you changed your mind about our session?” Riddle asked.

“No! That’s not why I’m here.”

“Oh? How’s the self-study occlumency going? You seemed very calm earlier.”

Harry glared at him. “I wouldn’t act so smug, you prick; I’m considering killing you.”

Riddle cocked his head. He hadn’t smoothed his hair, and the dark waves stuck out at odd angles. “Oh, you actually are. Interesting.”

“I’m serious, Riddle.”

“I know,” he said softly.

Harry thought of Ginny and took a deep breath, but Riddle got there first.

“How’s your hand?”

“Don’t.”

“Can I see it?”

“No.”

He’s toying with you, the voice whispered. He knows you won’t do it. He knows you’re too weak.

Harry wasn’t too weak! Mercy was a strength, not a weakness – that was what Dumbledore said.

“I’m not happy with you, Potter.”

“Why? Because I don’t want to hang out with you?”

Riddle’s lips twitched. “Oh, but you do. You’re denying yourself based on a foolish moral compass, or some desire to aggravate me. Perhaps you want to be punished, Potter – is that it?”

Harry wetted his lips. “Would you punish your baby Death Eaters when they disappointed you?”

“Are you looking for an excuse to kill me?”

“Answer the question!”

“Of course I did.”

“How?”

Riddle smiled. “Oh, each one was different. Some – Avery, Yaxley – responded well to pain. Others required a more delicate touch, their social standing knocked down a peg or two, like Black and Lestrange. Dear Abraxas, he loved me, Potter, he’d drive himself crazy trying to please me if I simply ignored him for a day or two. Sometimes I’d do it just for fun.”

The smile widened. Riddle’s teeth were sharp and his skin white. He didn’t look like the boy curled on his side, breathing softly.

Harry’s wand was shaking.

“But with you, Potter… You don’t care for pain, and everyone at school already believes you’re mad – this midnight visit isn’t helping your case, by the way. Umbridge’s stunt earlier was fun, but I bet it only riled you up. Degradation couldn’t break you. No, you have no care for yourself. It’s about your friends or… anyone. I could threaten a muggle you’d never met, and you’d throw yourself at my feet.”

Riddle leaned forwards. His eyes gleamed red. “Are you going to kill me now, Harry?”

Staring at him, Harry reminded himself of all the horrible things Riddle had done. He’d murdered someone to get this body, a child, possibly, like the diary had tried to do with Ginny. Manipulated them and sapped their lifeforce until only an empty husk remained. What more would he do? How many other lives would he ruin?

Harry took a breath. Steadied himself. It was just like the diary.

Just like...

“I can’t,” Harry whispered, more to himself than Riddle. As awful as the prat was, as manipulative and destructive, it didn’t change the fact that Harry was not a killer. Not like this. Something shifted in his chest; he breathed easier.

“I know.”

“I can’t now,” Harry clarified, “But if you murder anyone else Riddle. If you threaten my friends, or any students, or –”

“Anyone you don’t believe can stand up for themselves?”

“Right. If you threaten any of them with death or torture and I believe you’ll go through with it, I’ll stop you. I’ll kill you.”

Cross-legged on the bed, Riddle looked unconcerned, but each word lightened the load on Harry’s shoulders.

“What if I kill someone in self-defence?” Riddle asked.

Harry thought about it. “Self-defence isn’t murder. But I’m holding self-defence to my standards, not yours. You can’t kill someone vaguely waving a wand in your direction. There can’t be any other options. It has to be a last resort.”

“Fine.”

“Okay.”

Riddle smiled again. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“What if I threaten to kill or torture you?”

“Oh, uh –”

“You’re struggling, so let me take this one: if I threaten to torture you, you won’t care. If I threaten to kill you, you won’t care. If I actually torture you – which I’ve essentially already done – you still won’t care. And if I kill you, you’ll be dead.”

“Well… if you try to kill me, I’ll kill you.”

“As you say.”

“I can beat you!”

Riddle grinned. “Alright. Anything else?”

“Yes. If you work for Voldemort: if you feed him valuable information about me, about those who stand against him, if you carry out his tasks.”

“I probably won’t do that.”

“No,” Harry said. “I don’t think you could stand to work for anyone.” He took a breath. “There’s one more.”

“Yes?”

“If I have to kill you to stop Voldemort, I will.”

Riddle paused, watching him carefully. “Fine.”

A plan. No more endless wondering.

“How would you kill me?” Riddle asked.

The question surprised him.

“You’ll never be able to cast the killing curse,” Riddle pressed. “You don’t want to kill me. You could point your wand and say the words and nothing would happen. So, how would you do it?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“You’ve just laid bare your stipulations for my execution, Potter. I deserve to know.”

“You don’t deserve anything.”

“There are other methods, of course, but they’re all very gory. I don’t know if you could stomach it. How do you feel about beheading? I could teach you the spell?”

“Maybe I’ll just let inspiration strike,” Harry snapped.

Riddle laughed, and it wasn’t that charming, good-natured laugh Harry had seen him use. It was cold and high and surprisingly mirthful. It reminded him of Voldemort.

“Not that you care but I’m not planning on killing you, Potter. Not in the immediate future, anyway.”

“Why?” Trying to kill him was the one plan of Voldemort’s Harry could rely on.

 Riddle shrugged. “I like you. You’re fun.”

“That’s not the reason.”

“But Harry,” Riddle said, eyes wide and earnest and radiating the schoolboy charm the girls loved so much and Merlin, Harry really didn’t like Riddle using his name. “Why would I lie?”

Just to break the illusion, Harry shot him with a stinging hex.

Rubbing his shoulder, Riddle smirked, then extended a long, pale, hand.

Harry stared at it.

“Come on,” Riddle said, “You’ve made your oaths. Let’s shake on them.”

Reluctantly, Harry passed his wand over, then gingerly took the extended hand, wincing at the spike of pain in his scar. Cool, smooth skin brushed against his own.

Then, Riddle’s grip tightened, and he surged forwards, pushing Harry backwards until he collided with the desk, their hands still joined, twisted between them. Before he could aim his wand, Riddle gripped its tip with his free hand, rotating it away.

“It’s nice to be on the same page,” the bastard murmured.

Harry growled at him, frustrated again by their difference in height and weight. Why couldn’t the Dursleys have fed him more? Pinning Dudley would’ve been a greater feat.

“I must not tell lies,” Riddle read, staring at the back of his bloodied hand.

“Fuck off!” Harry snarled. From the sudden, hungry look that possessed Riddle’s face, he must’ve spoken in parseltongue.

“I hate that she did this to you, Potter,” he hissed softly, lovingly, almost, if Riddle had any idea what love was. “I hated it so much that I could’ve killed her. Showing you off to me like I’d be pleased to see someone else’s mark on you.”

“Umbridge thinks you’re Voldemort.”

“She thinks I’m like her. That I enjoy seeing my enemies hurt and humiliated.”

“You do.”

“Yes,” he smiled. Harry thought they were still conversing in parseltongue, but with the way Riddle spoke, low and dangerous, it was difficult to tell. “But she made a mistake. She overlooked how possessive I am. You may not care how others treat you, but I do. You’re mine, Harry Potter.” And, eyes boring into his, he dipped his head and licked the back of Harry’s hand.

Harry shoved him, hard, and Riddle must not have been trying anymore because he stumbled back lightly, laughing.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

The prat sat back on the bed, grinning. There was blood smudged on his upper lip.

“I’m not yours, Riddle,” Harry snapped. “I’m not a possession!” And he hit him with a spinucular jinx because he may be above killing Riddle in cold blood, but he had no qualms about covering his body in thin, spikey needles.

Riddle frowned at him reproachfully. “You’d better know the counter jinx for that otherwise the aurors will know someone was here. What did you do with Maples anyway?”

“Stunned her.”

“Hm. Where’d you get your invisibility cloak? It’s very good.”

“I’m not telling you,” Harry grumbled, pulling it back on. Riddle’s eyes unfocused.

“Counter-jinx, Potter,” he called when the door opened.

“Can’t you do wandless magic?”

Riddle huffed. “You can’t perform counter-jinxes wandlessly. It’s impossible.”

“Well, that sounds like a fun challenge for you.”

Harry was sure Hermione had once mentioned something about performing jinxes that wore off after a certain amount of time and wished he’d listened to her. Gifting Riddle an uncomfortable, sleepless few hours was highly appealing. Disappointed, he removed the jinx.

“Happy Halloween,” Riddle called, climbing back under the covers.

“You’re a dick,” Harry spat, and he left, enervating Maples as he stormed past. She stayed asleep.

Blood and adrenaline rushed in his veins, but he felt better than he had all night, clearer. Confident. A soothing catharsis, like he’d had a good cry. He dabbed his hand with his robes, careful of the wound. It was still wet where Riddle had licked it.

Creepy psychopath.

Even if he was still alive, at least Harry had answered his question: he knew where his line was. Riddle was starting to make more sense to him too. Despite his surname, the teenage dark lord was not all that complicated. There was something childish about him: a recklessness, a craving for attention, a desire to possess. And there was something about their conversations... they made him feel productive, useful. They banished the gnawing blackness. They made his heart race.

Though of course, no matter what Ginny said, Harry did not like them.

He was becoming a wonderful liar.

Chapter Text

It was strange, leaving his room that Saturday morning not to find Upton, Crawley, or Tonks leaning against the opposite wall, ready to begin a thrilling day of chasing Tom’s heels like pathetic, lovesick puppies.

He was free. And Merlin, was he going to make this a fantastic day.

Tom had a simple, brilliant plan. Those were always the best sort. It had come upon him quite suddenly in Charms yesterday when that irritating Ravenclaw with the exceptionally obvious crush on Potter had not-so-accidentally doused his essay in water from a failed aguamenti charm, bleeding the ink. Yes – an excellent way to punish Potter, Dumbledore, and Umbridge in one fell swoop. And the girl too, Tom supposed, but he didn’t really care about her.

It took effort not to skip to breakfast.

Natalie greeted him with an enthusiastic hug and a kiss on the cheek, before tugging him over to the Ravenclaw table and he was in such a good mood that he forgot to be annoyed by this.

“Are you coming to the game, Tom?” she asked, piling a plate high with an egregious number of sausages and hash browns.

“I thought I might,” he said. “Who will you be supporting?”

It was Roisin who replied. “Well, the order of preference is Ravenclaw, naturally, Hufflepuff, Gryffindor, then Slytherin.” She listed them each on her fingers, accidentally dipping her elbow in ketchup. “The Gryffindors win almost everything, but the Slytherins are just too irritating when victorious to root for – sorry.”

Tom shrugged. “Both of those statements were true in my day, too. Anyway, I’ve never been one for sports. I used to love game days for how quiet the castle was.”

Perfect for Chamber hunting.

He let the girls chat for a while, both giggling over the roaring lion hat Loony Lovegood had worn, Tom content to watch Potter wheedle toast into his weasel friend, the Granger girl patting the red-head on the arm. Eventually, Potter dropped the toast, rubbing at his forehead and glaring over at Tom. He smiled back, savouring the memory of the boy in Tom’s darkened room, the iron tang of his blood.

When Tom refocused on the Ravenclaws, he noticed Cho and Marietta hovering at the end of their table. Roisin waved them over, but Cho flicked her long, dark hair over a shoulder and stalked off towards the Gryffindor table instead.

Marietta sat down with a huff. “Sorry,” she said to Tom. “She’s being difficult.”

He gave her a sad half smile. “I understand – I don’t mean to come between you. Please let me know if I can do anything to help.”

She simply melted. So easy.

Eating his breakfast – and wasn’t it so nice to eat in the Great Hall again, the sky stretching high above them, frosted and white with winter’s first snow – he kept an eye on Cho and her chat with Potter, waiting for the girl to leave. It was important he get her alone.

“Mind if I meet you out there?” he asked the Ravenclaw girls after Potter and Weasley had vanished with the rest of the Gryffindor Quidditch team and Cho had drained her mug. “I’ve left my scarf in my room.”

They all smiled and nodded, and Natalie pecked him on the cheek again. (Tom would have to navigate his and Natalie’s break-up carefully: the allegiance of these pretty, popular kids was proving remarkably beneficial. As soon as she wanted to go further than a hand under the top, he’d pull away. He couldn’t be bothered with sex. People always got so clingy afterwards).

He caught up with Cho in the Entrance Hall. A soft smile lit her face as leaned against the grand front doors, gazing out over the grounds. Could Potter’s flirting really be that magical? All he ever gave Tom were snarky insults.

“Hi, Cho,” he said, touching her shoulder lightly. “I wanted to apologise.”

Startled from her reverie, like a doe caught in spellfire, she flinched away, blinking up at him. Tom motioned her to the side where they were less likely to be overheard; the Entrance Hall was crowded with students preparing to brave the November chill.

Reluctantly, she followed. “I believe Harry, you know,” she said stiffly, once they were safely out of earshot.

“I know,” he said, tucking his hands in his pockets and peering down at her, a dark curl falling across his face: the picture of charming casualness for any nosy onlookers.

“He’s not crazy, and he’s not a liar!”

“No, he’s not,” Tom said. Not in the way the Daily Prophet inferred, anyhow.

At that, her round eyes turned the size of dinner plates. “He’s right then? About you?”

“I thought you already believed him.”

Torn between staring at him in fascination and running in fear, Cho stayed stock still. Enough toying, she wasn’t Potter.

“Relax,” he said. “I’m not going to hurt him – Umbridge is already doing a better job at that than I could under Dumbledore’s watch.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Oh?” Tom said, raising his eyebrows. “He hasn’t told you?”

A light pink flush crept onto her cheeks, answering his question. Good to learn he understood Potter exactly as well as he thought he did. Now… How much to push?

“Told me what?” she asked through gritted teeth.

“I shouldn’t say. Umbridge is too useful to me, I couldn’t have her lose her job.”

(Of course, Fudge wouldn’t allow Dumbledore to fire her – Tom doubted the man could admit a mistake on pain of death – but he doubted Cho would guess that).

“Umbridge is doing something to Harry?”

“Couldn’t say. I’m sure she’s prevented Harry from saying anything either.” He smirked. “But this is beside the point. Your friends missed you at breakfast. You’re not playing ball, Cho, and its causing tension in our little group.”

She opened her mouth to retort, then snapped it closed. Clever girl. “What’s Umbridge doing?”

Tom frowned. “It’s irrelevant. Join us for the game.”

“No. How is she hurting Harry?”

“Drop it, Cho,” he said.

“Is that why his hand’s bandaged? He said it was a Quidditch accident, but I’ve never had anything Madam Pomfrey can’t fix.”

“I said drop it,” Tom snarled, and her eyes went wide again.

Hand slipping into her pocket, she took a step back. “I’ll – I’ll hex you!”

Tom smoothed his hair, glancing around. Their group would be here in a moment. To Cho, he said, “Watch the game with us. I have no plans to hurt you or your friends.”

“No,” she said. “I don’t really fancy the game anymore. Great chatting with you, Riddle, but I’m busy.” Swiftly, she turned on her heel, making it halfway up the grand staircase before Natalie appeared by his arm.

“Were you talking with Cho?”

“Yeah,” Tom said, sighing. “She stopped me on my way upstairs. It didn’t go very well I’m afraid.”

“She’ll come around,” Natalie said, slipping her hand into his and giving him an encouraging smile. “Thank you for trying anyway. Did you still want to get your scarf? The game’ll be starting soon – you can borrow mine if you’d like.”

“No, thanks,” Tom said, returning the smile. “I couldn’t betray my house like that.”

She rolled her pretty eyes. “You should’ve been a Ravenclaw to begin with, Tom, all you ever do is work, you don’t have time for Slytherin schemes.”

As they joined the rest of their group by the door, floor slick with errant snowflakes, Tom caught sight of Granger, bushy hair tucked into her Gryffindor scarf and woollen cloak, watching him. Praying she wouldn’t fuck up what, so far, had been a perfectly executed plan, he glanced away quickly.

Cho would do what he needed her to.

And so would Umbridge: donned in an ugly, green, tweed cloak she sauntered towards the pitch in step with that short Care of Magical Creatures teacher, leaving her office nice and empty. Wonderful.

Now, to focus on Quidditch. Or, more specifically, on ensuring his horcrux didn’t die hurtling through the air on a stick at break-neck speeds dodging semi-sentient iron balls. If there was a method to prevent Potter from getting on a broom ever again, Tom would welcome it gladly.

On the walk down, he entertained himself with fantasies of jumping to Potter’s rescue: slowing a terrible fall and basking in Potter’s chagrin and the adoration of the crowd. It had been considerate of the boy to admit that he didn’t care what Tom did to him as long as he didn’t touch his friends.

Unluckily for Potter, Tom had never cared about his friends.

Exposed to the wild, highland winds, the stands were freezing and Tom mourned the loss of his scarf for the merit of his schemes. He tried to instruct Natalie to use a warming charm on him (why others didn’t intuitively use magic for everything, always, he would never understand), but it was busy and loud, and his request got lost in the noise.

“This is going to get fun,” Marietta said, grinning, as the Slytherin and Gryffindor captains clasped each other’s hands and the Slytherin stands erupted into song – something creative and nasty concerning Weasley. Tom didn’t pay this much heed though because beside him, Natalie’s wand was sticking out of her pocket. Packed in tight like this, no one noticed him take it.

Just in case.

He’d give it back after the game.

Curious, he watched Potter zip into the air with the rest of the players. He was an excellent flier, easily one of the best on the pitch, though one of the Slytherin chasers – Cassius Warrington – looked good too. Potter’s confidence soothed Tom’s anxieties for all of ten seconds until he saw how bleedin’ fast the brooms flew.

Trying not to sound panicked, he asked Roisin, who seemed to be the biggest Quidditch fan among them, “Have brooms always been this quick?”

“Nope,” she said happily as Potter shot a hundred metres into the snowy sky. “There was a breakthrough in levitation charms about ten years ago – they’ve been getting faster and faster ever since. Potter’s got the best broom, see the golden lettering? It’s a Firebolt, international standard, released two years ago. I almost want to befriend him just to check it out. Recently they’ve been tweaking the model to better suit the different positions, but otherwise nothing’s held a candle to it yet. Rumour is, there might be a –”

Tom didn’t hear what the rumour was because Madam Hooch had blown the whistle and one of the Slytherin beaters slammed a bludger at Potter’s chest. Tom hadn’t even decided which spell he was going to use when Potter rolled and the bludger sailed harmlessly by.

A narrow escape. This time.

Why did this goddamned dangerous sport exist in the first place? Were wizards trying to send themselves to an early grave?

Think. Better to confound the Slytherin beaters, or swerve the bludgers headed for Potter? Watching them, the two Slytherin beaters essentially were confounded: their hits were chaotic, iron balls pelting in random directions. Thankfully, the Gryffindor beaters – those Weasley twins – exercised more control.

Vaguely, Tom wondered whether interfering against his own house was considered treasonous, but when a bludger whizzed towards his horcrux’s head (Potter who had, for some reason, hovered beside the Gryffindor goal for much too long) and Tom used a silent magnetism charm to career it off course, he decided he didn’t care: his life came first.

At the spell, magic shivered along the veins in his arm. More, it sung. For the sake of balance he encouraged a bludger towards the tail of one of the Gryffindor chasers, sending her spinning.

Beside him, Natalie shivered. “Do you feel that?”

“What?” Tom said, directing the tendrils of his magic towards shielding Potter from yet another bludger. Why did there need to be two of them?

“The air – it feels very…” she peered over her shoulder, drawing her cloak tighter. “Oppressive.”

“Oh,” he said. Another bludger. Could he knock the Slytherin beaters off their brooms and be done with it? “Maybe there’s a storm coming.”

There came a great cheer from the Slytherin stands, and more singing. Four-one. Or Forty-ten, whatever. Weasley had let another one in.

“He’s not very good, is he?” Marietta muttered.

“Bodes well for us,” Roisin said. “The only two times Potter hasn’t caught the snitch was the time he was in hospital and the time dementors swarmed the pitch –”

“Dementors what?” Tom asked.

“– Oh look, there he goes now. What a surprise.”

Tom’s heart leapt into his throat as Potter threw himself into a steep dive – if you could even call falling a dive! In the nick of time, he evened out, Draco Malfoy on his tail, sweeping around the edge of the stands, close enough for Tom to spot the wild grin on his face.

Yes, the boy was insane.

A moment later, he pulled up, fist raised triumphantly.

“With that broom it’s basically no contest,” Roisin grumbled, clapping half-heartedly and Tom had a sudden urge to tell her to shut up. Potter had clearly outmatched them. Why did people never appreciate talent when they saw it?

Scarlet and gold robes flapping around him, unruly black hair tugged by the wind, he looked good too. Tom hadn’t thought about it before. Potter wasn’t classically handsome in the way he was, in the way Abraxas had been, though his eyes were pleasant, and very expressive. And hadn’t he enjoyed the way Potter’s body had felt beneath his, pinned against his desk, slim and fragile. Then there was the challenge of the thing: Lord Voldemort couldn’t even lure Potter to a graveyard long enough to kill him, but he, Tom, could get Potter –

 There was a bludger headed right for the boy. One of the idiot Slytherin beaters had hit it after the whistle blew. Tom flicked his – Natalie’s – wand and it zoomed sideways instead, crashing into the ground and sending muddy snow sloshing into the air. Focussed on their celebrations, the Gryffindors didn’t even notice. Any animosity toward Potter for being ‘crazy’ or ‘a liar’ had apparently been temporarily forgotten in the wake of his heroic athletics.

Perhaps Tom needn't have been so polite all the damn time if he was better at Quidditch.

“Is that it?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Natalie. “Not very long, was it? Suppose I’ll have to practise Transfiguration now.”

Hopefully, it had been long enough.

They trudged up to the castle, Tom slipping an arm around Natalie’s waist to relinquish the wand. He nearly had to pry his fingers off it. Snow formed a thin layer on the grass, soaking their feet.

“Merlin, they’re annoying,” Roisin muttered as a group of cheering Gryffindors stampeded past them, kicking up mud.

More subdued were the Slytherins; pretending to tie a shoelace, Tom hung back.

“Bad luck,” he said to Draco Malfoy, clapping him on the shoulder.

The blond flinched.

“Fuck off,” their captain, Montague, grunted.

Tom’s Slytherins wouldn’t have been so rude. “Just offering my condolences to my old house,” he said.

“You were in Slytherin?” one of the beaters – Crabbe, Tom realised, one of the boys from Knockturn Alley – asked. Tom should’ve knocked him off the broom. Would that have crossed one of Potter’s lines about torture or murder? It wasn’t as if Potter liked the Slytherins…

“Obviously, Crabbe,” Draco hissed.

“Obviously,” Tom repeated, smiling down at Draco. Now that his aurors were gone, it was high time he catch up on some Lord Voldemort themed reconnaissance –

“I do hope you’re not badgering anyone, Mr Riddle,” came a low, slimy voice. Professor Snape. He slid into step between Tom and Draco, one hand finding Draco’s back, and the young Malfoy tensed.

“Not at all, Professor,” Tom said, his smile turning tight, “Only congratulating Draco on his flying.”

Dryly, Snape raised an eyebrow. “Come now, Riddle, you must know how Slytherins feel about false flattery – especially from an outsider.”

At this, Montague guffawed – a horrid, gargling noise, like a wad of spit had gotten stuck in his throat. “You can lick my boots if you want, mudblood.”

The slushy snow beneath Tom’s feet hardened. As Snape lightly chided, “Language, Graham,” Tom felt his insides freeze in a way they hadn’t since he was thirteen and Lestrange had called him that for the final time.

“I’m not a mudblood,” he said.

Cassius Warrington, the chaser, piped up, “Aren’t you? ‘Riddle’ isn’t a wizarding family I’ve heard of. What was your mother’s name?”

Tom opened his mouth, then felt his voice die in his throat. He couldn’t say Gaunt. Not when everyone believed Morfin Gaunt to be Lord Voldemort. He glanced sideways at Snape. A thin, satisfied sneer twisted the man’s lips.

It was Draco who saved him a reply. “Shut up, Cas.”

Even knowing that someone knew not to test him wasn’t enough to vanish the prickling feeling clawing up Tom’s spine. The feeling he’d first felt on a crisp September morning, stuck in a train compartment with boys who dressed and spoke differently, who used words Tom didn’t understand, boys who laughed at him, boys who didn’t yet know Tom was destined for greatness.

Snape ushered the Slytherins on, keeping close to Draco. As Tom stared after them, firmly reminding himself of his boat ride across the lake – the stray wave that had plucked Avery from his bench and held him underwater, thrashing – a strange lightness swelled in Tom’s chest, foreign, constricting. There was a sudden urge to laugh, to tilt his head up to the grey sky and –

Oh, Potter.

Grinning on the shoulders of his so-called friends, muddy Quidditch robes and muddy boots, glasses crooked.

Reaching into the black abyss of his mind, Tom severed the connection. The lightness vanished, leaving him peculiarly hollow. Swallowing hard, he set off up to the castle.

Tom lunched with Natalie, Roisin, and Marietta; Cho was nowhere to be seen. The Gryffindor table was mostly empty too, the lions celebrating the win in their common room, but Umbridge sat at the high table. Catching his eye, she gave Tom a stubby wave and he smiled thinly in return.

At least he had the thought of revenge to keep him entertained.

Later, as they wandered to the library – the other sixth years drowning in homework Tom had already completed – Tom remembered something. He asked Roisin about the dementors.

“Oh, those,” she said, hunting through the mess of her school bag for an unbroken quill. “They were positioned at the school in our fourth year; there was a break-out from Azkaban, some mass murdering supporter of You-Know-Who.”

“Why at the school?”

“I don’t know, to protect the kids, I guess. There were rumours he was after Harry Potter. Might’ve been true too; he did break in twice that year…”

“Is he back in Azkaban?”

She frowned, pausing her search. “Uh… no. They never caught him. Everyone kind of just stopped mentioning it…”

Well, great. Suppose Tom had a lunatic to look out for now, too. He could not conceive of a more inconvenient horcrux than Harry Potter.

Dementors though…

Mind racing, he left the others searching for a spare table and found the section on magical creatures. Memories, magical extractions… He’d been going about his research all wrong! Lovely theories, but they hadn’t discussed the important bit: the soul. And here, right under his nose, were creatures known for extracting souls! Dementors! Tom didn’t blame himself for not reaching this solution earlier; he’d never taken Care of Magical Creatures. Usually, creatures were more useful dead.

He grabbed three titles, hoping at least one would detail how dementors extracted souls. Dragging a dementor to Hogwarts (or, alternatively, dragging Potter to a dementor) was a rather blunt method, and besides, Tom much preferred complicated spellwork over entrusting a delicate task to a creature he couldn’t control. There must be a way to replicate the process – wizards were the powerful ones, after all.

At least, he was anyway, Tom thought, after Natalie and Marietta spent over an hour attempting to transfigure two pebbles into two inkpots. (Transfiguring multiples objects in one go was tricky, but McGonagall had explained it perfectly well and honestly, if one considered most objects as being a sum of parts, extending a spell to two objects became trivial). Whatever. This was distracting and he was busy.

“Oh, are you leaving?” Natalie had the gall to ask when he swiped up his books. “Can’t you explain the theory again, Tom? I swear I’ve nearly got it! The pebbles are leaking ink now, see?”

Tom had seen; the ink had stained the corner of his book. Thankfully, one of Natalie’s annoying Gryffindor friends arrived and saved him a snarky reply.

“Tom!” Lavender Brown exclaimed. “McGonagall asked me to give you this.”

When Tom took the slip of parchment from her, Lavender, Natalie, Roisin, and Marietta all stared expectantly, as if he might perform a dramatic reading. Strongly tempted to stalk off and leave them to it, he sighed, glancing over the loopy handwriting. His heart rate quickened.

“Dumbledore wants to see me.”

“What about?”

“Doesn’t say.”

“When?”

“Now.”

“Maybe he wants to apologise?”

“Somehow I doubt it.”

Apprehensive, Tom bade them farewell, striding quickly up to Dumbledore’s office. As he entered the corridor leading to it, a grand sight raised his spirits: from the other end trudged Potter.

“You too?” Tom called, waving the note.

The boy glared. “What did you do?”

“Why do you always assume I did something?”

“Did you?”

“Yes.”

They met in front of Dumbledore’s hideous, stone gargoyle. In Dippet’s day, there had been a nice, respectable door. A trail of dried mud snaked behind Potter; he was still in his Quidditch robes, cheeks splashed by a pink flush. In Tom’s stewing over Flint’s mudblood comment, rapidly swallowed by his excitement about the dementor discovery, he’d almost forgotten that he’d pondered kissing the boy.

Not for the kiss itself, of course - kisses were dreadfully boring - but because getting Potter to do it (or to want Tom to do it) would be a fun challenge - now with an added time limit. There would be no use in keeping Potter alive once he figured out the dementor spell.

“Do you know the password?” Tom asked him, in as friendly a tone as he dared. Be too nice and he’d make Potter suspicious. (Also, there was something enjoyable about their bikering. Occassionally, Potter could be pleasantly witty). 

“No. Why would I?”

“Aren’t you Dumbledore’s pet? I assumed you slept in there, curled up on his lap.”

“And I assumed you valued your life enough to avoid a call to his office, but I suppose we can both be wrong.”

Curious, Tom cocked his head. There was something about the way Potter spoke, syllables running together, the way his weight shifted from foot to foot... A grin pulled at his lips. “Are you drunk?”

“No!”

Oh, he was. Butterbeer danced on his breath.

“I only had three,” Potter grumbled.

“I believe that’s against the school rules, Potter.”

“Well, so is murdering a student, yet you’re still here.”

“It’s not actually; I did check. They assume one won’t, unless one has an excellent reason, in which case it’s permissible.”

“Oh? And what was your excellent reason, Riddle? Fun?”

There came a gravelly cough: the gargoyle had swung forwards. They both looked at it, surprised. For a moment, Tom had forgotten where they were, and so, it seemed, had Potter.

“Even rocks don’t want to wait around all day…” it muttered.

Graciously, Tom gestured for Potter to lead the way.

Without a word of thanks – instead, Potter’s brows pulled into a deep scowl as if Tom’s politeness was offensive – the boy stalked through, Tom following. When the stone steps lurched into motion and the boy stumbled, grabbing at the wall for support, Tom suppressed a snicker – not well, apparently, because Potter stopped, turned, and glared.

“Don’t you dare tell Dumbledore!”

Still grinning, Tom said, “The glazed look in your eyes makes that especially intimidating; how do you manage it?”

“I’ll tell him you threatened to kill me!”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, Potter, but it was you who broke into my room in the middle of the night, held me at wand point and threatened to kill me.”

“Yeah?” Potter said, “and who’s he going to believe?”

Tom stared at him.

Potter actually blushed, though he didn’t look away.

“Alcohol makes you ruthless,” said Tom.

“You make me ruthless.”

The stairs ground to a halt. Stood a step below Potter, Tom was eye-to-eye with him. The boy’s nose was thin and straight, upturned at the end, and a little red either side of the bridge where his glasses sat.

Tom asked, “Did you know you speak in parseltongue when you’re drunk?”

Up close, he could see the way Potter’s eyebrows knitted together, a crease forming in the middle, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “I do not!”

“You can’t tell, can you?”

“I can.”

“You must not tell lies, Harry.”

Tom wanted to stand there on Dumbledore’s stone steps forever, trading barbs with Potter, steadily driving the boy closer and closer to madness. Maybe he’d even pin him to the wall again –

“The steps may move, but the door doesn’t open itself, boys.”

Potter leapt a foot into the air, nearly crashing into a rather serious-looking Professor McGonagall in the doorway. His flush spread to his neck.

“Sorry, Professor,” he stammered – in parseltongue, which was adorable – then half ran into Dumbledore’s office. At a more leisurely pace, Tom followed, smiling briefly at McGonagall as she stepped inside and closed the door behind them.

The Headmaster’s office looked like someone had robbed an antique store, shaken the room about until things stuck, then chucked in a twiggy bird on the brink of death for good measure. It was horrible. The chairs were chintz.

Before Dumbledore’s desk (which looked ready to collapse beneath mounds of tat) Cho swivelled in her seat, eyes red-rimmed and worried. Granger sat beside her, staring decidedly at her hands. Delightfully, Umbridge’s blood quill was on the desk (though Umbridge herself was absent) and behind his long, white beard and half-moon glasses, Dumbledore looked very, very angry.

There came a sensation, like the bottom of Tom’s stomach had fallen away and an oily tar trickled down his spine. Was that...? Taking the velvet pouffe next to Potter, Tom felt for the connection between them.

It was open.

But hadn’t he closed it only a few hours ago on the walk up to the castle? Come to think of it, Tom had never opened the connection before. He knew closing the connection was only temporary - he had to ensure his connection to Lord Voldemort was closed every week or so - but he’d assumed on the scale of days, not hours.

It was concerning, and Tom snapped their connection shut again. A light-headedness he hadn’t even noticed cleared.

“Do you recognise this?” Dumbledore asked of Potter, leaning forwards on the desk and tapping the blood quill, McGonagall hovering at his side. Despite the kind, grandfatherly tone, he radiated power. Oppressive, Natalie had said earlier.

Potter shrugged. He kept glancing at Granger, hands tucked beneath his thighs and shoulders tense. Served him right. It was as good a punishment as any for refusing Tom’s occlumency offer. How thoughtful of Dumbledore to invite him to bear witness.

“Harry, may I see your hand?” Dumbledore prompted.

“It’s fine,” Potter said quickly. Then, “I hurt it playing Quidditch.”

Quite obviously, no one believed him. An hour wasn’t nearly long enough for Tom’s teaching to take effect.

“Harry…” Granger said, hands twisting.

“I said not to mention it!” Potter snapped at Granger, meekness dissolving to anger.

“I didn’t –” Granger glanced at Cho.

Potter flushed further, redness trailing below the collar of his Quidditch robes.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” Cho said miserably. “I wanted to help…”

“Well, you didn’t!”

“That’s enough,” McGonagall cut in, firm but gentle. “We’re grateful Miss Chang and Miss Granger brought this matter to our attention.”

Potter slumped in his chair, cheeks aflame. This was so much worse for him, Tom realised, than Halloween. When it was just the two of them Potter had so much bravado; he sparred verbally (or physically) with Tom as though fighting for his life, yet here, among allies, he looked… lost, shy.

Tom didn’t like it.

“May we see, Harry?” Dumbledore repeated, voice still kind, expression still angry.

Reluctantly, Potter released his hand, unravelling a bandage and holding his palm over the desk. McGonagall and Cho gasped softly. Granger chewed her thumbnail.

“Do you mind?” Dumbledore asked, withdrawing his wand. It was a different wand, Tom noticed, from his Transfiguration days: long, thin, and light-coloured. When Potter shrugged again, the headmaster performed a few spells; Tom recognised the movements for mild curse detection, and a medical diagnostic spell that made him smirk. Unfortunately, Dumbledore didn’t call Potter on the underage drinking. Figures, probably just ‘character building’ for his favourite student. Let him experience life before Lord Voldemort murders him.

“Thanks,” Potter muttered as Dumbledore did something to fade the angry, red letters into shiny, pink scars.

“Madame Pomfrey will be expecting you afterwards. I’ve tried my best, but in the art of healing she is far more talented than I.”

Inspection over, Potter folded his arms.

“This won’t happen again,” McGonagall said. “If I have to attend every detention with you, Potter, I –”

“You’re not getting rid of her?” Granger cried. “Blood quills are illegal! She tortured him, Professor, she –”

Dumbledore held up a hand. “Thank you, Miss Granger, I understand. Under normal circumstances, believe me, I have no intention of employing any adult intent on harming a student of mine. Alas, these are not normal circumstances.”

“You can’t do anything?” Granger asked.

Peering at her over his half-moon glasses, the old man raised a white, wispy brow. “Now, I didn’t say that, did I?” He made as if to look at Potter, then quickly glanced down at his desk, straightening a bowl of sherbet lemons. “I’d like to keep Umbridge away from you – no more detentions, and I think you ought to avoid her classes. I may not be able to remove her from Hogwarts, but this,” his gaze flitted to the blood quill, mouth thinning in distaste, “ought to give us a little leeway with the Minister. Cornelius’s position is not as secure as he likes to pretend.”

At that, Tom felt a flicker of worry. He read the newspaper, he knew there was some ongoing feud between Fudge and Scrimgeour, but they’d never made it sound like Scrimgeour was an actual threat.

Dumbledore must’ve noticed his discomfort. To Tom, he said, “Alas, to call the Daily Prophet news nowadays is to call a niffler a custodian: true only at a glance.”

There was a small, circular mirror on a rickety side table, Tom’s blank face reflected on its concave surface. He rather wanted to throw it at Dumbledore’s head.

Granger leant forwards. “What do you mean Harry won’t have to go to Defence, sir? What about his OWL?”

With a thin smile, McGonagall said, “I wasn’t aware Dolores’s ‘lessons’ involved OWL content.”

Dumbledore did not look amused by this. As much as Tom was loathe to admit it, Dumbledore valued learning almost as much as him – even if the old man did blatantly ignore the Dark Arts.

“Regardless,” Dumbledore said, “I’ll arrange a different Defence teacher for you.”

“Who?” Potter asked, somewhat rudely.

The Headmaster didn’t admonish him for that, either. “I have an idea, though if you don’t mind I shall wait for his agreement before I tell you. In the meantime, I shall speak with Professor Umbridge –” his eyes flashed and sweat beaded at the nape of Tom’s neck “ – and ensure no further harm comes to my students.”

That wasn’t a conversation Tom envied.

The old man sagged, gazing at his gnarled hands, splayed on the desk. He still hadn’t looked at Potter – not once.

“Harry,” he said quietly, “I sincerely apologise, both that this happened, and that you felt you could not come to us about it.”

Potter stared at the floor. His lack of acknowledgement for Dumbledore’s apology brought Tom great satisfaction, as did the guilt in the old fool’s voice. Granger, who admittedly hadn’t been part of Tom’s plan, also seemed to have put her foot in it.

All in all, a wonderful day.

“What’s he doing here?” Potter eventually asked.

“Yes – perhaps you’d like to tell us, Tom,” Dumbledore said, leaning back in his chair and steepling his fingers. No grandfather tone for him.

“I have no idea what you’re referring to, Professor.”

“Really?”

Tom shrugged politely.

“So, you were unaware of the content of Harry’s detentions with Umbridge?”

Cooly, he said, “I was made aware earlier this week.”

“And did you inform anyone?”

“Cho, this morning.”

“You didn’t want to,” Cho interjected, her polished, black shoe tapping nervously. “You told me by accident –”

Dumbledore held up a hand. “I’m afraid, Miss Chang, that Tom rarely does anything by accident. I expect he intended for you to bring this matter to our attention; please do not be embarrassed for we are very grateful you did. Tom is well practised in manipulating others for his gain.”

McGonagall was eying Tom shrewdly. She knew the truth about him – as one of Dumbledore’s closest allies how could she not? – but seeing Lord Voldemort in the amiable, diligent student who had only ever been polite and respectful in her company must be difficult.

“And what did he have to gain from this?” she asked of the Headmaster.

“Quite what I’m curious about,” Dumbledore said, resuming his cold, hard stare into Tom’s soul. Tom raised his gaze to the bookshelf behind the old codger’s head. “Did you want to get Umbridge into trouble, Tom?”

But before Tom could open his mouth, Harry answered, his voice quiet. “Yeah, he did.”

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows at Tom. “Is that so? The two of you seemed to be getting on so well.”

Tom smiled. “Why don’t you ask Harry? Apparently, he knows my motivations better than I.”

Briefly, Potter glanced at him, then continued, “She displeased him.”

“What did Umbridge do to displease Tom?”

Potter scuffed the plush rug with his foot. “She hurt me,” he said, very softly.

McGonagall huffed. “Well, that seems… normal.”

“No,” Potter said, and his flush returned. Was he embarrassed? Of Tom’s possessiveness? “He was… jealous.” Potter continued quickly, leaving no space for comment. “He wouldn’t have wanted to risk his relationship with Umbridge, so used Cho, probably hoping I’d be angry with her; he guessed I didn’t want you to know.”

It was odd, having someone know him so well. Unnerving, yes, but also intoxicating, addictive. Fun.

Dumbledore sighed, unsurprised by Potter’s explanation. “Why didn’t you want us to know, Harry?”

Potter’s gaze shot up from the floor, meeting Dumbledore’s and the boy’s body tensed, Tom could see it in the flex of his shoulders beneath the tight, crimson Quidditch robes. “Why do you think?” he demanded, so venomous that Tom could taste the bitterness of the question on his tongue. Then, Potter said something else, but Tom didn’t catch it, the words echoey and garbled.

Something very strange was happening.

Hot, seething fury burst inside him – but, he’d closed – all consuming, all encompassing. Before his eyes, the cluttered office with its glittering trinkets swam, dissolving, melted by that foreign rage – hadn’t he – and the old fool’s bright eyes bore into his – such blistering, unyielding hatred – he wanted to strike, to tear, to rip – his forehead burned, he couldn’t breathe, he –

*****

Dumbledore’s ceiling was arched. Marble rafters and midnight blue paint, smattered with stars. Steadily, it emerged from blackness. The hardwood floor pressed into his back, and people were fussing around him, talking loudly.

“– I had to stun him, Minerva –”

“Should we fetch Poppy?”

“Harry? Harry? I think he’s going to be sick, Professor –”

Hermione clutched his arm, helping Harry sit up. He did feel sick. On one summer day years ago, the Dursleys had taken him to the beach: a vast expanse of pebbles and reddening bodies. Unsupervised, Harry had waded into the ocean, enjoying the tang of salt on his lips, the coolness lapping at his waist, soaking Dudley’s hand-me-down shorts. He’d seen something – a pretty shell by his foot, pale pink and ribbed – and he bent down to grab it. A wave crashed over his head, and he’d tumbled into the water, spluttering, drowning, spinning.

That feeling, when his head had broken the surface, gasping and dizzy, light-headed –

The alcohol wasn’t helping. Damn Fred and George. Swallowing, he managed to keep the bile down. Just.

McGonagall and Hermione helped him into a chair. “Drink this,” McGonagall said, pressing a mug into his hand. It tasted of honey and lemon and warmed his throat.

Across the office, Riddle gripped the edge of Dumbledore’s desk, knuckles white and skin paler than usual. His hair was tousled and Harry thought he must’ve fallen too.

“What happened?” Cho asked, terrified.

“An excellent question,” said Dumbledore. Like Riddle, he was standing, and his deep wrinkles suddenly made him look very old. “Any ideas, Tom?”

“I don’t know,” Riddle replied, then, “I don’t,” when Dumbledore seemed unconvinced.

Harry lifted a hand to his chest, feeling for the residual stinging in his heart from that visceral, searing anger. Had that been Riddle’s hatred for Dumbledore? Voldemort’s?

“Use legilimency if you want,” Riddle was saying, “I don’t know.”

That, surely, was a lie, yet Dumbledore only sighed, for once sounding his age. “You should go to the hospital wing, Harry. Minerva, if you and the girls could accompany him?”

“I’m not staying here alone with you,” Riddle said, and he must be feeling better because his voice had recovered its usual, crisp haughtiness.

“Good. I don’t enjoy your company much either. You can go, Tom. Don’t forget your books.”

Glaring, Riddle swiped up the half-a-library he’d brought and stalked from the office.

Harry watched the door close behind him. That was it? Harry felt like someone had thrown him in a flaming washing machine and Riddle knew why and Dumbledore had just let him go?

Not thinking about it, Harry sprung to his feet, fighting a sudden bought of light-headedness that threatened to topple him and chased after the git, catching Riddle at the base of the stairs and almost toppling into him.

“Tell me what you know!” he demanded, grabbing Riddle’s arm.

The prat turned, mouth half open as if he might actually say something useful. Then, he closed it abruptly and frowned. “Have you always been able to do that?”

“Do what?”

“Honestly, Potter,” Riddle snapped, “Understand your magic better.”

A click of boots came from above.

“You know something,” Harry said, digging his fingers in harder, uncaring that the physical contact made his scar prickle, “About whatever the fuck that was! I know you do!”

Dark eyes searched his face, the shadows of Riddle’s black eyelashes spiderwebs on delicate, paper-thin skin. “Meet me next Tuesday,” Riddle said quickly. “At eight. I’ll tell you.”

Before Harry could reply, or even think about what he wanted to reply, Hermione appeared on the steps behind him, unsure. “Harry! What are you doing?”

Fleetingly, Harry met Riddle’s gaze again. Then, he released Riddle’s arm and pushed him out of his way. “Going to the Hospital Wing. Aren’t you coming?”

“Um, yes,” she said. Clinging to the wall, she skirted past Riddle.

More footsteps on the stairs: Cho and McGonagall.

Riddle moved out of the stairwell and called, all while looking at Harry, “Are you eating dinner with us tonight, Cho?”

When she appeared, Cho was very white. “I’m never sitting with you again,” she said, rather bravely, as she hastily joined Harry and Hermione.

“Riddle won’t be sitting with anyone tonight,” McGonagall said. She did not dart nervously by Riddle but swept past in a flurry of tartan robes; it was Riddle who stepped back. “Detention; I have first-year essays that need marking.”

There was a twitch in the curve of Riddle’s lips. “Detention? What for, Professor?”

McGonagall raised a severe eyebrow and Harry was begrudgingly impressed Riddle did not wilt beneath it. “Would you like an itemised list?”

“I’m sure Professor Umbridge might.”

The eyebrow threatened to merge with McGonagall’s grey hairline. “Dolores does not sanction my detentions, Riddle.”

“Not yet,” he said, lip curling, expression ugly.

“No,” McGonagall said, “Not yet, so get out of my sight before I give you another.”

Lips pressed together, Riddle had just turned to go, when Hermione blurted out, “Why are you reading about dementors?”

Glancing over his shoulder, his searing gaze swept disdainfully over the group, landing on Harry. Hungry. “For fun,” he said. Then, he left.

Chapter Text

By the time double-Monday-morning-potions finally ended, Harry rather felt like swallowing the Death-Cap Draught Snape had forced them to brew and lying down in a dark broom closet to die.

“He’s a miserable git,” Ron said, taking the stairs out of the dungeons three at a time. “Twenty points! And you didn’t even do anything!”

“He is horrid,” said Hermione, her and Harry fighting to keep up with Ron’s long legs. “Did you hear what he said to Neville? Of course, he really shouldn’t have been stirring anti-clockwise – it’s stated quite clearly in the instructions – but that’s no reason to –”

“A miserable git,” Ron repeated, louder. “Is he this bad during your occlu-whatsit lessons, Harry?”

“Occlumency,” said Hermione, before Harry could open his mouth and lie.

“Yes, that – ouch, Colin!”

Colin Creevy, who’d rounded the corner atop the stairs at such speed that he’d slammed straight into Ron’s chest, forcing the nearby Lavender and Parvati to duck under Ron’s pinwheeling arms as they sidled past. There came a clatter as Colin’s rimless glasses tumbled to the floor and bounced below a taloned display case of an opal cauldron. Before Colin, gasping apologies, could throw himself after them (the talons twitched in anticipation) Harry drew his wand.

“Accio.”

“T-thanks,” Colin said, as Harry offered him the glasses. The younger Gryffindor was newly sixteen and had recently grown; his scrawny, pock-marked face was now level with Harry’s.

“No problem,” Harry said.

He expected Colin to move away. Instead, the other Gryffindor continued to stand a little too close, a shock of deodorant unfurling from him like smoke.

“I’ve, um, got a note,” Colin said, rummaging in his robe pocket. “For you, I mean - it’s from McGonagall. That’s what I was doing – coming to find you.”

“Oh,” Harry said, taking the slip of parchment from Colin’s trembling fingers, then taking the step back himself. “Thanks, Colin.”

Colin flushed. “That’s alright. You were great on Saturday, by the way, Harry. Awesome catch. I got a picture of it. I took loads of pictures of you at the tournament last year, too – when you weren’t underwater or in a maze, that is. I could show you... if you want?”

Few things appealed to Harry less than staring at pictures of himself for an hour, but Colin’s expression was one of open hopefulness so Harry said, “Er, yeah, okay… I guess.”

Colin grinned, his eyes crinkling. “Awesome! Cool! I’ll find you in the common room, then.”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Great! I promised Dennis I’d eat lunch with him so see you, Harry!”

“Uh huh.”

Still grinning so widely his cheeks might split in two, Colin darted off. The instant his hurried footsteps receded, Ron burst into laughter.

“What?”

Continuing to laugh, Ron said, “He just asked you out!”

“What! No! That wasn’t – He didn’t –”

“Yes, he did! And you said yes!”

“I did not!”

“Yes, you did! Hermione agrees with me – don’t you?”

Hermione, busy trying to read McGonagall’s note over Harry’s shoulder, looked up, her bushy hair tickling his cheek. “No, I don’t,” she said, “Colin just wants to be Harry’s friend, he’s been trying since our second year. You should mind your own business, Ronald. Don’t go around claiming someone’s... you know.”

“I know what?”

“That someone’s…” she glanced around and shifted into a whisper, “Gay.”

Baffled, Ron said, “Why? He just asked Harry on a date. Seems like a reasonable assumption to me.”

“I don’t consider looking through my own photo album to be a date,” Harry said.

“Not a good date.”

Hermione said, “Unless someone’s come out that isn’t an assumption you should be making.”

“Come out? Come out of what?”

Exasperated, Hermione looked to Harry, who squinted determinedly down at McGonagall’s note. Most of what he’d heard about homosexuality had fallen from the mouths of his aunt and uncle and, considering their other, ‘creative’ opinions on immigrants, tax-avoiders, alcoholics, politicians, anyone on benefits, and ‘that weather girl and her god-awful skirts’, Harry didn’t think their comments beared repeating, especially when Ron didn’t look uncomfortable in the slightest, only confused.

At Harry’s silence, Hermione huffed and said, “Colin just sees Harry as his hero.”

“Yeah,” said Ron, “and I used to tell mum Betty Blinker was my hero.”

“Who’s Betty Blinker?”

Grateful for a question he could answer, Harry said, “Beater for the Chudley Cannons – Ron keeps a poster of her under his bed.”

“She’s so mean,” Ron said, with a wistful, dreamy expression. “If she hit me with that bat, I think I’d–”

“Ron!” Hermione exclaimed, her cheeks turning pink. “Shut up, won’t you? None of this matters, anyway – McGonagall says you’ve got your first Defence class this afternoon, Harry. That’s exciting. Perhaps she’ll be teaching you!”

Both Harry and Hermione knew that, given the scheduling of Harry’s replacement lesson for the same slot as Umbridge’s classes (in the middle of a school day), there was no way McGonagall, nor any of the other Hogwarts professors, could be tutoring him. Still, sensing her desperation for a topic change, Harry said, “Yeah, maybe.”

“Oh no,” Ron said, “What if it’s Snape?”

“I’ll get myself expelled.”

“Harry!” cried Hermione. “Don’t say that! And besides, it won’t be Snape. If Dumbledore chose it could be Kingsley.”

Ron shook his head. “Nah, dad says aurors are super busy. Can’t be him or Tonks, and Mad-Eye’s in jail. What about Dumbledore himself? What does a headmaster even do all day, anyway? It’d be so cool if it was him!”

Thinking back on what had happened in Dumbledore’s office on Saturday, Harry disagreed. The last thing he wanted was a repeat of whatever the hell that had been – the head rush and white-hot fury, the call to kill.

“Oh,” Hermione exclaimed suddenly, “I know who it’ll be!”

“Who?” asked Ron and Harry.

“Well,” she said, looking far too smug, “It’s obvious, if you think about it.”

As it turned out, it was.

After a lunch of salmon sandwiches, Harry bade farewell to a jealous Ron and Hermione, and headed for the clocktower, grateful that it was a Monday and the spiral staircase between the ground and third floor liked to pretend it was an escalator. The room McGonagall’s note indicated was nestled below the hospital wing; a long, windowed gallery with wooden rafters that thrummed in time with the ticking of the great clock.

Remus Lupin was waiting for him.

“Harry,” he said, as Harry paused in the doorway, catching sight of his old Defence professor and grinning. Although the creases of Lupin’s face were set in his usual weathered tiredness, he managed a smile in return. “It’s good to see you. Come in, come in, close the door.”

As he did so, Harry said, “I thought you quit.” He drew nearer, then found his excitement fading into concern. Lupin’s travelling robes were ripped, and, as he dug around in the worn briefcase resting on a wobbly side-table, Harry could see deep, crimson scratches littering the backs of his hands.

“I did,” said Lupin, withdrawing a tied stack of parchment and turning to face him. There was another long scratch on his cheek. “Dumbledore, as it transpires, can be quite convincing.”

His gaze dropped fleetingly to Harry’s hand, and Harry fought the urge to bury it in his robe pocket. “Well, good,” Harry said, trying not to stare at the mark on Lupin’s cheek. “You’re the best Defence teacher I ever had.”

Lupin twitched and briefly Harry tensed, thinking he might rush forwards to embrace him, but the moment passed, and Lupin cleared his throat, glancing down at the stack of parchment.

“Our old OWL revision notes,” he said, holding them out. “I thought they’d be of more use to you than me. The curriculum might’ve changed a bit, mind.”

Moving closer, Harry took the stack, undoing the twine and leafing through the ink-stained pages.

Lupin said, “They’re mostly mine, though a few are your dad’s; James was always the best at transfiguration. The writing in the margins is by Sirius – I’d ignore it, his comments aren’t exactly academic.”

Harry flicked to the transfiguration section and stared down at the scribbly handwriting, all written in a deep blue ink. He and his dad wrote their g’s the same way, with a curly bottom and a flick at the top. “Thank you,” he said.

Lupin nodded jerkily.

Feeling a lump form in the back of his throat, Harry swallowed, glancing over the notes once more before tucking them into his satchel. He asked, “How are things with the… you know? Is S- Padfoot okay? Umbridge’s been reading my mail and watching the floo and we haven’t talked since September.”

“I know,” Lupin said, “He gave me a detailed set of instructions on what I might do to prevent Umbridge’s snooping; unfortunately, most of his suggestions were illegal, so I think it’s best not to take his advice. That aside, he’s alright – bored and left out, but alright.”

“Do you see him much?”

“I try to stop by every few days.”

“Good.” Harry hated to think of Sirius all alone in that dismal place, rattling around with only Kreacher for company. “What about Hagrid? Do you know where he is? We haven’t seen him all term.”

Frowning, Lupin said, “I’m afraid that’s not my place to say.”

“Is he safe?”

“Harry, I can’t –”

“Okay,” Harry snapped. “Then what’s happening to Moody? According to Hermione, the Daily Prophet says Fudge’ll call a trial any day now.”

“They would say that.”

“And? Is it true?”

“I can’t –”

“Alright, then the thing you’re guarding, it’s still there, isn’t it? Voldemort hasn’t taken it yet?” Without pausing for Lupin to shut him down again, Harry added, “And what have you been doing? Is it dangerous? You look awful.”

Lupin let out a startled laugh. “Not holding back anymore, are you?” When Harry frowned, he added, more softly, “I am sorry I can’t share things with you. I wish it wasn’t this way.”

Yeah, Harry wished it too. That familiar resentment from his summer of frustration at the Dursleys, and then again at Grimmuld Place came swimming back - worsened by a term spent with Umbridge and Riddle, with classmates who believed him a liar, and with a headmaster who ignored him. He tried to breathe through his nose, to use occlumency to clear his mind and sever his connection to Voldemort’s rage, but it just wasn’t working.

Lupin spoke into Harry’s silence. “How are you, Harry?”

“Fine.”

Lupin raised his brows.

“I’m not the one who looks like I’ve been dragged backwards through brambles,” Harry retorted, and Lupin sighed, heavy and heartfelt in a way that made Harry’s insides squirm.

“My nighttime escapades.”

“Can’t Snape give you wolfsbane?”

“Professor Snape, Harry, and I’m afraid it’s more complicated than that.”

“Why? Are you doing something for Dumbledore?”

Lupin opened his mouth, but Harry said, “You can’t tell me. Right.” He glared out of the window and to the courtyard below. Dum dum, went the clock.

“We all have our parts to play,” said Lupin.

“Yeah,” Harry said, “And mine’s to sit pretty, and shut up, and let everyone talk shit about me, and pretend Voldemort’s not back and that Riddle deserves to win Witch Weekly’s most charming smile award, and that the both of them aren’t stuck in my head feeding me their anger, and while I’m meant to stay fucking calm!”

He was seeing red again, a glow that hazed Lupin’s tired face, like the sun had imploded, light streaming in through the window.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” Lupin said quietly, “That must be hard on you.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, “Yeah, it is!”

Lupin said, “I hear you’re learning occlumency.”

“I - what? Who told you that?!”

“Dumbledore.”

“Dumbledore,” Harry repeated, heart thumping, his anger quickly giving way to panic. “And who, er - did he say who’s teaching me?”

“He did,” Lupin said, and he frowned. Harry’s heart was now hammering so loudly he was sure Lupin could hear it. “I understand you may not be happy with the arrangement, Harry, given your history, but he is exceptionally skilled when it comes to the mind arts.”

Harry’s palms were sweating and he rubbed them on the sides of his robes. “You’re not mad?”

“Of course not. Severus and I have had our disagreements in the past, but we must put those aside and work together now. I’m proud you’re able to see that, Harry.”

Snape. Dumbledore had told Lupin Harry was practising occlumency with Snape? Why? Harry wasn’t sure whether Dumbledore knew he was meeting with Riddle – or, had met with Riddle, once, and was planning to meet him again tomorrow – but Dumbledore must know he wasn’t meeting Snape.

“R-Right,” Harry stammered.

“You know,” Lupin said, “I also learnt occlumency as a teenager. Not with Severus, mind – I never would’ve lived that down – but with Dumbledore. At that age I had difficulties regulating my emotions. To be a werewolf is not only to turn on the full moon, it is to hold a monster inside yourself every day, every moment a fight to keep it at bay. It left me exhausted, resentful, and angry.”

“And occlumency helped you?”

Lupin chuckled. “Not for a long time. Truthfully, I found it frustrating. I could not see how breathing tricks and a still mind could defeat this creature that sought to devour my happiness. But eventually I realised something: the werewolf and I were not separate entities, it was a part of me as much as I was a part of it. The rage I felt was not that of a beast over which I had no control – the rage was my own.

“This acknowledgment was not an easy one. With it came great shame. If I could not blame the beast for the damage I caused, then I had to blame myself.”

“Why? You never asked to be turned into a werewolf.”

“No, but should that abscond me of responsibility when in my sane mind I know what is wrong and what is right?”

“I suppose not.”

“Exactly. So, it was a realisation that hurt, but it was necessary. Only once I’d claimed my emotions as my own could I begin to heal my mind.”

Harry stared back out of the window, listening to the ticking of the clock. Over the distant tree tops of the forbidden forest there flew a great, black bird.

“I’m not a werewolf,” Harry said, “Voldemort is in my head.”

“I know. But once they enter your body, your emotions are your own. You’re the one who chooses how to act on them.”

As the bird dived beneath the canopy, Harry saw that it was not a bird, but one of those great, skeletal horses he’d seen pulling the carriages at the start of term. He swallowed, and looked back to Lupin. “I thought Dumbledore hired you to be my teacher, not my therapist.”

Lupin snorted, rummaging in his cloak pocket and drawing his wand. “Some of the things you say – you remind me of Lily.”

Harry didn’t quite know how to respond to, let alone feel about, that. Thankfully, Lupin motioned for him to draw his own wand, and swerved their conversation into something Harry felt more comfortable discussing: defence against the dark arts. Specifically, Lupin thought they should focus on duelling and evasion. It worked wonders to distract him. Perhaps Lupin did know a thing or two about how to help Harry feel better.

Their lesson ended later than it should’ve, Lupin absorbed by his attempts to improve Harry’s wand positioning for the new charm he’d taught him (one that filled the air with blue fog; a perfect distraction to slip away under the invisibility cloak) and, despite their rocky start, Harry left the gallery pleased. What a difference it made to have a teacher who not only didn’t antagonise him at every given opportunity, but one who cared, one who was good. It was a shame Ron and Hermione couldn’t get out of Umbridge’s class – or the other Gryffindors, come to think of it. Many of them might believe him a liar, but that didn’t mean Harry wanted them to be underprepared. Voldemort was back. Whether his classmates liked it or not, there would be war.

Late for Herbology, and fantasising about how Ron and Hermione might manage to escape Umbridge’s class and join him in Lupin’s, Harry sped down the winding trail towards the lake; Professor Sprout had promised them a late afternoon harvesting gillyweed from the shallows. Moving quickly while trying not to slip on the slick mud, Harry almost didn’t spot the lone figure sat with his back to an oak trunk on the hillside, watching Harry’s classmates on the shore below. In fact, Harry didn’t spot him – it was only the thin prickle of his scar that drew him up short.

“What the hell are you doing?” he called down to Riddle, pausing on the path above him.

To his great amusement the prat jumped, and Harry laughed as the older boy swivelled hastily around to peer up the bank at him. “You’re late,” Riddle said, by way of greeting.

“And you didn’t answer my question. Don’t you have class?”

“I’m a sixth-year,” he said, relaxing back against the tree. His school bag lay next to him, a book atop of it. “I have free periods.”

“Aren’t you doing, like, twelve NEWTs?”

“Eight.”

“Still. What are you studying out here for? It’ll be dark soon. Too good for the library?” Harry eyed Riddle’s book suspiciously. “Are you reading about dementors again?”

“Arithmancy,” said Riddle, showing him the cover. It looked dreadfully dull. “And I’m here for the view.”

Pointedly, Harry glanced down the trail to his classmates gathered on the crescent beach, now pulling on waders and collecting buckets; he could spot Ron’s bright hair.

“- Of the lake,” Riddle said. “It’s beautiful, don’t you think?”

The still, grey waters were beautiful, but Riddle didn’t strike him as the type to appreciate nature. “Are you stalking me?” Harry asked.

“Of course not. Don’t be arrogant, Potter.”

Harry snorted. What was that saying Aunt Petunia loved? Something about pots and kettles. He was about to march off without a word of farewell (and had, in fact, taken a few steps towards the lake) when Riddle asked, “How’s the werewolf?” As Harry paused, the git smugly added, “One hears things.”

“Umbridge is still talking to you then? Isn’t she mad about Saturday?”

“Not at all,” Riddle said, “She has no reason to believe Dumbledore’s story about me talking to your girlfriend. She thinks he’s trying to create a rift between us.”

“Bet you’re proud of yourself for that one,” Harry said.

Riddle grinned up at him. Even in the dimming afternoon light, his teeth glinted. “Yes. And you’re welcome, by the way.”

“What on earth for?”

“Ending your painful get-togethers with Umbridge.”

“Ah, right,” Harry said, “That was your goal then? To improve my life. Nothing about jealousy or knowing I didn’t want their help?”

“Purely altruism,” Riddle said.

“Naturally,” drawled Harry, turning to go. “Enjoy the view.”

“I will,” Riddle called after him. “See you tomorrow. 8 o’clock, remember.”

Back firmly turned, Harry refused to reply. If Riddle had been anyone else, it would almost be sweet: how desperately he wanted to hang out.

Harry expected his lateness to earn him a scolding, but Sprout only offered him a pair of waders, a net, and a bucket with a kindly smile and a list of instructions. Umbridge’s detentions, Harry realised glumly. Word must’ve gotten around the staff room.

Hermione eagerly waved him into the swampy shallows, towards where Ron was busy balancing an empty bucket on the water while Neville was half-submerged beside him, water up to his neck as he groped around on the lake floor for gillyweed. For a group of people who had just spent two hours with Umbridge and were now stuck outside on a rapidly-darkening, drizzly November afternoon, they all looked remarkably cheerful.

“Did you hear?” Ron asked, when Harry was close enough to hear him above the splashing of his classmates. “We had the best Defence lesson ever!”

“That’s not true,” Hermione said, though she was smiling, “We didn’t learn anything.”

“Yeah,” Ron said, “It was great! Umbridge didn’t show until over halfway through – apparently none of the castle doors would open for her and the suits of armour kept getting in her way. To reach us she had to use McGonagall’s floo to get into her office, then blast off the classroom door! You should’ve seen her face, Harry! And then, once she’d finally gotten us all reading, Peeves burst in and started throwing our books out of the window!”

“Think mine’s gone forever,” Neville said happily, dumping a handful of gillyweed into Ron’s bucket. It promptly fell over, and the gillyweed slipped over the side.

Ron continued:

“So, of course she couldn’t get him to stop – you know how Peeves is, never admit he’s bothering you or he’ll make everything worse – anyway, she called for Filch and he ended up chasing Peeves around with a broom, one of those shitty Cleansweep-sixes, trying to bop him on the head while Umbridge hurried to close the windows, but the windows didn’t want to cooperate, see? Then Dumbledore showed up, all, ‘Thought I heard a bit of a racket!’ Oh, he was brilliant, Harry, started going on and on about all the times he’s written to the ministry to get Peeves removed and they’ve ignored him. Not that I thought he meant it – Dumbledore secretly likes Peeves, I reckon. And then Filch’s broom hit an oil lamp and Lavender’s braid caught on fire and we were evacuated quickly after that.”

“So we learnt nothing,” Hermione said.

“Umbridge learnt not to mess with Dumbledore,” Ron said, grinning. “When we left she still couldn’t get back into her classroom!”

“Maybe she never gets in again,” Neville said, having rescued the gillyweed. This time, he took the bucket off Ron.

“Merlin, isn’t that the dream?”

“How was your class, Harry?” Hermione asked, and Harry filled them in – on the class, that was, not Lupin’s impromptu therapy session – pausing only briefly to pretend to work when Sprout swam past.

“You’re so lucky,” Hermione sighed after he’d finished. “I’d do anything to have Lupin as a teacher again.”

“I was thinking about that,” Harry said. “I don’t know how to get you into my classes with him, but do you remember you suggested starting a defence study group?”

What Hermione had actually suggested was less a study group and more a class taught by Harry, but the framing of ‘study group’ made the idea seem less terrifying.

“Ooh, yes!”

“We could start tonight.”

“Tonight?” Hermione said. “Isn’t that a bit soon?”

“Why? It’s only us and the Weasleys, isn’t it? Oh, and Neville,” Harry said, turning to him. “Do you want to join?”

“Sure,” he said, beaming even though Harry was fairly certain he’d missed their conversation, preoccupied with teasing gillyweed out of a water-logged branch.

“Great! Are you free tonight?”

“Yes.”

“Wonderful, and there isn’t Quidditch so me, Ron, and the twins are free. You’ll have to check with Ginny, I think she’s still mad at me.”

“Where will we host it?”

“Anywhere,” Harry said. “If Umbridge can’t get into her own classroom surely we’ll be alright for tonight at least.”

“We could use the History of Magic classroom,” said Hermione, chewing her lip. “It’s usually empty in the evenings. Why don’t you invite Cho?”

“Oh,” Harry said, taking that moment to decide he ought to hunt for some gillyweed – a decision that had nothing to do with the heat rushing to his face. “Yeah, well, you could ask her.”

“No, Harry, don’t be a wimp.”

“Harry can’t ask Cho,” Ron said. “He’s got a boyfriend now.”

Harry almost dunked his whole head under water for how red he’d turned. For some reason, his mind had supplied the memory of Riddle’s sharp hips trapping him against a desk in a dark room, the soft wetness of Riddle’s tongue as he’d licked blood off Harry’s hand.

“I don’t have a boyfriend,” Harry spluttered, almost inhaling lake water. “I like Cho! I don’t – who are you even talking about, anyway?”

Ron gave him a strange look. “Colin.”

Harry’s flush deepened. “Oh, yeah, well, no, I’m definitely not dating Colin.”

“It’s okay if you are,” said Neville, mud smeared along his chin, “Gran says it’s only the recent mixing with half-bloods and muggleborns that’s changed attitudes towards same-sex relationships. I mean, you’d have to marry a girl to have kids of course, but you can date whoever you want! Aside from my grandad, my gran’s only ever dated women.”

Hermione frowned. “Surely that means she’s a lesbian.”

Ron said, “Ooh, look who’s making assumptions now!”

“Oh, shut up.”

Ron did, though not because he was listening to Hermione. Squinting over her shoulder and up towards the castle, little yellow lights now spilling from its windows, he said, “Is someone sat under that tree?”

Harry followed Ron’s gaze. Even though dusk had firmly settled in, and the air was thick with drizzle, a figure was still hunched beneath the old oak tree. “It’s Riddle,” Harry said quietly, “I think he’s stalking me.”

Hermione and Neville glanced up the hill, concerned, but Ron snorted. “Creepy git,” he said. “Reckon he’d get jealous if I tried to drown you?”

“Please don’t drown me!”

Grinning, Ron lunged toward him, and Harry yelped, leaping backwards and soaking a nearby Seamus with swampy water (for which he didn’t feel too bad).

“Boys,” Hermione muttered.

*****

Dinner, following a much needed shower, was a nerve-wracking affair. Hermione had all but shoved him towards the Ravenclaw table where Cho sat alone, swearing that if Harry didn’t invite her to eat with them, and then to their ‘study group’ afterwards, she wouldn’t help him with their Potions’ homework. To Harry’s great relief, when he’d asked her, spluttering and nervous, Cho had beamed. It also made him feel better that Riddle, surrounded by his usual crew of lackeys, looked annoyed by this.

That evening, their ‘study group’ met in the History of Magic classroom. Counter to Hermione’s assurances, the group was not small. Cho had come alone, but Ginny (still aloofly ignoring Harry) had brough Luna and a beaming Colin, who’d in turn brought his younger brother Dennis. Angelina had shown up with Fred and George, as well as Lee Jordan, Katie Bell and Alicia Spinnet, and then there was Ron and Neville. At least Harry had more friends than he thought – even if their eager stares did make him feel rather hot around the collar.

Study group, he reminded himself.

“I never realised Binns left this place,” George said, poking his head behind the blackboard as if the ancient ghost might be lurking there. “I assumed he stayed in here forever, performing goblin war soliloquies.”

“He has quarters in the eastern tower,” Hermione said, getting started on clearing the desks as Harry tried to figure out what a ‘soliloquy’ was, and how on earth George knew the term. “The wall caved in a few years ago, but I don’t think he’s noticed yet.”

“How do you know that?” Katie asked, giving Hermione a hand with the desks. For something to do, Harry joined in.

“Hermione knows where all the professors sleep,” Ron said, “In case she has any midnight homework queries.”

Sagely, Fred nodded. “I have those often.”

“So, what’s the plan?” Alicia asked, stacking the chairs.

“Harry’s going to teach us Defence!” said Dennis.

“Cool!” said Neville.

“I’m not teaching,” Harry said quickly. “It’s a study group.”

“Really?” asked Dennis, his voice awkwardly squeaky, “Because Colin said –”

Thankfully, Colin elbowed his younger brother in the ribs.

“I’d like it if you taught us, Harry,” Cho said. She smiled shyly at him and Harry felt his face heat up.

“So would I,” said Colin hastily.

“Me too,” said George, batting his eyelashes.

 “It’s a study group!” Harry repeated. “That means we can all share ideas. Does – does anyone have any? Anyone? Uh... Luna! Do you know any fun spells?”

Luna, who’d had her nose pressed against a window pane, looked back over her shoulder, her blue eyes wide and her nose a bit red. “I know one that turns grapes into raisins.”

“Wonderful,” said Fred, “So as long as we think of You-Know-Who like a big, juicy grape –”

“Don’t be mean,” snapped Ginny.

Fred rolled his eyes.

Beside him, Alicia chewed on her lip, frowning at Harry. “Is he really back, then?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Harry said, as Hermione and the Weasleys all nodded.

“These two say he is, and I trust them,” said Lee, inclining his head towards Fred and George.

“Same for me,” said Angelina, “Worrying as it is.”

Luna turned her back to the window and smiled widely at Harry. “I believe you.”

“Me too,” said Neville.

“Yes, and me,” said Colin, as Dennis nodded enthusiastically.

Alicia glanced at Katie, who shrugged. “Can’t deny I don’t trust Dumbledore as much as I did, or that Harry’s been a bit off the wall recently, but I trust them a darn sight more than I trust the ministry.”

“Well, that’s good enough for me,” said Alicia.

They all looked to Cho, who was still gazing at Harry. Taking a breath, she turned to face the others and said, “I believe Harry, and... I also believe Tom Riddle is You-Know-Who.”

“Do you?” Alicia asked, eyes narrowing. “I thought your group loved him.”

“They do,” Cho said, swallowing thickly. She held her head higher, “But I don’t. Tom is You-Know-Who. He admitted it to me.”

“Really?” Alicia repeated, as Katie said, “Holy shit.”

“What did he say?” asked Fred eagerly.

“It was after breakfast on Saturday. I told him Harry wasn’t a liar, and he agreed,” Cho said. She started to speed up, her words gaining momentum. “Then, later when we were in Dumbledore’s office, he acted so strangely. Just, smug, and cold, and so different to how he usually is, it was creepy. And the things Harry and Dumbledore accused him of – he didn’t admit to them, but he didn’t deny them either.” She took another breath, then said, “Plus, Hermione and I heard him and Harry talking in parseltongue outside Dumbledore’s office.”

Everyone turned to look at Harry.

“He speaks parseltongue?” asked Angelina.

Harry nodded.

“What were you talking about?” asked Ron.

 It was Ginny’s gaze that unsettled Harry the most, cool and discerning. He swallowed. “Uh, I don’t know, we were arguing.”

“What about?” asked Alicia.

“Oh, um, Riddle realised I was drunk –”

“You went to Dumbledore’s office drunk?” Lee asked, something akin to awe in his tone.

“It was after the Quidditch match...”

Lee, Fred, and George started laughing, and some of the girls looked amused.

“It wasn’t noticeable, Harry,” Cho said.

“Was that all?” asked Fred.

“I – I don’t really remember,” Harry lied. Riddle had called him ruthless, and they’d bickered, stood inches apart on the stairs, so caught up in the moment Harry had forgotten they were at Dumbledore’s door.

“Don’t you?” asked Ginny, her grey eyes cold.

Luckily, Katie said, “Is it safe that he’s here?”

“Dumbledore won’t let him hurt anyone,” Harry said, though given Dumbledore hadn’t known the contents of Harry and Umbridge’s detentions, how much went unseen in a castle this big? “I won’t either.”

“Thanks, Harry,” said Colin.

“Our big, strong hero,” sighed George, and Hermione punched his arm.

“Look,” Harry said, aware that he was flushing again. “Riddle’s arrogant and dramatic, and he doesn’t have any actual friends; ignore him, don’t get in his way, and you’ll be okay.”

“So just follow your lead,” Ginny said.

“How would you duel him?” asked Dennis.

“Please don’t try and duel him!”

“What about in theory?” asked Angelina.

“Uh, well, he doesn’t have a wand, so try and stun him I guess.” And make sure not to try it in a small, dimly-lit room full of obstacles.

“I’m rubbish at stunners,” Neville said.

“So am I,” said Cho, “Could you show us how to cast one properly?”

“That would be awesome,” said Colin.

George opened his mouth, but Hermione stamped on his foot before he could say anything else.

Everyone was looking at Harry again, even Luna, her nose still red, and he sighed. “Alright.”

“Yay,” said George, his eyes watering.

As it turned out, Harry needn’t have been so worried about teaching. Once everyone had broken off into pairs and he only had to suffer the stares of two people at a time, it was easy, really. Fun, even. By the end of two hours, Neville’s aim had considerably improved (he at least now aimed his wand in the general vicinity of his partner), Colin no longer squeaked every time Harry repositioned his wand, and Angelina’s stunners had grown strong enough that they could take down a baby mountain troll.

While Umbridge did not burst through the door – stuck in a toilet, Fred suggested – they all agreed it was sensible to move their location each week, and Hermione made them all sign a list and swear to secrecy. Study groups weren’t against the school rules per se, but if Umbridge found out they very quickly would be.

All in all, it was a pleasant way to spend an evening, much more pleasant, Harry thought, than his plans for Tuesday.

*****

“Are you always late?”

Harry strolled into the Charms practice room on Tuesday evening in a somewhat optimistic mood. Despite their many, many differences, he and Riddle had managed one or two conversations now that, while perhaps not pleasant, were at least engaging. The room wasn’t much larger than a broom closet – though it at least had a small window – and a large, dusty sofa took up half the space. Vaguely, Harry remembered once practising for the third task in here with Hermione.

“This isn’t class, Riddle, I didn’t think it mattered.”

“Of course it does,” Riddle said. He lounged on the sofa, all dark curls and dark eyes, his long legs crossed at the ankles. “It’s rude.”

Snorting, Harry closed the door. “God forbid I’m rude to you.”

“Yes,” Riddle said, his gaze dragging over Harry’s messy hair and creased robes. “God forbid. Lock and silence the door, won’t you?”

Harry did not particularly enjoy being ordered around like a mini Death Eater. Still, the last thing he wanted was someone walking in on them, so, “Colloportus,” he murmured, tapping the door with his wand. Then, he paused. So far, Flitwick had only taught them to silence animals. How was he meant to silence a door?

“Uh… silencio.”

He could feel Riddle rolling his eyes.

“What?” Harry snapped.

“To begin with, colloportus is a first-year spell. Everyone knows alohomora. Use repello populus instead: it’s much more subtle. Secondly, a silencio like that will work, but it’ll wear off quickly. It’s silencio totalus you want, and you need to cast it several times while tracing the door frame.”

“Whatever,” Harry muttered, glaring at the door. Had anyone ever told Riddle he was more insufferable than a first-year Hermione? “Repello populus,” he tried. No light streamed from his wand, though there might have been a slight change in air pressure. “Did that work?” he asked, dubious.

Riddle shrugged. “I suppose we’ll find out if someone comes knocking.”

Harry grit his teeth and tried again. This time, the shift in air pressure was more noticeable. Satisfied, he attempted the silencing spell. Silver gleamed around the edges of the doorframe, shimmering before vanishing.

“Did you bring cards?” Riddle asked, not bothering with a ‘well done’.

Harry threw the pack at him. The git wasn’t quite quick enough to react and they hit him in the chest.

“That was childish.”

Harry folded him arms.

“Sit down,” Riddle said, patting the sofa. It puffed dust.

“Next to you?”

“Bit difficult to play poker if you’re sat across the room.”

Dragging his feet, Harry plonked himself beside the prat, leaving as much space between them as physically possible.

“Do you know how to play?” Riddle asked, crossing his legs and shifting to face Harry. It was dark outside and the small room was lit only by a single, flickering oil lamp, sending shadows dancing across Riddle’s face.

“I’ve seen my uncle play. I’m not betting you gold, though.”

“Good,” Riddle said. “I don’t have any money.” Shuffling the cards, his eyes sparkled in the yellow light. “I was thinking we could bet information.”

Despite himself, Harry perked up. “How would that work? I want to know what happened in Dumbledore’s office. You said you’d tell me!”

“Eager,” said Riddle, smiling as he dealt. “Okay. We both check our hands then state a piece of information we’d be willing to give away. Like this,” he glanced at his cards, then smirked. “I’ll tell you one of my original plans to kill you.”

“One of...? I don’t want to know that!”

Riddle shrugged.

“I’ll tell you my favourite dessert,” Harry said.

Riddle plucked Harry’s cards from his hands and shuffled them back into the deck. “Neither one of us were interested in the answers so the round is forfeit. You can’t offer that information again.” He handed the deck to Harry. “Now you deal. The better your information is, the better mine will be… unless I think your hand is too good.”

When they both had five cards, Harry checked his hand – which was fine, but not great – then said, “I’ll tell you how I destroyed your diary.”

Riddle cocked his head, one long finger tapping the back of his cards. “I’ll tell you the object I resided in. Happy?”

Harry nodded.

“You can discard and redraw up to five cards. Remember, the point is to practise occlumency. Stay calm and guarded, don’t let your emotions show – regardless of how you feel about your hand. After we’ve both redrawn, as the dealer you can either choose to stick, or up the ante and offer another piece of information. If you choose the latter, I can either match and offer more, in which case the winner gets both, or fold and you only get the first.”

Harry discarded three cards, Riddle two. “I’ll stick,” Harry said, staring determinedly at the sofa between them.

Softly, Riddle laughed. “You can’t avoid my eyes all night.”

Harry could, and he would.

They compared hands.

“Fuck,” said Harry.

“Don’t swear, and don’t be a sore loser.” Riddle collected the cards. “Tell me about the diary.”

“I used a basilisk fang,” Harry muttered.

Rolling his eyes, Riddle said, “I knew that. Be more descriptive, how did it feel?”

“Wet.”

“Wet?”

“There was lots of ink and blood.”

“From the diary?”

“The ink was from the diary, the blood was from my arm.”

“What happened to your arm?”

“The basilisk fang that punctured it.”

“What? How are you not dead?”

“You’re asking a lot of follow-up questions,” Harry said.

“And you’re dreadful at story-telling. Continue, it’s within the context of the story.”

Harry frowned. “Alright. But I’ll hold you to the same standard.”

Riddle shrugged again.

“Fawkes saved me with his tears. Fawkes is –”

“Yes, I know what Dumbledore’s bird is called.”

The indignant tone made Harry laugh. “You forgot,” he said. “The you from the diary – you forgot phoenix tears have healing properties.”

Riddle sniffed. “I never took Care of Magical Creatures.”

“Seems like an oversight on your part,” Harry said, though he frowned. If Riddle was so uninterested in magical creatures, why was he researching dementors?

“Do you have a scar?”

Harry nodded, hesitated, then rolled up his right sleeve. It wasn’t as if he cared, and the more he played along the more he could hold it over Riddle’s head when the twat eventually didn’t.

Riddle grabbed his forearm, yanking it closer to see better under the lamplight.

“Ow!” Harry cried, rubbing at his forehead. “Can’t you close the connection before you touch me?”

“I want it open,” Riddle murmured, gazing at the circular mark just above Harry’s elbow, his thumb brushing over the shiny, puckered skin. “I’m curious whether we can feel only strong emotions or more subtle ones.”

“That sounds like cheating.”

“No, it’s not. You can access the connection too.”

“Yeah, but it’s giving me a headache,” Harry grumbled, jerking his arm free and tugging his sleeve down. “I’m done, it’s your turn to deal.”

“You barely tried,” Riddle muttered, but he dealt anyway, then checked his cards. “I’ll tell you about where I grew up.”

“An orphanage. I already know,” Harry said. “You’ve been banging on about your horrible upbringing to half of Hogwarts for a month.”

Riddle grinned. The sofa wasn’t so big, and Harry could see the dimples in his cheeks. “I’ll tell you something about it that I’ve never told anyone else.”

“What, like you had mashed potatoes on a Wednesday once?” Harry asked, though he leant forwards despite himself.

“It’ll be something good.”

Harry bit his lip, thinking. “Fine, I’ll match you. Something from my childhood I’ve not told anyone else.”

Riddle nodded, and they discarded and redrew; Harry had four sevens and tried his best not to get excited. Even breaths, right? And think about something else.

“I’ll stick,” Riddle said.

They compared hands, and Harry grinned; Riddle only had a high card. Annoyingly, the bastard didn’t look all too disappointed, letting his cards fall between them.

“They used to take us to the beach once a year,” Riddle said softly. The distance between them on the sofa had shrunk, and the gleam in those dark eyes urged Harry to back away again. “It wasn’t very nice. Always cold and blustery, and the waves were too big to swim properly, but it was the only time we left London, so I liked it. We took the train.

“When I was eight, the other children were ignoring me.” He flashed Harry a grin. “I can’t imagine why, but I didn’t appreciate it; I don’t like being ignored.”

Harry snorted.  

“Usually, I explored the beach by myself. There’s this cave. You can only reach it when the tide’s out and it’s a rocky scramble. That day, I encouraged two of the other children to follow me.”

“Encouraged?” Harry repeated.

Riddle’s grin widened. “With magic. I didn’t understand how to charm people the hard way back then. Not people who knew me.”

Strangely, Harry imagined that was true. How long had it taken Riddle to figure out how other people - normal people - worked? How long until he understood guilt and love well enough to replicate them?

“I took them to the cave. Perhaps you know this, Harry, but orphans are very boring: they all want the same thing. So, I showed Amy and Dennis what they wanted, what they knew they could never have. The truth about themselves: I think that’s what people fear the most.”

Riddle leant his head against the sofa, gazing at Harry with a wistful expression.

“Afterwards, they weren’t the same. Cole – our matron – didn’t understand what I’d done, though she caned me for it anyway. It was worth it. That day was special to me, Harry. It was the first day I truly understood power.”

That gleam in his eyes. Riddle had been systematically destroying lives since he was eight, and to him, it was just another thing to brag about. Anticipation hung between them: Riddle’s, Harry realised. The other boy could feel Harry’s horror and was expecting him to yell. Wanting him to. For all the good it would do.

Instead, Harry took a breath and asked, “Was there ever a time before you wanted power? When you wanted the same as all the other orphans?”

“No,” said Riddle.

“When we spoke in the Chamber you talked a lot about family. It’s important to you.”

“Of course it’s important to me. In the wizarding world, family is power. Heritage is power.”

“I don’t think that’s true.”

“Then you’re stupid. Do you think muggleborns get good jobs in the Ministry when everyone else’s connections go back generations? Do you think a job could earn you enough in a lifetime to equal even a tenth of what’s in Draco Malfoy’s personal vault? What’s in yours? Do you even realise, Harry, that in fighting against Lord Voldemort, you’re fighting for the status quo? Its slavery and its injustice?”

“And Voldemort’s going to change all of that, is he?”

Riddle laughed that strange, cold laugh. “Of course not! These tensions in this broken society are ours to exploit, they offer us power.”

“Power for what? To kill or torture whenever you feel like it without consequences? Is that your goal?”

“No,” Riddle said. “I want to be remembered. I want to be important. I am important.”

“You’re an attention-seeking git,” Harry growled. He stood suddenly, head spinning. How many people had died because Tom Riddle couldn’t be ignored?

Riddle stood too. “Where are you going? We’re not done.”

“Do you really think I’m going to stay after everything you just said? You’re awful!”

“You have to stay,” Riddle said, getting between Harry and the door. “You have to learn occlumency.”

“You’re not teaching me occlumency, Riddle! You’re trying to get information, and you’re taking breaks from that to boast about how many kids you’ve tortured!”

As the older boy glared at him, one hand pressed to the door, Harry realised then that Riddle was a child. A lonely, rotten, narcissistic child.

“You can’t go,” Riddle said. “I haven’t told you what happened in Dumbledore’s office.”

“You’ll make me play for it?”

He shook his head. “Let’s do an exchange, then we’ll play for something else.”

“The exchange is: you tell me, or I’ll leave.”

“Come on, I’ll make it something easy. How about…” He grinned, a dark curl falling across his forehead. “Do you think I’m handsome?”

Harry glared. “You’re objectively attractive, Riddle, but that means fuck all because you’re a sadistic prick!”

For some concerning reason, Riddle looked delighted. He sauntered over to the sofa and sat down again. “Join me, Harry. I’ll tell you my thoughts about Saturday.”

Caught between Riddle and the door, Harry grit his teeth. If there was a decision here – one about suffering through Riddle’s company for the lure of information, or saving himself the mental trauma and leaving – it was, unfortunately, a decision he’d made a long time ago. And, whispered that voice in his head, do you really suffer his company? Because beneath Riddle’s arrogance and shameless cruelty was a boy of quick wit, clever and daring. A wounded child Harry did not pity – could not pity, not after all Riddle had done – but one who he could, perhaps, understand.

“I hate you,” he muttered, unsure if it was a lie, crossing his arms and perching himself back on the sofa, as far from Riddle as possible. Satisfaction bubbled through their connection, and Harry tried to ignore it. “What happened in Dumbledore’s office?”

Riddle wasted no time before leaning in. “Before, you mentioned that you’d seen into Lord Voldemort’s mind. Dreams, memories, visions. I believe the incident the other day was him gaining access to your mind. Briefly – so briefly that he might not even have realised.”

By the candlelight, Harry’s hands were a pale yellow. Insides wrenching, he twisted them, feeling dirty, tainted. Voldemort had access to his mind?

“And you,” Harry said. “What happened to you?”

“I saw Dumbledore through your eyes.”

Harry swallowed. “Perhaps it wasn’t Voldemort in my head then. Perhaps it was just you. Perhaps–” He stopped. He didn’t want Riddle in his head any more than he wanted Voldemort there. “Is this why Dumbledore won’t look at me? Why he won’t tell me anything? Does he think I’m a spy for Voldemort?”

“I think you might be overreacting.”

“I am not overreacting–”

“It happened one time, Potter. Your connection to Lord Voldemort seems channelled by anger; you looked Dumbledore in the eye and Lord Voldemort’s rage overwhelmed you. As I was in the same room, it dragged me in too. You’re not walking around like a second pair of eyes.”

But did Dumbledore think that? Was it why he’d kept him at the Dursleys for so long? Maybe Dumbledore was right. Maybe Harry should know nothing!

“How do I stop it?” he demanded.

“You know the answer to that.”

Occlumency. How did Riddle keep worming his way into the solution of Voldemort’s equations?

“Fine. Let’s play,” Harry said, snatching the deck, shuffling, checking his cards. Deep breath. He tried to calm himself, thinking. “I’ll tell you about the first time I used parseltongue.”

This time, focussed, Harry felt Riddle’s legilimency. The slightest impression on his mind, a brush, a gentle whisper. Calm, breathe, think of nothing. They were difficult instructions to follow when he noticed Riddle’s lips twitching in amusement.

“I’ll tell you how often we use it without you noticing.”

The calm broke like a wave. “We don’t do that!”

“Perhaps we do. Win and I’ll tell you,” Riddle said.

Harry didn’t think he heard the undertone of hissing.

And breathe. He drew two new cards.

Riddle drew none. “Are you upping the ante?” he asked.

Tapping the back of his cards, Harry pretended to think. He had a plan. “No.”

Riddle only raised an eyebrow and smiled politely. Now for the tricky bit: to feign disappointment.

They compared hands, and Harry tried to focus on the disappointment of realising he’d have to tell Riddle the zoo story. He tried to focus on that, not on the frantic anticipation beating in his chest, not on the slight pressure on his mind whenever he met Riddle’s calculating gaze.

Calm.

Bit fucking hard with a maniac in the room.

“You lose,” Riddle said. “Can you put some effort into telling the story this time?”

Scowling was not a reaction Harry had to fake. Taking care to be extra boring, he told Riddle of the Boa Constrictor at the zoo, of the vanishing glass, of Dudley’s tantrum. In a strange way, he’d thought the story might’ve made Riddle laugh, it had all the hallmarks of things Riddle enjoyed: Harry speaking parseltongue, a muggle’s misfortune, accidental magic. But by the end, Riddle wore a plaintive expression, eyebrows creased.

“You were ten and didn’t know about magic,” he said, “Your aunt and uncle never told you?”

“Nope,” said Harry, already planning how he wanted to play the next hand. What he could give away. By losing, he hoped he’d lowered Riddle’s guard, yet inexplicably, his answer had made Riddle think. An odd feeling tugged on their connection. It made Harry nervous, gathering the cards again.

“How bad were they?” Riddle asked.

Harry almost dropped the cards, a flush creeping up his neck. Calm, breathe, don’t meet Riddle’s inscrutable gaze. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t you, Harry?”

“Stop using my name!”

“You’re deflecting, and not well.”

“Fine.” Harry did not find occlumency fun. “It’s a separate question and I’m not answering.”

“I want to play for it.”

“You haven’t even dealt yet, and besides, you don’t get to pick my information.”

“I’ll let you pick mine,” Riddle said.

It was tempting. Much too tempting. What did Harry want to know? Everything. Why Riddle was researching dementors, why he had so abruptly decided not to kill him, had he contacted Voldemort?

“I want to know what you are,” Harry said.

Before he could protest, Riddle had grabbed his hand and placed it to his chest. Riddle’s heartbeat, slow and methodical beneath his school robes, vibrated Harry’s palm.

“I’m human, see?”

Harry snatched his hand back, wrist and palm like fire. His scar twinged. “You know what I mean! The diary said you were a memory, but...”

Riddle, so solid, laughing, smirking, lying. So real.

“Fine,” the other boy said, dealing. “You can play for that.”

Harry snatched up his cards, trying carefully – as carefully as he could manage – to keep his expression neutral, his emotions in check. How did Riddle do this all the time? Lying was exhausting.

He swapped one card, while Riddle swapped two. Warily, they watched each other. Harry had a straight.

“Are you raising?” Harry asked, aiming for nonchalance. His knee might’ve been jogging.

Riddle nodded. “What else do you want to know Harry?”

“Dementors,” he said quickly, in case Riddle changed his mind. “Why are you researching them?”

He nodded again. “And are you folding?”

“No.”

Those straight, white teeth flashed at him. “I want to know the worst thing you’ve ever done.”

Slowly, heart beating fast, Harry nodded.

They compared hands.

Riddle’s was a royal flush.

“You’re cheating!” Harry exclaimed, furious the possibility hadn’t occurred to him sooner. That it hadn’t occurred the instant Riddle suggested a card game.

“Legilimency is allowed, that’s the point.”

Emphatically, Harry shook his head. “Not like that! You’re wandlessly transfiguring the cards!”

“Why would I need to do that when I can simply peek into your mind and see your cards spread before me?”

“No, you can’t! I’ve been using occlumency.”

“Not well.”

“Maybe you’re a shit teacher.”

“I’m a great teacher!”

“We’ve been playing cards all evening.”

“To get you more comfortable with lying and guarding your emotions. Would you rather I simply invade your mind over and over until you’re an exhausted mess on the floor?”

Harry wanted to hit him but settled for chucking his cards at Riddle’s chest. If he looked like a spoiled child throwing a tantrum, he didn’t care. “I’m not telling you my information.”

Riddle pounced forwards on the sofa, cards spilling, his fingers gripping Harry’s chin, eyes hot, intense, uncaring as Harry jabbed his wand between them. “Then defend yourself.”

And he was swirling in an ocean of memories: scorching sun searing his neck and arms as he watered Petunia’s roses… the chink of light around the cupboard door as the Dursleys chattered at the dining table, his stomach growling… Ripper snarling, barking, Aunt Marge laughing… Aunt Marge on the conservatory roof… bars on his windows… a bowl of cold soup…

“Get out, you bastard!”

There was a bang, the acrid stench of smoke, and a sharp stinging in Harry’s hand. Dazed, he blinked.

On the other end of the sofa, Riddle was patting the front of his robes, a red mark high on his cheekbone. “You hit me!”

“I set your robes on fire!”

“At least that was with magic. Don’t hit me like a muggle!”

“Don’t invade my head!”

They glared at each other.

“See?” Riddle said, “The direct approach isn’t helpful. This,” he gestured at the smoking robes and red mark, “Doesn’t count as occlumency. Occlumency is subtle.”

“Right. That was your point, then? Not just to be a dick?”

“I won. I had a right to those memories–”

“You cheated, and that’s so not how that works it’s unbelievable! I swear to God, Riddle, if you ever go into my head again without permission, you could have the secret to eternal life and I’d still never say another word to you.”

The look Riddle gave him, perched on the other end of the sofa, told Harry he either didn’t care, or didn’t believe him. Finally, he said, “I don’t think much of your family.”

“Really?” Harry said, standing. Striding to the door. Leaving for real this time. “I’m surprised you don’t want to be best friends with them considering your collective goal of making my life as miserable as possible.”

“Come, Harry, how can you believe that when you explained my feelings about others hurting you so succinctly to Dumbledore the other day?”

If that was Riddle’s attempt to persuade Harry to stay longer, it was not working.

Riddle said, “Make sure you practise clearing your mind each night before you sleep; that’s when it’s most vulnerable to incursions. Same time next week?”

The sound in Harry’s throat was like a growl. The mark on Riddle’s cheek wasn’t dark enough for his liking.

Riddle raised an eyebrow. Harry hated that expression; it was so punchable. “You don’t want Lord Voldemort seeing through your eyes, do you?”

One hand on the door, Harry grit his teeth. “Tell me why you were looking into dementors. And if you say ‘fun’ I’ll hit you again.”

As usual, Riddle’s face was inscrutable. Why couldn’t Harry hide his emotions like that? The git said, “I was looking for a way to replicate a dementor’s kiss.”

It was a lie, because of course it was. “Any luck?”

“Unfortunately, no.”

As Harry left, Riddle called, “Next week?”

Harry slammed the door extra hard behind him.

Even though he took the long route back to the common room, up more than one trick staircase and past the statue of the giggling witch, Harry hadn’t quite managed to quell his boiling temper by the time he shoved himself through the portrait hall, ignoring the Fat Lady’s: ‘A hello would be nice!”

He’d barely gone two paces when Ron popped up in front of him. He looked paler than usual. “Oh, there you are, Harry. McGonagall wants to speak with us.”

“McGonagall wants to…” Harry repeated, his brain taking a moment to readjust to normal conversation. One where you didn’t have to second guess whether every other word was a threat, or a lie, or a double entendre.

“Meet with us,” Hermione finished, appearing by Ron’s shoulder. She was tugging on her bushy hair. “In her office. Dobby came by with a note.”

“Why?”

“She didn’t say.”

“Did you know Dobby’s the one who’s taking all of Hermione’s knitted hats?” Ron asked, speaking a bit too quickly. “He’s wearing them all – all of them, Harry! Apparently he’s the only elf that’ll clean Gryffindor tower now. Fat lot of good–”

“Now’s not the time, Ron!” Hermione said. She pushed them towards the portrait hole.

“She wants to see us now?” Harry asked, stumbling slightly. After his conversation with Riddle he’d been looking forward to a long, hot shower and a cup of chamomile tea to calm himself down.

“I was surprised too, she must know you do occlumency with Snape on Tuesday evenings. I don’t know what it could be about.”

“Reckon it’s,” Ron shifted to a whisper, “Order stuff?”

“Order stuff? How secretive!” boomed the Fat Lady. The portrait closed behind them and her pale eyes latched onto Harry. “Oh, you again. You might’ve waited outside. It takes a great deal of effort to swing like this.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“I don’t see how you’d know, boy. You’re not made of paint. And you’d better say goodbye, otherwise I’ll consider not letting you back in!”

“Yeah – bye,” Harry said, hurrying after his friends. It was gone nine, and they were well on their way towards curfew. Why would McGonagall want to speak to them now?

Hermione clutched McGonagall’s note like a safety line. “If it was… anything bad, I don’t know why Ginny, Fred, and George wouldn’t have been invited too.”

“Maybe they’re giving us a mission,” Ron said, eyes distant and gleaming.

Hermione tugged on her hair again. “I hope everyone’s alright.”

Harry had already been running through the list in his head, those at risk of Voldemort’s wrath. All the Weasleys must be okay – Hermione was right, the others would’ve been invited otherwise – and Sirius never left Grimmuld Place. What about Tonks, Kingsley? Lupin? He was up to something dangerous, covered in scratches like that. Did Dumbledore have him infiltrating werewolf gangs? And what of Moody? Had Fudge finally ended his feud with Scrimgeour and set a date for the trial?

“Maybe you two need more Transfiguration help and McGonagall wants me to tutor you?” Hermione suggested, a little desperately. Too late, Harry remembered her muggle parents wouldn’t have anywhere near the level of protection the Order members did. And what about the Dursleys? They were safe from Voldemort, weren’t they? And if they weren’t… Harry didn’t know how to feel about that. Memories of his childhood rose unbidden, roused by Riddle’s prying. Things he’d never told Ron or Hermione.

Feeling ill, and pissed off again, he knocked loudly on McGonagall’s door.

She bade them entry, and they took the offered, straight-backed chairs. Still dressed in her tartan daywear and slumped in her desk chair, McGonagall’s face was tired and worn. A damp cloak hung by the fire.

“Biscuit?” she asked, and Harry’s stomach sank further. He tucked his hands beneath his thighs to stop them shaking.

Ron was the only taker, more out of awkwardness than anything else.

“What’s going on, Professor?” Hermione asked.

Aside from Ron’s chewing and the flame crackling in the grate, the office was silent, McGonagall looking steadily between the three of them. Ron didn’t take another bite, holding the half-eaten biscuit on his lap.

Finally, McGonagall sighed. “I’m afraid Hagrid is missing.”

“Missing?” Harry echoed, a rush in his ears. “I thought he was on…” He stopped himself. “I thought he was busy.”

“He was,” McGonagall said gravely. “He and Madame Maxime had business over summer. We know that this concluded safely: Madame Maxime arrived in Beauxbatons before the start of term. While Dumbledore was aware of a… delay to Hagrid’s return journey, but we were expecting him back by now.”

“What happened?” Harry asked. Hermione’s face was ashen in the firelight, and Ron was staring at his biscuit.

“We don’t know.”

“Has Voldemort–”

“Not in the castle, Potter,” she said sharply, rearranging her shawl. Her twitch had dislodged it. In the silence, she sighed again. “I can’t express how sorry I am to tell you this. I know you three were close with Rubeus.”

“But – he’s not… dead, Professor,” Hermione said. “He’s just missing, right?”

“Yeah,” said Ron. “You knew there was a delay? Maybe it just became… a longer delay.”

Steadily, Harry’s world was dissolving. Hagrid, his first tie to the wizarding world. Hagrid, his heart larger than the moon. Hagrid, his friend. Gone.

Missing.

McGonagall shook her head. “We knew his route. Filius was checking in on him every two weeks.”

“Maybe you should keep looking,” said Ron, “We’ll help! If he’s gone off the trail somewhere, maybe Professor Flitwick just... missed him?”

“I’m afraid not. Rubeus’s travelling companion was a giant, his half-brother. Hard to miss, I’d say. We found him alone, and Fang injured in the bushes nearby. Professor Grubbly-Plank is seeing to him now.”

It was very quiet. Harry could hear each of Hermione’s shaky breaths, falling in time with the ringing in Harry’s ears. Vaguely, he thought of Riddle in his small bedroom, settling down to sleep. Could he feel each pained stab of Harry’s heart? He hoped so.

“Who –” Harry tried. Something lodged in his throat and he coughed to clear it. “Who will look after Fang? Once – once he’s better.”

“I hoped you three might?” McGonagall said. She placed a large, iron key on the desk. They all stared at it. Hagrid’s cabin, dark and empty.

Decisively, Ron took the key. “Yeah. We’ll watch over Fang. Until Hagrid’s back.”

“Yes,” Hermione said. “Of course.”

Another felled tree in the wake of Voldemort’s destruction. Hagrid. Harry’s heart ached, his teeth clenched. He nodded.

“Thank you,” McGonagall said, her expression kind. “I know Hagrid would be very grateful.”

“Is… Is that all, Professor,” Hermione asked.

McGonagall’s smile turned a little wry. “Ah. There is one more thing, but please take care to keep it amongst yourselves until the papers are out tomorrow morning.”

“What?” Ron asked, apprehensive.

“Moody’s escaped.”

Chapter Text

Even Umbridge’s quiet seething at breakfast the next morning did little to shift the dense matter of blackness, like a lethifold, that had lodged itself in Harry’s chest.

“Looks like she’s swallowed a toad, doesn’t she?” George asked, throwing a copy of the Daily Prophet onto the table. Mad-Eye bared his teeth from the front page, electric blue eye spinning in its socket.

“McGonagall told us,” Ron said, scrapping his toast harder than necessary with the butter knife. He spoke quietly - since their Quidditch win, a lot of the Gryffindor’s animosity towards him had dissipated and they weren’t so alone at the table anymore.

“How come?” Fred asked, joining them. “She never tells us anything.”

“Hagrid’s missing,” said Hermione. Black bags lined her eyes, and her nose was red.

The twins gaped at her. “What d’you mean missing? He’s been gone all term, on special Dumbledore business, we figured.”

Hermione glanced around, then nodded, softly sharing all McGonagall had told them. When she finished, Fred swore.

“Death Eaters?”

Lip wobbling, she said, “It must’ve been a whole group of them. Hagrid’s a half-giant – a single stunner couldn’t take him down.”

“Not unless it was from Voldemort,” Harry said.

Ron finally stabbed a hole through his toast.

George plucked the knife from his hands, asking, “What could You-Know-Who want with Hagrid, do you think?”

“Well, Hagrid’s part of the… group, isn’t he?” said Hermione. “He must know things.”

“He was gone all summer,” said Fred, “He can’t know that much.”

“Still,” said Hermione.

Staring glumly at his battered and half-buttered toast, Ron said, “Well the ministry might not investigate if Dumbledore reports him missing – y’know, what with him being a half-giant. and all.”

“That can’t be true!” Hermione exclaimed.

George snorted. “It is.”

Fred said, “The ministry are a bunch of tossers, aren’t they? Wish Scrimgeour would hurry up and challenge Fudge for Minister of Magic – a bit of infighting might distract them from making our lives miserable.”

As they spoke, Harry watched Riddle. The prat was laughing with those Ravenclaw girls (Cho noticeably absent), as a few Hufflepuff boys, old friends of Cedric, hovered by his shoulder.

“Fucking git,” Fred said, following his gaze. “He should be as tetchy as Umbridge; Mad-Eye’s arrest was his fault.”

 “Bet Mad-Eye would love to be alone in a room with him for five minutes,” said George.

“That would wipe the smirk of his face,” Fred said. The twins exchanged a glance.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Hermione said.

“Us?” asked George, “Stupid? We don’t have three OWLs between us for nothing.”

Hermione, sensibly, looked worried.

“Don’t get Dad in trouble,” said Ron, and the twins’ softened.

“Fine,” said George. “He stays out of our way, and we’ll stay out of his.”

But as Harry knew all too well, he and Riddle shared a cursed quirk: neither of them were any good at avoiding trouble.

*****

It was mid-November, Flitwick had already started dripping tinsel from every windowsill, bannister, and portrait, and Tom had a plan for extracting his horcrux. With only five steps, it was a simple plan:

Step one: kidnap Harry Potter.

Step two: acquire a boat.

Step three: sail said boat close enough to Azkaban to obtain the aid of a dementor.

Step four: have the dementor administer the kiss on Potter, then banish it before it could eat the fragment of Tom’s soul.

Step five: claim his horcrux.

If Potter was lucky, he might even keep his own soul (although Tom then planned to kill him slowly and painfully, so perhaps not all that lucky). In fact, Tom should add a step two-point-five to have fun with Potter on the boat first – just in case he turned into a vegetable and Tom had to dump his body into the North Sea.

Of course, Tom would’ve preferred not to go to the North Sea, but apparently no one had ever bothered researching how dementors suck souls and thus, after much painstaking research, he’d realised replicating a kiss with a spell was an impossible task. So, onto the new plan.

Admittedly, he had to work on a few things first: namely, how to kidnap Potter from under Dumbledore’s nose, and how to control dementors.

For the first problem, Tom needed Umbridge’s floo. As she told it, it was the only one in Hogwarts not under watch. He’d need Potter too, but Tom doubted that would be too hard, even if Dumbledore had recently appointed him some kind of disgusting, drooling guard dog. Harry had a habit of seeking him out.

As for controlling dementors, Tom read that his counterpart had accomplished this feat during the first wizarding war. Perhaps having only a fraction of a soul helped: the creatures would be less likely to see him as food. Regardless, he needed to practice.

“I’ve heard you can cast the patronus charm,” Tom said to Potter during their third occlumency session. They’d left the card games behind; Tom wouldn’t get away with that trick again. Unfortunately, normal occlumency practice was dull, involving a lot of meditation and gentle mind prodding. The boy’s uncharacteristic quietness, spotted by bouts of snappy irritability whenever Tom ‘prodded too hard’ wasn’t helping.

Perhaps he had pushed him too far last time, but Harry had offered a taste of his childhood and Tom needed a bite. The Hogwarts rumour mill had a million-and-one things to say about the home life of Harry Potter, but never once had it hinted at the similarities his and Tom’s shared. ‘Spoilt’ – that’s what the girls liked to say. No mentions of dark cupboards and endless chores, days without food and a cousin who hit hard.

Of course, it wasn’t pity Tom felt – he wasn’t capable of pity. No, he felt delight. In hindsight, a well-adjusted teenager with a strong adult support system wouldn’t have done half the things Harry had done since they met. It boded well for the future of their relationship - that was, until Tom had to kill him.

Potter said, “Your friends must think you’re very boring if all you do is ask about me all the time.”

“I don’t have to ask, Harry, darling. You inspire conversation throughout the school.”

That made the boy flush. How Potter despised attention as much as he did, Tom would never understand.

“I bet you can’t cast one,” Harry muttered.

Unfortunately, this was true, not that Tom would admit it. Instead, he said, “It’s an unusual spell for a third-year to learn.”

“The school was surrounded by dementors that year, so no, not really.”

Tom looked at his horcrux, curled up on the other end of the sofa as though afraid of catching some infectious disease. “Still, no one else your age learnt to cast it. It’s impressive.”

“It’s just practice.”

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes at Potter’s indifference, Tom asked, “How did you learn? Casting it by yourself and casting it before a dementor must be different.”

The brat’s eyes narrowed. “Why do I feel like you want something?”

“I’m only making conversation.”

“Uh huh.”

In the end, Tom had to drag from Marietta, who’d heard from Parvati and Lavender, who’d heard from Granger, that their old teacher - the werewolf Tom had met in Knockturn Alley, and the one now tutoring Potter in Defence - had taught Harry the patrons charm, and that they’d practiced on a boggart in dementor form. This information was unhelpful as Tom’s own boggart was not a dementor, and he doubted Harry would let him practice learning to control them on his.

The other bit of information Tom uncovered was that dementors loved Potter, and Potter hated them. Apparently, he’d kept fainting (Tom suspected this might be related to the whole two souls thing). This meant Potter’s horcrux extraction and subsequent death would be extra unpleasant which cheered Tom – especially when, in their fourth occlumency session, the brat exclaimed:

“For fuck’s sake, Riddle, are you even trying to teach me occlumency? This isn’t working!”

“Of course I am,” Tom sniffed, rubbing his chest. In a frantic and uncontrolled attempt to get Tom out of his head, Harry had shot him with a stinging hex. Really, Potter ought to be better at this by now. Strength of will and the mind arts went hand-in-hand, and Harry had a will of stone - he could fight off the Imperius curse for Christ’s sake!

“It’s you who I suspect isn’t trying,” Tom said. “Are you sure you’re clearing your mind before bed and not giving in to your little temper tantrums? I can’t teach you unless you put some effort in.”

“I am putting effort in,” Harry hissed, shifting into parseltongue. That always gave Tom a thrill, the nerves in his fingers tingling in pleasure at their shared, secret language. Another proof that no matter how much Harry protested, he was Tom’s.

Mine.

“That’s a lie,” Tom said.

“It is not!”

“Then calm down.”

“Do not tell me to calm down when you’re the one making me angry, Riddle!”

Tom raised an eyebrow as Harry inched towards him on the sofa. “I’m not the one shouting.”

“Not you-you,” Harry spat, and Tom actually felt spittle hit his cheek. “Voldemort-you!”

“Really? Your anger is all his, is it?”

“YES!”

Tom said, “Have you ever thought, Harry darling, that it might just be you who’s angry? I wouldn’t blame you – Umbridge is a bitch, and you saw that Hufflepuff boy die, and I can feel how anxious you are about – what’s his name? That half-giant. The one whose dog you’re –”

And that was how, two minutes later, they ended up in a heap on the floor, bruised and panting. Harry had a terrible habit of resorting to muggle violence whenever he wanted to make a point. Unfortunately, Tom thought, nursing a sore lip he’d need Roisin to fix later as he watched Harry press the heels of his palms to his eyes and groan, that particular habit did little to cool his burning desire to both kiss and kill the boy.

“I hate you,” Harry said, and Tom laughed, breathless.

Friday evening found him swaddled in Natalie’s Ravenclaw scarf and tucked into the cramped space below the Slytherin Quidditch stand, getting dripped on by a steady stream of rainwater leaking through the seats above as he peered through a gap in the canvas, squinting to spot the Gryffindor Quidditch team against the black, night sky.

Contrary to what Potter believed, Tom wasn’t stalking him. He only liked to keep an eye on his horcrux when he had a bit of free time, or when he knew Potter was up to something particularly dangerous... like Quidditch practice... every Friday evening and Sunday morning,

Being busy on a Friday night also gave Tom an excuse to avoid the dreaded music room parties. Last week, he’d caved into the girls’ pleas and wasted too many hours drinking vodka cranberries and smoking Roisin’s cheap cigarettes and listening to the Siren Sisters on repeat and playing Never Have I Ever. It was not a mistake he’d make again.

The Gryffindor team were congregated around the goalposts near Tom’s head, and he could hear their captain yelling – mostly at Ron Weasley, which was understandable. Tom didn’t know much about Quidditch, but he knew Weasley was a dreadful keeper.

Not wanting to read a book lest he glance down and miss Potter crashing into one of Weasley’s flailing limbs, Tom used the connections in his mind to entertain himself. He’d closed his and Harry’s: at this distance, the boy could detect him by the pain in his scar. So, Tom concentrated on the others – four of them. One was Lord Voldemort’s, a connection that had only opened once since Tom’s early days of existence: accidentally, in Dumbledore’s office. Two were dim and distant – sleeping horcruxes, Tom assumed – but the fourth was stronger. Another awoken horcrux? Or had another fragment of their soul gone wayward and ended up in a living –

A figure landed on the pitch. Harry. The glowing floodlights silhouetted him, but Tom knew him by the messy wave of his hair and the slope of his narrow shoulders. His horcrux trudged towards the changing rooms, alone.

Quietly, Tom slipped out the back of the stands, skulking along the perimeter of the pitch until he reached the changing rooms. He hovered by the door facing outwards from the pitch, towards the path leading up to the castle and listened. Movement came from within and (though he ought to stay hidden) Tom found his hand sliding towards the door handle.

What was Harry up to in there? Fetching another quaffle? Getting a glass of water? Perhaps he’d finished for the night – a focus on keeping meant no need for a seeker - and was taking a shower. What would he do if Tom walked in?

Would he panic and flush that lovely shade of pink, yelling at Tom to get out? Or wouldn’t he care, lathering up as he rained snarky insults, content to let Tom enjoy the view. Perhaps, Harry would hit him again and Tom would have an excuse to touch, to hook their legs together and shove him onto the soaking, tiled floor, to wrap his fingers around Harry’s thin wrists, to feel his bare chest against Tom’s, his breath fluttering in Tom’s ear –

Tom pushed the door open.

While Harry was before him, he was, unfortunately, clothed. He also lay on the floor, convulsing.

Before the sight could register fully, there was a yank on Tom’s mind – the connection between them blasting open, a black hole sucking him into an abyss of dream-like shadows and light. It was only Tom’s knee colliding painfully with a bench that let him claw back control. It took effort – great effort – leaving him dizzy and panting, clutching the bench for support, Harry just within reach.

The boy’s eyes were open, and his glasses had slipped from his face, his hands and legs shaking as spittle gathered at the corner of his mouth.

“Harry!” Tom said, his voice disgustingly weak, conveying none of his urgency. This wasn’t good.

To the best of Tom’s knowledge, Lord Voldemort knew nothing of Harry’s horcrux, and Tom intended to keep it that way. The whole point (or part of the point) of their occlumency lessons was teaching Harry to avoid episodes like this. He should’ve felt it coming and avoided this.

Tom crawled to his side, clutching at his scarlet Quidditch robes. “Wake up, Potter!”

Unsurprisingly, his command did nothing. Wherever Harry was in Lord Voldemort’s head, he couldn’t hear him. Not like this anyway.

Tom grabbed the boy’s arm. His skin was blistering to the touch, and the changing room rocked dangerously. It was like the first time he’d attended one of Slughorn’s parties: one of the upper years had snuck Tom and his Knights a bottle of firewhiskey and, being young and frustratingly ignorant, he’d drunk too much. Everything was spinning.

Stilling himself, Tom breathed. In and out. He could do this.

The connection between them was a current, a torrent, and against all better judgement Tom dived in. The cool, smelly changing room vanished, replaced by a shimmering rush of darkness; a tunnel, its end bathed in green light.

Harry! Tom thought down it, using all his willpower to slow his tumble forward. Harry!

He was still too far.

Tom let the churning currents pull him further, wary that while Harry might be able to slip in and out of Lord Voldemort’s mind undetected, Tom, as a much more solid horcrux, might not be so lucky.

The vision grew stronger: a lake, glinting green; whimpering sobs and a pearlescent bowl, empty; and anger, so much anger.

Harry! Tom thought again, and this time he felt something. Another presence there with him, the slightest shift on his mind. We’re leaving, now.

Harry was his - not Lord Voldemort’s - Tom’s alone.

The answer came not as words, but as an impression, a determined feeling.

No.

If Tom had eyes, he would’ve blinked in surprise. No? Didn’t Harry understand how dangerous his connection to Lord Voldemort was? How the dark lord might use it against him? Against Tom? Harry would become his eyes and ears in Hogwarts, a solid, functioning body with magic and a wand, Lord Voldemort’s to possess.

All this Tom tried to project upon the boy, to make him understand, but Harry’s mind was not cooperating. A moment longer, it pleaded.

They did not have a moment – the chance of Lord Voldemort noticing Potter’s intrusion increased instant-by-instant.

Tom felt for his connection with Harry and yanked on it, fighting the resistance of both Harry and the magnetic pull of Lord Voldemort - his original soul. Why couldn’t Harry just do as Tom told him?! Why did he have to be so difficult?

He kept struggling, pushing against the hot, angry current, but had no luck. Harry wanted to be here, staring at that stupid, empty bowl through Lord Voldemort’s eyes.

Harry was a goddamn idiot, and he left Tom with no choice. If he wanted to keep Harry as his little secret, there was nothing else for it: Tom let the current suck him in.

The green light sharpened until it glinted off plunging stalactites and a glassy lake, one Tom recognised. A shivering mass of black robes lay in a heap by his bare feet and Tom looked down, wondering whether it might be that missing gamekeeper, but the lump was too small, and its right hand was one made of blue, shimmering magic.

Peter Pettigrew, his mind supplied.

And that bowl, the empty bowl.

It shouldn’t be empty.

Tom raised a hand - a long, bone-white, skeletal hand - and touched the basin’s rim, his nails scratching against glass. There should be something - he was expecting some-

Wait.

Tom looked down at his hand again. He lifted it, turning it left, right, then slipping it into a robe pocket and withdrawing a wand - his wand. His yew wand.

Fuck!

His wand, his hand, his eyes… Tom was in contr-

“You,” a voice hissed in his ear, and the image slipped away, consumed by darkness.

Parseltongue carried intention. Harry held the cadence of a rattlesnake, Tom a King Cobra. Lord Voldemort was a Boa Constrictor, all power and malice, squeezing him slowly and methodically, preparing to devour.

“Where is it?”

Tom couldn’t move, couldn’t see. All was black, and he couldn’t breathe.

“WHERE IS IT?”

There came a rush, blood and burning hatred, and then Tom was lying on the floor of the changing room, gasping in the smell of sweaty socks, and trying not to vomit. Harry lay beside him, pale and clammy, his glasses still missing.

“You bleedin’ idiot,” Tom hissed as soon as his voice returned, and he’d ensured his connection to Lord Voldemort was shut. Everything hurt, but at least Harry had gone undetected.

Potter sat up, which Tom thought was ambitious. He had a pounding headache, enough that he almost closed his eyes again. Trying to drag Harry out of there had exhausted him.

Not wasting a moment, Harry said, “You saw that too, right? What was he looking for? Something was missing – what was it? And where was that? The lake – did you recognise it?”

It was now Tom who fancied a spot of muggle violence – if he didn’t feel so goddamn awful.

“What’s the bleedin’ point in knowin’ occlumency if you’re not goin’ to use it?” he muttered.

Harry wasn’t listening. “Wait! You told me about a lake the other week! The cave on the beach! Was this the same place? Did Voldemort hide something there? He thought you’d stolen it! Did you?”

“No,” Tom snapped, not in the mood for Harry’s irritatingly perceptive interrogation.

“Who, then? And why did Voldemort check now? Why-”

“Shut up!” Tom said, slowly feeling less woozy. “You shouldn’t have seen that.”

“Why not? You’re just mad I can get in your-”

“Don’t you realise what happens if Lord Voldemort figures out he has a direct connection to your mind? You can’t keep him out like I can! He’ll possess you, use you to kill your friends, and Dumbledore, then walk you off the Astronomy Tower! Is that what you want?”

Harry stared at him. For a moment, Tom thought he’d say something sensible like, ‘You’re right, Tom, I can’t believe how stupid I am. Thank you for protecting me, I’m so grateful I’d do anything for you.’ Instead, he said:

“You have an accent.”

Tom sat up. “No, I don’t.”

“You do!”

“I have an English accent if that’s what you mean.”

“No,” Harry said, grinning. How was he so perky when Tom felt like he’d fallen fifty metres off a broom? “You have an accent accent, like, from London!”

“English accents are from London, you berk.”

“The queen doesn’t speak like that.”

“I saved you,” Tom said, thoroughly irritated. “Say thank you.”

“Oh, piss off, you saved yourself - if Dumbledore dies, he can’t protect you from Voldemort anymore.”

That wasn’t exactly Tom’s reasoning, though the sentiment was the same. “So, you do realise venturing into Lord Voldemort’s mind is dangerous?”

Potter finally quietened, biting his lip. They sat close enough that Tom could see the vibrant red of Harry’s inflamed lightning scar.

Harry said, “I-”

The door to the Quidditch pitch burst open. The way Harry sprung to his feet, leaping back as if being caught conversing with Tom were more detrimental to his reputation than losing two hundred house points was almost funny. It should’ve been funny. For some reason, it wasn’t.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” snarled one of the Weasley twins, withdrawing a firework from his pocket and waving it threateningly at him.

Tom would’ve loved to make a nice, snarky comeback, but when he stood up everything went woozy, and it was hard to make his mouth work.

“Get out,” the Weasley said.

Unfortunately, leaving was a sensible course of action: Tom was in no state to win a fight against a firework.

“See you around,” he said to Harry. To the Weasley it would sound like a threat; Harry knew it was a promise.

Outside, Tom leant against the changing room wall, catching his breath. Harry and the Weasley were talking within.

“-might think he runs this school because he’s got Umbridge and some kids onside, but he ought to learn to leave you the hell alone.”

That was the twin. Harry said, “I can handle him.”

“You shouldn’t have to. I don’t want him threatening you.”

“He wasn’t threatening me.”

“What the hell was he doing then?”

Saving him, Tom thought bitterly.

“I don’t know. He just likes to-”

“Swing his dick around?” Weasley said.

Harry was quiet, and Tom felt an odd tightness in his chest.

“Yeah,” Harry said. “I guess.”

“Smarmy git. I don’t understand how anyone believes they’re friends with him.”

“No,” said Harry. Then, “Let’s get back out there.”

“Yeah? You’re feeling better? You’ve got a bit of colour back in you.”

“Yeah - just needed some water.”

And they left. Tom wasn’t sure why he felt worse than he had all evening.

*****

Tom spent much of the weekend recovering from his magically draining detour into Lord Voldemort’s mind. Mostly, this involved lying on his bed, smoking a couple of cigarettes he’d nicked from Roisin and staring at the rafters. As reckless as Harry had been, he ought not to dismiss the information they’d gained.

The lake had been the same lake Tom had told Harry of, and it seemed Lord Voldemort had hidden a horcrux there. A horcrux that was now, apparently, missing - and Lord Voldemort believed him the thief.

Two problems: one, Lord Voldemort had a new incentive to make Tom’s life very difficult; and two, Tom had not stolen the horcrux, which meant that someone else had. Unfortunately, Tom thought he knew who.

Albus Dumbledore.

Who else was strong enough to break through Lord Voldemort’s defences? But how had the ancient headmaster known where to look? And what had he done with the horcrux? Surely, he didn’t have access to the Chamber of Secrets and the basilisk fangs within without Tom or Harry’s help. Had Harry helped? Or perhaps Dumbledore knew how to wield fiendfyre. Tom doubted it. The headmaster was well known for his strict avoidance of the dark arts.

Was there another horcrux of Tom’s sat up in Dumbledore’s office right now?

The weekend slipped away, and on Tuesday Harry spent most of their session badgering Tom with questions, none of which Tom answered. At least the boy’s occlumency had notably improved, and with it his mood. Tom’s scare tactics had had an effect.

The case of the missing horcrux and the anticipation of Lord Voldemort’s revenge was still bothering Tom when Natalie met him outside his room on Thursday morning. Happily, she pecked him on the lips and entangled her arm with his as they walked to breakfast. Natalie, Tom had decided, was exceptionally shy when it came to intimacy. They’d been dating for two months, and their longest snog had barely lasted more than two minutes. It was odd; she was otherwise so confident, in how she spoke, in how she dressed, but shyness was the only reasonable explanation because Tom was a great kisser, and very attractive, and he’d never been anything but tediously pleasant with her.

Curious, he slowed them down and leant in for a kiss. Rose and coconut hit him like a bludger, her soft lips uncertain against his. She was beautiful, but that meant nothing to Tom, and his mind wandered... Wondered how Harry would taste, whether he’d tangle his fingers in Tom’s hair and pull, whether he’d bite him, whether he’d part his lips and let Tom in -

Natalie broke the kiss just as Tom tried to deepen it, stepping away and smiling, all dimples and eye crinkles like she hadn’t just rejected him. “Breakfast?”

Tom nodded. Shy indeed.

Halfway through his porridge, the devil twins interrupted.

“Hello, Miss Edgecombe,” one said, sliding onto the bench between Tom and Natalie, so close that his knee knocked into Tom’s.

“Fancy seeing you here,” said the other, plopping down on Tom’s other side before he could escape. They smelt of firewood tinged with something sharp, reminding Tom of the potions’ store cupboard.

Opposite, Marietta glanced up from her granola, red curls bouncing. “What do you two want?” she asked, but her tone was teasing, and she looked pleased to have been called out.

“Our mate Lee Jordan thinks you’re fit and wants to know if you’ll go on the Christmas Hogsmeade trip with him,” said the one on Tom’s left, pointing to the Gryffindor table, ensuring he elbowed Tom’s arm as he lifted his own.

A black kid with dreadlocks sat on the table, feet on the bench, tie hanging loosely around his neck - butchering school uniform was a uniquely terrible habit of the Gryffindors. The boy waved.

Blushing, Marietta glanced back. “Can’t he ask me himself then?”

The twin grinned, clambering to stand on the bench, knocking Tom’s porridge bowl on the way up. “OI, JORDAN! SHE SAYS ASK HER YOURSELF!”

“Sorry, Tommy,” the other one said, straightening his bowl. Tom wanted to stab the fork into his eye.

“Do you have to be so loud so early?” Roisin grumbled as Jordan bounded over.

“You’re gonna say yes?” he asked Marietta, leaning on the table beside her, but Tom wasn’t watching them - he was watching Potter.

Sat at the Gryffindor table, next to that ridiculous dog (since when were dogs allowed in the Great Hall? He should suggest a new decree to Umbridge), the brat kept glancing over at the twins, and he looked… concerned. Yes, Tom could feel it along the connection, faint at this distance, but the frown crinkling his forehead, the downturn of his pink lips…

“Will you buy me a butterbeer?” asked Marietta, swirling her coffee, acting all cool like she wouldn’t hang onto this moment - getting asked out by a cute boy in front of half of Ravenclaw - for the rest of her pitiful life.

Tom didn’t care to hear the rest, lifting another spoonful of porridge to his mouth, ignoring the twin’s elbows digging into his sides.

Concern.

Tom placed the spoon down.

“Not hungry?” asked the twin on his right.

“I left my Charms homework in my room,” Tom said, extracting himself with some difficulty. The twins were all elbows and knees.

“Tom, are we going to Hogsmeade together?” Natalie asked. Marietta was giggling.

“I’ll need to check with Professor Umbridge,” said Tom.

“Oh, are you dating her too?” asked a twin. His gaze was cold.

“We did wonder why she likes you so much, Tommy,” said the other. “Owes you favours, does she? Tell me, what position does she like? Maybe George and I could have a go; all she gives us are detentions.”

“Don’t be so crass,” Natalie scolded, but her tone was chiding rather than cross. The Weasley twins, what jokers.

Tom ignored them, grabbing his bag.

“Who am I meant to go to Hogsmeade with if you’re all going with boys?” Roisin asked.

“What about Cho?” Natalie suggested. She glanced around. “Where is she, anyway?”

Never sitting with Tom again. Shame.

He left. Of course, Tom hadn’t forgotten his Charms homework, so instead he took the long way to class along the outdoor walkway, enjoying the brisk, winter air. The cold silence reminded him of the Christmas holidays, his favourite time of the year, when Hogwarts felt like his, Tom’s alone.

“Hello, Tommy.” It was one of the Weasley twins, leaning against the stonework in front of him, wand in hand. How-

“Pleasant morning, isn’t it?” The other, behind him.

Surrounded.

“What do you want?” Tom asked, turning, trying to find a position that kept them both in his sights.

“To watch you squirm,” said the second.

“Umbridge hates you,” Tom said. Even breaths. “She’ll take any excuse to give you a detention.”

“Oh no, a detention,” the one in front deadpanned. “Whatever will we do, George?”

George, the one on the left, smirked. “I heard Umbridge’s detentions have recently lost their bite. Wonder whose fault that was.”

“Is this about your sister?” Tom asked. Potter’s memories, the girl with the flame red hair lying on the floor of the chamber.

Their looks darkened. “Don’t talk about her,” George said.

“Sure would be a shame if you two got expelled. Who would protect her then?”

“Umbridge doesn’t have the authority to expel us,” said Fred.

“Not yet,” Tom said pleasantly. “But she’ll want to. And Fudge loves giving Umbridge what she wants.”

“Think you’ve got them all in your pocket, do you?” George spat.

“I do, Weasley. Didn’t Crawley say your father works at the Ministry?”

If the twins were Slytherins, they would’ve backed down, conceding the loss. Unfortunately, they were Gryffindors.

Tom hated dealing with Gryffindors.

One of them stunned him, and all went black.

When he came to, a girl with wide, blue eyes and straggly blonde hair was leaning over him, breath warm on his face. It smelt of medicinal lavender. Why did people keep getting in his personal space today?

“You fell,” she said, light and airy.

“I didn’t fall,” Tom said, sitting up and scooting away from her, brushing gravel from his robes. The back of his head stung and there was a horrible taste in his mouth, like dust. “What’s the time?”

The girl shrugged - she was a Ravenclaw, a few years below him; Roisin and Marietta called her ‘Loony.’ He couldn’t spot the twins anywhere.

“Have classes started?” he asked.

“Not yet. Would you like some chocolate? My dad says it helps keep the nargles away after a funny turn.”

Ignoring her, Tom climbed to his feet, grabbing his satchel and taking a swig of water. His mouth really did taste awful.

“I think it’s rude not to say thank you,” Loony said, frowning up at him. She wasn’t wearing any shoes, Tom realised, and her toenails were painted green.

“You think?”

Seriously, she nodded.

Tom rolled his eyes and walked off. It wasn’t as though anyone would believe her if she started spewing complaints about him being rude.

“You’re Tom Riddle.”

“And you’re Loony Lovegood.”

“It’s Luna.”

“I don’t care. Why are you still following me? Don’t you have a class to get to?”

“I believe Harry, you know.”

“That’s nice,” Tom said, taking a stride for every two of hers. Inside, there was still no sign of the twins, only a few stragglers, late for class. He couldn’t have been out for long - ten minutes perhaps. Fucking Weasleys. He’d go straight to Umbridge in the break. Teach them for messing with him. The Slytherin way.

“He says you’re lonely.”

Tom stopped walking.

“Excuse me?”

“Harry,” she repeated slowly, as though Tom were a dumb dog. “He says you don’t have any friends. That must be lonely.”

“I have plenty-”

“They’re not real friends though, are they? If they don’t know you.”

His lip curled in distaste. As if he needed friends who knew him. “Are you the expert on friendship now, Loony?”

That made the girl frown, and Tom stalked away; he was late for Charms.

Twenty minutes later, sat at the back of class reading a book because everyone else was busy practising silencing charms (unfortunately this did not make for a quieter class), Tom felt hot liquid dribble from his nose. Mortified, and grateful the other students were distracted, he dabbed at it with a tissue, blaming ten minutes unconscious in the wintry air.

The tissue came back red.

Tom stared at it, crimson on white. His blood. The last time he’d seen it, Potter had slashed his arm with glass, but by the time he’d returned to his room, examining the wound by candlelight in the bathroom, it had already congealed. That cut had been worth it too, a wound in recompense for the discovery of his horcrux.

He had a nosebleed.

It was so human, so disgustingly mortal. Tom raised a finger to his nose, then looked at it. A perfect, shining droplet. Blood was precious, it had so many uses. It shouldn’t flow freely.

The twins, surely. Tom Riddle didn’t get nosebleeds.

He pinched his nose with the tissue and tilted his head back, waiting. Heat grew, pressure built, something hot slid down the back of his throat and his tastebuds exploded with iron. He released the tissue, and the drips resumed, unstemmed, soaking the tissue through. A splatter landed on the desk, and he wiped it with his sleeve.

Fuck.

Keeping his head down, he marched over to Flitwick, the Professor busy trying to undo a silencing Carmichael had cast on Lowe that had gone a bit too well. No control, some people. At seeing Tom, the short man started, toppling off the chair he’d stood on to reach Lowe’s face.

“Oh, hello, Mr Riddle,” he said, picking himself off the floor. “Finished with the book already, are you? You do get through them quickly.”

“I have a nosebleed, sir,” Tom said quietly.

“A… nosebleed. Ah, right. Let’s take a look.” He beckoned for Tom to lean down. When Tom did, awkwardly crouching, Flitwick peered at it, then rapped the side of Tom’s nose with his wand.

“That ought to do the trick,” he said.

Tom removed the tissue. For a moment, he thought the spell had worked, then came another trickle of blood.

Flitwick hummed. “This, perhaps.” He tried again. More blood. “Ah. Best to go and see Madame Pomfrey, I think. Take these.” He conjured a pack of fresh tissues. “Miss Walsh -”

“It’s fine,” Tom said, before Roisin could hear Flitwick over the hubbub. “I’d hate to interrupt. I’ll go by myself; it’s only a nosebleed.”

“I’d prefer-”

“I’m alright, Professor, really.”

Begrudgingly, Flitwick dismissed him, and Tom packed up his things and half-ran from the classroom before Natalie or Roisin or Marietta could notice him leaving and follow. Why did everyone insist that he needed people?

By the time he’d reached the main staircase, he’d gone through two more tissues, carefully placing each in his pocket to burn later. The blood was now a steady stream.

Pricks. Both of those Weasleys. He would get them expelled. And their father out of a job, too. Hadn’t Roisin said their family were poor? Tom tucked away the fourth tissue and was too slow pulling out the fifth. Blood ran over his lips, dripping from his chin, staining his shirt. Another thing to burn.

He made it to the top of the stairs, fighting dizziness. Nosebleeds didn’t lose that much blood, right? It only looked bad; the red smeared on his lips, hands, and shirt.

There was a windowsill nearby, and Tom gripped it, resting his forehead to the chill glass. When had he run out of tissues? And where had he been going? The Hospital Wing? Yes, he thought so.

He managed to stumble down the corridor, leaning against the wall for support. The floor spun; the ceiling tilted. The Hospital Wing. He had to get there; it was important. But perhaps… perhaps just a quick break.

Heavily, he pressed his back to the stone wall, then slid to the ground, staring at his hands. So red. It was pretty. His mouth tasted funny: sharp and -

“Riddle!”

Hurried footsteps, then a tugging on his arm.

“Get up, you prat.”

Prat? Oh, was that Potter?

“What are you doing?” Tom mumbled. He wanted to protest the tight grip on his arm but didn’t have the strength. Potter pulled him to his feet, and Tom stumbled, staggering into the boy. He really was much shorter than Tom. He liked that.

“Come on,” Harry said. “You’re making me feel faint.”

“Don’t you have class?”

“Yes. I lied to Trelawny and I think she believed me, so you should be proud.”

Currently, Tom had no idea why he should be proud, but he filed the comment away for examination later. Or he thought he did. What had Harry said again?

“Letmesitdown.”

“No. I thought mortality was important to you? It’s not far.”

Potter dragged him by the wrist; his skin was darker than Tom’s. Tan. With his other hand, Tom smeared blood over the back of Harry’s hand.

“What the fuck, Riddle?”

He grinned. “Iwantedtoseewhatitlookedlike.”

Potter’s lips were his next target. He swiped a bloodied thumb across them, feeling wetness on the inside of the lower lip. Tom put his thumb in his mouth and grinned around it.

“Jesus Christ!” Harry said, jerking away and wiping at his mouth with his sleeve. “You are so fucking weird.”

“Youswearlikeamuggle,” Tom told him.

“Why do you think that is, genius? Get in.”

The lights became much too bright. Tom had always preferred the dark. He tried to tell Potter that, but the hand at his wrist was gone, and someone else, smelling clean and sterile (why couldn’t Harry have gotten closer to him? He was the only one Tom wanted to smell), finally guided him to a seat.

It was more than a seat - Tom could lie all the way down, his head cushioned. Though now the bright lights were directly in his eyes, which he didn’t appreciate. There was magic in the air; it made his skin tingle and his heart pound. Then, someone was pushing something into his hands, forcing it to his mouth.

The thin slop tasted vile, and Tom twisted his head, trying to get away. A firm hand held him in place, so, he lashed out with his magic instead. It worked! The horrid potion vanished and there came a sound of tinkling glass, followed by mild cursing.

Satisfied, Tom leant back on the pillow - he must be on a bed - and smiled to himself. Then, for the second time that day, all went black.

He came to with a bleedin’ awful, brain splitting headache. Potter sat on the chair beside the drab hospital bed, arms folded, and scowling.

“You can start by thanking me,” he said.

“What for?” Tom mumbled. Couldn’t someone close the curtains? And turn the lights off? And get Potter to stop whinging?

“What for?! I saved your life, you prick!”

“I was fine.”

“Fine?! You were covered in blood!”

Oh, yes. Tom glanced down. His school robes and shirt had been replaced with clean, cotton pyjamas. “Where are my robes? I need to burn them.”

“Burn them -”

“Stop repeating everything I say.”

“Why would you burn them? The house elves took them to clean.”

“Blood is precious, Harry. It can be used for all sorts.”

“You’re such a nerd,” Potter snapped. For some reason his horcrux looked unsettled. He grabbed a vial of a pale pink liquid. “Madame Pomfrey says you’re to drink this.”

“What is it?”

Harry shrugged. “Do I look like a healer to you?”

“I suppose not,” Tom said, being careful to brush Potter’s fingers as he took the vial. Predictably, the brat jerked his hand away, clenching it as Tom tilted his head back. This potion tasted much better and cleared his head somewhat.

“Considering I saved your life and all…” Potter begun, and Tom fought back a grin. A favour. So, this was why Harry had lingered by his bedside like a mournful lover.

“You don’t want me to tell on your previous Weasleys?” Tom asked. “How poor are they exactly? Does their mother work?”

Potter’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I saved your life. It’s the least you can do.”

“I saved your life last week! Where’s my favour?”

“That doesn’t count! You were protecting your own interests whereas you dying would actually be quite beneficial for me.”

“You’d be so bored - and anyway, you ought to negotiate before you complete your end of a bargain, Harry, otherwise it’s just a gift.”

“I couldn’t negotiate with you when you were like that! You could barely string a sentence together!”

“Then you should’ve left me.”

“You would’ve died.”

“I would’ve been fine.”

Potter scoffed.

In Harry’s defence, he didn’t know about the horcruxes. And, irritatingly, Tom acknowledged that dying and resurrecting himself would’ve been a lot of hassle. And he would’ve died to Weasleys.

How embarrassing.

The matron’s door opened. “Oh good, you’re awake,” she said, bustling over and laying a hand on Tom’s forehead. “How do you feel?”

“Much better now, thank you, Madame Pomfrey.”

“Quite alright,” she said. “I’ve given you a potion of blood regeneration, so you should be feeling back to normal in no time. I’d like to keep you in for overnight observation though.”

“Of course. Do you know what happened?”

“Blood blisterpods,” she said, eyebrows creased, and lips pursed. “Thankfully, Potter identified it and I could administer the antidote quickly; I had some to hand. Several students have shown up with blisterpod poisoning recently, though in much smaller doses. You’re very lucky Mr Potter found you when he did.”

“Very lucky,” Tom agreed, smiling at Harry. That made the boy scowl again.

The doors to the Hospital Wing swung open and in sauntered Umbridge, which made Harry’s scowl deepen. Then, the expression cleared somewhat as he noticed McGonagall and Dumbledore trotting along on her heels.

“Thomas, how are you, dear?” Umbridge gushed, rushing to his bedside, kitten heels clacking, voice thick with false concern. Or perhaps real concern: she wouldn’t want her best playing piece dying on her.

Tom placated her as the other teachers drew near, Potter staring at the ground, fingers wearing a hole in the sleeve of his robes.

“Well, I’d like to know what went on here-” Umbridge began, before the door burst open again and Natalie, Roisin, and Marietta rushed in.

Tom quickly grew bored of saying he was fine. Over the top of Natalie’s bushy, black hair as she flung her arms around him, he watched Harry sink lower in his chair.

“What happened?” Roisin asked, shooting their teachers a hesitant glance.

“Quite what I’d like to know,” Umbridge said. She drew herself up, pursing her rouged lips at Potter with obvious suspicion. “Was he poisoned, Pomfrey?”

The matron raised her eyebrows. “He certainly ate something he shouldn’t have.”

“Well,” Umbridge said, surveying the group like a Roman emperor on the brink of judgement. “This is attempted murder! See where your lies have led us, Dumbledore: to the near death of an innocent boy. I hope you’re happy.”

“The pain of my students has never brought me happiness, Dolores,” Dumbledore said.

Umbridge did not let the blow fell her. “Then you accept that swift and just punishment should befall the perpetrator?”

“Any student who truly wishes another harm without repentance should have no place at this school. Alas, we cannot all get our way.”

These words flew straight over Umbridge’s head. Eagerly, she spun back to Tom, half-pushing Natalie out of her way. “Tell us, Thomas, do you know who did this?”

Before Tom could open his mouth, Potter spoke.

“I did.”

There was a brief silence in which Tom met Potter’s eyes, so vivid and green, determined, daring him to argue and implicate those pathetic twins. This was exactly why Tom never cared for friendship. It demanded so many pointless sacrifices.

 “You did?” Umbridge asked, surprised as if she’d anticipated hours of interrogation, involving veritasium and a crucio or two. Then, her lips split into a cruel smile.

“You could’ve killed him!” Natalie hissed, aghast.

“Is that true?” Dumbledore inquired of Pomfrey. Surely, he could spot Potter’s lie, even with their careful avoidance of meeting each other’s eyes.

“Well, he certainly arrived in a state,” Pomfrey replied. “Like I said to Mr Riddle, he’s very lucky Mr Potter was there.”

“Luck!” Umbridge exclaimed. “Luck had nothing to do with it. A guilty conscience, perhaps!”

Staring at the floor, Potter nodded. “It was only meant to be a prank. Then in Divination I realised I might have messed my dose up so rushed down to check. I told Madame Pomfrey straight away that it was blisterpods.”

It was, surprisingly, a good lie. Their lessons were paying off. Of course, Tom could still dismiss his story with a sentence or two, but much as the Weasley twins irked him, he’d have plenty of opportunities for revenge. This - Harry’s downfall - was much more entertaining.

McGonagall eyed Potter with suspicion, but Umbridge puffed in triumph and the Ravenclaw girls clung tighter to Tom, shooting Potter furious glares. This would surely eviscerate any goodwill Harry’s Quidditch antics had earned with the student population.

Unfortunately, Dumbledore was beaming. Truly beaming, like someone had deposited a box on his doorstep filled with Christmas puddings, or fluffy socks, or whatever other ridiculous muggle paraphernalia Dumbledore enjoyed.

“I don’t see what you’re so happy about Dumbledore,” said Umbridge, who looked equally delighted. “The boy must be severely punished.”

“Not by you,” McGonagall snapped. “As Potter’s head of house, I’ll lead any detentions he’s given.”

“Well, you see, Minerva, thanks to Educational Decree Number Twenty-Six, I must now approve all detentions -”

“And you agree that Potter deserves a detention, therefore -”

“At least a detention! He recklessly endangered the life of a student, expulsion should be -”

Madame Pomfrey cut her off. “I see two different students a week endangered by pranks, Dolores. None of those perpetrators have ever been expelled. And, unfortunately, I know Mr Potter well enough to insist that he is of strong moral character.” She looked to Dumbledore. “If you’ll consider my opinion.”

“Of course I will, Poppy.”

“Strong moral character,” Umbridge repeated. “He tried to kill a student!”

Tom’s Ravenclaw girls made similar noises of protest, but Tom’s gaze remained on Dumbledore, the old fool still smiling like an idiot. Tom had a feeling he knew why.

“That’s an old wives’ tale,” he snapped at the headmaster, unable to help himself. “Magic doesn’t work like that.”

Magic followed rules.

“As you say,” Dumbledore replied, and Tom wanted to slice that stupid smile of his face in the most painful way possible.

“What are you talking about?” Harry asked, lost at the merest suggestion of an intellectual train of thought.

“Life debts,” Dumbledore said, beaming at Potter’s shoes.

Umbridge huffed. “It’s hardly a life debt if Potter put Mr Riddle in danger first.”

“Oh,” Dumbledore said. “I quite agree!” Then he had the nerve to wink at Tom.

Goosebumps prickled along Natalie’s arm. She shivered, and Tom breathed deeply, reigning in his magic. Something about Dumbledore just made him want to…

“What’s a life debt, sir?” Marietta asked.

Dumbledore smiled at her. “A life debt, Miss Edgecombe, is a magical bond formed when one saves the life of another, especially at great personal expense. The debt may be paid by an act in kind, or it may be held, in which case the one saved cannot turn their wand upon their saviour without facing recompense.”

“There’s no evidence they exist,” Tom said.

McGonagall frowned. “They are quite… impractical, Albus.”

Harry, too, looked skeptical.

Dumbledore’s smile widened. “Without impracticalities, magic would be only another branch of science.”

“This is inconsequential,” Umbridge said, as if Dumbledore hadn’t suggested Lord Voldemort now owed Potter a life debt.

Disregarding the fact that life debts were nonsense, Potter hadn’t even saved Tom’s life! He would’ve made it to the Hospital Wing without Potter’s help. And besides, he had horcruxes! And he’d saved Harry less than a week ago! If anything, they were even now.

Stupid Dumbledore, with his stupid, silly theories.

“At the very least, he should be banned from the Quidditch team,” Umbridge was saying.

Beside him, Potter stilled. Tom's bad mood lifted; he'd quite like not to worry about a bludger smacking his horcrux senseless.

“I don’t see why,” McGonagall sniffed. “It’s not like he beat the boy around the head with a broom.”

“It’s about consequences, Minerva. It's time Potter learnt Hogwarts doesn't bend to his whim. I'd also suggest detention every evening until Christmas-"

"Every evening! He’s in his OWL year, for Merlin’s sake! He has work to do!”

“Then perhaps he should’ve-”

“Enough!” said Dumbledore, firm. “Two evenings a week should suffice; let’s say Wednesdays and Thursdays.” He glanced at Tom, as if it wasn’t obvious enough that Dumbledore was keeping an eye on his and Potter’s meetings.

Then, Tom realised something. He’d told Harry about the cave and lake, what they had meant to him, in a meeting. Three weeks later, Lord Voldemort had visited the cave and found its contents - a horcrux, Tom was sure - missing and thought Tom responsible.

Dumbledore was listening in to their conversations, gathering information and acting on it.

Dumbledore had played him.

Dumbledore was horcrux hunting.

“-He’ll serve them with you, Minerva. Filius or Pomona can take him on the nights you’re busy.”

McGonagall nodded, Potter bit his nails, and Umbridge’s pencilled eyebrow pinched, eye twitching.

“And Quidditch?” she insisted.

Dumbledore merely smiled. “I think more time on the Quidditch pitch should keep Harry safely away from future pranks,” he said, and that just wouldn’t do. Dumbledore looked far too pleased.

Over the Ravenclaw girls’ mutterings, Tom caught Potter’s eye again. He raised a brow. Harry’s life he could at least make worse. It wasn’t as if they were friends.

The boy dipped his head towards the floor, balling his fists in his sleeves, and said, in the blandest voice Tom had ever heard from him, “It’s fine, Professor, I can stop playing Quidditch.”

Dumbledore looked between Tom and the top of Potter’s messy, black hair. “Are you sure, Harry?” When Harry stayed silent, determined, he added, “Perhaps no more matches, but I see no reason to prevent you training with the team.”

To Tom’s side, Natalie snorted softly.

Business concluded quickly after that, the Headmaster dismissing them. Apparently, lunch was nearly over. Potter must’ve sat by his bedside for over an hour while Tom was unconscious.

Irritatingly, the brat scurried away before Tom could say anything further, and he had to put up with the girls’ fussing and complaining for another ten minutes. Keen not to stretch the truth too far, he told them how Potter had stunned him in the corridor, how Loony had enervated him, and the ashy taste that coated his mouth. They ate it up.

Dumbledore took a long time to leave, chatting with the Matron for a while, humming Christmas tunes under his breath; purely to irritate Tom, he was sure.

Dumbledore had stolen his horcrux and was rubbing salt in the wound.

The afternoon was dull: he read, but nothing useful, then engaged Pomfrey in conversation, steadily steering them towards dementors. She knew as little as he did.

In the evening, the girls returned, eager to discuss Potter and Dumbledore and their transgressions. They’d taken it upon themselves to inform everyone they could about Potter’s murder attempt, so now, of course, the whole school knew. It was the most animated Tom had seen them for a while.

Then the door slammed open, and Cho barged in.

Hastily, Natalie stood up, as if caught red-handed. “I thought you had Quidditch practise.”

“I did,” Cho snapped, and indeed, she wore her Quidditch gear. “I left because they were teasing me.”

“Why would they tease you?” asked Marietta.

“Why do you think?”

The girls had the tact to look guilty.

“Harry did not try to kill him,” Cho continued, “You don’t know him like I do! He’s the sweetest person I’ve ever met.”

“He admitted it,” Marietta said. “Right in front of us. And Dumbledore let him off scott free.”

“Scott free? He can’t play for Gryffindor anymore! Harry loves Quidditch -”

The argument went back and forth for far too long, Cho growing more and more teary, the girls growing more and more frustrated, Tom growing more and more bored. Eventually, it reached its inevitable conclusion of Cho crying and storming off in a huff, calling Tom a psychopathic liar as she went.

She’d been spending too much time with Harry.

“I can’t believe her,” Roisin exclaimed, kicking out a chair and falling into it. “We’ve been friends for six years and now she’s letting a boy get between us!”

“I’m sorry,” Tom said, because he’d stayed quiet for their argument and should remind them all how nice he was again.

“Not you,” Roisin said as Natalie took his hand.

Marietta stood. “I’m going to talk to her.”

“Just let her cool off,” Natalie said, “She’ll be fine tomorrow.”

But Marietta strode after the girl, red curls bouncing.

“I wish Cedric were still around,” Natalie said suddenly. “This thing with Potter isn’t healthy. Regardless of how sane he is or isn’t, he saw her boyfriend die, for Morgana’s sake!”

Tom agreed. Like with him and Natalie, Cho and Potter were doomed. He was glad. The fewer allies Harry had to turn to, the more time he’d spend with Tom. Already, they’d conversed more than they ever should’ve done.

“I’m going to have an early night,” Natalie said, pecking Tom on the cheek. Friendly, familial. “I hope you sleep well, Tom. Madame Pomfrey’s very good at her job. Are you coming, Roisin?”

“I’ll meet you back in the tower,” she said, running a hand through her thick, brown hair. “Tom and I have an Ancient Runes project due tomorrow we need to finish.”

Tom’s ears perked up. He didn’t need legilimency to know that was a lie: they’d finished that project on Monday. After Natalie said her goodbyes and left, he raised a curious eyebrow.

The girl frowned, upturned nose pinching like a rabbit’s, before saying, “Potter lied, didn’t he? About poisoning you.”

Slowly, Tom nodded.

“Do you know who did it?”

“The Weasley twins.”

Her shoulders slumped. “So, Potter covered for them? They’re good friends, I suppose. I can’t believe they intended to kill you though, they must’ve messed up.”

“I expect so,” Tom lied.

“Why didn’t you call them out?”

He shrugged. “No point in being a snitch when Potter was willing to take the fall.”

She tapped her thumb against her thin, lower lip, thoughtful, and Tom felt a spark of worry. It was remarkably astute of her to notice Potter’s lie, conditioned as they were to believe him capable of going after Tom. What else could she notice?

“He really did save your life, then?” Roisin asked.

“I suppose.”

“Kind of him.”

“He enjoys playing the hero.”

Roisin’s brow furrowed, and Tom’s heartbeat quickened. His eyes found her wand, laying on his bedside table; could he grab it first?

“Are life debts real?” she asked.

“No. There’s no evidence they exist magically beyond a moral sense of fairness and obligation.”

Her lips quipped. “Do you feel a sense of obligation to Potter now?”

“Not in the slightest,” Tom said.

She laughed, and he relaxed.

“Are you going to tell anyone about the twins?” he asked.

“Not if you don’t,” she said, smiling. “It can be our secret.”

Secrets were good. Roisin must think they had a special connection now. Secrets based on lies.

Night fell and the Hospital Wing quietened. Madame Pomfrey gave Tom his final dose of the blood rejuvenation potion then disappearing off to her private chambers. He was the only overnight guest.

Lying alone in the darkness, he felt for the connections, the thin lines anchoring him to the mortal plane. Potter couldn’t save his life when Tom had already ensured his immortality.

The strongest connection, the one between him and Lord Voldemort, remained closed. The others, five of them, were faint and fragile, except… he examined the deep green thread between he and Potter. It was thicker, he thought. Minutely so, but he was sure it had changed. Their proximity, perhaps.

And then Harry was in his thoughts. Harry with his delightful outrage and fierce determination. Tom slipped a hand beneath the sheets.

Often, when he did this, when he touched himself, his mental images were vague, formless things: the warmth of a body, the softness of flesh, the allure of domination. More salient were the physical sensations of his hand sliding up down, his fingers flexing, his nerves shivering.

Sometimes he thought about people: people he’d fucked, people he hadn’t. Always, people he wanted beneath him, whining in adoration and subservience, offering their hands, their mouths, their bodies for his pleasure.

It was natural then, that he thought of Harry. Was there anyone he wanted more on their knees? Gazing up with those vicious, hate-filled eyes. Anyone else whose messy hair he wanted to tangle his fingers in and pull? Whose slim frame he wanted pinned between him and white sheets? Whose desperate, pleading pants he wanted whimpered into his ear, one leg hooked around Tom’s hip, arm locked around his waist.

Those green eyes, boring into his, brimming with want and desire, because of course Tom could make Harry want him. Could make him shiver at his touch. Could make him hiss and moan and fall apart at his fingertips, nails scratching, lips parting, hips jerking. Could make him -

Tom finished suddenly, chest rising and falling, a sheen of sweat sticking his curls to the nape of his neck.

Well. Shit.

Lord Voldemort may be seeking retribution for a crime Tom didn’t commit, and Dumbledore might be hunting down his horcruxes, but Tom’s five-step plan now had a new step, and that was all he could focus on. A non-negotiable.

Step one: get Harry to kiss him.

Chapter Text

“This is the worst day of my life,” Angelina said, leaning her elbow on the sofa arm and staring glumly out of the dark, common room window.

Harry and the twins exchanged concerned looks. He’d prepared himself for yelling - Angelina loved yelling. This was worse.

“We’re going to lose the Quidditch cup.”

“We might not,” said Fred. “Let’s hold trials for a new seeker – someone’s got to be half decent and Harry can still train with us, he can teach them!”

“Look on the bright side, Ang, it could’ve been worse,” George said. “You could’ve lost both me and Fred and then you’d have two positions to fill.”

Angelina glared. “Shut up, Weasley, or I’ll kick you off the team myself. And get your dog off me, Potter. He’s drooling on my robes.”

“Sorry,” Harry said, tugging on Fang’s collar. Unfortunately, Fang was twice his weight and moving him was like trying to push over the one-eyed witch statue with a feather. Harry gave up.

Sighing, she said, “I’ll ask if we can sneak in before the Hufflepuffs on Tuesday for an emergency seeker trial; you’d better make it this time, Potter.”

“Harry can’t do Tuesdays,” said Hermione. She sat one table over in the empty common room, nose in a book.

George jumped, swivelling to peer over the back of his chair at her. “It’s rude to listen in like that, you know.”

“Be quieter then.”

George turned back around. “Why can’t you make Tuesdays?”

Harry opened his mouth.

“He’s got remedial potions with Snape,” Hermione said.

“Oh, just come and join us,” Fred snapped at Hermione as George barked out a laugh and a – “Remedial potions? Merlin, he really does hate you.”

Hermione did join them, bringing over three tomes and a stack of parchment and perching beside Harry. “You two are morons,” she said to the twins.

Fang sneezed his approval.

“You too,” she said to Harry.

“Me? What did I do?”

“Save Riddle’s life. He’s trying to kill you!”

Angelina groaned, standing. “I’m going to bed. Anyone says the name Tom Riddle within five metres of me, and I’ll curse them.” Muttering, she left.

“Fred and George have made more of an attempt on his life than he’s ever made on mine,” Harry said.

“Only by accident,” said George. “We thought he’d go to the Hospital Wing with someone.” Though he didn’t look all that guilty.

“That’s not how Riddle works,” Harry said.

Fred shrugged. “Wouldn’t have been much of a loss though, would it? I’d happily take expulsion if it meant no one had to see that slimy git’s face again.”

“You’d be facing more than expulsion if he’d have died,” Hermione said. “Azkaban!”

“I’m sure our friends Mad-Eye and Padfoot could’ve given us a few tips on-”

Hermione’s glare withered him.

“Thanks, Harry,” George said softly. “We would’ve come clean if they’d tried to expel you.”

“’S fine,” Harry said, picking at a spot of blood on his sleeve. He couldn’t quite dislodge the image of Riddle clinging to his arm, drenched in blood. It made him feel… unsteady.

“Yeah, thanks, Harry,” said Fred. “You’re a good mate, and a great guy. Everyone else will figure that out eventually. Riddle can’t stay in people’s good books forever.”

“No,” Harry said. “He’ll get bored.”

They all nodded.

When Harry trudged up to his dormitory ten minutes later, Fang at his heels, it was already filled with snores. He changed out of his stained robes then paused, staring as Fang gave them a sniff. Riddle was many things: a manipulative, lying prick, a lonely orphan, a petulant child, and... a nerd. Especially when it came to the dark arts.  

Using his wand, Harry cut an uneven square out of the bloodied sleeve, rusted flecks tumbling onto his mattress. He rolled the fabric up, shoved it in a glass vial and hid it in the bottom of his trunk. What to do with he hadn’t the faintest, but Riddle had seemed concerned and that was good enough for him.

*****

In the eyes of Hogwarts, on top of being mad Harry was now capable of murder. Seamus had gone from ignoring him to outright glaring, even offering Ron the ultimatum of ditching Harry or becoming Most Unpopular Kid No. 2. (Ron told him to shove off). So, Harry spent the weekend hiding in Hagrid’s cabin, cleaning it the muggle way to give his hands something to do. Fang kept whining and pawing at Hagrid’s bed.

“Me too,” Harry said, scratching the spot behind his ears.

The only people who’d even look at him now were his Defence crew - Dumbledore’s Army, as Ginny had christened them. So far they’d managed to evade Umbridge’s notice, distracted as she was by Peeves’ mischief and the castle playing tricks on her, neither of which diminished on the approach to Christmas. Even the latest Educational Decree granting Umbridge the right to remove all ‘pests’ had done little to deter Peeves’ reign of terror – with the other professors finding any excuse not to help, the poltergeist was remarkably difficult to pin down.

The DA sessions were going well, Harry often picking Lupin’s brain for things to teach the others (because he had, perhaps inevitably, become the de facto teacher). Colin liked to pester him (Harry had thus far managed to avoid their ‘date’ – between Quidditch, occlumency, and his detentions, Harry barely spent time in the common room anymore), but Harry didn’t mind because Cho liked to pester him too.

Besides his friends, there was, of course, one other person who looked at him – who no doubt looked at him the most out of everyone. But Harry was trying his best not to think about Riddle.

Panting on the floor of the changing room... swiping a bloodied thumb over Harry’s lip... pinning him to the desk...

Cho, that’s who he wanted to think about. Pretty, pleasant Cho with her round face and pink lips, who talked about her family, and who was sweet and kind and didn’t boast about torturing people or threaten to kill his friends. Nice and normal, even if she did spend rather a lot of time crying.

The following week, in early December, Harry and Fang found Cho sitting in the cloisters of the Transfiguration courtyard. In stark contrast to last year when snatching a moment alone involved dodging hordes of giggling, popular girls, this was easy. He hadn’t even needed to use the map.

“Hi,” he said, perspiration gathering in his armpits and forehead despite the chill air. He wound his fingers into the wiry fur behind Fang’s ears to still their trembling, “How are you?”

Given her red-rimmed, puffy eyes, he immediately regretted the question.

“Oh, fine,” she said, smiling and wiping at her face with her sleeve. “You?”

“Yeah, you know, good,” he said, perching on the bench beside her.

She leant forwards to scratch Fang’s wet nose, wafting floral perfume. Riddle didn’t wear floral perfume.

...Why had he just thought that?

“Umbridge hasn’t banned him yet, then?”

Harry shook his head. “Think her disappearing dinner has kept her distracted.”

Cho giggled – the case of Umbridge’s faulty dinner plate had kept many a student in the Great Hall entertained for the past week – before her laugh trailed off awkwardly, and they were quiet for a moment, listening to the thump of Fang’s tail on stone.

Eventually, she said, “Cedric and I sat here a lot last spring.”

“Oh. Right.”

“That tree’s very pretty when it flowers.” She pointed to the trunk in the courtyard, a skeleton of frosted twigs in the chill December.

“I think it’s a magnolia,” Harry said, then, when Cho raised her eyebrows added, “My Aunt has one. I… help with the gardening.”

Cho smiled. “That’s nice that you have something to do together. My mum and I cook. She says popo would roll in her grave if I didn’t know how to fold dumplings.”

“How do you fold dumplings?” Harry asked, thinking of the stodgy, suet balls Petunia put in stews. 

Cho laughed, which was much nicer than the crying. Fang beat his tail. “Chinese dumplings - jiaozi. It’s ground meat or vegetables wrapped in a thin dough. They’re delicious. I snuck into the kitchens with Cedric last year to make some.” 

She went quiet again. Harry didn’t understand why she kept bringing him up. He tried not to think about Cedric, and he didn’t need to sneak off to the cloisters before dinner to cry alone.

No, said the voice in his head, you sneak off to the fourth-floor corridor instead. And that was ridiculous because he didn’t do that as often as he had at the start of term, and when he did it was because Riddle’s aurors were long gone and someone ought to be keeping an eye on him.

“Sorry,” Cho said. “I talk about him a lot, don’t I? My friends…” She trailed off. “You’re a good listener, Harry.”

This, Harry thought, was probably because he never had any idea what to say. Whenever she mentioned Cedric, all he saw was a stiff body in the wet grass, and a pair of grey, unseeing eyes- 

“Are you going to Hogsmeade next weekend?” he blurted out. 

“Oh. Yes, I think so. I need to do some Christmas shopping.”

“Did you want to… uh, go… go with me?”

Alarmingly, tears filled her eyes again. She looked away, towards the magnolia. “I’d like that,” she said, and Harry had been so sure of rejection that he almost misheard. 

“Really?”

Wiping at her eyes, she smiled. It was a very pretty smile. “Yes, Harry.”

Fang barked happily.

After they said goodbye, Harry tried hard not to run to Ron, waiting in a nearby corridor, a grin tugging at his cheeks.

“She agreed!”

His best mate’s mouth dropped open. “Really?”

“That’s what I said!”

Clapping him on the shoulder, Ron grinned in return. “I’ve never been so happy to be ditched.” 

“Who are you gonna go with?” Harry asked as they made their way to dinner, Fang trotting along at his heels.

Ron made a face. “No idea. Hermione, I guess.”

“Charming,” their friend said, popping up behind them with an armful of books. 

“Bloody hell, where did you come from? Don’t have another time turner, do you? Never mind, did you hear? Harry’s going to Hogsmeade with Cho!”

“Are you really?”

“You don’t sound as excited as Ron did.”

“Well, I thought… after Cedric… she’d want a bit more time.”

“She did cry,” Harry admitted.

“You made her cry?” asked Ron.

“No! She was crying when I got there!”

“And you asked her out?”

“I dunno… I guess.”

“She must think you’re really fit, mate, if she still said yes.”

Harry didn’t know if that made him feel better or worse. 

“You’d better still meet us at The Three Broomsticks for a pint after - Fred’s paying; he definitely owes you. And I told him he owed me one too when I didn’t confiscate his -” Ron cut off quickly, side-eying Hermione. “Oh, Merlin’s balls, have you seen how they’ve decorated the banister this year? Flitwick just gets better and better…”

Luckily, Hermione, navigating her heavy books, wasn’t listening. “We’ll have to go to Woodcroft’s, Ron, the library really is sparse on information about House Elves.”

“You’re not still banging on about that are you?”

“Yes, Ronald, and I will continue ‘banging on about it’ until we live in a society that isn’t propped up by slavery!”

Her tone was so dangerous that Ron changed the subject again. “Fanc

Fancy a celebratory butterbeer tonight, Harry? Now that we know where the kitchens are we might as well make use of them.”

“Can’t,” Harry said, mouth going dry. “Occlumency.”

“Ah, forgot it was Tuesday - oh, crap, that means Umbridge’s questions are due tomorrow.” He put on a falsetto, “Write ten questions you’d love Slinkhard to answer.”

“Josephina Flint,” Hermione said.

“Huh?”

“Ten questions you’d like Josephina Flint to answer.”

“Who’s Josephina Flint?”

She huffed. “The Minister for Magic in 1820s. Exactly Umbridge’s type. Do you ever listen in class?”

“Not to Umbridge.”

“And not to anyone else,” she muttered.

Harry wasn’t sure whether or not to be glad or not that he’d gotten away with his lie yet again.

“Oi, tosser ahead,” hissed Ron as they crossed into the Entrance Hall. Immediately, Harry’s heart rate spiked and his hand went to his wand, thinking of Riddle, but it was Draco Malfoy Ron nodded towards, huddled in a corner with Crabbe and Goyle and deep in conversation.

“What d’you reckon they’re whispering about?” Harry asked. All three boys looked surprisingly serious.

“Death Eater shit for sure,” said Ron.

“I wish you wouldn’t swear,” said Hermione, “And they’re not Death Eaters.”

“Bet they still hear things from mummy and daddy,” Ron said.

Trepidation shivered down Harry’s spine, even as the three Slytherins headed into the Great Hall, Malfoy running a hand over his slick, blond hair. He’d told Ron and Hermione an edited version of his vision of Voldemort and the green lake – one that didn’t involve him being fished out by Tom Riddle – and the image of that dark, still cave returned to him now.

Something had been stolen and Voldemort believed, perhaps wrongly, that Riddle was the culprit. His burning desire for vengeance was not a feeling Harry could easily forget. What was he up to?

*****

“You look nice,” Tom told Harry.

The boy’s eyes narrowed in suspicion as he hovered by the door to the Charms practise room they used for occlumency. “Why are you being weird?”

“I’m not being weird.”

Potter performed the usual privacy charms then stalked over to his spot in the far corner of the sofa, still wearing that ridiculous expression of suspicion, as if he were some melodramatic detective. “I don’t look any different to normal.”

This was true. The knot of Harry’s tie was too small and pulled off to the left, his black hair stuck up in its customary fashion, and the bridge of his nose and tips of his cheeks were pink from where his cheap, wire-framed glasses bit into them. Yet Tom found himself noticing other things too: for a teenager his skin was remarkably clear, and his cupid’s bow had a nice arc, and the thin bones of his neck created long, pleasant lines dropping to his sternum.

Tom said, “You’re taller.”

Harry’s brow furrowed, wrinkling the scar that marked him as Tom’s. “What are you after?”

“Nothing, Harry, it was only a compliment, you needn’t get so defensive.”

“Bullshit. Are you hoping to repay your life debt by being nice to me?”

“I already told you: I don’t believe in Dumbledore’s nonsense.”

“Well, I believe in it.”

“Then you’re a fool.”

“Giving up on the niceties already?”

Tom glared at him. Perhaps he was, by some miracle or curse of fate, attracted to Potter, but that didn’t make the Gryffindor dimwit any less irritating. He said, “I heard you’re going to Hogsmeade with Cho.”

“I asked her today! How on Earth do you know that?”

“Don’t you live in Hogwarts? Everyone knows.”

“Wonderful. And I suppose they all think she’s insane?”

“Oh, certainly.” 

Harry crossed his arms, his wand clenched in his fist. It was their sixth occlumency meeting and at no point in the past month or so had Tom threatened his life, so the wand seemed a little much. Hurtful, really.

“Are you and your girlfriend going?” Potter asked.

Tom’s fingers drummed on the sofa arm. He hadn’t been planning on it; Hogsmeade Saturdays were prime library time and Umbridge had given him unfettered access to the restricted section. Natalie was expecting him to go, of course, but it would be easy enough to feign sickness. However, if Harry was going… and with that awful Ravenclaw girl...

“Yes. Perhaps we’ll see you there.”

“No! I’m not spending any more time with you than strictly necessary. One hour a week is my limit.”

“You spend far more that one hour gazing at me across the Great Hall.”

“I don’t gaze,” Harry snapped, a flush creeping up his neck. Tom wanted to press his fingers to it. “I glare, and you only know that because you do it too.”

“I’m not the one denying that I like you.”

“You do not -”

“Are you going to kiss her?”

That delightful flush reached Potter’s ears, tinting them red in the candlelight. “That’s none of your business!”

Sinking more comfortably into the sofa, Tom said, “I heard you’ve never kissed anyone before.”

And now, finally, Potter’s cheeks were red too. “Do you have every piece of Hogwarts’ gossip tattooed inside your brain?”

“Only the bits concerning you. I don’t care about anyone else.”

“Lucky me.”

“Shall I teach you to kiss?” Tom asked, grinning. He snuck one hand across the gap between them, reaching playfully for Harry’s knee.

Predictably, Harry slapped his hand away, shrinking back. “No! I don’t want to kiss you!”

“Why not? You said you find me attractive.”

“I said objectively attractive, and I’ve told you a hundred times that you’re an obnoxious prat!”

Tom continued to grin. It boded well that Potter’s excuses always centred around him being ‘rude’, rather than being a boy. For one raised muggle that was as good an indication as any that gender wouldn’t be an issue.

Tom said, “Being a prat has nothing to do with it. You let me teach you occlumency; there are other things I could teach you. I’m sure you’d hate to disappoint Cho. Apparently, her and her ex-boyfriend couldn’t keep their mouths off each other. Their hands too. They did more than just kiss, Harry, why do you think she’s so sad that he’s dead?”

“Don’t talk about him,” Harry snarled.

“Picking the topic you’re more comfortable with?”

“I - no!”

“Don’t worry,” Tom said. “Kissing’s not that difficult. Don’t slobber over her or shove your tongue down her throat and you’ll be fine.”

The image of Harry and Cho snogging arose, unbidden, in Tom’s mind. Harry would be so nice. He’d cup her neck and kiss her gently, tentatively, lips hardly a whisper. No fight. No passion.

No Tom.

“Why are you standing up?!” Potter squawked.

Throat aching like he’d swallowed something bitter, Tom smiled, spinning to face him. “Aren’t we practising occlumency? Not discussing your love life. After your slip-up the other week, I thought we ought to practice defending your mind against Lord Voldemort should he discover your connection and attack it.”

Harry jumped to his feet, back to the wall, wand pointed and ready to fight. “I thought you said that was pointless.”

“Might as well give it a go. Maybe you’ll surprise me.”

“You’re being a dick!”

“Are you ready?”

“For what?!” the boy yelped, half-crouched in a protective stance. 

Their connection shimmered with apprehension and, his grin curling into a snarl, Tom grabbed it, a jolt racing from his abdomen to the nape of his neck as his magic surged. Quite abruptly, he was in the mood to hurt.

Reflexively, Potter threw up a shield, as if it would help.

Tom’s vision faded, replaced by dark tunnels and blurry figures; a spell would’ve been stronger, would’ve given him more control, but for his purposes – hurting Harry – this was enough. 

If Potter had constructed any occlumency barriers, Tom smashed through them. It was as though their connection was a cable along which he could project his consciousness, inflict his will, meeting no resistance.

Cho, alone in the courtyard, teary-eyed… Weasley’s freckled grin, his obnoxious laugh… Granger’s bushy hair… A black-tiled corridor, a locked door…

Darkness, noises distant, and he was screaming. There was so much pain, at the base of his skull, in his forehead. Then, cold. A smooth floor pressed to his cheek, ragged pants falling from his lips, wand twisted in his grip. 

Stomach churning, Harry pushed himself to his feet, clutching the sofa arm for support. His head spun, scar aching.

“What the fuck was that?” he growled.

Opposite, Riddle was on the floor too, flushed, his dark hair tousled. For once, off kilter.

Harry pressed his advantage, marching over and pushing the older boy’s shoulder down before he could move. “What the fuck, Riddle?” he growled again, kneeling and digging his wand into the bastard’s throat. 

Riddle’s hand clamped around his wrist, nails biting, regaining enough composure to release a breathy laugh. “An experiment.”

“On what?”

Riddle slid his other hand up Harry’s arm, wrapping it loosely around his bicep. “The connection.”

“What about it?”

“How far I can push it. I think I could possess you, if I wanted to.”

Harry dug the wand deeper, and Riddle gasped. The bastard was still flushed, a light, pink stain on high, pale cheekbones, lips parted and eyes dilated.

“Is that why you’re on the floor?”

“I’m exactly where I want to be,” Riddle countered.

Obviously, that was a lie. He’d been thrown from Harry’s mind. Whatever he’d tried had hurt him… hurt them.

Riddle’s thumb swiped over the delicate skin at Harry’s elbow. “You feel so angry, Harry, what are you going to do?”

“Stop using my name,” he hissed.

Riddle only smiled languidly, his thumb still stroking. With his spare hand, Harry tried to pry the offending fingers free, but Riddle’s grip tightened and he leveraged his hold on Harry’s bicep to twist his arm, wand digging further still into the prick’s throat.

“I know a spell you could use, Harry. Why don’t you try it?”

Point-blank, Harry stunned him, and Riddle fell limp. 

He jerked back, scrubbing his arm where the prat had touched him. Unconscious, Riddle looked paradoxically angelic, all soft lips, smooth skin and dark curls. Why, then, did he have to be such a git awake? Tearing into Harry’s mind, enjoying his pain, his discomfort. Like fuck it had been an ‘experiment’. Even without his ‘special’ insight into Riddle’s emotions, Harry knew he’d just fancied being a sod.

Irritated, he kicked Riddle’s limp foot. Dick. And trying to goad Harry into sinking to his level? No, he wasn’t falling for it. Not that he didn’t want to teach the tosser a lesson… Oh, he did. And, unfortunately for Riddle, Harry knew just the thing.

*****

Saturday morning dawned cloudy and rainy – the type of rain that hovered on the edge of sleet: heavy, slanted, and bone-chillingly cold. 

Tom was in a foul mood.

“Are you okay?” Natalie asked at breakfast, as she’d done last night, and yesterday lunchtime. 

“Just a headache,” Tom said, playing his favourite game of staring across the hall at Potter until the twat rubbed his forehead. 

Except, this time, Potter didn’t. As he hadn’t since Tuesday. High pain tolerance or not, surely the boy’s eyes were watering with the effort of denying him, but even that knowledge gave Tom minimal satisfaction.

“Do you still want to go to Hogsmeade today?” Natalie asked.

Tom nodded, reluctantly returning his gaze to his eggs and stabbing the yolk. Viscous yellow flooded his plate. It wasn’t only Potter bothering him. Where Umbridge remained staunchly confident about her and Fudge’s standing, Marietta’s ministry connections told a different story. Rumours of a coup were swirling.

“We don’t have to -”

“We’re going.” 

He’d said it too forcefully. Natalie flinched. Roisin and Marietta frowned. 

Tom laid down his knife. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap. The fresh air will do me good. And it’ll be nice to get out of the castle.”

Somehow, that was enough to placate the girls, though his heart hadn’t been in it. 

On the other side of the Great Hall, Cho approached Harry, chatting nonsense and smiling. The foreign happiness prickling at the base of Tom’s skull was sickly, but he kept the connection open: why not let Potter share in his misery? After all, he deserved it. His horcrux hadn’t so much as glanced at him since Tom awoke alone on the floor of their practise room at half-past-eleven last Tuesday. 

It was rude. 

And it was bleedin’ annoying.

One hour later, Tom hovered in the Entrance Hall, waiting for Natalie. Outside, rain cascaded from the heavens, pooling in the stonework on the front courtyard. He’d probably have to remind the girl to use a water-resistance charm. In fact, he’d probably have to teach her it.

To Tom’s delight – as much as delight could soak into his bad mood – Harry appeared, his stupid friends heading off with that dumb dog as Harry dithered behind. The boy had made more effort than usual; the raven’s nest of hair had at least been combed and his navy jumper and dark cloak both fitted and didn’t have any obvious holes.

For someone like Cho, Tom could see Potter’s appeal. He was attractive enough, though on the shorter side, plain, and wore those ugly glasses. But he was nice. Apparently, some girls liked that. 

Honestly, Potter could’ve had a buzzcut and a hooked nose for all Tom cared. He was his horcrux and his mortal enemy, and that was where Tom’s attraction lay. And… perhaps those eyes. Potter did have exquisite eyes. One day, once Tom had sorted out the horcrux business, he’d stare into them as their light faded. It was a comforting thought that gave him the boost he needed to greet Natalie with a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

God, he wanted to be rid of her. 

Instructing his girlfriend with the water-repellent charm, Tom dawdled enough that they set off just behind Harry and Cho. They only had an umbrella. How muggle. It forced the pair to walk close together, and five minutes in Potter offered his arm to the girl. Tom kept hearing her giggle.

Politely interjecting Natalie’s Christmas-plan-small-talk with positive affirmations whenever he remembered she existed, Tom reached for her hand. Then, Natalie did something very odd. She lifted her mitten to rub her nose, before tucking it into her pocket. All very casual. Like she hadn’t even noticed Tom reaching. But she had: her voice had jumped.

“Where shall we go?” she asked once they reached the high street. 

“Honeydukes?”

That was where Harry had gone.

“Sure. My aunt loves Chocolate Frogs – she’s almost completed the card collection. Last Christmas –” And she prattled on again. Had she always talked this much? Tom didn’t think so. 

In Honeydukes, he feigned interest in Fizzing Whizbangs to loiter in the aisle beside Potter and Cho.

“–So, the British Ministry offered him a job and he accepted; my mother was pregnant with my little sister and even though the Chinese magical government didn’t care about that, their town wasn’t magical and–”

For some baffling reason, the girl’s story (or perhaps her face) enamoured Potter. Tom was sure the boy was staring at her lips, green eyes glazed. Briefly, they hardened as Tom pushed on the connection. Yet the boy didn’t flinch. Didn’t even acknowledge–

“Tom,” Natalie said, resting a hand on his arm, Honeydukes bag dangling from the other, “Can we go on a walk?”

Tom would really rather they stay.

“I haven’t finished shopping.”

“Do you have money?”

“Umbridge gave me some.”

“Well, perhaps we could come back? I’d really like to talk...”

Harry and Cho wandered down another aisle and Tom made to follow when Natalie caught his arm.

“Tom!” she said, loud enough that a few nearby students glanced over.

“Can’t we talk later?”

“It’s important,” she said, pleading with her big, brown eyes.

Tom seriously doubted that it was, but she was on the verge of making a scene and scenes were best avoided.

“Fine,” Tom huffed and they trudged back out into the rain.  

Something was off with the girl. She flipped from chatterbox to mute on their walk into the woods, Tom taking long strides over puddles to keep his shoes dry. He only had two pairs.

“That’s the Shrieking Shack,” she said after a long stretch of silence Tom wished would never break. She pointed through the trees towards a dilapidated two-story building, depressingly isolated in a muddy field. “It’s the most haunted building in Britain.”

“I thought Hogwarts held that title.”

“Not anymore. The Hogwarts ghosts are too friendly – except the Bloody Baron, I suppose. There aren’t any registered ghosts dwelling at the Shrieking Shack. Just spooky sounds and dead animals – well, there used to be. Twenty years ago, or so.”

“Perhaps they’ve moved on.”

“Possibly.”

Ghosts weren’t real, anyway. They were like portraits; a pale imitation, an impression, a mockery of what once was. Death was final.

Natalie stopped walking, scuffing a boot in the mud. “We should talk.”

“Alright,” Tom said. Time to have whatever this conversation was. He doubted she’d accuse him of being Lord Voldemort so he couldn’t really bring himself to care. His mind was stuck on the high street, wandering into a saccharine tea shop with Harry and Cho.

Staring distantly at the shack, Natalie bit her lip. “This might sound strange, Tom, uh…”

Was this a break-up? Maybe his bad mood this week had finally pushed her away. He hoped it was a break-up. Having a girlfriend wasn’t as useful now as it had been two months ago, and while losing the loyalty of the Ravenclaw girls would be a shame, there were other groups in his year he could slot himself into without too much difficulty.

She said, “I… um, I don’t really like kissing you.”

Tom blinked, focussing on her. “Sorry?”

“I don’t like kissing you.”

She didn’t like… kissing? Kissing him? Tom was a great kisser! If anything, she was the one who needed practice!

“I don’t mean… it’s not you, sorry. I just… I don’t think I like kissing in general. I like the idea, but actually kissing is just… wet.”

Tom stared. How could anyone not enjoy a snog? Aside from him, of course. It was boring and – to use Natalie’s description – wet. Everyone else enjoyed it, though, so why didn’t she?

… She didn’t like kissing him?

“I like you, Tom, really,” she said, speaking fast. “You’re charming, and witty, and handsome, obviously, which is why this feels so silly, but I just don’t like it – the kissing. And… I don’t want to have sex. Not because of you! I’m sure you’d be really, um, good, but, er–”

“Are you breaking up with me?”

Natalie ducked her head. She was. Why? He knew he was a good kisser: no one got away with lying to him.

“I still really like you, Tom, and I still want to hang out with you. You’ll still sit with us, right? I’d like that.”

On paper, this was an optimal outcome. Tom had wanted to end things with her amicably and here she was, helpfully offering him exactly what he was after. Yet…

She didn’t like kissing him?!

“Right.”

“I’m so sorry, Tom! You’re great, I just… I think something’s wrong with me.”

There was absolutely something wrong with her, but, automatically, Tom said, “Nothing’s wrong with you.”

“Something is,” she said, panic colouring her tone. “Isn’t the point of life to fall in love? Grow up, get a job, get married, have kids?”

If that was the point of life, death would almost be preferable. Almost.

“Love has nothing to do with sex, Natalie.”

“It does! Everything’s about sex!”

She looked like she was about to cry, and Tom would rather she didn’t. He was the one being broken up with for God’s sake!

“Sex isn’t that great.”

“But it’s supposed to be magical -”

Tom snorted. “It’s bodies rubbing against each other. It’s not a spell. Physically it feels good, but nothing you can’t recreate yourself and it’s significantly more awkward. I don’t know why everything would be about that.”

Natalie bit her thumbnail. “People like me because I’m pretty, Tom, and they like me being pretty because they want to kiss me, or sleep with me, or be me so other people want to sleep with them. So, it is all about sex, in the end.”

“Nothing about that requires you to have sex. You’re attractive so use it to your advantage before you get too old.”

“I don’t care about using something to my advantage. You sound like a Slytherin. I’m telling you I fundamentally don’t understand why the world works the way it does–”

“You’re breaking up with me.”

Tom should’ve been nicer. He should’ve been sweet and compassionate, apologising even though she was in the wrong. So she’d know what a great person he was, how indispensable.

But he was five years old, and Jane had slipped down the stairs and broken her ankle, and Cole screamed at him for laughing even though her gasping sobs were ridiculous, and his ankle was fine, and he didn’t understand.

Natalie was mumbling on, and he set his teeth, mechanically saying, “Sorry. I need space. I’ll see you on Monday.”

It came out bland, emotionless. He couldn’t weave sorrow into his tone. What did sadness sound like? Was she expecting anger instead?

He marched away without waiting for a reply. He felt like a child. It was awful.

At the edge of the village, he spotted a group of students sheltering beneath the overhanging roof of the bookshop, smoking. Two of them he recognised as Potter’s dorm mates. Wandlessly, avoiding conversation, he summoned a pack of fags from a boy’s pocket. Too busy posturing, he didn’t notice.

The warming and water-repellent charms faded, rain plastering his hair to his head and soaking his scarf and cloak. He didn’t care. Tom slipped between cobblestone buildings until he found the winding river and perched on its low wall, wandlessly lighting a cigarette and taking a deep drag.

He wasn’t usually one for vices. A drink or two at Slughorn’s parties, a cigarette or two with his Slytherins, all to keep up appearances. He’d smoked a little at the orphanage too. To show off to Annie that he could afford them while she couldn’t. To use up the pack he’d nicked from Cole before she found it. And, to relish that momentary sense of calm as smoke swirled in his lungs.

He'd smoked more in the past month than he had for a long time. He blamed Harry; the stress caused by a piece of his soul harboured in an impulsive, masochistic trouble magnet. What was he doing now? Getting kidnapped by Death Eaters? Or snogging Cho? Both possibilities made him equally irritable. How dare Potter ignore him. No matter what Tom did Harry ought to stay by his side. Tom ought to make him stay by his side. Perhaps he should –

“Oh, God, not you.”

Tom glanced over his shoulder. Scowling, Potter leant against the stonework, navy jumper drenched. The umbrella must’ve been Cho’s. His hair was odd, flattened to his head, but Tom barely noticed because Harry was looking at him. Looking at him. Tom’s stomach squirmed.

“Aren’t you on a date?” Tom asked cooly.

“Aren’t you?”

Tom’s lips quirked; he offered the pack.

There was a moment of hesitation, then Potter stalked over, and snatched it from his hands. “Found a supermarket in Hogsmeade, I suppose?”

“Right next to the Three Broomsticks.”

“Can’t help but lie and steal, can you?”

To Tom’s immense surprise, Harry then hoisted himself up onto the stone wall beside him, keeping a healthy distance, of course. “Do you have a lighter?”

“Use magic, you idiot.”

Potter raised his wand - he’d had it drawn – and lit the tip. Hesitantly lifting the cigarette to his lips, he breathed in. Then, he coughed.

“You haven’t done that before.”

“Yes, I have.”

Tom raised an eyebrow.

“Seamus…” He coughed again. “Seamus taught me last year. God, that’s fucking awful. At least I probably won’t live long enough for them to–” He stopped, eying the cigarette dangling between Tom’s fingers.

“What?”

“Never mind.” Potter took another drag, managing better this time.

He didn’t look like he’d shed anymore light on the matter, and Tom ought not to push, so he said, “I thought you were ignoring me.”

“I was. I figured your bad mood had reached its crescendo and if I didn’t talk to you again you might do something truly horrible.”

Possibly, that was true. He’d half been following Harry about with the vague plan of stealing a wand and apparating away with him. To the Brecon Beacons, or Cornwall, somewhere Harry could be all his. Although if Diagon Alley had anti-apparition wards, likely Hogsmeade did too. Dumbledore wasn’t stupid. The old codger had probably been trailing Tom around under a disillusionment spell. Eyeing the far bank suspiciously, he asked Harry, “Did you snog Cho?”

Potter kicked his heels against the stone wall, staring into the rushing water below. “Kind of.”

“What do you mean ‘kind of’?”

“She started crying.”

Biting his cheeks to suppress a sudden grin, Tom said, “Kissing the only witness to her boyfriend’s murder might do that to a person.”

“Like you’d know,” Harry said. “I bet you’ve never cried in your life.”

“Hardly even as a baby,” said Tom.

For some reason that made Harry screw up his face and kick at the wall again. He’d given up with the cigarette and the rain had doused it. People nowadays were so wasteful.

“What happened to your date?” Harry asked.

“I don’t know. I left her body in the woods. Maybe the thestrals have eaten it.”

“You’re not funny, you know. And I don’t even know what thestrals are.”

“You don’t? Surely you can see them.”

“If you’re insulting me, I’m obviously too stupid to get it.”

Tom rolled his eyes. “Winged, skeletal horses. They pull the Hogwarts’ carriages.”

“Oh,” Harry said, expression clearing. “Those! I thought I was going mad.”

“You are mad. Why didn’t you research it?”

“What? Look in a book?”

“Obviously. It’s in Hogwarts: A History.”

Potter snorted. “You sound like Hermione.”

They both exchanged a brief, equally horrified glance.

“Why can I see them?” Harry quickly asked. “Ron and Hermione couldn’t.”

“Supposedly, you can only see them if you’ve seen death.”

“Oh. But I saw… I only started seeing them this term.”

“I can’t see them,” Tom said.

“So, it’s got nothing to do with witnessing death then,” Potter said dryly.

Shrugging, Tom took a long drag, watching the smoke curl around raindrops. “Natalie broke up with me.”

There was a brief silence, and then Harry started laughing. “What did you do?”

“Apparently, she doesn’t like kissing.”

Harry laughed harder, and Tom smirked too. He couldn’t help it; lightness pulsed through the connection. “Kissing’s easy,” Harry mimicked, in a voice that sounded nothing like Tom.

“It is! It’s her problem, not mine.”

“Sure,” Harry said, still grinning.

“At least she’s never cried halfway through.”

“Oh, piss off.”

But Harry’s tone was playful and Tom felt his stomach churn again.

“You know,” Harry said, “When you’re not being the world’s biggest twat, you’re not half-bad.”

“What a glowing compliment.”

“I’m serious, you could actually have friends if you tried.”

Tom gave him a sideways smile. “Is this your way of admitting you like me?”

“No,” Harry said. “I don’t like you.”

They both looked down at the river, the heavy raindrops splashing onto the bubbling surface. Harry’s was a complicated lie, one twisted up in uncertainty and inconsistency. Yet it was a lie, Tom was sure. Or, perhaps, he was hopeful.

Harry swung his legs back over the wall and stood. “It’s fucking freezing, and if I stay I give you two minutes before you say something creepy again.”

“I think I can do one.”

Rolling his eyes, Harry ran a hand through his wet hair. No rain clung to his glasses: they must have a permanent water-repellent charm on them.

Tom swung his legs over too. “Did you really stumble upon me by accident?”

Harry frowned. “No. I saw you slink away and assumed you were up to something nefarious.”

“Just having a smoke.”

“Hm.”

“Can I have my pack back?”

“If you say thank you.”

“What for?”

“Saving your life,” Harry said, the frown flicking back to a smirk.

“Only if you apologise for stunning me the other day.”

“No,” Harry said. “You deserved it. I keep telling you to stay out of my head and you keep ignoring me.”

“It’s occlumency. I don’t know what you expect. I wanted to test the connec-”

“Give it a rest! I’m not that dumb, Riddle. You hurt me because you fancied it. Can’t you at least admit it?”

Tom did not admit it. He stood up. “You said you’d never talk to me if I did it again,” Tom said. “Yet here we are. You’re stalking me through the streets of Hogsmeade”

“I’m keeping an eye on you!”

“You’re babysitting me? Is that what you tell yourself, Harry? Is this keeping your friends safe?”

“Yes!”

“Then you’re lying.”

Tom advanced, getting into Potter’s space. He been right on Tuesday – Harry was taller, although his head still only came up to Tom’s chin.

He said, “Do you think you could stop me? Do you think there’s anything you could do once I’ve set my mind on something?”

“Yes – you’re so goddamn arrogant–”

“Then why haven’t you stunned me, Harry? Why didn’t you watch me from the shadows in your invisibility cloak? It’s because you lied. You like this. You like talking to me. Is it the thrill? Does it make you feel alive?”

“Fuck off.”

“Why can’t you just admit it? This is fun.”

He lifted a hand to Harry’s jaw – Harry, who had his wand pointed at Tom, but still hadn’t cast a spell – and the boy grabbed his wrist and pulled it away. Harry, who flinched at physical touches of affection, revelling in muggle violence.

“This is not fun – you’re… you’re a git.”

Tom just smiled. Harry still clutched his wrist. “Okay, Harry.”

“I hate you.”

“Keep telling yourself that.”

“I mean it.”

So many lies. Tom smiled down at him. “I won’t tell anyone about us, if that’s what you’re anxious about. We can be each other’s secrets. I don’t think my friends would approve of you, anyway.”

“Oh, just… piss off!” Harry snapped, finally spinning and stalking away.

Tom watched him go, stroking the neat semi-circles on his wrist, the kisses of Harry’s nails. Natalie he may not understand, but Harry was a different sort of puzzle. Exhilarating and fun. His diary had been onto something, claiming he and Harry were similar, Tom understood that now. Yet they were different too: different in beautiful, contrasting ways.

Oh, Harry liked him alright.

*****

The last week of term passed in a blur. On the Tuesday Harry met Riddle for their final occlumency session; it went both as well and as terribly as usual. He was at least feeling more confident in his occlumency.

Loathe as he was to admit it, the young dark lord was right about the importance of protecting his mind from Voldemort, and it had taken Riddle putting himself at risk for Harry to realise it. Riddle didn’t do such things lightly. So, he’d actually been trying: clearing his mind, not indulging the relentless anger, ignoring his dreams of locked corridors rather than obsessing over them.

“Are you staying at Hogwarts for Christmas?” Riddle asked, as Harry stood to leave, head buzzing but happy with his progress.

He shook his head. “I’m staying with Ron’s family.”

“The blood traitors?” Riddle wrinkled his nose. “Lovely.”

Familiar with Riddle’s games, Harry didn’t rise to the bait. “Why? Were you hoping to torment me?”

“I’m always hoping for that.”

He paused by the door. Riddle was searching his bag for a book, his dark hair falling over his face; he often stayed in their practise room until curfew.

“Will you be lonely?” Harry asked. “Everyone’s leaving.”

“Of course not. I’ll finally have the library to myself. There are lots of projects I’m working on.” And he smiled, like he wanted Harry to ask, but Harry, knowing Riddle better now than he did at the start of term, only rolled his eyes and left, trying not to think of Riddle in the cavernous Great Hall eating a Christmas pudding, all alone.

 His ‘detentions’ for ‘nearly murdering’ Riddle had gone surprisingly well. Usually, they started with McGonagall encouraging him to do homework as she marked essays or concocted lesson plans, and ended with a private tutoring session. Between this, Lupin’s lessons, the DA, and Riddle’s snide insults anytime Harry so much as breathed without casting a spell, he’d never felt more confident in class. Not that he’d ever be Hermione or Riddle, but his recent homework grades now averaged EEs rather than As.

After his detention on Thursday, Harry slipped back into the common room, head full of the seven ways to pronounce thairscellanthyos, and the various spell effects they inspired, to find Ron, slouched by the fire in his Quidditch robes. Angelina had been pushing for extra training sessions to help bring Ginny – surprisingly, their new seeker – up to scratch.

“How was practice?” Harry asked, slumping into the armchair beside him.

“Crap. Angelina shouted at Fred and George the whole time, and I missed basically every quaffle. It’s not the same without you.”

“Sorry.”

“Not your fault. They’re idiots. Mum’ll go berserk when she finds out what they tried on Riddle – and she will. If she starts blaming you for it, I’ll tell her myself.”

“I don’t mind.”

“Don’t be thick.” Ron sighed. “Might just shower and go to bed. Been a bit of a shit term this, hasn’t it?”

Harry nodded and Ron stood, throwing Hagrid’s key onto Harry’s lap. “It’s your turn to walk Fang tomorrow.”

They said goodnight, and Harry turned the heavy key over in his hands. On Monday Umbridge had passed a decree banning ‘all pets larger than a kneazle’ in the castle. Inevitable, really.

He headed up shortly after, chatting with Neville as he changed and ignoring Seamus’s silent, closed hangings. Once tucked in bed, he let his thoughts wander, landing on Cho. The rain clinging to her lashes; sticky, strawberry lip gloss; smooth, silky hair. Tears streaming as she’d pulled away.

Harry groaned into his pillow. How was he meant to compete with a dead boyfriend? A handsome, funny, brave, dead boyfriend. Maybe Riddle was right and his and Cho’s relationship was doomed to fail. Several times that week she’d offered a private stroll around the grounds; after Christmas he’d no longer be able to use the detentions as an excuse to say no.

It wasn’t as if he didn’t want to kiss her again. He did. Quite a lot. But he wanted her smiling and laughing, not… crying. Was that so wrong?

It didn’t help that whenever he replayed their kiss in his mind, her light grip turned to iron on his jaw, and her round face shifted to the hard lines of Riddle’s as he bit down on Harry’s lower lip, then whispered, “You like me, Harry, admit it.”

Expelling these thoughts, and those of Hagrid, missing, those of Voldemort’s promised revenge, was difficult, but Harry tried his best to empty his mind. If only for a good night’s sleep.

His last thought, before drifting off into beckoning blackness, was that even if this term had knocked the wind out of him, even if he had been ostracised and tortured, even if Hagrid was missing, kidnapped by Death Eaters, even if it had been shit, truly dreadful, at least no one had died.

Chapter Text

A knock jerked Tom from his dream. It had been a pleasant dream: Harry had been in it. Harry, and a lot of blood. And Dumbledore too. He’d been dead. That was where the blood had come from.

Knock, knock, knock.

Tom blinked his eyes open.

It was very early: no light trickled in past his limp curtains. Smoothing his tousled hair and wiping sleep from the corners of his eyes, he checked his watch: five-twenty-three.

Knock, knock, knock.

This was early even for him, and he got up slowly. Whoever it was count wait a minute for him to get a glass of water.

Knock, knock, kno-

 Annoyed, Tom opened the door to - of all people - Madame Pomfrey. In a cotton nightdress and blue dressing gown, black bob unbrushed, her serious expression woke him more effectively than a cold shower.

“Get a cloak,” she said, “And follow me.”

“Why?”

“It’s important.”

And she took a few, impatient steps away from the door. Curious, Tom did as instructed, pulling a grey sweater on too: all the warming spells in the world couldn’t chase the chill, winter winds away from Hogwarts’ halls. Dipping his hands into his cloak pocket, his fingers found the smooth, silver potions’ knife he’d once taken from Harry. There were other objects in there too: a quill, a grey sock, a stained ink pot, a few strands of hair. Tokens of their courtship.

“Where are we going?” he asked, taking long strides to keep pace. For a shorter woman, Madame Pomfrey was quick.

She didn’t reply, only walked faster.

Tom hadn’t pegged her as one of Dumbledore’s. During his short stint in the Hospital Wing she’d been pleasant and chatty, nothing like the surly animosity  or determined stonewalling of McGonagall, Flitwick, and Sprout. Was she one of the ministry’s? Was Umbridge up to something?

“Tell me where we’re going,” he tried, magic seeping into his words.

“Albus’s office,” she replied.

Tom stopped. The castle was empty, stars hung bright beyond the dark windows. 

“Keep walking,” she said, slowing.

“Tell me why–”

Wordlessly, she silenced him. He hadn’t even seen her wand. “The Headmaster expects you to follow his instructions, Riddle.”

Right. Not one of Umbridge’s then. And she wasn’t calling him Tom anymore. Blankly, he stared at her, assessing his options. A knock on the door in the middle of the night? A silent march? This felt like an execution! Why? What had he done? He’d stuck by Dumbledore’s stupid rules. He hadn’t killed anyone, even if some had made it very tempting.

His body tensed, pivoting into fight or flight. Pomfrey had the wand, but he had the physical advantage. If he could –

Blackness.

Tom opened his eyes to Dumbledore’s silent office, reclined on one of those stupid, chintz chairs.

That bitch! She’d stunned him! Perhaps he’d grown used to Potter’s indulgences.

Panic mounting, Tom twisted his head around. He was alone - even the perch for Dumbledore’s stupid bird sat empty. Silver instruments silent, portrait canvases blank. He checked his watch again: five-fifty-two.

Not wasting a second more, Tom darted for the door but something snapped taut around his ankle, biting his skin, and he stumbled, falling to the oriental rug.

A metal manacle tied his ankle to the chintz chair, itself secured to the floor with, presumably, a sticking charm.

He knelt, inspecting the shackle. Could he break it? Tom willed his magic to concentrate, to focus on one link enough to melt it. It grew hot at his touch, but the heat diffused, and he hissed as the skin of his ankle blistered.

The door opened, and Tom jumped up, grabbing for the nearest object – a foe glass on Dumbledore’s desk, its convex surface reflecting his own face - and spun to face McGonagall and Pomfrey.

“Sit down,” the Transfiguration professor said, striding towards him and rounding Dumbledore’s desk. “And put that down.”

Tom did not sit and continued to wield the foe glass, considering who to throw it at first. He asked, “Are you going to kill me?”

“Don’t be so dramatic, Riddle. Sit down. Poppy, can you..?”

Pomfrey rummaged in her pockets, then placed two letters on the table – Tom recognised Dumbledore’s loopy handwriting from his old Transfiguration classes. She rolled up her sleeves and took the seat beside him as McGonagall retrieved a fork from a drawer.

“What’s this?” Tom asked, eying the fork.

He received a sharp eyebrow in response. “I said sit, Riddle, I don’t like repeating myself.”

“Where’s Dumbledore?”

The chair slammed into the back of his legs, and he flopped onto its soft, crimson cushions, nearly dropping the foe glass. McGonagall summoned it, the round edge giving Tom no chance of holding on, then Pomfrey refilled his hands with one of the letters.

Cheeks colouring - these witches wouldn’t overpower him like this if he had a wand - Tom glanced at it. Then, his insides froze. “I am not–”

“–Yes, you are,” McGonagall said, taking Dumbledore’s seat and rolling up her sleeves too.

“You can’t make me!”

“Either you take the Unbreakable Vow, Riddle, or you don’t, and you’ll never see Hogwarts again.”

“Where’s Umbridge?”

“Disposed.”

“I can contact her–”

“No, you can’t. Hand.” She held hers up expectantly for him to grasp.

Tom reread the letter. “I don’t–”

“Like I said, either you make the vow willingly and the option of returning to Hogwarts remains open to you, or you do not, in which case your situation will be much more unpleasant. As you have already experienced this morning, Poppy and I are more than capable of handling you.”

Tom glared.

“Please, make your choice quickly, we do not have much time.”

His heart thudded. Was there a way to undo an Unbreakable Vow? Probably not – it was in the name. McGonagall’s hand was still there, waiting. Another glance at the letter. A final glance at the steely glint in McGonagall’s eyes.

Regretfully – and somewhat curiously (vows were a fascinating bit of magic, and Tom had never taken one before) – he took her wrinkled hand.

Madame Pomfrey drew her wand and placed its tip to their clasped fingers.

McGonagall said, “Will you, Tom Riddle, keep secret the existence of the Order of the Phoenix?”

Against his better judgement, Tom said, “I will.”

A streak of gold gushed from the wand, looping around their linked hands.

“And will you keep secret the names of its members and the contents of their activities?”

“I will.”

A second streak of gold. It intertwined with the first, bathing the grey office in a warm glow.

“And will you keep secret the location, allegiance, and activities of Alastor Moody and Sirius Black while they remain under duress from the Ministry of Magic?”

Here, Tom frowned. The second name had been missing from Dumbledore’s script. Sirius Black. Wasn’t he the escaped convict who’d tried to murder Harry Potter? Lord Voldemort’s supposed right-hand man. He was one of Dumbledore’s? A Black?

But, he said, “I will.”

The final strand of light joined the others, and magic surged through his veins. Despite the situation, Tom almost smiled. He loved magic.

“Excellent,” said McGonagall, briskly dropping his hand and retrieving her wand. She tapped the fork. “Portus.”

Tom’s eyes widened. “That’s illegal.”

“So it is,” she said, “Phineas!”

Nothing happened. Her eye twitched.

“You must have missed me say that I do not like repeating myself!”

In one of the portraits on the wall behind the Transfiguration professor, a head lined with slick, black hair popped into frame. “You called?” the dour man asked, his painted, beady eyes swivelling to Tom and glittering in interest.

McGonagall kept her back to the ex-Headmaster, opening the other letter Madame Pomfrey had brought. “You know that I did. Please let them know Riddle will be along momentarily.”

The man - Phineas Black, Tom knew - harrumphed. Muttering about messenger boys, he sidled out of frame as McGonagall passed Tom the note.

Dumbledore’s handwriting again. It read, ‘The headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix are located at number 12 Grimmuld Place’. Barely had Tom registered Orion’s address, when the note burst into flame, turning to ashes in his hands.

“The fidelius charm?” Tom asked.

Sharply, McGonagall nodded and slid the fork across the desk. “Touch this.”

Tom did so. “What’s the Order of the Phoenix?” he asked, though he had an idea.

“Be quiet, Riddle.”

The Transfiguration professor had never exactly been one for idle chatter - especially with Tom - but this was particularly curt.

And where was Dumbledore?

...Had he died? Tom hoped so.

“Is Harry there?”

McGonagall glanced sharply at him; her lips pressed into a thin line. She said nothing, though, and the shackle around Tom’s ankle disappeared with a pop.

He had half a second to consider running for the door when there came a jerk in his naval and he was spinning, Madame Pomfrey and McGonagall’s severe expressions dissolving before his eyes.

It was the first time Tom had ever taken a portkey, though he’d read about them. Being friendly with Malfoys and ministry officials led to a lot of floo usage, and then at sixteen he’d learnt to apparate. Portkeys were for children and the cowards afraid of splinching – and long distance, he supposed, though nothing had ever given Tom cause to leave the country.

All this was to explain to himself why he landed in a heap on creaky, walnut floorboards, rather than gliding gracefully to his feet. He hastily clambered up to a barking laugh.

Mad-Eye Moody. The auror from Knockturn Alley. The auror Tom had gotten arrested. In Orion Black’s living room.

Ah.

Sirius Black.

They were in the house of a madman.

“Dumbledore’s explicitly told me not to curse you,” Mad-Eye growled, that electric blue eye boring into Tom’s head. “But I want you to know I’m thinking about it.”

There was a poker in the fireplace. Brushing himself off - Tom was still in his pyjamas, sweater, and cloak, and felt severely underdressed - he glanced at it, then back to Mad-Eye, making it very clear what he was thinking.

Mad-Eye jerked his wand and suddenly Tom was on the floor again, gasping, his eyes watering as he clutched his stomach.

“That’s for two-and-a-half months behind bars.”

Another sharp jab of pain.

“And that’s because I don’t like you.”

Tom wheezed, “You said no curses!”

“That was a hex,” said Mad-Eye. “You ought to know the different.”

It was a bleedin’ strong hex.

“Get up,” Mad-Eye barked, “And follow me.”

As he turned his back on Tom that magical eye rotated in its socket, keeping him in its sights. Probably, it wouldn’t leave him for as long as they kept him in this damn house.

...Had Dumbledore kidnapped him?

He trailed Mad-Eye into the entrance hall. Tom had visited Orion’s twice, and both times the grand, London manor had looked nothing like this. Almost all the exciting decor had vanished (except the severed house-elf heads), replaced by grubby walls, empty shelves, and cracked windows, dim and dingy in the struggling, morning light.

It didn’t exactly scream ‘light side headquarters.’

As Mad-Eye kicked open the door leading down to the kitchen, Tom felt something very strange: a hollow pit in his stomach, a tightening of his throat, an ache in his chest. It was horrible, yet it made Tom’s heart leap.

“Is Harry here?”

“Keep your voice down,” Mad-Eye snapped, flicking his wand and slamming the kitchen door closed behind them. “I’m not dealing with her today.”

Uncaring about whoever ‘her’ was, Tom eagerly chased him down the narrow steps, that pitted feeling growing stronger, to a long, low room, a worn, wooden table stretching its length. On a chair before a crackling fire on the far wall, nursing a butterbeer, was Harry.

An odd rush swept through Tom, driven perhaps by a morning of uncertainty: an urge to grab his horcrux. To do what exactly, he wasn’t sure, he just knew he wanted to touch him, to feel Harry’s skin beneath his fingertips, to see the dark flecks in those lovely, green eyes. To think, twenty minutes ago he’d believed Dumbledore was finally going to kill him, and now here he was. The two of them trapped together in Orion’s house.

Well, not just the two of them.

A figure rose from the chair beside Harry, so thin as to be skeletal, hair lank and face gaunt, lips bared into a smile over yellowed teeth.

“Hello, Riddle,” said Sirius Black, the madman, the convict, the drunk (if the two-thirds empty bottle of firewhiskey on the kitchen table was anything to go by), advancing. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

“And I you,” Tom replied as smoothly as he could. The uncomfortable hollowness vanished as he switched off the connection to Harry; as much as he enjoyed their special bond, it was getting a bit much.

“You murdered your father and grandparents in one go, then let your uncle take the fall,” Black said, prowling closer, sharp nails dragging along the table. By the firelight, Tom saw something of Orion in his glimmering, black eyes. Something of Phineas, too.

Tom stood his ground. “You betrayed Harry’s parents to Lord Voldemort.”

Curled in the chair, Harry’s shoulders twitched.

Black’s grin widened. “Do you think I’d be here if that were the case?”

“Dumbledore adores redemption.”

“Dumbledore’s already picked his little redeemer,” Black said, sneering.

“You killed a wizard named Peter Pettigrew and thirteen muggles.”

“Ah, a follower of the Daily Prophet. I’m surprised, given you know how many lies they print.”

“Like how Dumbledore and Grindelwald used to fuck?”

A spasm crossed Black’s once handsome, aristocratic face and Potter leant around his chair. He looked tired, exhausted, really, and again Tom felt that urge to grab him.

“Riddle, this is Sirius, my godfather.”

“Pleasure,” Tom said, smiling thinly at Black. “I assume this is your house I’ve been kidnapped to?”

“Shut up,” Moody barked from right behind his shoulder, and Tom managed not to jump, but it was a close thing. The auror with the peg leg could be awfully quiet when he wanted to be.

Smiling at the two men, Tom strolled past Black to the fire, taking the chair he had vacated. Harry watched him with hooded, tired eyes. Half a measure of firewhiskey sat in a glass on the mantelpiece and Tom claimed it, taking a tentative sip. It was the good stuff, the stuff his Slytherin purebloods had waxed poetic about.

“You’re welcome,” Black snarled, dropping into a chair at the table.

“So,” Tom said, “What’s going on?”

Mad-Eye took a long swig from his hip flask, dropping into the seat beside Black. “Fudge’s put a warrant out for Dumbledore’s arrest.”

Tom stared, a hysterical laugh bubbling in his throat. Finally, Fudge had done something useful.

“Why?”

Mad-Eye scratched at his dented nose and Potter twitched, but it was Black who answered. “They found one of ours somewhere they shouldn’t have been.”

So, on top of stealing Tom’s belongings, Dumbledore was poking around ministry business. Primed as they were by the papers the public would accept that as a good enough reason to arrest the old man, and Dumbledore, busy in his ‘fight’ against Lord Voldemort, had fled rather than entertain Fudge, cementing himself as guilty.

Leaning on the arm of the chair, Tom pressed a hand to his mouth to hide a grin. Harry definitely noticed.

Tom said, “Dumbledore’s plan was to kidnap us, then?”

“Harry’s not been kidnapped,” Black said sharply. “He’s my godson. He’s staying with me for the holidays.”

“It’s not the holidays for another three days. And besides, Harry’s having Christmas with the Weasleys.”

Tom realised the moment he said it that Harry had lied to him. Or had presented a half-truth, anyway. And he’d gotten away with it. But that didn’t matter because the instant he mentioned the Weasleys, the temperature of the narrow kitchen plummeted, and Tom recalled the bitter pang of Harry’s misery.

“Did someone die?” he asked, not trying all that hard to keep the amusement from his tone.

The ensuing silence answered his question.

“Who?”

“I don’t understand why he has to be here,” Harry said suddenly.

“That’s an excellent point, Harry,” Tom said. “Return me to Hogwarts and I’ll happily get out of your hair.”

Mad-Eye answered. “Don’t be stupid, boy. With Albus gone, do you think Hogwarts is safe?”

Tom opened his mouth, then closed it. Rather than admit being wrong, he said, “Nice that you care about my safety.”

Black said, “We don’t give a shit about your safety – by all means, go run in front of the Knight Bus. We don’t want Voldemort getting a hold of you.”

“The ministry–”

“Do you really think the ministry holds a candle to the power of Voldemort and his forces?” Mad-Eye snapped, lip twitching with contempt. “They told me you were arrogant, boy.”

“Arrogance implies exaggeration–”

“Shut the fuck up,” Black snarled. “And get out of my chair.”

The madman stood, lurching in a way that made Tom wonder how many firewhiskies he’d gotten through. Were these really the two men Albus Dumbledore entrusted his precious Harry Potter to?

Tom stayed seated. “Why’s the Order of the Phoenix messing around with the min-”

“We’re done here,” Mad-Eye said. “You’re in the second room off the third-floor landing. No detours.”

The blue eye quivered in place. It hadn’t strayed from Tom for an instant. Fascinating magic, that. He wanted to play with it.

“I just arrived.”

“And we’ve told you what Albus wanted you to know,” Mad-Eye said. “So get out. I understand you lack emotional intelligence so I’ll give you this for free: none of us like you.”

Tom knew for a fact Harry liked him, that Harry was addicted to him, but if Mad-Eye lacked the emotional intelligence to figure that out, Tom wouldn’t spell it out for him. The two men continued to stare at him with contempt, like two bulldogs chained to a fence, drool gathering in their snarling maws, and Tom decided there and then that he despised the pair of them.

Standing and downing the remaining fire whiskey in one - it burned, and his eyes nearly watered - Tom said, “Thank you kindly for your hospitality, Mr Black.” He dropped the glass onto the stone hearth, and it smashed, shards catching the firelight. Harry retracted his socked feet but didn’t jump. “I think I’ll head up and make myself comfortable. Perhaps I’ll see you for lunch.”

And, sparing one final glance at Harry, Tom left them to it.

He meandered upstairs slowly, taking great care to peer in every open door, to examine each tapestry, portrait, and artefact.

The Black family library was on the second floor, just beneath his new room. He and Orion had spent many an hour holed up in there rifling through those dusty tomes. Within those four walls one could find any curse, any dark ritual, any -

Dementors.

Tom stopped, staring at the closed door.

If anywhere had information on controlling dementors, it would be the Black family library.

When he tried it, the door didn’t budge. It was more than locked – he could feel wards, similar to those Dumbledore had used to trap Tom in his room at Hogwarts back at the start of term, back before he knew Harry. These wards differed slightly; he’d need to tamper with his previous solution, perhaps -

“I said no detours.”

This time, Tom jumped.

Mad-Eye stood atop the stairs, that electric blue eye fixed on him. Could it see through floors as well as invisibility?

“Yes,” said the old Auror. “So, watch your step.”

Glaring, Tom stomped upstairs. No matter. It seemed he’d be in this gloomy hellhole for a while: Mad-Eye would take his eye off him eventually.

Tom’s new bedroom was smaller than his Hogwarts one. So small that he doubted it was even a bedroom at all. A storage closet with a single bed and a chest of drawers, the latter shoved up beneath a grimy window, the former beside mould spotted walls. Poking around, he found robes in the drawers: once fine, now reeking of mildew. The preservation charms in this place must have worn off some time ago. Atop the chest of drawers lay a quill, ink, and a wizard children’s dot-to-dot book.

Tom threw it under the bed.

Instantly, there came a ripping noise, and torn paper fluttered onto the floorboards. Startled, Tom jumped onto the bed, snatching his ankles well away from the dark space beneath the bed frame. A housewarming gift and a roommate; wasn’t Dumbledore generous?

He waited cautiously for a few long moments, but the creature remained confined to its hiding spot and Tom wasn’t in the mood to lose any fingers investigating, so instead he lay on the bed, stared out of the filthy window, and thought.

What would interest Dumbledore at the ministry? The old man had long given up on getting Fudge onside - perhaps he was angling for Fudge’s job, using this ‘Order of the Phoenix’ to sneak into the ministry and plant incriminating evidence to smear the minister’s good name. But it was Rufus Scrimgeour who best stood to claim the crown and while the Head Auror had protested against Mad-Eye’s arrest, he was no Dumbledore lover. He didn’t believe Lord Voldemort had returned. He didn’t think Tom was a threat. Dumbledore’s ministry meddling couldn’t affect him…

Later, once the sun was visible above the trees in the square outside, Tom felt Harry approach the door - felt it in the muddy gloom settling in his chest. Had their connection really opened so quickly? Tom closed it again.

“You didn’t knock,” he said when Harry entered. He’d changed into jeans and an oversized Puddlemere United hoodie and held a cup of tea and a stale croissant, both of which he offered to Tom.

“Is that a problem?”

“It could be,” Tom said, taking and sipping the tea as Harry hovered awkwardly; the tea was too milky. “What if I was wanking?”

It was worth it to see that lovely flush shoot across Harry’s cheeks and meet at the bridge of his nose. His horcrux spluttered, “What?! You don’t… you don’t do that!”

“Of course I do,” Tom said, flashing Harry the demure smile that worked wonders on everyone else. “I am human, you know.”

“That’s debatable,” the boy huffed.

“Don’t you do it?”

The flush spread down Harry’s neck. “I’m not talking about this with you.”

“Who do you think about? Cho? She’s pretty.”

“No–”

“No? Interesting. Have you ever thought about me?”

“God, you’re such a self-absorbed prat–”

“I know you find me attractive, Harry.”

“I didn’t say - I meant girls - Girls find you attractive!”

“Boys too.”

“Well, I don’t know, some boys, maybe–”

“Quite a lot of boys. It’s not as uncommon as you think. Don’t be so muggle.”

“Don’t be a twit! Fine, some boys might, but not me!”

“And yet you keep seeking me out.”

“I’m not seeking you out, I was giving you breakfast! I can not if you’d rather.”

Lounging on the bed, Tom took a bite of his pastry, enjoying the way Harry’s eyes flicked to his lips, the flaky crumbs that lingered there. He wiped them free, and Harry followed his hand too, though there was an annoyed crease in his brow.

“Well, in that case, thank you for the breakfast, Harry, though I prefer less milk in my tea, and I like a dash of sugar. Is that all?”

The boy’s jaw flexed, and he sent a longing look over his shoulder, into the hallway. Then, with a huff, he kicked the door closed, shutting them in.

The room really was tiny, and there was nowhere to sit beside on the bed next to Tom, so naturally Potter leant against the opposite wall, arms folded. Tom could reach out a toe and kick him, if he wanted.

“I wouldn’t stand there,” Tom said.

“Why?”

The boy’s tone was far too indignant for how helpful Tom was being. “There’s a monster under the bed.”

“What?”

“Look,” Tom said, nodding at the scattered paper confetti. “It ate my colouring book.”

“Christ,” Harry said, “I hate having conversations with you.”

This, Tom knew to be a lie.

Harry knelt and peered under the bed.

“What are you doing?” Tom demanded, sitting up straighter as Harry stuck his arm into that dark gap. Potter losing a limb wouldn’t affect the integrity of his horcrux, but if Black or Mad-Eye weren’t quick enough with their healing spells the boy could bleed out. Plus, if he and Tom were (eventually) going to have sex, Tom rather preferred the idea of a Harry with two hands.

“Got it,” Harry panted, withdrawing a struggling, snarling, square of leather. “I wondered where this went.”

“Is that a book?”

“The Monster Book of Monsters,” Harry said, gripping the flapping pages tightly together as he stroked the spine with his other hand. The book fell limp. “Hagrid’s idea of a textbook.”

Tom wrinkled his nose. “Figures the half-giant would have bad taste.”

“Shut up,” Harry said, holding the book close to his chest, “He knows more about creatures than you ever will.”

Because he is one, Tom nearly said, but Harry looked to be approaching the limit of his annoyance, sensitive as he was to comments about his precious gamekeeper, so Tom held his tongue. Instead, he asked, “What is it you wanted?”

“So eager to be rid of me?”

“I had an early morning; I’d like a nap.”

“I think you’d rather talk to me,” said Harry, and his lips twitched, and Tom felt that uncomfortable spasm in his stomach. He didn’t like it.

“No,” he said, “I’d rather the nap.”

Harry didn’t immediately reply. He glanced down at the book (and Tom was suddenly glad that gamekeeper was gone, what had the half-giant ever done to deserve Harry’s affection like this?), then placed it on the chest of drawers. He leant against the wall again.

“I had a weird dream.”

“Perhaps you ought to try Trelawney.”

“God, shut up.”

Tom patted the scratchy sheets. “Come sit and tell me about your dream, Harry.”

Huffing, Harry remained standing. “I dreamt… it was foggy… It wasn’t clear… I…”

“You could show me,” Tom said. “If you don’t want to talk about it.”

Harry hesitated, chewing on his lip. Eventually, he said, “Fine. But go anywhere else in my head and I won’t talk to you for a week.”

Smiling, Tom patted the sheets again.

Harry said, “You can do it from there.”

“No. I need to gaze into your eyes.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Of course I do.”

A battle raged behind those round glasses. Two months of occlumency and Tom could still read the Gryffindor like a book, even with their connection closed.

Finally, Harry slumped onto the bed next to him, and Tom quickly leant forwards until their faces were only a few inches apart and took his horcrux’s jaw.

Flinching, Harry slapped his hand away. “I know you don’t need to do that!”

Tom drew back slightly, smirking, then plunged into Harry’s mind. The world shifted, cloudy and unfocused. Fragments of dreams, indistinct and hazy.

Black tiles, a flash of red hair, a locked door, blood, fangs.

Reeling, Tom retreated, a million thoughts battling for his attention. First, their connection had reopened. It was overwhelming. Harry felt so much. Sensations unfamiliar: the deep sadness he’d experienced in the kitchen, something else, something bitter, and others Tom knew: confusion, anticipation, excitement. Second, the blood. Third, the corridor. Fourth, the snake.

“You know something!” Harry exclaimed.

Ah yes, the two-way connection. Tom snapped it shut. “I–”

“Don’t lie,” Harry said, clutching at his arm, and Tom was thinking so fast he couldn’t savour the touch. “I felt it! What do you know?”

“The door,” he conceded, selecting the least valuable information to give up.

“Where is it? I’ve been dreaming of that corridor for months. It’s in the ministry, isn’t it? That’s where they found her.”

“Found who?”

Harry sat back, releasing his arm. Tom missed the warmth. “Molly Weasley.”

“I don’t know who that is.”

Those green eyes were guarded now, careful. “Ron’s mum.”

“She’s dead?”

Slowly, Harry nodded.

“It’s outside the Department of Mysteries,” Tom said, because he didn’t like dealing with sadness, and Harry suddenly looked on the verge of tears. The boy liked purpose; it was when he was at his most entertaining. Tom could give him purpose. “They took me there several times at the end of last summer.”

“Oh!” Harry said, eyes widening. “On the bottom floor? I had my trial there!”

“Courtroom thirteen.”

“Yes – how did you know that?”

“I read, Harry, you should try it. The dream was hazy. Were you practising occlumency?”

“I tried to clear my mind before I slept.”

Tom nodded. “The connection you have to us, it’s like a pipe. Occlumency squeezes it, restricting the flow of emotions and memories; if you do it well enough, it shuts off everything. Like I do for us.”

Harry rolled his eyes.

Continuing, Tom said, “The stronger thoughts are like a flood, some drips still squeeze through.”

“And if it’s strong enough it could break through a closed connection? Like when ours broke just now?”

“I think so,” Tom said. “Time erodes it too, and proximity, I believe.” Yet another reason Tom ought to never end up in the same room as Lord Voldemort.

“It didn’t wake me up,” Harry blurted out, like a confession. “Not properly. I remember dreaming it, but it felt like a nightmare. I get those sometimes. I didn’t think anything of it until McGonagall woke us up and told us... What if…” His throat bobbed. “If I hadn’t learnt...”

“Don’t do that,” Tom said, “It’s not helpful.”

“You could teach me legilimency. I could learn to control looking into his mind.”

“I don’t even look into Lord Voldemort’s mind.”

“But he doesn’t know I have access!”

“I’m not teaching you.”

“Why not? You spent ages trying to talk me into occlumency. Why can’t I learn legilimency?”

“I didn’t spend ages. It hardly took any time at all. One detention, I believe. I had to put more effort into getting a girl to kiss me.”

“Yeah, well, that’s because you’re a git.”

“She didn’t know that.”

“She–” With effort, Harry stopped himself. “Whatever. The dream… It wasn’t from Voldemort’s perspective.” He glanced down at his hands, smooth and tanned. “There was a snake.”

Yes… this. The thing that had made Tom’s heart leap, that had made him excited enough to accidentally reopen his and Harry’s connection.

Harry continued: “But it must’ve been him, somehow. It’s always been his mind before. When Voldemort killed… I saw…” He swallowed. “Is he an animagus?”

Politely, Tom shrugged.

Harry’s eyes shone. “I don’t think so. It doesn’t seem right, I don’t think he’d - you’d - want to turn into an animal. Besides, I think the snake was Nagini.”

Hoping Harry would continue (because Tom had no idea who Nagini was) he hummed in agreement. Annoyingly, the boy just looked at Tom expectantly.

“What do you want me to say?” Tom asked.

“Is it possession? Is he possessing the snake like he possessed Quirrell?”

“Perhaps,” Tom said.

Frankly, he didn’t know the ins-and-outs of what happened with Quirrell, the old Defence professor. The connection he’d felt in Harry’s dream between Lord Voldemort and the snake - Nagini - had felt intimate. Like when he entered Harry’s mind.

Like a horcrux.

Had Lord Voldemort made another living horcrux? Surely then he must know what to do with Harry. He wouldn’t have put a horcrux in a living creature with no way to remove it. Immortality was forever. Snakes were not.

Harry continued, “But Voldemort didn’t have a body then. It was the same when you - he – the diary, whatever - possessed Ginny. So, he can still possess creatures and people now? Can you do that? The other week you said you thought you could possess me, but I thought you meant using the connection.”

“Keep guessing, Harry. I’m not going to tell you.”

“Why not?” Harry said, leaning closer of his own volition. “Voldemort would only ever let you work for him, and you’re not going to do that. Don’t you want him gone too?”

A languid smile stretched Tom’s lips. “Are you trying to recruit me to your precious Order?”

“No,” Harry snapped, defensive, his bottom lip jutting out. “I’m not even in the Order.”

And, suddenly, everything clicked. Things Tom had known, all slotting into place.

Dumbledore, scared of the horcrux connection, refusing to look Potter in the eye. Telling him nothing, keeping him away from their little resistance meetings, never explaining why, letting Voldemort’s thoughts and emotions torment him, the papers slander him. Was it any surprise Harry had come running to Tom, scouring for scraps of information, trying to feel useful. And Dumbledore hadn’t stopped him. Possibly, Harry wasn’t even aware the Headmaster knew of their meetings. Harry was a lone agent with a history of abuse, primed to distrust all sides. He was Tom’s for the taking. His horcrux. Harry was his.

His heartbeat quickened, and he flexed his hands to stop them shaking.

“Why was the Weasley woman outside the Department of Mysteries?” Tom asked. Harry might not be book smart, but he was sharp. If he wanted to feel useful, then Tom would let him take the reins.

Beside him, Harry wetted his lips. “Voldemort’s been obsessing about that locked door since… August, at least. There’s something in the Department of Mysteries he wants. He… Sirius said…” Harry trailed off.

Tom took his wrist, slipping his fingers beneath the sleeve of the Quidditch hoodie, feeling Harry’s pulse flutter. “Tell me.”

Harry didn’t pull his hand away, but he did stiffen. “I’m not an idiot, Riddle. I can’t just… trust you.”

“Why not? It’s as you said: we want the same thing.”

“Yes, but you’re hardly honest with me.”

“And Dumbledore is?”

Harry frowned again, Tom still holding his wrist.

Tom said, “He’s not even invited you into his Order, Harry. You. Do you ever wonder how much they discuss you in their little meetings? Maybe your connection to me isn’t the secret you think it is.”

“I know what you’re doing,” Harry whispered.

“That doesn’t mean it’s not true.”

“I know.”

They were sat very close, and Harry was staring into Tom’s eyes as if they held the secrets of his universe. Which, Tom supposed, they did.

(He would not be teaching Harry legilimency. He suspected the boy might be a natural; he’d inherited enough of Tom’s other gifts).

Eventually, Harry asked, “Have you been inside the Department of Mysteries?” When Tom nodded, he said, “Tell me what’s there. Then, I’ll share what I know.”

Tom raised an eyebrow. He still had a hand under Harry’s sleeve, but it was like Harry hadn’t even realised, caught up in the conversation. Funny, because Harry hated physical touch.

Tom said, “You want me to trust you first.”

“Yes.”

“I suppose you think that’s fair.”

“I’m much more likely to keep my end of the bargain.”

“Alright,” Tom said slowly. “But you’ll need to warm my tea up and silence the door.”

Miraculously, (after a bit of convincing that in a wizarding household, one could perform any magic they wished without activating the trace) Harry followed Tom’s orders without complaint. Unfortunately, it broke their physical contact. As Harry silenced the door, adding a detection charm to the stairs, Tom said, “This jumper looks nice on you.”

The look Harry gave him brimmed with suspicion. “Thanks,” he said carefully.

“It’s too big. Was it a gift?”

“Er, kind of. From Oliver.”

Oliver. Tom didn’t think he knew any Olivers at Hogwarts – in the upper years, anyway. “Who’s Oliver?”

“My old Quidditch captain,” Harry said, finishing up. The mattress dipped as he retook his seat, so close that their shoulders almost brushed. “He knew I didn’t have that many muggle-style clothes that fit.”

“This doesn’t fit.”

“I think I was meant to grow into it. At least it’s not Dudley’s.”

“Your cousin?”

Harry nodded.

“Do Puddlemere United have enough muggleborn fans to warrant hoodies?”

“Oh, shut up,” Harry said. “You were telling me about the Department of Mysteries.”

And for a while, Tom did. Three times he’d visited, and all of them to either the time room, or the offices, but he knew about the circular entrance hall with the spinning doors and could give educated guesses about some other aspects of the Unspeakables’ research: death, love, souls, space, prophecy.

He must’ve talked enough because afterwards, Harry said, “He’s looking for a weapon. That’s what the Order think. Something he didn’t have last time.”

Thoughtfully, Tom nodded. A weapon. What could that be? A wand was the only weapon he needed.

He said, “So it’s in the Department of Mysteries, and the Order are guarding it. We should research: any ministry break-ins over the past four months. Any missing officials. Any papers the department has published recently that might give us a clue what they’re working on.”

“That sounds like a lot of reading,” Harry said doubtfully.

Tom smirked. “You’ll-”

The door burst open. Harry scrambled to his feet so fast he nearly tumbled into Black, looming in the doorway. The convict looked more put together than earlier. He’d showered and shaved, and his black robes were fresh, the stench of alcohol diminished. He looked more like Orion.

“Harry,” he said, hooded eyes jumping to Tom and back. “What are you doing?”

“I just - I - I brought Riddle breakfast.”

“It’s lunch time.”

“Er, yeah, I… forgot earlier.”

Black huffed, like he thought Harry ought to have forgotten altogether. Then, he turned those dark eyes on Tom and smiled, showing off his yellowed teeth. “Have you heard?”

“That the Weasley woman died?”

Harry flinched, but Black’s gaze was unwavering.

“No,” Black said. “It was in the morning paper. There’s going to be an election.”

Ah.

Tom shrugged. “I don’t care. Scrimgeour doesn’t believe in Lord Voldemort’s return either; he’d keep Umbridge at Hogwarts.”

“Perhaps,” Black said, his yellowed smile widening, “But it wasn’t called by Scrimgeour.”

Slowly, Tom took a breath. “Who then?”

“Amelia Bones.”

“Oh, I know her,” said Harry. “She’s the Head of Magical Law Enforcement, right?”

Black nodded.

“She’s fair.”

“She won’t win,” said Tom. “Not if Scrimgeour throws his name in.”

“Well,” said Black, “She has five months to convince the electorate otherwise. She’s off to a good start: she has the endorsement of Thorfinn Rowle.”

Harry’s head snapped up. “He’s a Death Eater.”

“Yes,” said Black.

“So, she’s imperiused,” Tom said.

“It’s possible.”

Harry said (dramatically, though Tom supposed the situation called for it): “Voldemort’s trying to take over the Ministry.”

Silence followed. Black was watching Tom closely. He’d come up here to gloat, Tom realised. After an alcohol induced nap, the escaped convict had read the front page of the morning paper, then skipped up here to gloat.

“She won’t win,” Tom repeated, “Scrimgeour will.”

“We’d better hope,” said Black.

Of course, Tom would do more than hope. He’d spent autumn term getting Hogwarts to love him, why not spend spring winning over the public to ensure Scrimgeour’s victory? If this was Lord Voldemort’s revenge - ripping away the only allies Tom had - he wouldn’t take it lying down.

“Lunch, Harry?” Black asked. “No need to waste the day up here.”

“R-right,” said Harry.

A Scrimgeour win would be best for Harry too. Perhaps it was time to revise the Boy-Who-Lived’s reputation. Tom wasn’t usually one to share the spotlight, but… perhaps with Harry… doing interviews together, photographs, letting the tabloids gossip… Perhaps it would be fun to be on the same side.

Black didn’t give Harry the chance to say goodbye, tugging him out of the room by his elbow and slamming the door closed behind them. Tom was alone again, and with the Monster Book of Monsters (not a book he planned on reading - as if that oaf knew anything of value) lying motionless on the chest of drawers, he didn’t even have that for company.

But Harry wanted to work together: him and Tom against Lord Voldemort. And against Dumbledore, once Tom convinced of the old fool’s manipulative, meddling nature.

Him and Tom against the world.

Until Tom killed him, of course.

*****

Black must’ve given Harry a talking to, because in the days that followed, drawing his horcrux into another conversation proved difficult. Not only was Harry avoiding him, but Tom was under constant watch: a point Mad-Eye made in no uncertain terms. That electric blue eye never strayed. No doubt the creep even watched him in the bathroom, lest Tom scheme in the shower. And, when Mad-Eye slept, Black was there to trail him like a dour guard dog, ready to order Tom to his room at the drop of a hat.

He still saw Harry around, of course, the house wasn’t that big, but he didn’t display any of his usual cravings for Tom’s attention. The death of the Weasley woman didn’t help. The boy was like Tom’s personal black cloud, and he had to expend great effort to keep the connection closed lest Harry’s emotions lure him into jumping out of a window just to make them stop.

“I need to borrow some clothes,” Tom said the morning after his arrival, having found Harry lounging on the sofa in the living room, near a dusty, grand piano. His nose was buried in a Quidditch book. “I can’t wear the ones in my room.”

Harry glanced over the book and doubtfully looked him up and down. “My clothes won’t fit you.”

“The oversized ones will.”

“Ask Sirius if there’s anything else around,” he said, looking back down at his book in a clear dismissal. Then, the aforementioned criminal burst in and dragged Tom away. The robes and shirts Black gave him were no less musty than the others.

The library was off limits. Barely had Tom had lingered by the locked door before Black appeared.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m bored,” Tom said. “I want to read.”

“Do your homework.”

“I don’t have my textbooks.”

“Then go sit on your bed and stare at the wall,” Black said. “I don’t care.”

He marched Tom to his room, then stormed off up to the fourth, final floor. The evening before, Tom had investigated the strange, fetid smells up there and discovered a full-grown hippogriff, tied up in one of the bedrooms. He almost sprained his ankle, backtracking so fast.

Tom did not stay in his room, wandering down to the first floor to stare at Harry’s closed, bedroom door. Thinking Black or Mad-Eye might ‘accidentally’ break his arm the next time they dragged him out of a room Harry occupied, Tom continued down to the front hall, trying to knock over the stuffed house elf heads adorning the stairs as he went.

(Permanent sticking charm. They didn’t budge).

In the hall, a large, velvet red curtain hung over one wall. Curious, Tom tugged at it. It took much more effort than expected to pull the heavy drapes across their brass rail, but, huffing, he managed it, revealing the portrait of a severe, morose woman in black, Victorian-style robes. She was asleep.

“Walburga!” Tom exclaimed, delighted.

The woman’s eyes flew open, and she opened her mouth, inhaling sharply as if on the verge of a scream. Then, she froze.

“You look old,” Tom told her.

“Tom,” she said, hastily drawing the dazed edges of herself together. Gobsmacked wasn’t a look that suited witches like Walburga Black.

“I heard you died,” Tom said. “Young too, that’s a shame. I don’t much like your son.”

“Neither do I,” she snapped. “The filth he’s tracked into my home – you wouldn’t believe! Mudbloods, blood traitors, dogs, criminals – and not the useful sort. He’s dragging our noble name through the muck, spoiling generations of proper wizarding etiquette. No respect for tradition!”

“Quite,” Tom agreed. How long since he’d heard opinions like these?

“What are you doing here?” she asked sharply. “Come to clear them out?”

“Precisely,” Tom said, leaning on the wall beside her. He launched into a story – not the truth, it was more fun to make something up, and it wasn’t like he cared if a portrait caught him out in a lie. In the midst of describing his grand plan to infiltrate the Order by befriending Harry Potter, then steadily gutting it from the inside out until only Dumbledore remained, sobbing in the basement, Tonks strolled in through the front door.

She froze, staring at the two of them.

“YOU-” Walburga begun to shriek. Tom raised a conspiratorial eyebrow at her, and she huffed.

“What’s this?” Tonks asked.

“Walburga and I attended school together,” Tom said smoothly, smirking at the portrait.

For a second, Tonks continued to stare. Then, she shook her head. “No. Whatever. Fine. Stop her screaming at us and I don’t care. I just don’t care.”

Shaking her head again, she left, heading for the kitchen.

“Nice to see you, too,” Tom called after her.

Three days in, the Order held a party. Well, a ‘wake’, but any big get together was a party in Tom’s books. Lots of people were invited, and none of them liked him. He’d been banished to his bedroom, though not locked in due to his excellent persuasive skills (appealing to Harry’s conscience and dislike of locked, cramped spaces, and letting him do the legwork with Black and Mad-Eye). Once voices wafted up the stairs, Tom slipped quietly down to the second floor.

Thanks to Dumbledore, Tom was armed with a healthy amount of experience wandlessly cracking wards. He knelt by the library door and started on the diagnostic runes. Within a few minutes he’d figured out the ward pattern – a good job because Mad-Eye wasn’t the type to let a party distract him from duty.

Tom wouldn’t break in today; he needed to concoct a proper distraction first. And, perhaps, he could use Harry’s help.

Continuing on to the bathroom (so his detour wouldn’t look too suspicious if Mad-Eye was watching), Tom then paused atop the stairs. On the landing below, the door to Harry’s bedroom stood ajar.

The voices were distant enough to be from the kitchen. Orion’s family had never used that room - it was for house elves and staff - but the Order loved it. They held all their little meetings there.

Decision made, Tom passed quickly down the stairs and slipped into Harry’s bedroom. Parchment, sweet wrappers, and clothes littered the floor, exactly as messily chaotic as the boy himself. Tom wanted to take his time. He wanted to trail his fingers over each possession, to examine, to caress, to carefully select trinkets to claim, but alas, Mad-Eye wouldn’t allow him to snoop for long.

Harry’s Puddlemere United hoodie was thrown over an unmade bed and Tom grabbed it. He paused, grabbed the silvery heap of the invisibility cloak too, then fled to the upstairs bathroom. He locked the door and waited. The auror’s all-seeing eye might be on him always, but surely there was a limit to how much information that old, knocked-about brain could process.

A moment later, there came a knock. Dammit.

Tom pulled his robe off, dumping it on the floor over the hoodie and cloak.

“You’re not as clever as you think you are,” Mad-Eye called through the door.

“Are you going to watch me shower?” Tom asked, removing his shirt.

“Give it back, Riddle.”

Snatching up the invisibility cloak, Tom opened the door. “I’m underage, you know.”

“No, you’re not,” said Mad-Eye. A black hat perched atop his black robes. He snatched the cloak. “It sees through this, you know.”

“Lovely,” Tom said. “Go away. I want to wank in peace.”

The grizzled face didn’t flinch. Apparently he wasn’t as easy to shock as Harry.

“Perhaps you should’ve thought about your peace before you murdered five people.”

“You can’t state that like it’s a fact. You don’t know.”

“Like our good, old friends at the ministry, I don’t give a toss about evidence, Riddle.”

“I thought you were striving to be better than them?”

Moody growled like a mad dog. “I’m not standing here taking shit from you when I’ve a friend to mourn. Behave. Life here can get far more unpleasant.” And he slammed the door in Tom’s face.

The peg leg clanged down the stairs, and Tom waited for it to retreat to the lower floor before pulling Harry’s hoodie over his head. It fit nicely. Whoever Oliver was, he must’ve been Tom’s size. Maybe Harry had a type.

He buried his face into the neck and breathed. Soft against his skin, the fabric smelt of musky deodorant and laundry powder, undercut by something warm and smoky. Harry.

Tom pulled his boxers off and wrapped a hand tightly around himself, inhaling Harry’s scent. They were on the bed in Tom’s room again and he gripped Harry’s wrist. How long before his defiant, spirited horcrux would let Tom push him down onto the bed? Let Tom straddle him, press his lips to the hollow of his throat. Let him bite and lick, provide pain and pleasure as he ground against him.

Harry would wind a hand into Tom’s hair, fingers dancing over his skull, clutching, other hand on Tom’s arse as he fought for more friction, whimpering pitifully in Tom’s ear.

And Tom would be merciful. He could be, when it suited him. And Harry moaning in his bed suited him nicely, coming undone by Tom’s silver tongue and deft fingers, begging in parseltongue for more–

After he finished, he showered, pulling the hoodie and his pyjama bottoms back on afterwards, running a razor over his jaw and towelling his wavy hair dry. It was hard to style properly without a wand, but Harry seemed to prefer it tousled anyway.

He thought Tom didn’t notice his stolen glances.

The party – wake, whatever – went on for hours. Long past Black’s scornful house elf delivering a stale loaf of bread and lump of cheese, muttering about blood traitors and mudbloods. If Potter was all for equality, why hadn’t he cursed Kreacher like he’d cursed Tom when he’d used that word? Even his Harry wasn’t immune to the sin of hypocrisy.

Tom sat on the steps between the first and second floors, finishing off his Christmas homework (even without his textbooks) as the noises from the kitchen ebbed and flowed. Eventually, they swelled, the kitchen door opening, and Tom padded down to the first-floor landing to watch the group of morose, black-clad witches and wizards spill into the entrance hall.

He recognised the four Weasleys from school, plus another three: a father and two brothers, he thought. Grimmuld Place was as dim as ever, rendering faces difficult to pin-point; a sea of black hats and swirling robes, Tom leaning on the banister, presiding over them all. Then, he saw Dumbledore, one of the tallest amongst them, expression downcast.

And Dumbledore saw him.

“Hello, Tom,” the decrepit headmaster said, voice carrying over the crowd. If he woke Walburga, she didn’t shout. “Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

A hush spiralled outward, faces, pale and sad, silently upturning. To him.

Tom smiled, trailing his fingers along the railing. “You kidnapped me.”

“I thought you might appreciate it.”

Appreciate it? Well, he appreciated having Harry so close, but he doubted that was what the old man meant.

“You’re free to leave when you wish,” Dumbledore said, waving a wrinkled hand. “The front door is available.”

Liar.

...Right?

“You’re betting an awful lot that I’m not in league with Lord Voldemort.”

A shiver rushed through the crowd, and Tom smirked.

Dumbledore, however, remained unfazed. “For any who know you as I do, it is not a bet at all.”

It was almost exactly what Harry had said and irritatingly true.

“You’re so certain we won’t get rid of you first, old man, then fight it out amongst ourselves?”

“That is not a fight you would win, Tom. And besides,” Dumbledore’s blue eyes twinkled across the hall. Did he use magic to accomplish that? “It would require teamwork.”

Tom scoffed. “You’re already at each other’s throats. I simply need to sit back and ensure the winner emerges wounded.”

“Lone wolves may survive, but they don’t win wars. Even Voldemort has allies.”

“What makes you think I’m alone?” Tom asked, eyes flitting to Harry. Even in a crowded room he was easy to find, as if something drew them together. He stood with those stupid friends of his, scowling.

“Cornelius won’t be of much help when he leaves office.”

“The election isn’t until May,” Tom said. “Besides, Scrimgeour will support me.”

There was a murmur; Dumbledore raised an eyebrow, smiling.

Tom continued:

“I know you want my help, Dumbledore. You’re hoping I’ll spill Lord Voldemort’s secrets. But the problem is, I just don’t like you.” He prowled towards the stairs, basking in the Order’s silent stares. “Even if it’s worse for me, perhaps I would side with Lord Voldemort just to see you dead.”

Pausing, he surveyed them. Closer, he recognised more of them: McGonagall, Pomfrey, Flitwick; the aurors: Tonks and Kingsley; that werewolf from Knockturn Alley. Others he didn’t know. All watchful and wary.

“I trust your sense of self-preservation more than I trust your hatred,” Dumbledore said.

“You claim to know me very well,” said Tom, taking another careful step. “I wonder if your followers can say the same about you.”

“These are not my followers, Tom. These are my friends.”

Tom waved a hand. “It surprised me to know that your relationship with Grindelwald was unheard of. ‘For the greater good’ - wasn’t that your slogan? The incredible Albus Dumbledore: slayer of muggles. Did you tell your friends about that?”

By Granger stood a couple: the woman with big, bushy hair, the man with a wide nose and thin chin. They looked like her. Tom smiled at them.

“I was once a very foolish young man,” Dumbledore said quietly.

“Is that your play then?” Tom asked, glancing back to Dumbledore. “You see me as a chance to correct the wrongs you made with Gellert?”

Dumbledore sighed. “I erred with you too, Tom. I treated you with suspicion when I should’ve treated you as a child.”

“And then, perhaps, you could’ve fixed me,” Tom said, trying not to let his lip curl, but unable to help himself. “The hero Albus Dumbledore, saves the day again.”

That had to strike a chord, though Dumbledore only eyed him calmy. “Do you remember the first lesson I taught you, Tom?”

“Matchsticks and needles.”

“Not quite,” Dumbledore said, as if Tom were a struggling student in keen need of patronising. “Think carefully.”

Tom stared at him, face blank. Not because he didn’t remember the incident to which Dumbledore referred, but because he was imagining jumping over the banister and wrapping his hands around the old bastard’s throat until he spluttered and chocked.

“You threatened to burn all my worldly possessions,” Tom said.

“I warned you thieving would not be tolerated at Hogwarts.” There was a pointed look at his jumper. Harry’s jumper.

“Oh, this? I borrowed it.”

“No, you didn’t!” Harry snarled, delightfully angry. Anger always dissolved his avoidance of attention.

“Are you sure? I could’ve sworn you said -”

“Give it back, Tom,” said Dumbledore.

“Fine.” He flounced down the second half of the stairs and strode towards Harry, parting the sea of Order members like that supposed disciple of God – a wizard playing with muggles. “Have your stupid boyfriend’s jumper back.”

“He was not my boyfriend!” Harry said, sounding more than a little panicked.

Tom pulled the hoodie over his head, making no effort to prevent his top hitching at the waist, picturing the flick of Harry’s eyes to his exposed skin. “Here you go,” he said, balling it up and shoving it to Harry’s stomach. Then, he leant in. “Did you finish your Potions’ essay?”

“What?” Harry asked, jerking back.

“Your Potions essay,” Tom repeated. “I can help you tomorrow, if you’d like.”

“What the fuck are you on about?”

“I’m only saying. Imagine Snape’s face when he has to give you an O–”

Something hit him hard in the shoulder, and he stumbled back. It was Weasley – Harry’s friend – the boy’s freckled face as red as his hair. The muggle violence wasn’t as cute when it wasn’t from Harry.

“Fuck off!” Ron growled, like a yappy, little terrier. No one told him off for his language. 

“Care to share, Harry?” Dumbledore asked politely as Mad-Eye placed a hand on Weasley’s arm, holding him back.

“Er,” Harry said, then comprehension dawned. Parseltongue. “Oh, uh, nothing. Homework.”

Sweet, stupid boy. Potter realised how ridiculous that sounded the second the words left his mouth. Rather obviously, Tom winked at him and the boy stammered over himself, insisting it was the truth. That only made the Order members, even Potter’s silly friends, more suspicious.

But Dumbledore smiled. “That sounds like Tom.”

“Schoolwork is very important to me,” Tom said.

“Even among enemies, one can find common ground,” said Dumbledore. “Ah, before you head upstairs, Tom, I have someone to introduce you too – though I believe you might’ve crossed paths before.”

“Who?” said Tom, keeping his expression steely despite the tremour of trepidation he felt at how brightly Dumbledore’s eyes sparkled.

“This is Rufus, a new friend of mine. In fact, one might even say that our friendship is thanks to you.”

And he took a swishing sidestep to reveal a man with wiry, blond hair and ministry-standard robes.

Unlike Dumbledore, Rufus Scrimgeour, the future Minister of Magic, was not smiling.

Chapter Text

To put it lightly, Riddle wasn’t pleased. His temper tantrum (plunging the hall into darkness, threatening to murder Dumbledore, then storming off upstairs when Dumbledore cheerily restored light) ripped open their connection and gave Harry a blooming headache. So blinding was it that Harry barely managed to bid his friends farewell, the Weasley’s faces long and gloomy, before he desperately retreated to the empty, messy kitchen to find the cold compress he’d used last summer.

Leaning against the boiler door, he pressed it to his forehead. How unfair that Riddle could close their connection whenever Harry felt too sad, or too happy, or whatever other emotion Riddle didn’t want to deal with, while he stuck Harry with this.

And the twat had stolen his jumper! Harry clutched it to his chest. He didn’t know how long Riddle had worn it for, but it must’ve been at least a few hours because he thought it smelt different – like soap and something sharp, like –

“Hello again, Harry.”

Harry nearly dropped the hoodie, very aware that Dumbledore had just found him pressed into the corner of the kitchen, inhaling the jumper Riddle had been wearing not fifteen minutes ago.

“Hello, sir,” Harry said, quickly throwing it over the back of a chair. “I thought you’d left.”

“And leave the washing-up to the hosts?” Dumbledore said. “I think not.”

“Er, right,” said Harry as the headmaster – ex-headmaster? – proceeded to withdraw a pair of flowery washing up gloves from an inside pocket of his robes, pull them on with a snap, and fill a washing-up bowl with soapy liquid.

“Aren’t you going to use magic?” Harry asked.

Dumbledore smiled, tucking his long beard over his shoulder. “I happen to find chores soothing. Nothing is quite so beneficial for a clever mind than idle work.”

“Sure,” said Harry, who’d done enough washing-up for the Dursleys to put him off for life. Still, he found it awkward to stand there and do nothing, and it would be even more awkward to leave, so he began gathering the used plates and glasses and stacking them on the counter beside the sink. They worked silently, Harry mulling over a million things he wanted to say, but finding no words to say them.

Only once he’d moved on to drying, using the red spotted tea towel that had once been a favourite of Mrs Weasley’s, did Dumbledore say: “I do not wish Tom Riddle to be a burden to you, Harry. Should you need space over the holidays, you need only say the word.”

Harry hadn’t expected that, and it stoked the spark within him, inflamed by Riddle’s mood. “I can handle him,” he said.

Did Dumbledore think he couldn’t?

“I know,” said Dumbledore, and it sounded patronising. After another pause, in which Dumbledore paid careful attention to scrubbing a crystal glass, he said, “The two of you seem to be getting along.”

Harry’s face heated. “I swear I didn’t let him borrow the jumper–”

“That is not what I meant,” said Dumbledore. “Though I wouldn’t have minded even if you had. I refer only to your admirable capacity to see good in others, Harry. I confess that I struggle to separate the man from the boy – if indeed the two are truly separate. Perhaps it is because I have now known Lord Voldemort for far longer than I ever knew Tom Riddle. I know so many who have suffered by his hand.”

“So do I,” Harry said.

“Yes. And yet you treat Tom with kindness and empathy.”

“I dunno about kindness,” Harry muttered.

Dumbledore smiled down at the suds. “You saved his life.”

“I couldn’t let him die.”

“Precisely,” Dumbledore said.

After they finished, Dumbledore spelling the gloves dry and tucking them back into his pocket, Harry worked up the nerve to ask, “Are you really not coming back to Hogwarts in January?”

“Not in the usual sense,” Dumbledore said. “Though I’m sure if any well-intentioned students wish to reach me, I shall be available.”

“Will... Will I be able to go back?”

“Yes, Harry, if that is what you desire. Although Hogwarts may have fallen into Dolores’s grasp, it remains out of Voldemort’s.”

“So, why bring Riddle here then?”

“Because,” Dumbledore said, adjusting his pointed, black hat, “I am trying to learn from you.”

Harry wasn’t quite sure what to make of that.

“Sirius thinks I shouldn’t talk to him.”

“And what do you think, Harry?”

“He knows things,” Harry said quickly, his usual excuse. The real reason Dumbledore wanted them to spend time together. Riddle did know things. That was why Harry couldn’t stay away from him... wasn’t it?

“I’m sure he does,” Dumbledore said softly.

“I saw something,” Harry said suddenly. “From Voldemort’s mind – last month, I mean, during Quidditch practise. I saw a lake, in a cave – I think it was somewhere Riddle had told me about, somewhere he visited as a child – and in the vision Pettigrew was there, and there was this bowl of liquid, but something was missing. Something else should’ve been in the bowl. Voldemort was angry about it. He thought Riddle had stolen it.”

“Do you think he did?” Dumbledore asked.

“No,” Harry said. “I don’t think so.”

Dumbledore nodded, thoughtful.

“Did you steal it, sir?” Harry asked.

The old man frowned, his puffy, white eyebrows drawing together as he plucked up a purple umbrella from the corner of the room. “No, Harry. I did not.”

*****

In some horrible way, it was good Harry ended up spending Christmas without the Weasleys. He had oceans of homework to wade through. No existential threat from Dark Lords or corrupt governments could quell the Hogwarts’ professors thirst to make OWL students suffer. So, a handful of sleeps before Christmas, Harry sat at the kitchen table, dutifully scribbling and trying to ignore the rustling coming from the bedraggled tinsel Sirius had found in the attic.

“Good morning, Harry,” Riddle said as he strode into the kitchen, looking far too put together for someone who owned only two sets of pyjamas and a handful of mouldy robes.

Annoyed, Harry rubbed at his forehead – though more out of habit than pain. “Decided to stop sulking?”

“I wasn’t sulking,” said Riddle, “I was thinking.”

“And pacing,” Harry grumbled. The floors weren’t that thick.

Ignoring him, Riddle asked, “Tea, coffee?”

“Coffee.”

The older boy filled the iron kettle with water and hung it over the fire. “You feel awful.”

“It’s called grief,” Harry said as Riddle closed their connection: the buoyancy from the teenage dark lord’s light, callous emotions snapped, and the currents surged, tugging Harry under.

“It’s not very pleasant.”

“No.”

Riddle leant against the stone wall, arms crossed and watching him. Quill scratched parchment as the kettle boiled. “How do you take it?” he asked a moment later.

“Sorry?”

“Your coffee,” Riddle clarified, smirking.

“Oh, er, so much milk and sugar I can forget there’s coffee at all.”

Riddle rolled his eyes. “Naturally.”

A moment later, he placed the mugs on the table and took the chair opposite Harry, tucking his socked feet up and pulling a book from his pocket.

“Hey!” Harry said. “That’s mine!”

“This?” Riddle asked, holding up Quidditch Through the Ages. “It is? Oh, I just found it lying around.”

“You don’t even like Quidditch!”

“It’s not my fault there’s nothing to do here.”

“There’s an entire library! And a piano! And a hippogriff! Give it back!”

Shrugging, Riddle tossed the book onto the table, giving up far too easily for Harry’s liking.

“Entertain me then. Pass me your homework, I’ll correct it.”

“Really?” Harry asked, deadpan.

Not waiting for permission, Riddle leant over and snatched the parchment from under his fingers. Then, he snorted. “Whose palm is this?”

“Nobody’s. I made it up. Trelawney doesn’t care as long as the predictions are miserable.”

“Umbridge is going to fire her,” Riddle said absently, scanning the diagram of a palm and the notes scrawled in the margins. “This is ridiculous.”

“Divination? I know. But the classroom’s a good place for a nap.”

“No – you’ve mixed up the heart and the head line. And, contrary to popular belief, the length of the life line doesn’t actually indicate how long you’ll live.”

Harry raised his eyebrows. “How do you even know that? You don’t take Divination. Thought you’d side with Hermione and say it’s a load of bollocks.”

“This is a load of bollocks,” Riddle said, tossing the parchment back. “Do your homework properly, Harry. Look, you can read my palm.” And he extended his left hand.

Harry gave him an unimpressed look, but Riddle just waited patiently so, sighing, Harry peered dubiously at it: the soft, pale skin, a handful of brown moles clustered on his wrist.

“Er… well, your head line sort of slopes.” He consulted the book. “Apparently that means you’re creative… I don’t know if that’s true.”

Riddle shrugged. “Scheming requires creativity. What else?”

Harry peered closer. “Your life line is weird. It branches; you have more than one–”

“No, I don’t.”

“You do.”

Before Riddle could snatch his hand away, Harry grabbed it, turning the pale skin even whiter as his fingertips pressed in. “Look! Here!”

An odd, reddish gleam flashed across the Slytherin’s eyes. It passed so quickly Harry wasn’t sure if he’d imagined it.

“Strange,” Riddle said, frowning as he peered at his palm. “It didn’t look like that before.”

“Before...?”

“Before I time travelled,” Riddle said, grinning, so Harry whacked his hand away. In the cold kitchen, it had been warm.

“Prick.” Snapping his book closed, he said, “Think I’ll just stick to my made-up palm, thanks.”

“Divination shouldn’t be made-up.”

Harry shrugged. “Trelawney’s a seer and she definitely makes crap up.”

“If she actually is a seer then I doubt that. Does she have any registered prophecies?”

“Registered… what?”

“Prophecies, Harry, I told you this a few days ago. The Hall of Prophecies in the Department of Mysteries. Palm reading and tea leaves are rarely useful, but true prophecies are fantastic feats of magic.”

Harry frowned, remembering... A muggy afternoon in his third year, Trelawney bug-eyed, her voice rasping: the dark lord will rise again…

“Maybe she does,” Harry said as nonchalantly as he could. “Dumbledore hired her, didn’t he?”

“I suppose,” said Riddle. He sipped his tea, surveying Harry with those dark, watchful eyes. “What do you think Dumbledore’s game is?”

It took Harry a second to register the question. Apparently, Riddle had grown bored of Divination. “How d’you mean?”

“Don’t be obtuse, Potter. Dumbledore. We’ve been talking alone for ten minutes now, and your darling godfather hasn’t busted the door down. I think Dumbledore told him to back off at your party the other night-”

“Wake.”

“He brought me here, with you, for Christmas. And don’t say this is the Order’s only safe house because I don’t believe it.”

Harry tapped his quill against the parchment and shrugged. “I guess he wants us to spend time together.”

“Yes,” said Riddle, “But why?”

Because he wanted Harry to learn Voldemort’s secrets – to earn Riddle’s trust.

“If I know, I don’t think I should tell you,” Harry said coyly, mostly because he wasn’t sure he’d get away with an outright lie.

Riddle rolled his eyes. He took a sip of Harry’s coffee, then screwed his nose up. “That’s a shame. We managed such a productive conversation the other day.”

“Well, I saw my friend’s mum die,” Harry said. “I wasn’t in a great mindset. I’ve since remembered that you’re a bastard.”

“Black reminded you, you mean. Stop letting others manipulate you, Harry.”

“So you can manipulate me?”

Riddle’s lips twitched. “I think Dumbledore wants us to work together, with all he moans on about teamwork.”

“If he wants us to work together to figure out what he’s not telling me, why not just tell me?”

“This is Albus Dumbledore we’re discussing.”

This was true.

Riddle continued: “If he wants you to be his little spy, Harry, you should remember how he treats you. I assume he still hasn’t asked you to join his Order? Even though you’re an occlumens now.”

“I’m not very good at occlumency,” Harry said quietly.

“You’re adequate,” said Riddle. Surprisingly high praise. “But that’s not right, anyway. If information is all he’s after, he would’ve tried veritaseum months ago.”

Harry’s eyes widened. “Veri- Yes! Wait, why didn’t he?! That’s a great idea!”

Presumably, Riddle didn’t enjoy the prospect of being force fed truth serum; a furrow appeared in his brow. “Veritaseum isn’t perfect. I excel at mind magics, Harry; I could withhold information. Besides, it’s illegal without ministerial permission. One word to Umbridge and his head’s on the block.”

 Harry waved a hand. “His head’s already on the block. Let’s try it.”

“If he comes anywhere near me with that stuff, I’ll kill him.”

It might’ve been the kitchen lighting, but Harry was sure Riddle’s dark eyes glimmered red again. His voice too had taken on that low silkiness that raised hairs on Harry’s neck, that made him shift in his chair, anticipatory. Harry couldn’t help himself: between a silent, black hole and a fierce, raging sun, he knew his vice. He grinned – a bearing of the teeth.

“Scared of veritaseum, Riddle? A moment ago, you were all, ‘I excel at the mind arts, Harry,’ and now you’re throwing around threats. How many times have you claimed you’re going to murder Dumbledore now? You don’t even have a wand.”

“Why would I need a wand?” Riddle asked in that same dangerous tone, shifting too, planting both feet on the ground, the tendons flexing along his forearm. Poised to pounce.

“To kill Dumbledore? You’re an arrogant prick. You couldn’t kill him with a wand. You wouldn’t even come close.”

Riddle stilled. Harry stilled too.

“What about you, Harry?” Riddle asked, eyes shining, sizing him up. “Could I kill you without a wand?”

Harry’s gaze darted around the kitchen. Red-hot poker, glinting knives, flashing glassware, boiling kettle. Under the table, he quietly drew his wand and trained it on Riddle.

They assessed each other, expectant...

The prat must’ve been in his head because Riddle moved a split second before Harry tried to hex him, leaping to his feet, chair clattering and flinging his mug of tea over Harry’s arm.

The tea was only tepid, but Harry jerked instinctually, scrambling up and back. When he refocused on Riddle, the long table between them, the bastard had a knife - not a kitchen knife, a potions knife. Where had that come from?

He fired a series of hexes and jinxes, forcing Riddle to dodge, to back up and maximise the distance between them in the long, narrow room. The Slytherin was quick, surprisingly so for his long legs and arms. He had none of Ron’s gawkiness. Why didn’t Harry’s spells cover area?

“Depulso!”

A chair flew toward Riddle, wider than a spell, harder to dodge, but Riddle flicked a hand, lazily almost, and it careened off course, smashing into the wall.

“Do you think Mad-Eye’s awake yet?” Riddle asked, passing the knife from hand to hand, watching, waiting.

“Depulso! Tritella! Ascendio! Expelliarmus!”

The disarming spell was a mistake, cast by instinct. The incantation took too long and Riddle rushed him, letting the spell hit. The knife flew at him, forcing Harry to dodge, then the connection tore open and there was pressure on his scar and bursting pain.

Riddle twisted Harry’s wand arm, foot hooking his leg. He thrashed, and they both tumbled to the floor, his hand and wand pressing into something soft – Riddle’s side.

It was a direct shot. Harry could’ve stunned him; he could’ve won. He could’ve gotten Riddle locked in his bedroom for the rest of the holiday and enjoyed quiet evenings playing cards with Sirius and sipping eggnog.

But his mind buzzed: dodge, attack, hit, writhe. It didn’t dwell on Cedric’s blank, dead eyes, on Hagrid, alone and restrained, on Molly Weasley, slumped and covered in blood.

Dodge, squirm, hit, hurt.

“Crucio!”

Riddle gasped, a soft noise that wormed its way into Harry’s brain, and Harry gasped too because the pain in his scar intensified, searing, like he was the one being crucioed, and he dropped his wand.

At once the pain lessened, receding to something manageable, and he was fighting again, scrambling for the wand, or a glint of silver, dimly aware that Riddle was laughing, and that he felt like laughing too.

There! The knife.

He twisted, pressing the blade to skin. Riddle’s skin. The hollow of his cheek. They paused, chests rising and falling in heaving pants, tangled on the floor, side-by-side. The prat was grinning wildly.

“A crucio, Harry? I underestimated you.” Fingers curled around Harry’s wrist, fighting him to push the knife away.

“You deserved it,” Harry said, fighting back equally hard. He was pleased to note that in the past few months, Riddle’s strength advantage had waned. Another few months and Harry might be the stronger one. It wasn’t as if Riddle played any sport.  

“It was weak. You can do better. I’ll teach you.”

Riddle moved, leveraging his weight to force Harry’s hand away until he was flat on his back, Riddle leaning over him, his dark hair almost falling into Harry’s face. His blood buzzed with adrenaline.

“Here,” the git said. A wand pressed into Harry’s hand, the tip directed to Riddle’s stomach, cool fingers wrapped around his own. “Do it again.”

“No!” Harry snarled up at him, though he wasn’t truly angry.

Knowingly, the Slytherin grinned. “I’ll make it tempting,” he said, his breath wafting over Harry’s face as his other hand tangled in his hair, tugging. “I could tell you how I’d kill each of your–”

BANG!

“Depulso!” Harry cried, panicked, flinging Riddle off him and surging up as Sirius stormed in.

“HARRY! Harry! Are you alright?!”

“He looks fine to me,” barked Mad-Eye, following Sirius at a more leisurely pace and casting an appreciative glance at Harry – standing and clutching his wand. Riddle climbed warily to his feet, one hand on the wall as he rubbed the back of his head. The potions’ knife had vanished.

“Fine?!” Sirius exclaimed, striped dressing gown flapping as he interposed himself between Harry and Riddle. “The bastard tried to kill him!”

“No, I didn’t,” said Riddle.

“I am fine,” Harry said. “Really.”

Concerned, Sirius turned to him, and Harry tried not to flinch as his godfather’s bony fingers pressed to his chin, checking him over for injuries. He’d be bruised and aching tomorrow, but he was fine.

“I told him,” Sirius muttered to himself, pulling back, presumably satisfied Harry wouldn’t keel over. “Room, now,” he snapped over his shoulder at Riddle.

“Why?” asked Harry, “He didn’t do anything wrong.”

“He attacked you!”

“He didn’t. We weren’t fighting, we were just, er... duelling. Like, for fun.”

“Fun?”

“Yes,” Harry snapped, feeling himself flush as behind Sirius, Riddle’s lips twitched. With a thrill, Harry noted that he looked a mess. “So, if you’re sending him to his room, you should send me to mine!”

“Fine! Go to your room!”

“Alright! I will!”

“Good!”

Harry spam on his heel and marched for the door. As he took the stairs three at a time, he heard Sirius snarl, “What are you still doing here, Riddle?”

“Admiring your parenting skills,” Riddle said.

“GET OUT!”

*****

For the next few days, Riddle tailed him around Grimmuld Place like a smug shadow. While, strangely, Harry found he didn’t mind this, what he did mind was that (regardless of whatever Dumbledore had or hadn’t said) Sirius now steadfastly refused to leave him and Riddle alone, which meant he also followed Harry. And, to not be the only one missing out on company, Moody often tagged along too.

At least Riddle checked Harry’s homework for him, sprawled out on the floor before the fire, even if he did then spend so long describing his mistakes and to such a great level of detail that Harry genuinely considered asking the tosser to teach him crucio.

Occasionally, others dropped by. Lupin spent a lazy afternoon doing a Christmas jigsaw with him and Sirius, chatting about a recent grindylow infestation in Diss Mere, while Riddle lounged on the sofa, fingers twitching. Harry was sure he was attempting to wandlessly transfigure the jigsaw pieces.

Daedalus Diggle – sweet as he was – was terrified of Riddle. When he and Harry had discussed the expulsion of reserve chaser Lowenna Laplock from the Tornadoes (allegedly for her public support of Harry and Dumbledore) in the entry hall and Riddle had wandered down the stairs, Diggle had yelped and leapt into the basement for cover. Riddle looked so satisfied about this that Harry sent a leg-locking curse his way and he tripped down the remaining steps. His expression was one Harry would remember fondly.

The next day, as Harry finally sorted through the junk littering the bottom of his trunk, Riddle knocked on his bedroom door. He entered before Harry could tell him to go away.

“What do you want?”

“Books,” Riddle said, leaning on the doorframe. “There’s nothing to do in this house.”

“So you’ve said. Why don’t you play the piano?”

“I did that yesterday.”

“I didn’t hear you,” Harry said. He held up one of Dudley’s old Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles pyjama tops. “Should I keep this? There’s a hole in the sleeve.”

“I’ll take it.”

Glancing from Riddle to the posing, bo-staff wielding Donatello, Harry snorted. “Really?”

“Sure. I haven’t owned any of my own clothes since August.”

Something about that caused a twinge in Harry’s stomach. “Alright,” he said, balling up the top and throwing it at Riddle. “But you have to wear it.”

“Fine,” Riddle said, folding the top over his arm and smiling. “Can I have some books too?”

“Don’t you have my monster book? And my Quidditch one?”

“I don’t want your boring books,” he said. “I want something from the library.”

“Oh. Right.”

“If I have something to read, I’ll leave you alone.”

Frowning, Harry chewed his lip. Oddly, the proposition wasn’t as attractive to him now as it might’ve been two months ago.

“Alright, but don’t pick anything too dark.”

Sunnily, Riddle smiled. “Thank you, Harry, darling,” he said, using his best charm-all-the-girls-at-Hogwarts-until-they-fall-in-love voice.

Harry chucked a bag of mouldy potions ingredients at his head.

This was Harry’s second trip to the Grimmuld Place library. The first, over the summer holidays, had ended with the discovery of a flobberworm infestation, and a pale-faced Ron blabbering about a shadow Harry, Lupin, and Tonks couldn’t see.

Slightly apprehensive, Harry tried the door. It rattled and didn’t budge.

“It’s locked,” Riddle said helpfully.

“Could’ve mentioned,” Harry grumbled.

After an alohomora yielded no results, he popped his head over the balcony, opening his mouth to call for Sirius.

“If he knows you’re getting something for me, he won’t open it.”

Still leaning over the balcony, Harry paused. Ah. Riddle wasn’t exactly wrong.

“You want me to lie to him for you.”

“If that’s the only way to get into the library, then I suppose so.”

There was something about the way he said it, something about the way Harry wanted to believe him. Riddle was too good of a liar.

Grinning, he spun around, leaning back on the banister and surveying the older boy. “Do you even want a book, Riddle?”

“Yes,” he said, a tad petulantly.

Harry’s grin widened. “You probably do. I bet you also thought making me lie was the most entertaining way to get one - driving a wedge between me and Sirius.”

“You’re doing that yourselves, and don’t sound so smug, Harry. It doesn’t suit you.”

Deflecting. Harry was right, then.

“What’s your next tactic? Threats? What - you’ll follow me around until I let you in? You’re basically doing that already.”

Riddle tilted his head. “How about you get me a book, and I don’t follow you until Christmas?”

Harry snorted. Christmas was in less than two days. “How about you just ask nicely?”

“I did-”

“-And mean it.”

Riddle’s concentrated frown probably meant he was attempting legilimency, so Harry glanced away. After a beat, Riddle asked - and it sounded like a real question - “Did you want me to say please?”

“No,” Harry said, “Just be honest. Say,” he put on an imitation of Riddle’s drawling faux posh accent, “‘Potter, I’m bored and want a book from the library. Also, it’s locked, and you’ll need to lie to Sirius to get him to open it.’”

“If I’d asked it like that you would’ve said no.”

“You never would’ve asked it like that.”

The prick looked like he was contemplating pushing Harry over the balcony, which was about as honest an expression as he ever wore. It scratched that itch of Harry’s again - the one keeping the blackness at bay. (Just in case, he took a step away from the banister).

“Though, if you did want to add a please-”

“Shut up,” Riddle snapped.

“Alright. Well, I don’t have to help you-”

“Just do it.”

Harry smirked. “Okay.”

It was worth it to see Riddle’s eyes narrow, to watch him try to figure out Harry’s angle. He never would: Harry just felt like being nice.

“I’ll ask him at dinner. Now leave, I don’t need all three of you watching me tidy my room.”

Dinner was some sort of stew Moody had cooked over the fire. It tasted alright, though the meat was gristly and the ex-auror refused to say exactly what it was.

Halfway through, Harry asked, “Moody, in a duel, say your opponent was good at dodging and you wanted to attack an area instead, how would you do it?”

Above his stew, Riddle raised an eyebrow. He was already wearing the Turtles top, and it didn’t look as silly as Harry had imagined.

Moody grunted, taking a draught from his hip flask and mulling the question over. “Multi-object transfiguration,” he said, “But you haven’t covered that yet and pulling it off in a fight is tricky.”

“I can do it,” Riddle said.

Ignoring him, Moody continued: “Try augamenti to cover an area in water, then glacius to freeze it.”

“Countered by incindio or glisseo,” said Riddle.

“Most won’t think of that until they’re flat on their back and you’ve got a free shot,” said Moody.

“I would.”

“Shut up,” Sirius advised Riddle, but Moody gave the teenage dark lord a calculating look.

“Incindio or glisseo - that’s how you’d counter it then?”

“No. I’d use fiendfyre.”

From Riddle’s smug expression, Harry assumed this was said to provoke a reaction, but Harry had never heard of fiendfyre, and Moody only looked thoughtful.

“That’s risky. Once it’s cast, there’s no getting rid of it. I’m sure you think your control is perfect, boy, but in a duel with a good opponent your focus could wane at any second, then it’s lights out.”

“I know glacius,” Harry said, jumping in before Riddle could respond with an array of other, equally dark spells. “Can you teach me augamenti?”

Moody nodded, slurping another spoonful of stew, that electric blue eye still focussed unwaveringly on Riddle.

“Cool, thanks!” said Harry. Then, as subtly as he could, he said, “Do you know if there are any duelling books in the library?”

He felt Riddle roll his eyes, even though Harry thought that was a fairly good segue.

Moody’s gaze flicked to Sirius, then back to Harry. “It’s good you want to learn to duel, Potter, but don’t go getting overconfident. You’ve survived this long because you know when you’re outmatched.”

Riddle snorted, and Moody shot him a frown. “You shouldn’t laugh – Potter’s sensible to run. Your arrogance will kill you.”

“Don’t give him advice!” Sirius said.

Moody shrugged. “Why not? He won’t take it.”

“No,” Riddle said. “it’s paltry advice. I know my capabilities perfectly well. And I’m not going to die.”

“There you go,” said Moody, eating another spoonful of stew.

“So,” Harry hedged. “About the books…”

“Forget the books,” Moody huffed. “I’ll teach you some things.”

“Right. Thanks. But, say I wanted-”

“There’s nothing in the library you’d like,” Sirius said. “It’s all dark stuff, nasty. I think Tonks’ll swing by tomorrow – ask her to pick you something up from Flourish and Blotts.”

Frustration stung Harry’s throat. It was a bit stupid, really: he’d tried, Riddle couldn’t complain, and it wasn’t like Harry cared whether he was bored or not… But...

“Can’t I just take a look?”

“I wouldn’t. I haven’t gotten around to clearing the room just yet.”

“Why don’t we clear it out together? Honestly, it’s probably empty, I don’t think Ron actually saw–”

“No, Harry.”

“Why not?”

Sirius glanced at Moody, and Harry set his spoon down with a clang, his ears starting to buzz.

“Why not?”

“Albus doesn’t want the library opened,” Moody said.

“Why?”

“Because those are his instructions, Harry,” said Sirius.

“Right. And we’re supposed to just go along with them?”

“Yes,” said Moody.

“Why?” Harry repeated, mouth thick with bitterness. Probably, he sounded like a child, but he found he didn’t care.

“Because we’re at war,” Moody said. “Everything is need to know. It lessens the risk of capture and interrogation.”

“But who cares about a fucking library?”

“Dumbledore,” Moody barked. “The why doesn’t matter, Potter. They’re orders.”

“But -”

“Why is this suddenly so important?” Sirius asked.

“It’s the principle!”

“Alright,” said Sirius, his lip twitching. “And you just want a book for yourself, do you?”

There was a brief silence. Riddle watched them all with careful, dark eyes.

“Yes,” Harry said, a beat too late.

Sirius’s bowl rattled as his hands hit the table. “I can’t believe this! I thought you were clever enough to not let him manipulate you!”

“He only wants a book!” Harry snapped.

“Really?” growled Sirius. He turned to Riddle. “Perhaps Tonks can pick you up something too. You’d be happy with something from Flourish and Blotts, would you? How about ‘10 Cleaning Charms for the Domestic Wizard’? Is that the type of book you’re interested in?”

“That would be wonderful, thank you, Mr Black.”

“You fucking-”

“STOP!” Harry yelled, grabbing at Sirius’s arm as his godfather reached across the table for Riddle. “What are you doing?”

“WHAT AM I DOING?” Sirius roared, spittle gathering at the edges of his mouth. “HE KILLED JAMES!”

“WHAT?”

“HIM AND VOLDEMORT! THEY’RE THE SAME FUCKING PERSON, HARRY! VOLDEMORT WANTS YOU DEAD AND SO DOES HE!”

“YOU DON’T KNOW THAT!”

“If it helps, I don’t currently have any plans to kill him,” Riddle said.

This did not help.

“CURRENTLY?!” Sirius shouted, throwing Harry off him and lurching further across the table to grab a fistful of Riddle’s top, the hole in the sleeve tearing wider.

“SIRIUS, STOP!”

His godfather’s face was twisted into an expression of rage Harry hadn’t seen since the end of his third year, since Sirius, after a year on the run, had come face-to-face with Peter Pettigrew.

“YOU FUCKING-”

“DEPULSO!”

Sirius crashed back into his chair, expression morphing into one of shock, mouth slack as he stared up at Harry’s wand.

“You can’t attack him,” Harry said, viciously aware of the intensity of Riddle’s gaze on the side of his head.

“Why not?” snarled Sirius. “He’d attack any one of us if he could get away with it.”

“If he had a reason to, yes.”

“THEN WHY ARE YOU PROTECTING HIM?”

It was a difficult question to answer. Harry and Riddle had fought plenty, and each time felt deserved. But that was different. He and Riddle understood one another.

It was like with Ron and Hermione: the three of them bickered constantly. They argued and said hurtful things. Sometimes, they hated each other. But if anyone else dared hurt them, there’d be hell to pay.

Somehow, inexplicably, Riddle had slipped into that same box in Harry’s mind.

Sirius snarled, “THAT’S IT! You’re not spending any more time with him!”

Harry glared, his chest tightening. “Who are you to tell me that?”

“YOUR GODFATHER!”

“SO?”

“SO? I’M THE ONE YOUR PARENTS ENTRUSTED YOU TO!”

“WELL, YOU FUCKED THAT UP WHEN YOU SPENT TWELEVE YEARS IN AZKABAN!”

Sirius’s gaunt face went very white. The kitchen suddenly felt very cold. “Do you think that was a choice?”

“Going after Pettigrew was a choice.”

Harry wanted to feel bad about it, about the way Sirius’s eyes widened, the way his shoulders tensed, as if Harry had plunged a knife into his chest.

But he didn’t. He felt only sadness, hardened by the sharp blade of anger.

Riddle stood, straightening his top without saying a word. He caught Harry’s eye, inclined his head towards the door, then left.

“Don’t -” Sirius croaked.

Harry ignored him, and strode from the room.

He found Riddle on the third floor, leaning against the banister with his hands loosely crossed. It struck Harry then, as he marched up the stairs towards him, his mind abuzz and hands shaking, that for all the ugliness hidden inside, Riddle really was handsome. Unblemished, pale skin; thin, pink lips; long, straight nose; dark, wavy hair.

Harry couldn’t have stopped himself if he tried. (Not that he tried).

He punched Riddle. Really fucking hard. Right in his stupid, handsome jaw.

It hurt, his knuckles stinging, but Riddle stumbled, catching himself on the banister, expression betraying a flash of unfiltered shock, and that made the pain worth it. So fucking worth it.