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Chapter Text

The autumn air in Hogsmeade smelled of roasting chestnuts and butterbeer, warm and inviting despite the chill that nipped at Harry's nose. He walked between Ron and Hermione, half-listening to their bickering about whether they should stop at Honeydukes or the Three Broomsticks first. Everything felt normal. Safe, even, in that fragile way things had felt safe lately—like a held breath before the plunge.

Harry should have known better.

The hex came from nowhere, a flash of purple light that sent Ron sprawling into a stack of cauldrons outside Potage's. Hermione's scream cut short as ropes materialized around her, binding her arms to her sides. Harry's wand was in his hand before he could think, but then she was there.

Bellatrix Lestrange.

Her wild hair whipped around her face, her eyes alight with a manic glee that made Harry's stomach turn. "Hello, baby Potter," she cooed, and before he could cast a shield, her wand flicked. The world lurched sideways, colors bleeding together, and then he was falling, falling, falling—

He hit marble floor hard enough to knock the air from his lungs. Malfoy Manor. He recognized the grand entrance hall immediately, the serpent motifs carved into every surface, the cold that seemed to seep from the very walls.

"Did you miss me?" Bellatrix circled him like a predator, her wand trained on his chest. Harry scrambled backward, reaching for his wand, but she was faster. "Expelliarmus!" His wand flew from his grip, clattering somewhere in the shadows.

He tried to run. Stunning spells erupted around him, one catching his shoulder and spinning him around. He crashed into a decorative table, porcelain shattering beneath him.

"Crucio."

The pain was instant and all-consuming. Every nerve in Harry's body ignited, white-hot agony that tore a scream from his throat. He couldn't think, couldn't breathe, couldn't do anything but hurt. When it finally stopped, he was curled on the floor, shaking, tasting copper.

"That's for my Lord," Bellatrix whispered, kneeling beside him. Her fingers tangled in his hair, yanking his head back. "For what you did to him. For what you keep doing to him."

"He—" Harry gasped, "started it—"

The Cruciatus Curse hit him again. Longer this time. When she released him, Harry couldn't stop the tears streaming down his face, couldn't stop his body from convulsing. He'd been under this curse before, but never like this. Never this sustained, this personal.

"Let's play a game," Bellatrix sang, dragging him upright by his robes. "You try to escape, and I'll see how many ways I can hurt you. Won't that be fun?"

She threw him forward. Harry's legs barely held him. He staggered toward the corridor, knowing it was hopeless, knowing he had to try anyway. A slicing hex caught his back, and he felt the hot rush of blood soaking through his shirt. Another curse—something that felt like his bones were splintering from the inside—sent him to his knees.

He crawled. Actually crawled, like an animal, while Bellatrix laughed behind him.

"Pathetic. And the Dark Lord fears you?"

A door. There was a door ahead, slightly ajar. Harry lunged for it, shouldering it open, and found himself in what must have been Lucius Malfoy's study. Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with ancient tomes bound in materials Harry didn't want to identify. A work table dominated the center, covered in vials and bottles of varying sizes, their contents ranging from opalescent shimmer to viscous black.

Potions. Dark artifacts. Nowhere to run.

Bellatrix's cackling followed him inside. "Crucio! Crucio! Crucio!" She didn't give him time to recover between curses. Harry's vision went white, then black, then white again. He couldn't even scream anymore. His throat was raw, his voice broken.

"Stop—please—"

"Does it hurt, Potter? Good." She grabbed him again, slamming him against the bookshelf. Volumes tumbled down around them, heavy leather-bound things that reeked of dark magic. "I want you to remember this. I want you to remember who—"

Harry didn't plan it. Didn't think. His magic, wild and desperate, exploded outward in a burst of accidental power. Bellatrix flew backward with a shriek. Books launched themselves from the shelves. The table overturned, sending dozens of potion vials crashing to the floor.

And in that chaos, Bellatrix's next spell went wild.

It hit Harry as he tried to stand—a sickly green light that wasn't quite Avada Kedavra, but something else, something experimental and wrong. His body seized. The world tilted. His perspective shifted, dropping rapidly toward the floor as his bones compressed, reformed, changed.

His arms weren't arms anymore. His legs fused and elongated. Scales erupted across his skin, black as midnight with strange iridescent patterns that seemed to shift and move. He tried to scream but what emerged was a hiss.

Snake. She'd turned him into a snake.

Bellatrix stared, her eyes wide with something between horror and delight. "Oops," she giggled. "That wasn't supposed to—well. I suppose I should just kill you now—"

Harry lunged. His new body moved on instinct, fast and fluid, fangs bared. He struck at her wand hand. Bellatrix shrieked and stumbled backward, crashing into the remaining shelves. More books fell. More potions shattered. Harry felt the liquids splashing over his scales, hot and cold and burning, each one a different sensation, a different magic seeping into him.

They fought through the wreckage of the study. Bellatrix fired curse after curse, but Harry was small now, quick, harder to hit. He wove between falling furniture, through puddles of spilled potions that steamed and hissed. His scales absorbed it all—preservation draughts, experimental brews, things that made his serpentine form tingle and burn and feel strange.

Finally, Bellatrix raised her wand, her face twisted with rage. "Depulso!"

The banishment spell hit Harry like a battering ram. He flew backward, crashing through the study door, into the hallway, and then—

Then he was falling again, but this time it was different. This time the world didn't just lurch; it unraveled. Magic crackled around him, dark and ancient, responding to something in his transformed body. His scar—that connection to Voldemort he'd always had—pulled

Colors bled into grays. The manor dissolved. Harry felt himself being yanked through time itself, the spell latching onto that connection, that shared soul, dragging him to where the other piece existed—

He hit earth. Grass. Cold night air.

Everything hurt. Everything. The torture, the transformation, the potions still burning through his system, the temporal displacement—it was too much. Harry tried to move and managed only a weak coil, his snake body trembling violently.

He could hear a forest around him. Smell damp earth and autumn leaves.

And footsteps. Someone was coming.

Harry wanted to hide, to flee, to do anything, but his body wouldn't cooperate. He'd been broken by Bellatrix's torture, twisted by dark magic, and now flung through time to who-knew-where. He had nothing left.

Not even the strength to be afraid when the footsteps stopped beside him.

𓆙 𓆙 𓆙 𓆙 𓆓 𓆓 𓆓 𓆓  𓆙 𓆙 𓆙 𓆙 𓆓 𓆓 𓆓 𓆓

Tom Riddle was not supposed to be out of bed.

Then again, Tom Riddle did many things he wasn't supposed to do. The castle at night belonged to him—the shadows between patrols, the shortcuts through abandoned corridors, the secret places where he could think without the constant press of his housemates' expectations.

Tonight, he'd slipped past the prefects and out onto the grounds, needing air, needing space. The Forbidden Forest loomed at the edge of the lawn, dark and uninviting to most students. Tom found it peaceful.

He was following the tree line when he heard it—a sound so faint he almost missed it. A rustling. A weak hiss.

Tom's wand was already in his hand as he stepped between the trees. His eyes, well-adjusted to darkness, scanned the undergrowth until he found the source.

A snake.

Tom's breath caught. He'd always had an affinity for serpents, could speak to them in ways that unsettled even his fellow Slytherins. But he'd never seen one quite like this.

It was perhaps four feet long, coiled loosely in the fallen leaves. Its scales were black as midnight, but with strange iridescent patterns that seemed to shift in the wandlight—blues and greens and purples rippling across its body. Beautiful. Unusual.

And clearly injured.

Tom crouched down, setting his wand on the ground beside him in a gesture of peace. He spoke in Parseltongue, the sibilant sounds coming as naturally as breathing. §Hello, little one.§

The snake's head lifted weakly. Its eyes—strange eyes, too bright, too aware—fixed on him with what looked like fear.

Tom frowned. Fear wasn't unusual in injured creatures, but something about this felt different. The way it watched him, the intelligence in its gaze...

§You're hurt,§ Tom observed, noting the way the snake trembled, how its scales seemed damaged in places, discolored by what might have been burns or cuts. §What happened to you?§

The snake didn't respond. Just stared at him with those unsettling eyes.

Most students would have left it. Some would have killed it, afraid. Tom Riddle had never been most students.

§I won't hurt you,§ he said softly, extending his hand palm-up. The snake flinched away. §I promise. I only want to help.§

It was a lie, of course. Tom wanted more than that. He wanted to understand. This snake was unusual, possibly magical in origin, and Tom collected unusual things the way other boys collected Chocolate Frog cards.

But the snake didn't need to know that.

He waited, patient as stone, until finally—whether from exhaustion or resignation—the snake stopped trying to move away. Tom carefully scooped it up, cradling it against his chest. It was cold, too cold, its body limp with weakness.

§There,§ Tom murmured. §I've got you now. You're safe.§

The snake made a sound that might have been distress. Tom pretended not to notice.

Getting back into the castle was easier than getting out had been. Tom knew which corridors the prefects avoided, which portraits wouldn't tattle, which staircases led directly to the dungeons without passing the main halls.

The Slytherin common room was empty at this hour, green-tinged firelight casting shadows across the leather furniture. Tom didn't stop there. He climbed the stairs to the boys' dormitory, slipped inside his section—thankfully, his roommates were all asleep—and shut the curtains around his four-poster bed with a whispered charm for silence.

Only then did he set the snake down on his pillow.

It immediately tried to slide away. Tom caught it gently, holding it in place. §Stop that. You're in no condition to go anywhere.§

Up close, the damage was worse than he'd thought. The scales were definitely damaged, some areas looking almost melted. There were wounds along its body, some fresh, some already trying to heal. And the trembling hadn't stopped.

Tom retrieved his school bag, rummaging through it until he found the small vial of dittany he kept for emergencies. He'd stolen it from the hospital wing weeks ago, just in case.

§This will hurt,§ he warned, uncapping the vial. §But it will help.§

The snake tried to pull away when he applied the first drops, but Tom held firm. He worked methodically, treating each visible wound, murmuring reassurances in Parseltongue as he did.

§Where did you come from?§ he asked as he worked. §I've never seen a snake like you near the castle. Were you someone's pet? Did they hurt you?§

The snake remained stubbornly silent.

Tom found that curious. Most snakes would respond to Parseltongue, even if only with simple thoughts—hunger, cold, fear. This one seemed to understand him perfectly but chose not to answer.

§Can you not speak?§ Tom tried. §Or will you not?§

Those bright eyes just watched him. Wary. Intelligent. Afraid.

Tom smiled. He liked puzzles.

§That's alright,§ he said, finishing with the dittany and setting the vial aside. §You don't have to talk. Not yet.§

He conjured a shallow dish of water, placed it near the snake's head. It didn't drink, but it watched the water like it wanted to.

§You're safe here,§ Tom said again, and this time he meant it. Safe from whatever had hurt it, at least. Safe from the cold forest. Safe from other students who wouldn't understand.

Safe with him.

The snake finally moved, just slightly, coiling into a tighter ball on his pillow. Still trembling. Still afraid.

Tom lay down beside it, propping himself up on one elbow to study his find. The iridescent scales caught the dim light filtering through his bed curtains, creating patterns that seemed almost hypnotic.

§I'll take care of you,§ Tom promised softly. §Until you're well. And then...§

He trailed off. Then what? Release it back to the forest? Keep it as a familiar? Try to discover what made it so unusual?

Tom didn't know yet. But he had time to decide.

For now, he had a secret. Something precious and strange and entirely his. In a castle full of students who feared him or used him or wanted something from him, this creature needed him. Depended on him.

It was intoxicating.

§Sleep,§ Tom murmured, reaching out to stroke one finger along the snake's scales. It flinched but didn't pull away. §You're mine now. I won't let anything hurt you.§

𓆙 𓆙 𓆙 𓆙 𓆓 𓆓 𓆓 𓆓  𓆙 𓆙 𓆙 𓆙 𓆓 𓆓 𓆓 𓆓

Harry lay coiled on Tom Riddle's pillow, every muscle in his serpentine body screaming with pain and exhaustion, and tried not to panic.

He was in Tom Riddle's bed.

Tom Riddle—who would become Voldemort, who would murder Harry's parents, who would destroy so many lives—was currently treating his wounds with stolen dittany and speaking to him in soft, sibilant Parseltongue.

And Harry couldn't do anything about it.

He couldn't fight. Could barely move. The torture had broken something in him, and the transformation, and the potions, and the time travel. His magic felt wrong, twisted, like it didn't quite fit his new form.

When Tom had found him in the forest, Harry's first instinct had been to flee. But his body wouldn't cooperate. And then Tom had spoken in Parseltongue—of course he spoke Parseltongue—and Harry had understood every word.

I won't hurt you.

Harry didn't believe that for a second. This was Tom Riddle. Future Dark Lord. Killer of thousands. The fact that he was currently sixteen years old and almost... gentle... didn't change what he would become.

But Harry was trapped. Trapped in this form, trapped in this time, trapped in this bed with a boy who looked at him like he was something precious.

It was terrifying.

Tom's finger stroked along his scales again, and Harry forced himself not to react. Not to hiss, not to strike, not to give away that he was anything more than an ordinary snake.

Because if Tom knew the truth—if he realized Harry was human, was from the future, or was connected to him...

Harry didn't want to think about what Tom Riddle would do with that information.

So he stayed silent. Stayed still. Let Tom believe he was just an unusual snake that couldn't or wouldn't speak.

And prayed that the spell would wear off soon, before Tom's "care" turned into something darker.

 

Chapter Text

Harry woke to the sound of curtains being drawn back and immediately regretted consciousness.

Everything hurt. His scales felt too tight, his body too long and unfamiliar. The wounds Bellatrix had inflicted throbbed with each breath, and the memory of the Cruciatus Curse still lingered in his nerves like phantom pain.

He cracked one eye open to find Tom Riddle standing beside the bed, already dressed in his school robes. The early morning light filtering through the dungeon windows cast his features in sharp relief—handsome in that cold, aristocratic way that made Harry's stomach turn with recognition.

This was Voldemort. A younger, softer version perhaps, but Voldemort nonetheless.

§Good morning,§ Tom said in Parseltongue, his voice warm. §How are you feeling?§

Harry stayed silent, watching him warily.

Tom's expression flickered—something that might have been disappointment—before smoothing back into patient interest. §Still not talking? That's alright. I have classes today, but I'll be back to check on you.§

He reached out, and Harry couldn't help flinching. Tom's hand paused, then continued more slowly, stroking along Harry's scales with surprising gentleness.

§I brought you something,§ Tom continued, gesturing to a small dish beside the pillow. Raw meat, Harry realized. Probably from the kitchens. §You should eat. Keep your strength up.§

The smell made Harry's stomach—or whatever the snake equivalent was—turn. He wasn't ready to start eating raw meat, thank you very much. He was still human, even if he currently wore scales.

Tom frowned at his lack of response. §You need to eat,§ he said, more firmly this time. §I won't have you dying on me after I went through all that trouble to save you.§

Save. As if Harry had any choice in the matter.

Tom waited another moment, then sighed and stood. §We'll work on that,§ he murmured, pulling his bed curtains closed around Harry. §Don't go anywhere.§

As if Harry could.

𓆙 𓆙 𓆙 𓆙 𓆓 𓆓 𓆓 𓆓 𓆙 𓆙 𓆙 𓆙 𓆓 𓆓 𓆓 𓆓

The day dragged endlessly. Harry lay coiled on Tom's pillow, trapped in his own body, in his own fear, trying desperately to figure out what to do.

He needed to escape. Needed to find a way back to his own time, or at least away from Tom Riddle. But he could barely move without pain shooting through his transformed body. The dittany had helped with the surface wounds, but whatever Bellatrix had done to him went deeper than that.

And even if he could move, where would he go? He was a snake in 1940s. He didn't know the exact date, didn't know if Dumbledore was even teaching here yet, didn't know who he could trust.

The only thing he knew for certain was that he couldn't trust Tom Riddle.

Hours passed. Harry could hear the muffled sounds of the dormitory—other students coming and going, conversations in the common room beyond. No one came near Tom's bed. Harry suspected the privacy charms were more than just for silence.

When the curtains finally parted again, the light had changed to late afternoon. Tom slipped inside, and Harry's eyes immediately caught on what he was carrying.

Potion vials. Several of them, clutched in Tom's hands like stolen treasure.

§I had to wait until Slughorn left his office,§ Tom said conversationally, settling onto the bed. §He keeps the good potions locked up, but the locking charms are rather simple once you know how.§

He'd stolen them. From a professor. And he sounded almost proud of himself.

Tom arranged the vials on the bed—Harry recognized a pain relieving draught, something that looked like a healing accelerant, and a few others he couldn't identify from this angle.

§Now,§ Tom said, picking up the pain reliever. §This would be much easier if you'd cooperate. I need you to drink this.§

Harry eyed the potion warily. It probably was what Tom claimed—he doubted the boy would go through the trouble of stealing potions just to poison him—but accepting it felt like accepting help. Like acknowledging this whole situation.

§Don't be stubborn,§ Tom chided. He summoned the shallow dish from earlier, poured a measure of the potion into it. §Drink.§

The pain was getting worse. Harry could feel it building, the adrenaline of fear no longer enough to mask what Bellatrix had done to him. His body trembled with it.

Slowly, hating himself for it, Harry uncurled enough to reach the dish. The potion tasted awful—they always did—but within moments, blissful numbness began to spread through his serpentine form.

§There,§ Tom said softly. §That's better, isn't it?§

He administered the other potions with the same careful patience—the healing draught, something for magical exhaustion, something else that made Harry's scales tingle as his body absorbed it. Tom worked methodically, explaining each one in that soft Parseltongue, his hands gentle when they steadied Harry or stroked his scales.

It was deeply, profoundly unsettling.

This wasn't the Voldemort Harry knew. This was a sixteen-year-old boy playing caretaker to an injured snake, and he was good at it. Attentive. Almost tender.

Harry didn't know what to do with that.

§You're doing well,§ Tom murmured once the potions were finished. He'd conjured a heat source—some kind of warming charm focused on a smooth stone—and arranged it near Harry. §The healing should progress faster now. Though I am curious...§

His fingers traced along Harry's iridescent scales, following the strange patterns that shifted in the light.

§What are you?§ Tom asked, his voice gone soft and wondering. §You're not a normal snake. These markings... I've never seen anything like them. And the way you watch me. You understand everything I'm saying, don't you? You're just choosing not to respond.§

Harry's heart—if snakes had hearts that could race—stuttered. He kept his body language carefully neutral, trying to project simple animal wariness rather than human intelligence.

Tom's expression shifted. The gentleness bled away, replaced by something harder. Calculating.

§I don't like being ignored,§ he said quietly. §I've been patient with you. I saved you, brought you here, stolen potions to heal you. The least you could do is speak to me.§

Harry remained silent.

Tom's jaw tightened. He reached out, and this time his grip on Harry wasn't gentle—it was firm, almost painful, holding Harry in place.

§Talk,§ Tom hissed, his voice dropping to something dangerous. §Or I'll assume you're a threat. Perhaps you're someone's familiar, sent to spy on me. Perhaps I should simply kill you now and be done with it.§

His wand appeared in his other hand.

Fear spiked through Harry—real, visceral fear. He'd seen what Tom Riddle was capable of, even at this age. Had read about the death of Myrtle, the opening of the Chamber, the murder of his own father.

If Tom decided Harry was a threat...

§Wait,§ Harry hissed, the word escaping before he could stop it.

Tom went very still. Then, slowly, a smile spread across his face—triumphant and pleased and somehow still dangerous.

§There you are,§ he breathed. §I knew you could talk.§

Harry's mind raced. He needed a story, something believable, something that would explain his silence without revealing the truth.

§I... I didn't speak because I was afraid,§ Harry said finally, trying to keep his Parseltongue as simple as possible. Animal-like. §Afraid of wizards.§

Tom's expression softened fractionally. §Afraid? Why?§

§Hurt,§ Harry hissed. §Wizards hurt me. Tortured me. I thought... thought you would too.§

It was close enough to the truth to sound genuine. And it explained both his injuries and his silence.

Tom was quiet for a long moment, studying him. Harry could practically see him processing the information, fitting it into whatever theories he'd been building.

§Who hurt you?§ Tom asked, and there was something sharp in his voice now. Possessive. §What wizards?§

§Don't know,§ Harry lied. §Dark wizards. They... they did things. Bad things. I escaped.§

Tom's fingers loosened slightly on his scales, returning to those gentle strokes. §Dark wizards,§ he repeated thoughtfully. §Experimenting on creatures, perhaps. That would explain your unusual appearance.§

He seemed to accept that. Harry felt a tiny bit of tension ease from his coiled body.

§Well,§ Tom said softly, his voice returning to that warm, soothing tone. §You don't need to be afraid anymore. You're mine now. Under my protection. No one will hurt you while you belong to me.§

Belong to me.

The words sent ice through Harry's veins. Not with me. Not in my care. Belong.

Like property. Like a possession.

§Do you understand?§ Tom continued, lifting Harry slightly to look him in the eye. §You're safe now. I won't let anyone harm you. But you're mine. That means you don't keep secrets from me. You don't hide. You trust me.§

Trust. As if Harry could ever trust Tom Riddle.

But he was trapped—injured, transformed, lost in time with no way home. He needed Tom to believe he was just a snake. Needed him to lower his guard. And maybe, if he played along, he could find a way to escape before the boy's "protection" turned into something worse.

§I understand,§ Harry hissed quietly.

Tom's smile widened. §Good. That's very good.§

He set Harry back on the pillow, arranging the warming stone closer. §Rest now. Let the potions work. I'll bring you more food later—perhaps something different if you won't eat the meat. We'll figure out what you like.§

He stroked Harry's scales one more time, possessive and gentle in equal measure.

§My clever little snake,§ Tom murmured. §I think we're going to be wonderful friends.§

Harry waited until Tom left for dinner before allowing himself to shake.

Friends. Tom Riddle wanted to be friends.

The same Tom Riddle who would grow up to murder Harry's parents. Who would tear his soul apart to achieve immortality. Who would start a war that killed thousands.

And Harry was trapped in his bed, in his care, pretending to be a snake that had been tortured by dark wizards.

The potions had helped—Harry could feel his body healing, the pain receding to a manageable ache. But he was still weak. Still transformed. Still stuck in 1943 with a young Voldemort who looked at him like he was something precious.

Something that belonged to him.

Harry closed his eyes—or whatever the snake equivalent was—and tried not to think about what would happen when Tom's patience ran out. When the possessiveness turned cruel. When he realized Harry wasn't what he seemed.

Because that moment was coming. Harry could feel it.

He just had to survive until then.

Harry spent the rest of the evening in a state of hypervigilance, every muscle coiled tight despite the exhaustion weighing him down. The potions Tom had given him were working—he could feel his body knitting itself back together, the pain receding to a dull throb—but healing took time. Time he'd have to spend here, in Tom Riddle's bed, pretending to be a simple traumatized snake.

The sounds of the dormitory filtered through the curtains. Footsteps, voices, the rustle of robes and turning of pages. Tom's roommates, living their ordinary student lives, completely unaware that Harry Potter was coiled on Tom's pillow less than ten feet away.

Tom returned sometime after what must have been dinner. Harry heard the curtains part and tensed instinctively, but forced himself to remain still. Calm. Snake-like.

§I brought you something different,§ Tom announced, and Harry caught the scent immediately.

Cooked chicken.

His stomach—or whatever the snake equivalent was—clenched with sudden, desperate hunger. He hadn't eaten since before Hogsmeade, and his transformed body apparently had the same energy needs as his human one. Maybe more, given how much magic it was burning through just to heal.

Tom placed a small plate beside him, the chicken torn into manageable pieces. Still warm from the kitchens.

§I thought you might prefer this to raw meat,§ Tom said, settling onto the bed. §Most snakes prefer live prey or at least something fresh, but you're not most snakes, are you?§

It wasn't really a question. More an observation, spoken with that same calculating curiosity that made Harry's scales prickle with unease.

Harry stared at the chicken. His body screamed for it, but accepting felt like crossing a line. Like accepting Tom's care, Tom's claim that Harry belonged to him now.

§Eat,§ Tom said softly. Not quite an order, but close. §You need your strength.§

Harry's resistance crumbled. He was too hungry, too weak, too desperate. He uncurled slowly, every movement deliberate to hide how much it still hurt, and approached the plate.

The chicken tasted like heaven. Harry hadn't realized how strange his new senses were until that moment—the way his tongue flickered out to taste the air, the way he could sense heat and movement through vibrations in the bed. But taste, at least, seemed relatively unchanged. The chicken was warm and seasoned with something savory, and Harry ate with an eagerness that probably gave away more than he intended.

§There,§ Tom murmured, satisfaction warming his voice. §That's better. I knew you'd eat if I found the right food.§

Harry focused on the chicken, trying to ignore the weight of Tom's gaze. Trying not to think about how Tom looked pleased—not just satisfied that his theory was correct, but genuinely pleased that Harry was eating. Like he cared.

It would be easier if Tom acted like the monster Harry knew he'd become. But this version—sixteen, lonely, attentive—was far more dangerous because Harry could almost forget what he'd turn into.

When Harry finished eating, Tom vanished the plate with a casual flick of his wand. Then, to Harry's alarm, Tom shifted to sit more comfortably on the bed, his back against the headboard, and reached out.

§May I?§ Tom asked, his hand hovering above Harry's scales.

As if Harry could say no. As if he had any choice in the matter.

Harry remained still, neither encouraging nor refusing, and Tom took that as permission. His fingers settled on Harry's scales, stroking in long, gentle movements from head to tail.

It shouldn't have felt good. It shouldn't have. But Harry's transformed body responded to the warmth, the gentleness, the simple comfort of touch after hours of pain and fear. He felt himself relaxing incrementally, the coiled tension in his muscles easing despite his mind screaming that this was Tom Riddle, that he shouldn't trust this, shouldn't accept this.

§You're beautiful, you know,§ Tom said quietly, almost to himself. His fingers traced the iridescent patterns on Harry's scales, following the way they shifted in the dim light. §I've read about magical snakes—basilisks, runespoors, occamies—but I've never seen anything quite like you. These markings... they're not natural, are they?§

Harry's heart stuttered. He kept his body language carefully neutral.

§The wizards who hurt you,§ Tom continued, his voice taking on that sharp, analytical edge. §They did something to you. Changed you, perhaps. Experimented on you.§ His fingers paused. §I wonder if you were always a snake, or if you were something else first.§

Too close. Tom was getting too close to the truth, and Harry didn't know how to redirect without speaking, without giving away more.

§It doesn't matter,§ Tom decided after a moment, resuming his gentle stroking. §Whatever you were, whatever they did to you—you're mine now. That's all that matters.§

There it was again. That possessiveness. That absolute certainty that Harry belonged to him now, as if finding an injured creature gave Tom ownership of it.

Harry supposed it was fitting. Tom Riddle had always wanted to own things—objects, people, even death itself eventually. Why should a snake be any different?

§I don't have many friends,§ Tom said suddenly, his voice softer. More vulnerable than Harry had ever heard it. §People fear me, or they want to use me, or they're too stupid to hold a decent conversation. But you...§

His hand stilled on Harry's scales.

§You're different. You understand me when I speak. You're intelligent—I can see it in your eyes. And you need me.§ Tom's fingers resumed their gentle path. §I like that. Being needed.§

Harry felt something uncomfortable twist in his chest. Not quite pity—he couldn't afford to pity Tom Riddle—but something close to it. Because he could hear the loneliness in Tom's voice, could recognize it because he'd felt it himself. All those years at the Dursleys, desperate for someone to care, to notice, to need him for something other than being the Boy Who Lived.

He saw it now, what Dumbledore had always tried to tell him. The similarities between them. The ways they could have become each other, given different choices.

It terrified him.

§You should rest,§ Tom said eventually, his hand sliding away. §The potions will work better if you sleep. I'll stay here tonight—I don't have morning classes tomorrow, so I can monitor your recovery.§

He shifted, lying down beside Harry, close enough that Harry could feel his warmth. Tom left one hand resting near Harry's coiled form, not quite touching but close enough to be comforting.

Or possessive.

Harry wasn't sure there was a difference, with Tom.

§Goodnight, my clever little snake,§ Tom murmured, his eyes already closing. §Tomorrow we'll see about getting you stronger. And perhaps... perhaps you'll trust me enough to tell me your secrets.§

Harry waited until Tom's breathing evened out into sleep before allowing himself to relax fully. The potions and the food had helped immensely—he could feel his magic settling, his body responding better to his attempts to move. In a few days, maybe less, he'd be strong enough to attempt an escape.

He just had to survive until then. Had to keep playing the role of traumatized snake, keep Tom believing he was just an unusual creature to be protected and studied.

Had to ignore the part of himself that found Tom's touch comforting, his attention intoxicating, his loneliness painfully familiar.

Because that way lay madness. That way lay forgetting that the boy sleeping beside him would grow up to murder everyone Harry loved.

Harry let his eyes unfocus and tried to sleep, Tom's hand a warm presence inches from his scales, and tried very hard not to think about how easy it would be to stay.

Chapter Text

The next few days fell into a strange, unsettling rhythm that Harry couldn't quite reconcile with everything he knew about Tom Riddle.

Each morning, Tom would wake early, dress for classes, and check on Harry with an attentiveness that felt almost clinical. He'd examine Harry's wounds—which were healing remarkably fast thanks to the stolen potions—and ask questions in that soft Parseltongue.

§How do you feel today?§

§Better,§ Harry would answer, keeping his responses simple. Short. He'd decided that speaking was safer than silence now—silence had nearly gotten him killed when Tom's patience wore thin. But he had to be careful. Had to sound like an intelligent snake, not a sixteen-year-old wizard trapped in the wrong body.

§Good,§ Tom would say, stroking Harry's scales with those gentle fingers. §The healing accelerant is working well. You should be fully recovered in a few more days.§

Then he'd bring breakfast. Always meat—cooked chicken, beef, sometimes fish from the kitchens. Tom seemed to understand instinctively that Harry needed protein, that his snake body required it even if he preferred it cooked rather than raw.

§Here,§ Tom said on the third morning, setting down a plate of warm chicken. §Eat. You need to keep your strength up.§

Harry approached the food more readily now. His body was healing, the constant pain finally fading to a dull ache, and hunger had become impossible to ignore. He ate while Tom watched, those dark eyes tracking his every movement.

§You eat like you've been starved,§ Tom observed. §How long were you with those wizards? The ones who hurt you?§

Harry paused mid-bite. He had to be careful here. §Don't know,§ he hissed. §Long time. They didn't... didn't feed me much.§

It wasn't entirely a lie. Bellatrix certainly hadn't been planning to feed him.

Tom's expression darkened. §Idiots. Don't they know anything about caring for magical creatures? You're clearly valuable—those scales alone are remarkable. And they nearly killed you through neglect and torture.§

The possessive edge in Tom's voice made Harry's scales prickle. Tom wasn't angry on Harry's behalf—not really. He was angry that someone had damaged something he now considered his property.

§Well,§ Tom continued, his fingers finding Harry's scales again, stroking in those long, soothing movements. §They lost you, and I found you. Their loss is my gain.§

Harry forced himself not to pull away. §You've been... kind,§ he managed. §Thank you.§

Tom's smile was brilliant. Pleased. Like Harry had given him a gift. §Of course. You're mine to care for now. I take care of what belongs to me.§

There it was again. Belongs to me.

By the fourth day, Harry could move without pain. His scales had healed completely, the burns and cuts fading as if they'd never been. The potions Tom kept stealing from Slughorn's office were powerful—probably restricted, definitely not meant for students to have access to.

But Tom Riddle had never let rules stop him.

§You're doing remarkably well,§ Tom said that evening, running his hands along Harry's body to check for remaining injuries. His touch was professional, almost medical, but there was something else beneath it. Pride, maybe. Satisfaction at a job well done. §I wasn't sure you'd survive those first few nights. The damage was extensive.§

§I'm stronger than I look,§ Harry said, and immediately regretted it.

Tom's eyes sharpened. §Are you?§ His fingers paused. §Yes, I suppose you are. Most snakes wouldn't have survived what was done to you. Most magical creatures wouldn't have.§

Harry kept his body language neutral. Calm. Just a snake. Just an unusual snake.

§What's your name?§ Tom asked suddenly.

Harry's mind raced. He couldn't give his real name—Tom would recognize it eventually, if not now then later. But he needed something to answer to, something that wouldn't raise suspicion.

§Don't have one,§ Harry hissed. §The wizards... they just called me 'creature.'§

Tom's expression flickered with something that might have been sympathy. Or might have been disgust at the other wizards' lack of imagination.

§That won't do,§ Tom decided. §You need a name. Something fitting.§ He studied Harry with that intense gaze, tilting his head thoughtfully. §Your scales... they remind me of midnight. Dark, but with hidden colors beneath. Like secrets waiting to be discovered.§

Harry's heart stuttered. Too close. Tom was always too close to seeing more than Harry wanted him to see.

§I'll think of something,§ Tom murmured. §For now, you're just 'my snake.' That's enough.§

He brought dinner shortly after—more chicken, this time with what smelled like herbs. Tom had figured out quickly that Harry preferred seasoned meat, and he'd been bringing increasingly well-prepared food from the kitchens.

Harry ate while Tom talked, rambling about his classes in that way lonely people did when they finally had someone to talk to.

§Slughorn is an idiot,§ Tom said, lying on his side on the bed, propped up on one elbow to watch Harry eat. §He thinks flattery and favoritism will earn him talented students' loyalty. He doesn't understand that talent doesn't need his approval.§

§You don't like him,§ Harry observed carefully.

§I find him useful,§ Tom corrected. §That's different from liking him. He has connections, access to rare materials, and he's easily manipulated if you know what he wants to hear.§

The casual way Tom admitted to manipulation sent chills down Harry's spine. This was the Tom Riddle he recognized—calculating, ruthless, always thinking three steps ahead.

§Is that what you do?§ Harry asked, trying to sound curious rather than horrified. §Tell him what he wants to hear?§

Tom's smile was sharp. §I tell everyone what they want to hear. That's how you get what you want.§ His fingers found Harry's scales again, stroking absently. §Except with you. You're different.§

§How?§

§You don't want anything from me,§ Tom said softly. §Except to be left alone, perhaps. But you're too weak for that, too vulnerable. So you have to trust me whether you want to or not.§

Harry's body tensed. Tom noticed immediately, his hand stilling.

§Don't worry,§ Tom murmured. §I won't hurt you. I told you—you're mine now. I protect what's mine.§

§Why?§ The question escaped before Harry could stop it. §Why do you care? I'm just a snake.§

Tom was quiet for a long moment, his expression unreadable. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer than Harry had ever heard it.

§Because you're my snake,§ Tom said. §And because... because you listen. You understand. You don't fear me the way the others do—you fear wizards in general, but not me specifically. Not anymore.§

That wasn't true. Harry feared Tom more than almost anything. But he couldn't say that.

§You're not like the others,§ Harry said instead, which was true enough. §The ones who hurt me.§

Tom's smile returned, pleased and possessive. §No. I'm not.§

𓆙 𓆙 𓆙 𓆙 𓆓 𓆓 𓆓 𓆓 𓆙 𓆙 𓆙 𓆙 𓆓 𓆓 𓆓 𓆓

By the sixth day, Harry was fully healed. His body moved smoothly, his magic felt settled in his serpentine form, and the pain was completely gone. He should have been relieved.

Instead, he was terrified.

Because now that he was healed, Tom's attention was shifting from caretaker to... something else. Something more possessive.

§You're strong enough to move around now,§ Tom said that morning, examining Harry with a critical eye. §I can't keep you hidden in my bed forever—someone will eventually notice. And I have classes, duties as a prefect. I can't watch you every moment.§

Harry's heart raced. Was Tom going to release him? Let him go?

§So,§ Tom continued, reaching into his robes and pulling out what looked like a modified pocket—larger on the inside, Harry realized, with warming charms woven into the fabric. §I had this made. You're small enough to fit comfortably, and you'll be warm. You can stay with me during classes.§

Harry stared at the pocket. At Tom's expectant expression.

§You want me to... come with you?§

§Of course,§ Tom said, as if it were obvious. §I told you—you're mine. That means you stay with me. Besides,§ his expression softened slightly, §I've gotten used to having you around. It would be... lonely without you.§

There it was again. That vulnerability that made Harry's chest tighten uncomfortably. Tom Riddle—future Dark Lord, murderer of thousands—was lonely.

§I'll fit in there?§ Harry asked, stalling.

§Try it,§ Tom suggested, holding the pocket open.

Harry had no choice. He slithered forward slowly, letting Tom guide him into the enchanted pocket. It was surprisingly comfortable—warm, spacious enough that he could coil loosely, with small holes that let in air and allowed him to see out if he pressed close to the fabric.

§Perfect,§ Tom murmured, stroking Harry's head where it poked out slightly. §You'll stay hidden, but I'll know you're there. Safe. With me.§

He said it like a promise. Like Harry should be grateful.

Harry supposed, in a twisted way, he should be. Tom could have killed him. Could have experimented on him, the way Bellatrix had. Could have done any number of horrible things.

Instead, Tom was keeping him close. Protecting him. Treating him like something precious.

It should have been comforting.

It was terrifying.

§Are you comfortable?§ Tom asked, his voice warm with genuine concern.

§Yes,§ Harry hissed quietly.

§Good.§ Tom's smile was brilliant. §Then let's go to breakfast. I think it's time you saw more of Hogwarts. My Hogwarts.§

He tucked the pocket into his robes, Harry's small form hidden against his chest, and headed for the door.

Harry felt the warmth of Tom's body through the fabric, heard his heartbeat steady and strong, and tried not to think about how safe it felt.

Because safety was an illusion. Tom Riddle was dangerous—would become even more dangerous. And Harry was trapped here, in 1943, completely at his mercy.

The only question was how long until that mercy ran out.

That first day out of Tom's dormitory was overwhelming.

Harry had forgotten how alive Hogwarts could be, even in 1940. The castle looked the same—mostly—but everything else was different. The students wore slightly different robes, used slightly different slang. The portraits on the walls showed faces Harry didn't recognize, and the ghosts... Nearly Headless Nick looked exactly the same, but there were others Harry had never seen before.

Tom moved through the corridors with the confidence of someone who owned them. Students parted for him—some out of respect, some out of fear, some out of something that looked like awe. He was already building his reputation, Harry realized. Already becoming someone people noticed.

In the Great Hall, Tom sat at the Slytherin table, and Harry caught glimpses through the pocket opening. The ceiling showed a gray autumn sky, and the floating candles cast warm light over students eating breakfast.

§Can you see?§ Tom murmured in Parseltongue, his voice so quiet no one else would hear. To anyone watching, it would look like he was talking to himself.

§A little,§ Harry hissed back, equally quiet.

§Good.§ Tom's hand pressed briefly against his robes, over the pocket where Harry hid. A reassuring touch. Possessive. §Stay quiet during classes. I'll feed you later.§

The classes were surreal. Tom was brilliant—Harry had known that intellectually, but seeing it in person was different. He answered questions with casual ease, performed spells perfectly on the first try, and had professors eating out of his hand with a combination of respect and subtle flattery.

In Potions, Slughorn practically glowed when Tom successfully brewed a complex healing draught.

"Excellent work, Tom, excellent! You have such a gift, my boy."

Tom smiled that charming smile, the one that didn't reach his eyes. "Thank you, Professor. Though I must credit your teaching—I've learned so much from your class."

Lies. Tom had told Harry just last night that he learned more from Slughorn's personal library than from his actual lessons.

During lunch, Tom slipped away to a secluded corner of the grounds. He pulled Harry out gently, setting him on a sun-warmed stone, and produced a small container of cooked beef.

§Eat quickly,§ Tom instructed. §We have Ancient Runes next, and I can't have you getting hungry and restless in my pocket.§

Harry ate while Tom watched, one hand resting near him, always touching, always aware of exactly where Harry was.

§Do you like Hogwarts?§ Tom asked softly.

Harry paused. How could he answer that? He loved Hogwarts. It had been his first home, the first place he'd ever belonged. But this Hogwarts, Tom's Hogwarts, felt different. Familiar but wrong, like looking at a beloved place through distorted glass.

§It's beautiful,§ Harry said carefully.

§It is,§ Tom agreed. §The only real home I've ever had. The orphanage where I grew up was... unpleasant. But here, I matter. Here, I'm someone.§

That vulnerability again. Harry didn't know what to do with it.

§You matter,§ Harry said, because it seemed like what Tom needed to hear. And because it was true—Tom Riddle would matter, for better or worse. Would shape the entire wizarding world.

Tom's smile was soft, genuine. §Thank you.§ His fingers stroked Harry's scales. §You understand. That's why I like you.§

The days continued like that. Tom carried Harry everywhere—to classes, to meals, on his prefect rounds through the castle. At night, Harry slept on Tom's pillow, and Tom would lie beside him, talking about his day, his ambitions, his plans.

§I'm going to be important,§ Tom said one night, his voice soft in the darkness. §More than just Head Boy or a Ministry official. I'm going to change things. Make the wizarding world better, stronger.§

Harry's blood ran cold. This was it. The beginning of Voldemort's path.

§How?§ Harry asked, dreading the answer.

§I don't know yet,§ Tom admitted. §But I'll find a way. I'm not like the others—I'm not content to just exist. I want to matter. Want to be remembered.§

You will be, Harry thought but didn't say. You'll be remembered as the darkest wizard in history.

§That sounds lonely,§ Harry said instead.

Tom was quiet for a long moment. §Perhaps,§ he finally murmured. §But I have you now. That helps.§

His fingers found Harry's scales in the darkness, stroking gently. Possessively.

§You won't leave me, will you?§ Tom asked, and his voice was young. Vulnerable. Sixteen.

Harry's throat—or whatever the snake equivalent was—tightened. Because eventually, he would leave. Had to leave. The spell would wear off, or he'd find a way home, or something would happen. He couldn't stay here, in 1943, with Tom Riddle.

But he couldn't say that.

§I'm here now,§ Harry whispered.

It was the only truth he could offer.

Tom seemed satisfied with that. His hand settled near Harry, close but not quite touching, and his breathing gradually evened out into sleep.

Harry lay awake longer, feeling the warmth of Tom's presence, the safety of his protection, and hated how part of him didn't want to leave.

Because that part saw Tom as he was now—lonely, brilliant, desperate for connection. That part forgot about the murders, the war, the monster he'd become.

That part was dangerous.

Harry closed his eyes and tried to remember why he needed to escape. Tried to picture his friends, his world, everything waiting for him seventy years in the future.

But in the darkness, with Tom's quiet breathing beside him, it was getting harder to remember.

And that terrified him most of all.

The second morning Tom carried Harry to classes, the routine felt almost normal. Almost.

Harry coiled in the enchanted pocket, warm against Tom's chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. The pocket's small openings gave him limited visibility, but he could hear everything—footsteps echoing in corridors, students chattering, Tom's occasional responses in that smooth, charming voice he used with others.

So different from the soft, vulnerable tone he used with Harry in Parseltongue.

They arrived at the Great Hall for breakfast, and Tom settled at the Slytherin table. Through the fabric, Harry caught glimpses of green and silver, the flicker of candlelight, faces he didn't recognize but would—some of them—become Death Eaters.

"Riddle." A girl's voice, cold and aristocratic. "You're sitting in Lestrange's usual spot."

"Am I?" Tom's voice was pleasant, unbothered. "I hadn't noticed."

"Move."

Harry felt Tom shift slightly, adjusting his robes. The movement brought Harry closer to the pocket opening, and he could see her now—a girl with dark hair and sharp features, her robes immaculate, her expression haughty. Walburga Black, Harry realized. Future mother of Sirius.

"I don't think I will," Tom said, his tone still pleasant but with an edge beneath it. Like a blade hidden in silk. "This spot suits me perfectly."

"You're a half-blood," Walburga hissed, low enough that nearby students wouldn't hear. "You don't get to—"

"I get to do whatever I please, Walburga." Tom's voice dropped, cold and sharp. "And if you have a problem with that, perhaps you should take it up with Professor Slughorn. I'm sure he'd be fascinated to hear about your family's recent... financial difficulties. The ones you've been so desperate to keep quiet."

Walburga's face went white, then red. "You wouldn't dare—"

"Try me."

The silence stretched between them, taut as a bowstring. Then Walburga turned sharply and stalked away, her robes billowing behind her.

Tom resumed eating as if nothing had happened, but Harry could feel the tension in his body, the slight acceleration of his heartbeat.

§That was cruel,§ Harry hissed quietly, unable to stop himself.

Tom's hand pressed against the pocket, a warning to stay silent. But after a moment, he murmured in Parseltongue, too quiet for anyone else to hear, §She started it.§

§She's just a girl. You didn't have to threaten her.§

§She called me a half-blood,§ Tom said, his mental voice cold. §She needed to be reminded of her place.§

§And what place is that?§ Harry challenged. §Beneath you?§

Tom didn't answer. He finished his breakfast in silence, but Harry could feel the irritation radiating from him.

The morning classes passed in a blur. First was Transfiguration with Professor Dumbledore—and Harry's heart nearly stopped when he caught his first glimpse of him through the pocket opening.

Dumbledore looked younger, his auburn hair not yet silver, his face unlined by the weight of wars and secrets. But his eyes were the same—that piercing blue that seemed to see everything, understand everything.

Harry pressed himself deeper into the pocket, suddenly terrified that Dumbledore would sense him, would know what he was. But Dumbledore's gaze passed over Tom without pause, and Harry forced himself to breathe.

Tom was brilliant in class, as always. He transfigured his beetle into a button with casual ease, answered Dumbledore's questions with perfect precision, and accepted praise with humble grace.

But Harry could feel the tension in him. The way his muscles coiled tight whenever Dumbledore looked at him, the way his heartbeat quickened just slightly.

Tom was afraid of Dumbledore. Or if not afraid, then... wary. Like he knew Dumbledore saw more than others did.

After Transfiguration came Defense Against the Dark Arts with Professor Merrythought. She was older, stern-faced, with iron-gray hair and sharp eyes that missed nothing. The lesson was on defensive shields, and Tom performed flawlessly, his shield charm so strong it made Merrythought nod with approval.

"Excellent work, Mr. Riddle. Five points to Slytherin."

Tom smiled that charming smile. "Thank you, Professor."

But as soon as her back was turned, Harry saw Tom's expression shift—the smile fading, replaced by something calculating. Like he was already thinking three steps ahead, planning something.

Lunch was when Harry truly began to understand how isolated Tom was.

Tom sat with a group of Slytherin boys—Avery, Lestrange, Mulciber, Nott. His "friends," if you could call them that. They talked and laughed, discussing Quidditch and upcoming exams and the latest gossip.

But Tom... Tom was performing. Harry could feel it in the careful modulation of his voice, the calculated timing of his laughs, the way he said exactly what they wanted to hear.

"Did you hear about Slughorn's party next week?" Avery was saying, leaning back in his chair. "Invitation only. Very exclusive."

"I'm sure Tom will be invited," Lestrange said, shooting Tom a look that was equal parts admiration and resentment. "Slughorn's favorite."

"He does have excellent taste," Tom said smoothly, and the others laughed.

"My father says half-bloods shouldn't be allowed in the Slug Club," Mulciber said casually, not quite looking at Tom. "Says it's diluting the quality."

The table went quiet. Harry felt Tom's heartbeat spike, felt the sudden tension in his chest.

"Really?" Tom's voice was pleasant, unbothered. "And yet here I am, top of our year in nearly every subject.”

"That's not—I didn't mean—" Mulciber stammered.

"Of course you didn't," Tom said, still smiling. "I'm sure your father is simply... concerned about maintaining standards. Even if those standards seem to exclude the most talented students."

The conversation moved on, but the damage was done. Harry could feel the distance between Tom and the others, the way they feared him as much as they admired him. The way Tom held himself apart even while sitting among them.

After lunch, Tom slipped away to feed Harry in their usual secluded corner. He pulled Harry out carefully, setting him on the stone, and produced a container of cooked chicken.

§Eat,§ Tom said, but his voice was flat. Tired.

Harry ate slowly, watching Tom's face. He looked... worn. Like the constant performance was exhausting him.

§They're not really your friends, are they?§ Harry said quietly.

Tom's jaw tightened. §I don't need friends. I need allies.§

§That sounds lonely.§

§I told you—I have you now.§ Tom's fingers found Harry's scales, stroking absently. §That's enough.§

But it wasn't, Harry realized. It wasn't enough at all.

§Why do you let them talk about blood purity like that?§ Harry asked, unable to stop himself. §You're better than all of them, and they treat you like you're... lesser.§

§Because they believe blood matters,§ Tom said coldly.

§But you don't?§

Tom was quiet for a long moment. §I believe power matters. Magic matters. Everything else is... irrelevant.§

Harry hesitated, then pushed forward. §Magic is magic. Whether you're pure-blood or half-blood or Muggle-born—the magic doesn't care. Fighting about blood is just... self-sabotage. Weakening yourselves with infighting when you could be stronger together.§

Tom's hand stilled on his scales. He stared at Harry with those dark, intense eyes, and Harry realized he'd said too much. Sounded too intelligent, too philosophical for a simple snake.

§Where did you learn to think like that?§ Tom asked softly. Dangerously.

Harry's heart raced. §The wizards who hurt me,§ he said quickly. §They talked. About blood. About who deserved magic and who didn't. They said... they said creatures like me were abominations. Not pure enough.§

It was close enough to the truth. Death Eaters had said similar things, about Muggle-borns, about half-bloods, about anyone they deemed lesser.

Tom's expression softened fractionally. §They were fools,§ he said. §You're right—magic is magic. Power is power. The source doesn't matter, only the strength.§

He stroked Harry's scales again, thoughtful now. §You're very clever, you know. For a snake.§

Too clever, Harry thought. He needed to be more careful. Needed to remember he was supposed to be an animal, not a philosopher.

§I just listen,§ Harry said. §And think about what I hear.§

§Most creatures don't think,§ Tom observed. §They act on instinct. But you... you reason. Analyze. It's fascinating.§

Harry forced himself to focus on eating, to not respond, to act more snake-like. But he could feel Tom's gaze on him, calculating, curious.

§I wonder what you really are,§ Tom murmured. §What those wizards did to make you so... unusual.§

Harry didn't answer. Couldn't answer without giving away more than he already had.

After a moment, Tom sighed and carefully guided Harry back into the pocket. §Come on. We have Ancient Runes next. Try not to make me laugh during class with your observations—Professor Babbling already thinks I'm odd for muttering to myself.§

The afternoon dragged. Harry watched through the pocket as Tom continued his performance—brilliant student, charming prefect, ambitious Slytherin. But now Harry could see the cracks in the mask. The way Tom's smile never quite reached his eyes. The way he held himself apart, always calculating, always alone.

Even when surrounded by people who claimed to respect him, Tom was isolated. Because none of them really knew him. None of them saw past the carefully constructed persona to the lonely, desperate boy beneath.

Except Harry.

And that was the most dangerous part—because Tom was beginning to trust him. Beginning to let his guard down, to show vulnerability he never showed anyone else.

Because he thought Harry was just a snake. A clever, unusual snake, but still just an animal. Someone he could talk to without fear of judgment or betrayal.

If Tom ever found out the truth...

Harry tried not to think about that. Tried not to imagine what would happen when Tom discovered that the creature he'd been confiding in, sharing his secrets with, was actually Harry Potter. A human. A wizard. Someone who could expose everything Tom had revealed.

For now, Harry was safe in his ignorance. Safe because Tom believed the lie.

But eventually, the spell would break. Eventually, Harry would transform back.

And when that happened, Tom Riddle's mercy would run out.

That night, back in Tom's dormitory, Tom pulled Harry out and set him on the pillow as usual. He changed into his nightclothes and climbed into bed, lying on his side to look at Harry in the dim light.

§Thank you,§ Tom said softly.

§For what?§

§For what you said. About blood purity. About magic being magic.§ Tom's expression was vulnerable, open in a way Harry had never seen. §Everyone else is so caught up in their precious bloodlines, their family histories. They can't see that it doesn't matter.§

§It doesn't,§ Harry said quietly. §Power matters. How you use it matters. But where it comes from? That's just... how you’re born.§

Tom smiled—a real smile, not his charming mask. §Exactly. You understand. I knew you would.§

His fingers found Harry's scales, stroking gently. §I'm glad I found you. I know I keep saying that, but... I mean it. You make things less... lonely.§

Harry's chest tightened. Because he could hear the truth in Tom's voice, could feel the genuine affection in his touch. This wasn't possession or control—not entirely. Tom actually cared about him. About this snake he'd rescued and nursed back to health.

And Harry was lying to him. Every single day.

§I'm glad too,§ Harry whispered, and hated that part of him meant it.

Tom's smile widened. He settled into the pillow, his hand resting near Harry, and his breathing gradually slowed into sleep.

Harry lay awake, as he did every night, trying to figure out how to escape.

But it was getting harder. Because the boy sleeping beside him wasn't Voldemort yet. Wasn't the monster who would kill Harry's parents, who would start a war, who would terrorize the wizarding world.

He was just Tom. Lonely, brilliant, desperate for connection. Someone who saw Harry—even in serpent form—as something precious.

Chapter Text

The second morning Tom carried Harry to classes, Harry woke with a sense of purpose that had been missing since Bellatrix's torture.

He'd spent most of the night thinking—coiled on Tom's pillow while the boy slept peacefully beside him—about what he should do. What he could do. The moral implications of changing the timeline had weighed on him for all of about ten minutes before he'd remembered.

Thousands of people. Tens of thousands, maybe, if you counted everyone affected by the wars Voldemort started.

His parents. Sirius. Cedric. The Longbottoms. Fred Weasley. Remus and Tonks. Mad-Eye Moody. Amelia Bones. Emmeline Vance. The Prewett twins. The McKinnons, all of them, murdered in their home.

And those were just the ones Harry knew personally. How many others had died? How many families had been destroyed? How many children had grown up orphaned, like him, because of Lord Voldemort?

And Harry was here, in 1943, with the boy who would become that monster.

If he had even the slightest chance of preventing all that death, all that suffering—how could he not try?

Dumbledore would probably have some philosophical argument about the dangers of changing time, about how meddling with the past could make things worse. But Dumbledore wasn't here. Harry was. And he'd be damned if he was going to waste this opportunity just because it might be complicated.

He just had to be careful. Had to sound like a snake with unusually strong opinions, not a human from the future trying to prevent a war.

§Time to wake up,§ Tom murmured, his hand finding Harry's scales in the dim pre-dawn light. §I need to get ready for classes.§

Harry stirred, lifting his head. §Morning already?§

§Unfortunately.§ Tom sat up, stretching. Even in the darkness, Harry could see the careful way he moved—controlled, deliberate, nothing wasted. §Potions first thing today. Then Transfiguration with Dumbledore.§

The way Tom said Dumbledore's name—carefully neutral, but with an edge beneath—made Harry's scales prickle. Tom feared Dumbledore. Or at least respected him enough to be wary.

§You don't like Professor Dumbledore?§ Harry asked carefully.

Tom paused in the act of reaching for his robes. §I didn't say that.§

§You didn't have to.§

Tom was quiet for a moment, studying Harry in the dim light. Then, surprisingly, he smiled—a real smile, not his charming mask.

§You're very observant,§ Tom said. §No, I... I don't dislike him. But he sees too much. Understands too much. It makes him dangerous.§

§Dangerous how?§

§He looks at me like he knows what I'm thinking,§ Tom said softly. §Like he can see past everything I show everyone else. It's... unsettling.§

Harry filed that away. Dumbledore was already watching Tom, already suspicious. That was good to know.

Tom finished dressing and performed his morning ritual—checking Harry's scales, making sure he was comfortable, bringing a small plate of cooked sausage from some hidden warming charm.

§Eat,§ Tom instructed. §I won't have time to feed you until lunch.§

Harry ate while Tom watched, then allowed himself to be guided into the enchanted pocket. The warmth of Tom's body surrounded him immediately, and Harry felt Tom's heartbeat steady and strong through the fabric.

§Ready?§ Tom murmured.

§As I'll ever be,§ Harry hissed back.

The Great Hall was more crowded this morning, students chattering over breakfast as owls swooped overhead delivering mail. Harry caught glimpses through the pocket opening—the enchanted ceiling showing a pale autumn sunrise, the floating candles beginning to dim as natural light filtered through the high windows.

Tom settled at the Slytherin table, and Harry immediately noticed the difference from yesterday. More students were present, and Tom's arrival caused a ripple of attention—some respectful, some wary, some openly calculating.

Within moments, several students had gravitated toward Tom's end of the table. Harry recognized the behavior—they were like courtiers approaching a king. Eager, but careful. Wanting his attention, his approval.

"Riddle," a boy with sharp features and pale hair said, sliding into the seat across from Tom. Avery, Harry thought, remembering the list of Death Eaters. "Did you finish the Transfiguration essay? Dumbledore's standards are impossible."

"I finished it last week," Tom said smoothly, buttering a piece of toast. "It's not difficult if you actually understand the theory behind the transformations rather than just memorizing wand movements."

The subtle put-down made Avery flush, but he laughed it off. "Of course. We can't all be prodigies."

Another boy joined them—Lestrange, darker-haired and stockier than Avery. "Tom. I heard Slughorn praised your potion work yesterday. Another perfect brew?"

"The Healing Draught, yes." Tom's tone was casual, as if excellence were expected. "Though Slughorn's standards aren't particularly challenging. I've been experimenting with modifications to increase potency."

"Modifications?" A girl's voice, sharp with interest. Harry shifted in the pocket to see better. Walburga Black—he recognized her from the photos in Grimmauld Place, though this version was young, perhaps fifteen, with the same aristocratic features and cold eyes that would one day stare out from that portrait. "That's advanced work. Fifth years aren't supposed to modify potions."

Tom smiled that charming smile. "I find that rules about what years are 'supposed' to do are more like suggestions. For those capable of exceeding them."

The group laughed—some genuinely amused, others because Tom expected them to. Harry watched the dynamics with growing unease. These weren't friends. They were followers. And Tom knew it.

"Speaking of breaking rules," another voice chimed in—Rosier, Harry thought. "Did you hear about the Gryffindor first years who got caught in the restricted section? Pringle gave them detention for a month."

"Idiots," Avery scoffed. "Everyone knows you need an invisibility cloak to get past the restricted section at night."

"Or Parseltongue," Lestrange said, glancing at Tom with something like awe. "The enchantments don't register snake speech as human presence."

Tom's hand pressed briefly against his robes, over the pocket where Harry hid. A possessive gesture. "That's a useful theory, Lestrange. Though I couldn't possibly confirm it."

More laughter. They all knew Tom had been in the restricted section. They all knew he bent or broke rules regularly. But he did it with such style, such carefully calculated risk, that even the professors who suspected couldn't prove anything.

The conversation drifted to classes, to gossip about other students, to speculation about the war raging in the Muggle world. Harry listened, cataloging information, trying to understand the social structure Tom had built around himself.

Then Walburga said something that made Harry's scales prickle with anger.

"I heard the Mudblood in Ravenclaw—the Goshawk girl—actually outscored Flint in Charms. Can you imagine? Professor Flitwick was practically glowing with pride. As if breeding doesn't matter."

The casual slur, the disdain in her voice—it was like hearing Draco Malfoy all over again. But worse, because this was 1943, and blood supremacy wasn't just Voldemort's ideology yet. It was mainstream. Accepted. Normal.

"Miranda Goshawk is actually quite talented," another voice said—quieter, more careful. Harry caught a glimpse of a boy with sandy brown hair. Lyall Lupin. Remus's father. "Her wandwork in Defense is excellent."

"For a Mudblood," Walburga said dismissively. "She'll never understand magic the way we do. It's in the blood."

Tom had been quiet during this exchange, spreading jam on his toast with careful precision. Now he looked up, his expression thoughtful.

"Blood is certainly important," he said carefully. "Though I wonder sometimes if we give it too much credit. Power is power, regardless of its source."

Walburga's eyes narrowed. "You can't mean that. You're a Slytherin. You understand heritage, legacy. These Mudbloods come into our world and think they can just—"

"They can do magic," Tom interrupted smoothly. "The same magic we do. Sometimes better, as your example demonstrates. That's not a matter of opinion, Walburga. It's observable fact."

The table went quiet. Harry could feel the tension through the fabric of Tom's robes.

"You sound like a blood traitor," Walburga said coldly.

Tom's smile was sharp. "I sound like someone who values results over sentiment. If a Muggleborn can outperform a pureblood, that says more about the pureblood's lack of effort than it does about blood purity."

It wasn't quite the progressive stance Harry would have hoped for—Tom was still framing it in terms of power and performance rather than basic human equality—but it was better than agreeing with Walburga's bigotry.

Walburga stood abruptly. "I need to go. I have Ancient Runes."

She swept away, her robes billowing dramatically. The others shifted uncomfortably.

"You upset her," Avery said quietly.

"I stated facts," Tom replied. "If facts upset her, that's her problem, not mine."

But Harry could feel the tension in Tom's body, the way his hand pressed against his robes again. Checking that Harry was still there. Still with him.

Tom excused himself shortly after, leaving the Great Hall before breakfast was officially over. He moved through the corridors with quick, controlled steps, not quite fleeing but definitely putting distance between himself and the Slytherin table.

He found an empty classroom and slipped inside, locking the door with a flick of his wand. Only then did he pull Harry out of the pocket, setting him on a desk.

§Well,§ Tom said, his voice carefully neutral. §I suppose you heard all that.§

§I did,§ Harry confirmed.

§And? Do you think I'm a blood traitor too?§

There was something vulnerable in the question. Something that reminded Harry that Tom was sixteen, not the confident Dark Lord he'd become. Just a teenager trying to navigate a social structure that didn't quite fit him.

§I think,§ Harry said carefully, §that you were right. Magic is magic. How you're born doesn't change what you can do.§

Tom admitted. §I'm a half-blood myself. My mother was a witch, my father a Muggle. According to people like Walburga, that makes me inferior. But I know I'm more powerful than most purebloods. More intelligent. More capable.§

§So blood doesn't matter,§ Harry said.

§No,§ Tom agreed slowly. §I suppose it doesn't. Not really.§

Harry felt a flutter of hope. This was it. This was the opening he needed. If he could get Tom to reject blood supremacy now, before it became the foundation of his ideology—

§But power does matter,§ Tom continued, and Harry's hope dimmed slightly. §The strong survive. The weak perish. That's not about blood—it's about capability. About will.§

Better than blood purity. Not as good as basic human equality. But it was progress.

§What about mercy?§ Harry asked softly. §Kindness? Aren't those forms of strength too?§

Tom's expression shifted—surprised, considering. §Most people would say those are weaknesses.§

§Most people are wrong about a lot of things,§ Harry said. §You saved me. Healed me. That took strength. But it also took kindness.§

Tom's hand found Harry's scales, stroking gently. §I saved you because you're valuable. Interesting. Useful.§

§Maybe,§ Harry allowed. §But you also saved me because you're lonely. Because you wanted someone who understood you. That's not weakness, Tom. That's being human.§

The silence stretched between them. Tom's fingers had stilled on Harry's scales, and his expression was unreadable.

§You're a very strange snake,§ Tom said finally, but his voice was soft. Almost fond.

§You keep saying that.§

§Because it keeps being true.§ Tom picked Harry up carefully, cradling him against his chest. §I don't know what those wizards did to you, but you think like a person. Like someone who's seen too much and learned from it.§

Too close. Tom was getting too close to the truth again.

§Maybe I'm just smart,§ Harry said, trying to sound playful rather than defensive.

§Maybe,§ Tom echoed. But he didn't sound convinced.

He tucked Harry back into the pocket, and Harry felt the warmth of Tom's body surround him again.

§We should get to Potions,§ Tom murmured. §Slughorn will be insufferable if I'm late.§

§Tom?§

§Yes?§

§Thank you. For listening.§

Tom's hand pressed against the pocket, over Harry's hidden form. §Always,§ he said softly. §You're mine. That means I listen.§

Slughorn's Potions classroom was hectic even though Tom was one of the first students to arrive.

"Ah, Tom, my boy!" Slughorn's face lit up the moment Tom entered. "Come, come, sit up front. I want to keep an eye on your technique today—pure artistry, what you did with that Wit-Sharpening Potion last week."

Tom smiled that charming smile and took the indicated seat. Harry felt several students' eyes on them—on Tom—tracking his movements with a mixture of envy and calculation.

The lesson was on Strengthening Solutions, a relatively complex potion that required precise timing and careful temperature control. Harry watched through the pocket opening as Tom worked with practiced ease, his movements economical and confident.

Slughorn circled the room, offering praise here, gentle correction there, but he kept returning to Tom's cauldron like a moth to flame.

"Excellent, Tom, excellent! See how he adds the salamander blood clockwise? That's the mark of a true potioneer—understanding not just what to do, but why." Slughorn beamed at the class. "This is why Tom here will go far. Mark my words, he'll be running the Ministry one day. Or perhaps discovering new potions, advancing our field in ways we can't even imagine!"

Harry felt Tom's hand press briefly against the pocket. A small, private gesture. Tom knew Harry was listening, knew Harry would hear Slughorn's fawning praise.

§He's not wrong,§ Harry hissed quietly, too soft for anyone but Tom to hear. §You are talented.§

Tom's fingers tapped twice against the fabric. Acknowledgment.

The class continued, and Harry noticed the dynamics. Students working desperately to earn Slughorn's attention. Tom receiving it effortlessly. And underneath it all, the undercurrent of hierarchy—purebloods like Avery and Lestrange sitting close to Tom, Muggleborns and half-bloods keeping to the edges unless they were exceptional enough to warrant notice.

Just before the bell, Slughorn clapped his hands together. "Oh! Before you all go, I wanted to extend an invitation to my little soirée this Saturday evening. Just a small gathering in my office—crystallized pineapple, some excellent mead I've been saving, and stimulating conversation with Hogwarts' brightest minds."

His eyes swept the room, landing on specific students. "Tom, naturally. Miss Black, Mr. Lestrange, Mr. Avery—you're all welcome. Miss Goshawk, your work on the Draught of Peace last week was exemplary, please do come. Mr. Lupin, I'd love to hear more about your father's work with magical creatures..."

Harry listened as Slughorn rattled off names, already building his collection of promising students, creating his network of future influential wizards and witches.

"Splendid, splendid! Saturday at seven. Don't be late!" Slughorn dismissed them with a wave.

Tom didn't head directly to his next class. Instead, he took a detour through a less-traveled corridor, one that led past empty classrooms and old storage rooms. Only when he was certain they were alone did he slip into an alcove and pull Harry from the pocket.

§You have a question,§ Tom said. It wasn't a question itself—more an observation. He'd gotten better at reading Harry's moods, could apparently sense when Harry wanted to talk.

§The party,§ Harry said. §Slughorn's gathering. You're going?§

§Of course.§ Tom stroked Harry's scales absently. §It would be rude to decline, and Slughorn's connections are... useful. He knows people in the Ministry, has access to restricted materials, and he loves to gossip about other professors' research.§

That calculating tone again. Tom saw everything as a resource, everyone as potentially useful.

§It sounds boring,§ Harry ventured.

Tom's smile was sharp. §It is. Tedious, actually. Slughorn will spend the evening reminding everyone how talented we are, fishing for compliments, and trying to secure promises that we'll remember him when we're successful.§ He paused, then added more quietly, §But it provides excellent cover.§

§Cover?§

Tom's dark eyes met Harry's, and there was something in them that made Harry's scales prickle with unease. §For the real meeting. The one that happens after Slughorn's little party, when those who matter slip away to discuss things that actually matter.§

Harry's heart—or whatever the snake equivalent was—stuttered. §What kind of meeting?§

§The Knights of Walpurgis,§ Tom said, as casually as if he were discussing the weather. §My group. Well, our group technically, though I founded it. Students who understand that the wizarding world needs to change, needs to be led by those with actual power and vision rather than old families clinging to outdated traditions.§

The Knights of Walpurgis. Harry knew that name from History of Magic, from the books he'd read about Voldemort's rise. It was what the Death Eaters had called themselves originally, before Voldemort took the name and transformed them into something darker.

And Tom was already leading them. Already building his army.

§What do you discuss?§ Harry asked, trying to keep his voice neutral. §At these meetings?§

Tom considered the question, stroking Harry's scales thoughtfully. §Magic, mostly. Advanced topics that the professors won't teach us—not because we're incapable, but because they're afraid of what we might do with the knowledge. Dark Arts, yes, but also ancient magic, blood wards, magical theory that goes beyond what's in the standard curriculum.§

§And the blood purity thing?§ Harry asked carefully. §Like what Walburga was saying at breakfast?§

Tom's expression flickered—something complicated passing across his features. §Walburga is... traditional. She believes in the old ways, the old families. That magic flows strongest through pure bloodlines.§

§But you said blood doesn't matter,§ Harry pointed out.

§I said it's not the only thing that matters,§ Tom corrected. §There's a difference.§ He lifted Harry slightly, meeting his eyes. §The truth is more nuanced. Yes, magical families—purebloods—have centuries of accumulated knowledge, power, and tradition. That has value. But so do talented half-bloods who have the will and intelligence to master magic despite lacking that heritage.§

Harry felt cold. This wasn't progress. This wasn't Tom rejecting blood supremacy.

§So you still believe in blood hierarchy,§ Harry said slowly. §Just... with room for half-bloods like yourself.§

Tom's smile was thin. §I believe in power. In capability. Most Muggleborns are inferior—not because of their blood, but because they come to magic late, without understanding, without proper training. They're playing catch-up their entire lives.§ His fingers tightened slightly on Harry's scales. §But someone like me? I'm a half-blood, yet I'm more powerful than any pureblood in this school. That proves blood alone isn't determinative.§

§So talented half-bloods are acceptable,§ Harry said, his voice flat.

§Exceptional half-bloods, yes.§ Tom was watching Harry carefully now, studying his reaction. §Does that bother you?§

Yes. God, yes it bothered him. Because this was how it started—not with cartoonish villainy, but with logical-sounding arguments that carved out exceptions, that ranked people by arbitrary standards of worth.

But Harry couldn't say that. Couldn't reveal how much he understood about where this path led.

§I think,§ Harry said carefully, §that dividing wizards against each other based on birth is... inefficient. You waste potential allies, create unnecessary conflict, all for what? Pride? Tradition?§

Tom tilted his head, considering. §An interesting perspective. You think magical society should be united?§

§I think magical society should care about what people can do, not who their parents were,§ Harry said. §Otherwise you're just... fighting among yourselves while real problems go unsolved.§

§What real problems?§ Tom's voice was sharp now, interested. §What problems do you think matter more than securing proper leadership?§

Harry scrambled for an answer that would make sense. §The Muggle world is at war,§ he said finally. §That war affects wizards too, even if they pretend it doesn't. And there are dark creatures, dangerous magic, things that threaten everyone regardless of blood. Shouldn't wizards be united against those threats instead of fighting each other over bloodlines?§

The silence stretched between them. Tom's expression had gone distant, thoughtful.

§You think like a general,§ Tom said finally. §Like someone planning a campaign. It's... unusual. For a snake.§

Too much. Harry had said too much, revealed too much strategic thinking.

§I told you,§ Harry said, trying to sound defensive rather than panicked. §The wizards who hurt me... they talked. Discussed their plans. I listened. Learned.§

§What were they planning?§ Tom asked softly. §These wizards who tortured you. What were they trying to accomplish?§

Bellatrix. Her manic laughter. Her absolute devotion to Voldemort.

§Power,§ Harry said, which was true enough. §They wanted power over everything. Everyone. They didn't care who they hurt to get it.§

Tom's hand found Harry's scales again, stroking gently. §And that's why you fear wizards. Why you were afraid of me at first.§

§Yes,§ Harry whispered.

§But I'm not like them,§ Tom said firmly. §I want power, yes. But I want to use it to improve things, to make the wizarding world stronger. Not just to hurt people for the sake of hurting them.§

Not yet, Harry thought but didn't say. Not yet, but you will be.

§Your Knights,§ Harry said, changing the subject. §Are they like you? Do they want to improve things?§

Tom's smile returned, pleased. §They want to follow me. That's enough for now. Eventually, when I've proven what I can do, they'll help me change things. Help me build something better than what we have now.§

§And if they disagree with you?§ Harry asked. §If they have different ideas about what 'better' means?§

§Then I'll persuade them,§ Tom said simply. §I'm very good at persuasion.§

The casual confidence in his voice was chilling. Because Harry knew it was true. Tom Riddle was brilliant at persuasion, at manipulation, at making people believe they wanted what he wanted.

§Will you bring me?§ Harry asked suddenly. §To the meeting after Slughorn's party?§

Tom's eyes sharpened. §Why? Would you like to go?§

§I'm curious,§ Harry said, which was true. He needed to know who was in Tom's inner circle, what they were planning, how far along Tom's path to darkness already was. §And I want to stay with you.§

That last part came out more honest than Harry intended, but it had the desired effect. Tom's expression softened, that possessive fondness returning.

§Of course you'll come,§ Tom murmured. §You're mine. You go where I go.§ He tucked Harry back into the pocket, and Harry felt the warmth of his body through the fabric. §Besides, the others should meet you. My familiar. Proof that even magical creatures recognize power when they see it.§

Familiar. Tom was already spinning a narrative, already turning Harry into a symbol of his own greatness.

§We should get to Transfiguration,§ Tom said, his hand pressing against the pocket. §Dumbledore gets irritated when students are late. And I want to watch his face when I demonstrate the Inanimatus Conjurus spell he assigned—I've already mastered it.§

As Tom walked through the corridors toward Dumbledore's classroom, Harry coiled in the warm darkness of the pocket and tried to process what he'd learned.

Tom had already formed the Knights of Walpurgis. Already had followers. Already believed in a modified version of blood supremacy that just happened to include himself and other "exceptional" half-bloods while still maintaining a hierarchy.

This wasn't a boy who might turn dark. This was a boy already walking that path, just early enough in the journey that he still sounded reasonable, still framed his prejudices in logical arguments.

And in three days, Harry would meet Tom's inner circle. The proto-Death Eaters. The ones who would help Tom Riddle become Lord Voldemort.

Harry's attempt to influence Tom suddenly felt impossibly small. How could he redirect someone who'd already built this much? Who already had this many people invested in his vision?

But he had to try. Because the alternative—letting Tom continue unchallenged—meant everyone Harry loved would die.

§Tom?§ Harry hissed quietly.

§Yes?§ Tom's voice was warm, affectionate.

§After the meeting... will you tell me about it? About what you discussed?§

§Of course,§ Tom said. §I tell you everything. You're the only one I can be completely honest with.§

The words should have been comforting. Instead, they made Harry feel like he was standing on the edge of an abyss, watching Tom prepare to jump, and holding the only rope that might save him.

If Harry could just figure out how to make Tom want to be saved.

Chapter Text

Saturday evening arrived with a sense of inevitability that made Harry's scales prickle with unease.

Tom had been preparing all day—not in any obvious way, but Harry had learned to read his moods. The careful way he'd selected his robes, the extra time spent on grooming charms, the way his fingers kept finding Harry's scales in absent, almost nervous strokes.

§You're anxious,§ Harry observed from his position on Tom's pillow.

§Not anxious,§ Tom corrected, straightening his collar in the mirror. §Anticipatory. Slughorn's gatherings are tedious, but they serve a purpose. And afterward...§

§The real meeting,§ Harry finished.

Tom's smile was sharp. §Exactly.§ He turned, reaching for Harry. §Ready to meet my associates?§

Harry wasn't sure "ready" was the right word, but he allowed Tom to tuck him into the enchanted pocket. The warmth surrounded him immediately, and he felt Tom's heartbeat pick up slightly as they left the dormitory.

Slughorn's office was exactly as Harry remembered from his own time—overstuffed furniture, walls covered in photographs of famous former students, and a table laden with crystallized pineapple, mead, and various other delicacies.

The party itself was mind-numbingly boring.

Harry watched through the small opening in the pocket as Slughorn held court, moving from student to student like a bee pollinating flowers. Each interaction followed the same pattern—effusive praise, gentle probing about family connections or future ambitions, and shameless name-dropping.

"Tom, my boy!" Slughorn beamed, clapping Tom on the shoulder. "I was just telling young Avery here about your absolutely brilliant work on the Golpalott's Third Law essay. Have you given any thought to what you'll do after Hogwarts? The Ministry would be lucky to have you, of course, but I could put in a word with some colleagues in potion research..."

"You're very kind, Professor," Tom said with that charming smile. "I haven't decided yet. There are so many... possibilities."

The conversation continued in that vein—Slughorn fishing for information, Tom deflecting with practiced ease while still appearing flattered by the attention. Harry watched Walburga Black accept praise for her Ancient Runes work with cold grace, saw Lestrange stumble through a question about his family's business interests, observed how the Muggleborn students hovered at the edges, clearly invited but not quite included.

§Insufferable,§ Tom murmured in Parseltongue, so quietly only Harry could hear. To anyone watching, it looked like he was clearing his throat. §But necessary.§

§He really loves himself,§ Harry hissed back, equally quiet.

He felt Tom's chest shake slightly with suppressed laughter.

The party dragged on. More praise, more crystallized pineapple, more stories about Slughorn's famous acquaintances. Harry was beginning to understand why Tom found this tedious—there was no real substance here, just performance and networking.

Finally, mercifully, Slughorn began making noises about the evening drawing to a close.

"Well, well, it's getting rather late! You young people should be getting to bed—growing minds need their rest, after all!" He beamed at them all. "Thank you for coming, thank you! Always wonderful to spend time with Hogwarts' brightest stars!"

The students filed out in clusters, chattering about the party. But Harry noticed that several of them—Avery, Lestrange, Rosier, Dolohov, Walburga, and a few others—didn't head toward their dormitories. Instead, they drifted, seemingly aimlessly, toward a corridor that Harry recognized led to one of the castle's abandoned classrooms.

Tom moved with them, unhurried but purposeful.

The classroom they entered was larger than most, with desks pushed against the walls to create an open space in the center. Someone—probably Tom—had set up privacy wards; Harry could feel the magic humming through the air as the door closed behind them.

The atmosphere changed immediately. The careful politeness from Slughorn's party evaporated, replaced by something sharper. More focused.

Tom pulled Harry from his pocket, letting him coil loosely around his shoulders like a living scarf. Several students stared.

"Is that a snake?" Walburga asked, her nose wrinkling slightly.

"My familiar," Tom said smoothly. "Don't worry—he's quite harmless. Unless I tell him otherwise."

A lie, but it served its purpose. The others gave Harry wary respect, and no one questioned his presence.

They arranged themselves in a loose circle, some sitting on desks, others standing. Tom positioned himself where he could see everyone, his posture relaxed but commanding. These were his followers, Harry realized with a chill. His proto-Death Eaters.

"So," Avery said, breaking the silence. "Did everyone enjoy watching Slughorn preen for two hours?"

Scattered laughter.

"Necessary evil," Tom said. "His connections are useful, and attending his parties keeps him favorably disposed. But yes, tedious."

"Speaking of tedious," Lestrange said, "anyone else notice how he fawned over that Goshawk girl? A Mudblood in the Slug Club. What's next, inviting house-elves?"

More laughter, though Harry noticed Tom's expression remained neutral.

§Rude,§ Harry hissed quietly, just loud enough for Tom to hear.

Tom's hand came up to stroke Harry's scales—a soothing gesture, or perhaps a warning to be quiet.

"Goshawk is talented," Tom said carefully. "Slughorn values talent, regardless of blood. It's part of why he's successful."

"But surely blood matters," Walburga pressed. "Natural ability, proper upbringing—"

"We've had this discussion," Tom interrupted, his voice firm. "Power is what matters. How you obtain it is irrelevant."

An uncomfortable silence followed. Harry could feel the tension—these students wanted Tom's approval, but they also had their own beliefs, their own prejudices.

Dolohov, who'd been quiet until now, spoke up. "Have any of you been following the Muggle war?"

The conversation shifted, and Harry felt Tom relax slightly against him.

"My father says it's getting worse," Rosier offered. "Something about Germany and their leader—Hitler, I think? Apparently he's trying to conquer all of Europe."

"Muggles killing Muggles," Avery said dismissively. "What does it matter to us?"

"It matters because it affects the magical world," Tom said quietly. "The Muggle war creates instability. Instability creates opportunity."

Harry's scales prickled. That calculating tone again.

"I heard something interesting," Dolohov said, leaning forward. "My uncle works in the Department of Mysteries—he won't tell me much, but he mentioned that the Muggles have developed some kind of weapon. Something catastrophically powerful. Apparently it can destroy an entire city in one blow."

The circle went quiet. Even Tom looked intrigued.

"That's impossible," Rosier scoffed. "Muggles don't have that kind of power."

"My uncle seemed to think they do," Dolohov insisted. "Or will soon. He called it... atomic something. Said the destruction was unlike anything magical or Muggle has ever created."

§That's horrible,§ Harry hissed, unable to stay quiet. The atomic bomb. They were talking about the atomic bomb, and Harry knew exactly what happened—Hiroshima, Nagasaki, hundreds of thousands dead.

Tom's hand tightened slightly on his scales.

Dolohov laughed. "It's magnificent. Imagine—the Muggles finally developing something that can wipe themselves out. Perhaps they'll solve the Muggle problem for us."

Several students laughed. Even Walburga smiled coldly.

Harry felt sick.

§That's disgusting,§ he said, louder now, his voice sharp with anger. §Do you have any idea what that would do? To the environment? To wildlife? To innocent people who have nothing to do with the war?§

The laughter stopped. Everyone stared at Tom, who held a snake that apparently had very strong opinions.

"Did your snake just..." Avery started.

"He's very intelligent," Tom said smoothly, though Harry could feel the tension in his body. "I've been training him. Sometimes he... responds to things he hears."

§Tom,§ Harry pressed, ignoring the others. §You can't seriously think that's a good thing. Mass destruction, radiation poisoning, entire cities gone—§

Tom's hand clamped down on Harry's scales, not quite painful but definitely a warning. When he spoke, it was in Parseltongue, pitched low enough that the others couldn't quite hear. §Not now. Be quiet.§

But his eyes... his eyes were thoughtful. Calculating. Like he was filing away the information about this weapon for later consideration.

Harry wanted to scream. This was exactly how it started—this casual disregard for life, this fascination with power at any cost.

"Anyway," Tom said, switching back to English and deliberately changing the subject. "Rosier, you were going to tell us about the restricted section—"

"The Muggles aren't that powerful," Rosier interrupted, still stuck on the previous topic. "One weapon doesn't change centuries of magical superiority. We could destroy them easily if we wanted to."

"But we don't want to," Lyall Lupin said quietly from his position near the back. Harry had almost forgotten he was there—Remus's father, usually so quiet. "Destroying Muggles would violate the Statute of Secrecy. It would—"

"The Statute is outdated," Walburga cut in. "Why should we hide from them? We're superior in every way."

"Are we?" Lupin asked mildly. "They outnumber us significantly. And if Dolohov's uncle is right about this weapon—"

"Enough," Tom said, and his voice carried authority that silenced everyone. "We're not here to debate whether to start a war with Muggles. We're here to discuss magical theory and share knowledge the professors won't teach us."

He was redirecting, Harry realized. Taking control of the conversation before it spiraled somewhere he didn't want it to go. Interesting.

"Speaking of professors," Lestrange said, "has anyone else noticed Dumbledore's been watching us more closely lately?"

Several heads nodded.

"He watches everyone," Tom said carefully. "It's his nature. He's suspicious."

"Suspicious of what?" Avery asked.

"Of anything that challenges his worldview," Tom replied. "Dumbledore believes in the old ways—that power should be limited, controlled, restricted to those he deems worthy. He doesn't like students who think for themselves."

§That's not true,§ Harry hissed before he could stop himself, then immediately regretted it when Tom's hand tightened on him again.

But Tom ignored him this time, continuing. "We need to be careful. Don't give him reason to investigate too closely. Maintain your grades, follow the visible rules, and keep our actual studies private."

"You mean the Dark Arts research," Walburga said.

"I mean advanced magical theory," Tom corrected smoothly. "Whether the Ministry labels it 'dark' or not is irrelevant."

The meeting continued in that vein—discussions of restricted books, theories about ancient magic, complaints about professors who wouldn't teach them what they wanted to know. Harry listened, trying to separate genuine academic curiosity from the darker undertones.

Some of them—like Lyall Lupin—seemed to be there primarily for the knowledge, eager to learn beyond the standard curriculum. Others—like Dolohov and Walburga—were clearly there for Tom himself, drawn to his charisma and his promises of power.

And Tom... Tom was walking a careful line. He encouraged their loyalty, their ambition, their willingness to break rules. But he also kept them in check, redirecting conversations that went too far, maintaining a veneer of academic respectability.

He was building something. Something that looked innocent now but could easily become dangerous.

When Walburga mentioned Dumbledore watching them for the third time, Harry couldn't help it—he snorted. Actually snorted, the sound coming out as an amused hiss.

Tom's fingers dug into his scales. §What?§ he hissed quietly.

§Of course Dumbledore's watching you,§ Harry hissed back, too frustrated to care about caution. §You're gathering students in secret, discussing restricted magic, and acting like you're above the rules. What did you expect?§

Tom's jaw tightened, but he didn't respond.

Finally, after what felt like hours, the meeting began to break up. The students filtered out in small groups, careful not to attract attention. Tom waited until they were all gone before tucking Harry back into his pocket and leaving the classroom.

But instead of heading back to the common room, he took a different route—through empty corridors, up unused staircases, until they reached a small, abandoned tower room that Harry had never seen before.

Tom pulled Harry out and set him on a dusty windowsill with more force than necessary.

§What,§ Tom said, his voice dangerously quiet, §was that?§

§What was what?§ Harry asked, though he knew perfectly well.

§The commentary. The backtalk. Contradicting me in front of my associates.§ Tom's dark eyes flashed with anger. §I brought you as a courtesy, to let you observe. Not to have you undermine me.§

§I wasn't undermining you,§ Harry protested. §I was—§

§You were being disrespectful,§ Tom cut him off. §Questioning my judgment. Making me look like I can't even control my own familiar.§

§Maybe if your judgment was better, I wouldn't have to question it,§ Harry shot back, his own anger rising. §That thing Dolohov mentioned—that weapon—do you have any idea how many people it kills? How much suffering it causes? And you just sat there looking interested—§

§Because it IS interesting,§ Tom snapped. §A weapon that powerful, developed by Muggles—of course it's worth studying. Knowledge is power, and I won't apologize for wanting to understand—§

§It's not about understanding,§ Harry interrupted. §It's about what you plan to DO with that understanding. You're already thinking about applications, aren't you? About how magic could—§

§ENOUGH.§

The word cracked through the air like a whip. Tom's magic flared, and Harry felt it pressing against him—not quite threatening, but definitely a show of power.

§You forget yourself,§ Tom said coldly. §You're my snake. My familiar. You don't get to question me. You don't get to criticize my choices. You certainly don't get to embarrass me in front of my followers.§

§Followers,§ Harry spat. §Not friends. Followers. Do you even hear yourself?§

Tom's expression went dangerously blank. Without another word, he picked Harry up—roughly, carelessly—and carried him back to the dormitory.

The other boys were already asleep, their bed curtains drawn. Tom moved silently to his bedside table and pulled open the bottom drawer. It was empty except for a few spare quills.

§You need to learn your place,§ Tom said quietly, and dropped Harry inside.

§Tom, wait—§

The drawer slammed shut.

The darkness was absolute.

Harry coiled in the small space, panic rising immediately. The drawer was barely large enough for him to fit, and there were gaps in the wood that let in cold air from the dungeons but nothing else—no light, no warmth, no comfort.

He tried to push the drawer open. It didn't budge. Tom had sealed it with magic.

§Tom!§ Harry called. §Tom, let me out!§

No response.

The cold seeped in quickly. As a snake, Harry needed external heat to regulate his body temperature—that was why Tom's pocket was enchanted with warming charms, why he always made sure Harry had access to heated stones or warm places to rest.

The drawer had no such accommodations.

Within an hour, Harry was shivering. Within two, he could barely move, his muscles stiff and unresponsive. His magic tried to compensate, but it was exhausted from the long day, from the stress of the meeting, from fighting with Tom.

He couldn't sleep. The cold wouldn't let him. Every time he tried, his body would seize up, forcing him awake again.

Harry had never felt so miserable, so helpless. At least when Bellatrix had tortured him, it had been quick—sharp pain and then unconsciousness. This was different. This was slow suffering, drawn out over hours.

And it was Tom doing it to him. The same Tom who'd saved him, healed him, carried him gently in an enchanted pocket. The same Tom who'd stroked his scales and called him precious.

The same Tom who would become Voldemort.

Harry should have seen this coming. Should have known that the gentleness was conditional, dependent on Harry's compliance. The moment Harry stepped out of line, challenged him, embarrassed him—this was the result.

Control. It had always been about control.

The hours crawled by. Harry lost track of time in the darkness, measuring it only by how cold he got, how stiff his muscles became. He tried calling out a few more times, but his voice grew weaker, and Tom never answered.

Eventually, Harry stopped trying. He just lay there in the frigid darkness, coiled as tightly as he could manage, and endured.

When the drawer finally opened, pale morning light flooded in, and Harry couldn't even lift his head.

He heard Tom's sharp intake of breath. Felt hands—gentle now, careful—lift him from the drawer. Tom's fingers were warm against his freezing scales.

§Wake up,§ Tom said, and his voice was different. Worried. Guilty. §I—oh, I didn't think—§

He didn't finish. Just held Harry against his chest, wrapping him in the warmth of his body, his hands moving frantically to check for damage.

Harry wanted to pull away. Wanted to hiss and strike and show Tom exactly how much he'd hurt him. But he was too cold, too exhausted, and the warmth felt too good after hours of freezing.

§I'm sorry,§ Tom whispered, carrying Harry to the bed and conjuring a heating stone immediately. §I forgot—snakes need heat, I should have remembered—§

§You wouldn't have to be remorseful,§ Harry managed, his voice weak but sharp, §if you'd acted nicely in the first place.§

Tom flinched like he'd been struck.

§And you're reminding me more and more,§ Harry continued, each word an effort, §of those terrible wizards who tortured me. Cruelty when you don't get your way. Punishment for disobedience. Is that what you are, Tom? Just another cruel wizard who hurts things weaker than himself?§

The words hit their mark. Harry could see it in Tom's face—shock, then anger, then something that might have been shame.

§I'm not—§ Tom started, his voice rising. §I would never—§

§You just did,§ Harry said flatly.

Tom's jaw clenched. His hands were still gentle on Harry's scales, still warming him, but his expression was furious. At Harry for the accusation, or at himself for proving it true, Harry couldn't tell.

§Fine,§ Tom bit out. He reached for his school robes, already dressed for classes. §If you're going to compare me to your abusers, then you can spend the day in the pocket thinking about whether that's really fair.§

He picked Harry up—not gently, not roughly, somewhere in between—and tucked him into the enchanted pocket with more force than necessary.

But the pocket was warm. Blessedly, perfectly warm. And soft. And Harry was so exhausted from his sleepless, freezing night that the moment he felt that warmth surrounding him, felt Tom's heartbeat through the fabric, his body simply gave up its fight to stay conscious.

Tom's voice came from above, still angry but with an edge of concern. §Are you—§

But Harry was already asleep.

When Harry woke, he could tell from the ambient noise that Tom was in class. Voices discussing transfiguration theory, the scratch of quills on parchment, and a warm, grandfatherly voice that made Harry's heart clench with recognition.

Dumbledore.

"Excellent work, Miss Abbott. The theory is sound, though your wand movement could use refinement,§ Dumbledore was saying. Mr. Riddle, perhaps you could demonstrate the correct motion for the class?"

"Of course, Professor." Tom's voice, perfectly polite. Perfectly controlled.

Harry shifted slightly in the pocket, still exhausted but no longer dangerously cold. He felt Tom's hand press briefly against his robes, checking that Harry was there. Still alive. Still his.

The possessive gesture should have made Harry angry. Instead, he just felt tired.

Because Tom was right about one thing—comparing him to Bellatrix wasn't entirely fair. Bellatrix had tortured Harry for fun, for ideology, for her twisted devotion to Voldemort. Tom had punished Harry out of anger, out of wounded pride, and had clearly regretted it when he'd seen the consequences.

That didn't make it okay. But it made it... different.

The question was whether Tom could learn from it. Whether he could become something other than the monster Harry knew he'd turn into.

Or whether this was just the beginning of a pattern that would repeat itself over and over until Tom Riddle disappeared entirely, leaving only Lord Voldemort behind.

Harry didn't know. But as he drifted back to sleep in the warmth of Tom's pocket, listening to Dumbledore's gentle voice teaching a boy who would one day become his greatest enemy, Harry couldn't help but hope.

Even though hope, where Tom Riddle was concerned, was probably the most dangerous thing of all.

Chapter Text

The rest of the day passed in a blur of warmth and exhaustion. Harry drifted in and out of consciousness, vaguely aware of Tom's movements—sitting in classes, walking through corridors, the quiet murmur of his voice when he spoke to other students.

But mostly, Harry just slept. His body needed it desperately after the night in the drawer, and the enchanted pocket provided everything he'd been denied—warmth, comfort, safety.

When he finally woke properly, it was late afternoon. Tom was alone somewhere, his footsteps echoing on stone, and Harry could hear the distant sound of water. The prefect's bathroom, maybe, or one of the abandoned corridors near the lake.

§You're awake,§ Tom said softly. Not a question—he must have felt Harry stirring.

Harry didn't respond. He was still angry, still hurt, and he didn't trust his voice to stay neutral.

Tom stopped walking. Harry felt him settle onto what might have been a windowsill or bench, then gentle hands pulled Harry from the pocket.

The late afternoon sun was streaming through tall windows, casting everything in gold. They were in an abandoned classroom, Harry realized—one of the tower rooms with a view of the grounds. Tom set Harry carefully on the stone sill, where the sun had warmed it pleasantly.

§How do you feel?§ Tom asked quietly.

§Tired,§ Harry said, because it was true and non-committal.

Tom's expression flickered with something that might have been guilt. §I brought you food. Chicken. You should eat.§

He produced a small container from his robes, the meat still warm. Harry's body responded to the smell—he was hungry, despite everything—but he hesitated.

§Please,§ Tom said, and his voice was softer than Harry had ever heard it. §You need to eat. You need to recover. I... I shouldn't have done that. Last night. The drawer.§

§No,§ Harry agreed flatly. §You shouldn't have.§

Tom was quiet for a long moment, watching Harry with an expression that was difficult to read. Finally, he spoke again.

§I truly am sorry. I know I said it this morning, but... I don't think you believed me. And you were right not to.§ He paused, his fingers tracing patterns on the stone sill near Harry. §I was angry. Embarrassed that you'd questioned me in front of the others. And I wanted to... to put you in your place. To remind you that you're mine.§

§I'm not a possession,§ Harry said quietly.

§I know,§ Tom said, and he sounded almost surprised by his own admission. §Or... I should know. But it's difficult. I've never... I don't know how to explain this.§

He fell silent again, struggling with something. Harry waited.

§I feel connected to you,§ Tom finally said, his voice barely above a whisper. §From the moment I found you in the forest, there's been something... I don't understand it. You're a snake. I shouldn't feel this way about a snake. But when you were in that drawer, and I woke up and realized what I'd done, how cold you must be—§

He cut himself off, his jaw clenching.

§I felt like I'd hurt myself,§ Tom finished quietly. §Like I'd damaged something precious. Something I can't afford to lose.§

Harry's heart stuttered. Because he felt it too—that pull, that connection. He'd been attributing it to the situation, to Stockholm syndrome, to the complicated mess of trying to change the past. But what if it was more than that?

His scar. The connection to Voldemort that had always been there, that made him see things through the Dark Lord's eyes, feel his emotions. Could it work backwards? Could Tom feel him too, even though Tom didn't know what Harry was?

§I feel it too,§ Harry admitted carefully. §The connection. I don't understand it either.§

Tom's expression shifted—relief, wonder, something almost vulnerable. §You do?§

§Yes.§

They were quiet for a moment, the weight of that admission hanging between them.

§I've been thinking,§ Harry said slowly, testing an idea that had been forming since he'd woken. §About leaving. Once I'm fully recovered. Finding somewhere else to go.§

Tom went very still. §No.§

§Listen—§

§No,§ Tom repeated, his voice sharp with panic. §You can't leave. You're not well enough, and even if you were—where would you go? You'd be vulnerable out there. Someone would capture you, or worse—§

§Tom,§ Harry interrupted. §I'm not saying I want to leave. I'm saying I've been thinking about it. Because last night terrified me. Not just the cold, the pain—but what it meant. That you could hurt me that easily. That your care is conditional on my obedience.§

Tom flinched.

§But,§ Harry continued, §I don't actually want to leave. Despite everything, despite knowing it's probably stupid and dangerous, I... I want to stay. With you.§

Tom's hands were trembling slightly. §Then stay.§

§I will,§ Harry said. §But not like this. Not if you're going to punish me every time I disagree with you. I can't live like that, Tom. I won't.§

§I won't,§ Tom said quickly. §I promise, I won't do that again—§

§You said that this morning,§ Harry reminded him. §And you were still angry enough to shove me in the pocket roughly. Still furious that I'd embarrassed you.§

Tom looked away, shame coloring his features.

§If you truly don't want my opinion,§ Harry said carefully, §then leave me in your room during meetings. I'll stay there, safe and warm, and you can do whatever you want without me commenting. But don't punish me for having thoughts. For disagreeing with things I find horrifying.§

Tom was quiet for a long moment, processing this. When he finally looked back at Harry, his expression was thoughtful.

§That's... fair,§ he admitted. §More than fair, actually. You're right. If I don't want your input, I shouldn't bring you somewhere and then get angry when you give it.§

§Exactly.§

§But,§ Tom added, a hint of that familiar arrogance creeping back into his voice, §I do want your input. Most of the time. You challenge me in ways no one else does. You make me think about things differently. I just... I need to learn not to lash out when you're right and I don't want to admit it.§

Harry felt something warm unfurl in his chest. Hope, maybe. Or the beginning of trust.

§Can you learn that?§ Harry asked softly.

§I don't know,§ Tom said honestly. §But I want to try. For you.§

The words hung in the air between them, weighted with meaning neither of them fully understood.

§Eat,§ Tom said finally, gesturing to the chicken. §Please. And then... then we'll figure this out. Together.§

Harry considered him for a long moment—this complicated, brilliant, dangerous boy who would become a monster but wasn't quite there yet. Then he moved forward and began to eat.

Tom watched him with an expression that was almost tender, his hand coming up to stroke Harry's scales with that familiar gentleness.

§Thank you,§ Tom murmured. §For staying. For giving me another chance.§

§Don't make me regret it,§ Harry said, but his tone was softer now.

§I'll try not to,§ Tom promised.

And in that moment, in the golden afternoon light with Tom's hand gentle on his scales, Harry almost believed him.

𓆙 𓆙 𓆙 𓆙 𓆓 𓆓 𓆓 𓆓 𓆙 𓆙 𓆙 𓆙 𓆓 𓆓 𓆓 𓆓

By the next morning, Harry was feeling significantly better. The warmth of Tom's pocket, a full night's sleep, and Tom's careful ministrations had restored most of his strength. His scales no longer felt stiff, and his magic had settled back into something approaching normal.

Tom had been unusually quiet all morning—checking on Harry frequently but saying little. The guilt was still there, written in the careful way he handled Harry, the worried glances, the heating stone he'd conjured before Harry even asked.

§How are you feeling?§ Tom asked for the third time as he prepared for breakfast.

§Better,§ Harry said honestly. §Much better.§

Tom's relief was palpable. §Good. That's... good.§

He tucked Harry into the enchanted pocket with extraordinary care, making sure he was comfortable before heading to the Great Hall.

The Great Hall was busy with the usual breakfast crowd. Tom settled at the Slytherin table, and within moments, his usual group had gathered around him.

"Morning, Riddle," Avery said, reaching for the bacon. "You look tired. Rough night?"

"Fine," Tom said shortly, his hand moving to press against his robes where Harry was hidden. A protective gesture that Harry was beginning to recognize.

Lestrange leaned in. "Did you finish the Potions essay? Slughorn wants three feet on the properties of—"

He was interrupted by a strange rustling from Tom's robes. Harry had shifted to get a better view through the pocket opening, and apparently made more noise than intended.

"What was that?" Rosier asked, his eyes narrowing.

Tom's jaw tightened. Slowly, carefully, he reached into his robes and pulled Harry out just enough that his head was visible, resting in Tom's palm.

"Your snake," Walburga said, her nose wrinkling with distaste. "You're still carrying that thing around?"

§Thing,§ Harry hissed indignantly, too quiet for anyone but Tom to hear clearly.

"He's not a thing," Tom said coolly. "He's a perfectly intelligent familiar."

Avery leaned closer, studying Harry with open curiosity. "He does look... unusual. Those scales are remarkable. Almost looks hairy in this light, with all those iridescent colors."

Several of Tom's followers laughed.

"Hairy," Lestrange repeated, grinning. "That's one way to describe a snake."

The laughter continued, and Harry felt a spike of irritation. They were mocking him. Making fun of his appearance like he was some kind of joke.

§That's my name,§ Harry hissed suddenly, loud enough that everyone at the table could hear the sibilant sounds even if they couldn't understand them. §Call me Harry, Tom.§

Tom's hand froze. His eyes widened slightly as he looked down at Harry.

§What?§ Tom hissed back in Parseltongue, his voice carefully quiet.

§Harry,§ Harry repeated. §It's my name. If you're going to keep me, at least call me by my name.§

It was a calculated risk. "Harry" was a common enough name—there was no reason Tom would connect a snake named Harry to Harry Potter, who wouldn't be born for decades. And it felt important, somehow, to reclaim that piece of himself. To not just be "the snake" or "my familiar."

Tom's expression was complex—surprise, consideration, and something that might have been amusement.

§Harry,§ Tom said slowly, testing the name. §That's a ridiculous name for a snake.§

§It's my name,§ Harry insisted.

"What's it saying?" Avery asked, watching the exchange with fascination.

Tom opened his mouth to respond, but then his gaze caught on something over Avery's shoulder. His expression shifted, becoming more guarded.

Harry followed his line of sight and felt his heart stutter.

Dumbledore.

The Transfiguration professor was sitting at the Head Table, but his attention was focused entirely on their section of the Slytherin table. More specifically, on Tom. On the snake Tom was holding. Those blue eyes—still sharp behind half-moon spectacles even in 1943—studied Harry with an intensity that made his scales prickle.

Dumbledore couldn't possibly know who Harry was. It was impossible. But the way he was looking at them, that penetrating gaze...

§Fine,§ Tom hissed quickly in Parseltongue, his voice low and urgent. §Your name is Harry. Now be quiet before you draw more attention.§

He said it loud enough that his followers heard the name in the Parseltongue, even if they couldn't understand the rest.

"Did you just... name your snake?" Lestrange asked.

"He already had a name," Tom said smoothly, tucking Harry back into his robes with perhaps more haste than necessary. "I simply didn't know it before. He's called Harry."

"Harry," Rosier repeated, smirking. "A Muggle name for a snake. How... ordinary."

"I think it's fitting," Tom said, his voice taking on that sharp edge that meant someone had pushed too far. "Ordinary enough to be overlooked. Which is useful."

The implied threat—that they should overlook and not question Harry's presence—was clear. The group fell silent.

Harry settled into the pocket, his heart still racing from Dumbledore's scrutiny. Through the opening, he could see the professor still watching their table, his expression thoughtful.

§He's watching us,§ Harry hissed quietly to Tom.

§I know,§ Tom murmured back, his voice tense. §That's why you need to be more careful. Dumbledore is already suspicious of me. I don't need him wondering about my familiar as well.§

§Sorry,§ Harry said, and meant it. He hadn't meant to cause problems. He'd just wanted his name back.

Tom's hand pressed against the robes, over where Harry was hidden. Not possessive this time, but reassuring.

§It's alright,§ Tom said softly. §Harry.§

The way Tom said his name—careful, almost fond—made something in Harry's chest tighten. This was wrong. He shouldn't feel pleased that Tom Riddle was calling him by name. Shouldn't feel this connection growing between them.

But he did.

And that was terrifying.

Later, when Tom was between classes, he found an empty alcove and pulled Harry out again.

§Harry,§ Tom said, and there was something strange in his voice. §That really is your name? Not something you just decided because Avery made that ridiculous comment?§

§It's really my name,§ Harry confirmed. §The wizards who... who had me before. They never used it. But it's mine.§

Tom's fingers stroked along Harry's scales thoughtfully. §Harry,§ he repeated. §It's a common name. Unremarkable. But I suppose that's part of what makes you interesting—nothing about you is what it seems.§

Too close to the truth again. Tom was always too close.

§I'm just a snake with a name,§ Harry said carefully.

§You're never 'just' anything,§ Tom murmured. Then, more quietly: §Thank you. For not leaving. After last night, I thought... I was afraid you'd try to escape the moment you recovered.§

§I told you I wouldn't,§ Harry said. §I meant it.§

§I know.§ Tom lifted Harry closer, meeting his eyes. §I won't do that again. Hurt you like that. I promise.§

Harry wanted to believe him. Wanted to trust that promise. But he'd seen what Tom would become, knew the capacity for cruelty that lurked beneath the surface.

Still. This Tom, sixteen-year-old Tom who looked at Harry with something like genuine affection—maybe he could be different. Maybe Harry could help make him different.

§Okay,§ Harry said softly. §I believe you.§

Tom's smile was small but genuine. §Good. Now come on, Harry. We have Defense Against the Dark Arts next.§

He tucked Harry back into the pocket, and Harry felt the now-familiar warmth surround him. Safe. Protected. Cared for.

Even if it was by Tom Riddle.

Even if that should terrify him.

After classes ended for the day, Tom surprised Harry by heading not toward the dungeons but out onto the grounds. The autumn air was crisp, carrying the scent of fallen leaves and the distant promise of winter. Students were scattered across the lawn—some studying, some playing games, some just enjoying the rare moment of freedom between classes and dinner.

Tom walked past them all, his stride purposeful, until he reached the edge of the lake. Here, away from curious eyes and listening ears, he finally stopped. He settled onto a flat rock near the water's edge and carefully pulled Harry from his pocket.

§There,§ Tom murmured, setting Harry on the sun-warmed stone. §Better?§

Harry stretched gratefully, feeling the warmth seep into his scales. He was still tired from the previous night, still recovering, but being outside helped. The lake lapped gently at the shore, and Harry could see the castle reflected in its surface—ancient and beautiful and so painfully familiar.

Tom was quiet for a long moment, staring out at the water. Then, without looking at Harry, he spoke.

§Tell me about yourself,§ Tom said softly. §Your real story. Not just that you were tortured by dark wizards—I want to know more. Where did you come from? What was your life like before?§

Harry's heart stuttered. This was dangerous territory. But Tom had opened up to him this morning, had shown vulnerability. Maybe... maybe Harry could give him something in return. Not the truth, but close enough.

§I grew up trapped,§ Harry said carefully. §In a small space. Barely big enough to move in. The ones who were supposed to keep me safe—they hurt me instead. Starved me. Punished me for things I couldn't control.§

The Dursleys. The cupboard under the stairs. It wasn't a lie, just... reframed.

Tom's head turned sharply. §They were supposed to protect you?§

§Yes,§ Harry hissed. §I had nowhere else to go. No one else to turn to. So I stayed, and I endured, because what choice did I have?§

Tom's expression had gone dark. His fingers clenched in the grass beside the rock. §I know what that's like,§ he said quietly.

§Do you?§

§Yes.§ Tom's jaw tightened. §I grew up in an orphanage. Wool's Orphanage, in London. My mother died giving birth to me, and my father... he abandoned us. Didn't even know I existed.§

Harry stayed quiet, letting Tom talk. He hadn't known this—not really. He knew Tom came from an orphanage, but hearing it directly, hearing the pain in Tom's voice...

§It's a terrible place,§ Tom continued, his voice taking on an edge. §Cold. Cruel. The other children feared me because I was different, and the adults... they thought I was disturbed. Evil. They never said it outright, but I could see it in their eyes.§

§Because of your magic,§ Harry guessed.

§Because I could do things they couldn't explain,§ Tom corrected. §Make things happen when I was angry. Make people hurt when they hurt me first. I didn't understand it then—I thought I was just... different. Special. And they hated me for it.§

His fingers had torn up small clumps of grass, the blades scattered around him.

§I spent years in that place, trapped, knowing I didn't belong there but having nowhere else to go. And then Dumbledore came and told me about Hogwarts. About magic. About the fact that I wasn't mad or evil—I was a wizard.§

§And you finally escaped,§ Harry said softly, his heart aching with recognition. He understood that feeling all too well.

§For nine months a year,§ Tom agreed bitterly. §But every summer, I have to go back. Back to that cold, miserable place where everyone still looks at me like I'm something wrong. Something dangerous.§

The pain in Tom's voice was raw, real. Harry had felt the same way at the Dursleys'—the sense of being unwanted, feared, punished for things beyond his control. The crushing inevitability of having to return every summer to people who hated you.

§You shouldn't have to go back,§ Harry said firmly.

Tom laughed, but there was no humor in it. §I don't have a choice. Underage wizards can't live on their own. The Ministry won't allow it. And I have nowhere else to go.§

§Then we'll find somewhere,§ Harry said, the words coming out before he'd fully thought them through. §You don't have to go back to that place. We could—we could leave. During the summer, I mean. Find somewhere safe. Somewhere comfortable. Strike out together.§

Tom went very still. §What?§

§You shouldn't have to spend your summers being treated like that,§ Harry pressed. §Neither of us should have to go back to places that hurt us. So we don't. We find somewhere else. Rent a flat, maybe, or find work somewhere. Anything would be better than going back to people who hate you.§

Harry's mind was racing. If Tom had somewhere safe during summers—somewhere he felt wanted, cared for—maybe he wouldn't become so twisted by loneliness and rejection. Maybe having someone, having Harry, would be enough to keep him from going down that dark path.

§You're serious,§ Tom said, staring at him with wide eyes.

§Yes,§ Harry said. §You're brilliant, Tom. You could find work easily, even at sixteen. And I—I don't need much. Just somewhere warm. Somewhere safe.§

Tom's expression was complex—shock, hope, fear, longing, all warring for dominance. His hand had moved unconsciously to rest near Harry, fingers trembling slightly.

§I've never...§ Tom started, then stopped. Swallowed hard. §No one's ever offered me that before. A home. Someone to share it with.§

§Well, I'm offering now,§ Harry said softly.

For a long moment, Tom just stared at him, those dark eyes searching Harry's face as if trying to determine if this was real or some cruel joke. Then, slowly, something in his expression shifted. Softened.

§I would like that,§ Tom admitted quietly. §More than you know. But...§

§But what?§

§My wand,§ Tom said. §All underage magic is tracked by the Ministry. If I use magic outside of Hogwarts during term time, or outside my registered residence during summer, they'll know immediately. They'd find us. Send me back.§

Harry's mind raced. He knew about the Trace—the spell that monitored underage magic use. But there had to be a way around it.

§Then we get you another wand,§ Harry said. §A burner wand. One that isn't registered to you. You could use that for anything that needs magic, and keep your real wand hidden. The Ministry would only track your registered wand, right?§

Tom blinked. Then, slowly, a smile spread across his face—not his charming mask, but something genuine. Almost wondering.

§That... could actually work,§ he said. §There are wandmakers who deal in unregistered wands. Knockturn Alley, mostly. They're not as well-crafted as Ollivander's, but they're functional. And untraceable.§

§So we do it,§ Harry said. §This summer. You don't go back to the orphanage. We leave together. Find somewhere safe.§

Tom's hand moved to Harry's scales, stroking gently. Possessively. §Together,§ he repeated, as if testing the word. §I've never had a 'together' before.§

§Well, now you do,§ Harry said.

Tom was quiet for a long moment, his fingers continuing their gentle path along Harry's scales. The sun was beginning to set, painting the lake in shades of gold and orange, and for the first time since Harry had arrived in 1943, he felt something that might have been hope.

Maybe he could do this. Maybe he could save Tom Riddle by giving him something Voldemort had never had—a home. Someone who cared. A reason not to tear himself apart in pursuit of immortality.

§Thank you,§ Tom said softly. §For this. For... understanding. For not treating me like I'm something to be feared.§

§You're not,§ Harry said, and meant it. Tom wasn't Voldemort yet. He was just a lonely, brilliant boy who'd been hurt too many times. And maybe, just maybe, Harry could keep him from becoming the monster he knew.

§We should get back,§ Tom murmured eventually, though he seemed reluctant to move. §Dinner will be starting soon. But Harry?§

§Yes?§

§I meant it. This summer. We'll leave together. Find somewhere that's ours.§

His voice was full of determination and something else—something that sounded almost like happiness.

Harry felt Tom's hand scoop him up gently, felt the warmth as he was tucked back into the enchanted pocket. And as they walked back toward the castle, Harry couldn't help but think that maybe, just maybe, he'd found a way to change everything.

Even if it meant binding himself to Tom Riddle more completely than he'd ever intended.

Chapter Text

The next few days passed in a strange sort of peace. Tom kept his promise—he didn't punish Harry for having opinions, didn't lock him away for disagreeing. But his controlling nature was still there, simmering beneath the surface.

It showed in small ways. The way Tom would check on Harry constantly, his hand moving to his pocket every few minutes as if reassuring himself that Harry was still there. The way he'd arrange Harry's heating stones in precise patterns, adjusting them until they were exactly as he wanted them. The way he'd select Harry's food with meticulous care, ensuring every piece was the right temperature, the right size, the right texture.

§You don't have to do all this,§ Harry said one evening as Tom rearranged the blankets in his nest for the third time.

§I want to,§ Tom said simply. §You're mine to care for. I need to make sure everything is perfect.§

§But I'm fine,§ Harry protested gently. §The blankets were fine before. You don't need to—§

§I do need to,§ Tom interrupted, his voice taking on an edge. §Please. Just... let me.§

There was something almost desperate in his tone. Like making sure Harry was perfectly comfortable was the only way Tom knew how to show he cared. Like control was the only language he spoke.

Harry sighed but didn't argue further. §Alright. Thank you for taking such good care of me.§

Tom's expression softened immediately. §Of course. Always.§

It was exhausting sometimes, being the subject of Tom's intense focus. But Harry was learning to navigate it—gentle redirection when Tom went too far, gratitude when his controlling tendencies came from a place of genuine care, firm boundaries when they didn't.

And slowly, Tom was learning too. Learning that Harry didn't need to be micromanaged. That kindness could be offered without strings attached. That relationships didn't have to be about control.

At least, Harry hoped he was learning.

𓆙 𓆙 𓆙 𓆙 𓆓 𓆓 𓆓 𓆓 𓆙 𓆙 𓆙 𓆙 𓆓 𓆓 𓆓 𓆓

The tension with Tom's followers had been building for days.

Ever since the Knights of Walpurgis meeting where Tom had defended Muggleborns' magical ability—however pragmatically—there had been an undercurrent of unease. Avery and Lestrange still followed Tom, still sought his approval, but there was a wariness now. A sense that their leader wasn't quite adhering to the ideology they'd expected.

It came to a head in the library on a gray Thursday afternoon.

Harry was coiled in Tom's pocket, half-asleep, when he heard Avery's voice cut through the quiet study atmosphere.

"I still don't understand why you defend them," Avery was saying, his voice low but sharp. "Mudbloods and half-bloods. They dilute our magic, corrupt our traditions. My father says—"

"I don't particularly care what your father says," Tom interrupted coolly, not looking up from his Arithmancy textbook.

Harry felt the tension spike immediately. Through the pocket opening, he could see they were in a relatively isolated corner of the library, surrounded by tall shelves. Avery, Lestrange, Rosier, and Mulciber had gathered around Tom's table, their expressions ranging from confused to hostile.

"We just want to understand your position," Lestrange said, trying for diplomacy. "You're a Slytherin. You understand heritage, legacy. But lately you've been... soft. On blood purity."

Tom set down his quill with deliberate precision. When he looked up, his expression was cold. Dangerous.

"Soft," he repeated flatly.

"Not soft, exactly," Rosier amended quickly. "But you defend Muggleborns. You say blood doesn't matter. That's not—"

"I said blood isn't the only thing that matters," Tom corrected. "There's a difference."

"So you do think blood matters?" Walburga Black appeared from behind a shelf, her expression sharp. "Because sometimes it sounds like you don't care at all. Like you'd be happy mixing with Mudbloods and muggles alike."

Harry felt Tom's hand press against his robes, over where Harry was hidden. A warning to stay quiet.

"I'm not a fan of Muggles," Tom said, his voice measured. "They're primitive. Ignorant of magic. I liken them to ants, really."

Harry's scales prickled with unease. This was the Tom who would become Voldemort speaking—the casual dismissal of Muggle humanity.

"Exactly!" Avery said, leaning forward eagerly. "They're beneath us. We should—"

"But there's no need to use a magnifying glass to torture them," Tom continued smoothly, and Harry could hear the calculated reasoning in his voice. "Ignoring them works just as well. They live their little Muggle lives, we live ours, and never the twain shall meet. Obsessing over them, hunting them, trying to control them—that's giving them far too much importance."

The group fell silent, processing this.

"What about half-bloods?" Mulciber asked quietly. "People with Muggle parents. Are they ants too?"

The question hung in the air, weighted with accusation. Everyone knew Tom was a half-blood. Everyone knew his father had been a Muggle.

Tom stood slowly, his chair scraping against the floor. His magic filled the air around them—not threatening exactly, but a clear show of power.

"If you have something to say about half-bloods," Tom said softly, dangerously, "then say it to my face. Don't dance around it like cowards."

Mulciber paled but didn't back down. "It's just—you talk about Muggles like they're nothing, but you're half Muggle yourself. How do we know you're not sympathetic to them? That you won't—"

"Won't what?" Tom's voice cracked like a whip. "Betray your precious pure-blood ideals? Advocate for Muggle rights?"

Harry could feel the rage building in Tom's chest, could sense how close he was to lashing out.

§Tom,§ Harry hissed quietly, trying to calm him. §Don't—§

But Tom was beyond listening.

"I am more powerful than any pure-blood in this castle," Tom said, his voice low and furious. "I am top of our year in every subject. I have more magical knowledge in my little finger than most of you will accumulate in your entire lives. And you dare—you DARE—question me because of who my father was?"

"We're not questioning your power," Lestrange said quickly, trying to defuse the situation. "Just your ideology. If you're not committed to blood purity, then what are we even doing? What's the point of the Knights if—"

"The point," Tom interrupted coldly, "is power. Knowledge. Advancement. Not sitting around obsessing over bloodlines like it's the only thing that defines a wizard's worth."

"It IS the only thing!" Walburga snapped. "Blood is everything! It determines your magic, your place in society, your—"

"Then explain me," Tom said, his voice silky with danger. "Explain how a half-blood orphan from Muggle London is more powerful than you, Walburga. More powerful than all of you. If blood is everything, how is that possible?"

Walburga's face flushed red. "You're an exception—"

"No," Tom said. "I'm proof that your ideology is flawed. Blood matters, yes—magical blood, magical heritage. But a half-blood from a powerful magical family is worth more than a pure-blood from a weak one. That's simple logic."

"So you admit blood matters," Avery pressed.

"I admit magical ability matters," Tom corrected. "Which often correlates with magical bloodlines. But not always. And pretending otherwise is willful ignorance."

"That's basically what Dumbledore says," Rosier muttered. "That everyone's equal, that blood doesn't—"

Tom's wand was out before Rosier could finish, pointed directly at his chest. The movement was so fast Harry barely saw it.

"Don't," Tom said softly, "ever compare me to Dumbledore again."

The library was completely silent now. Several other students had noticed the confrontation and were watching from a distance, whispered conversations spreading through the stacks.

"Tom," Lestrange said carefully, his hands raised in a placating gesture. "Put the wand down. We're just talking—"

"Are we?" Tom's eyes were cold. "Because it sounds like you're questioning my leadership. My ideology. My place at the head of the Knights."

"We're not—"

"If you have a problem with half-bloods," Tom said, his voice carrying now, loud enough for the watching students to hear, "then say it. Say it clearly. Tell me to my face that you think I'm inferior because of my father. That you think my blood makes me less than you."

No one spoke. The challenge hung in the air, and Harry could see the calculation on their faces—they needed Tom's brilliance, his connections, his power. But they also believed in blood purity with the fervor of true believers.

"That's what I thought," Tom said finally, lowering his wand. "You're happy to follow a half-blood as long as I'm useful. As long as I give you access to knowledge and power you can't get elsewhere. But the moment I challenge your comfortable prejudices, you question my worth."

"That's not fair," Avery protested. "We're not—"

"Mr. Riddle!"

Everyone turned. Madam Pince, the librarian, was striding toward them with a furious expression, her robes billowing dramatically.

"Wands away, immediately!" she snapped. "This is a place of learning, not a dueling ground! I don't care what disagreement you're having—you will NOT threaten other students in my library!"

"Yes, Madam Pince," Tom said smoothly, his wand disappearing back into his robes. His expression had transformed instantly from dangerous to apologetic. "My apologies. We were having a... spirited debate about magical theory. It got out of hand."

"Spirited debate," Pince repeated skeptically. She looked at the group of Slytherins, all of whom were carefully avoiding eye contact. "All of you—separate tables. Now. And if I hear even a whisper of more conflict, you'll all be banned from the library for a month."

"Yes, ma'am," came the chorus of responses.

The group scattered, shooting Tom various looks—some resentful, some calculating, some uncertain. Tom gathered his books with precise, controlled movements and moved to a table on the opposite side of the library.

Only when he was seated again, alone, did Harry feel the tension finally begin to drain from Tom's body.

§That was close,§ Harry hissed quietly.

§They needed to be reminded,§ Tom said, his voice tight. §Needed to remember that I lead the Knights because I'm more powerful than they are. Not because of my blood status.§

§But you almost fought them,§ Harry pointed out. §In the library. In front of witnesses. That's not like you—you're usually more careful.§

Tom's hand found Harry through the robes, fingers pressing against the pocket. §They insulted me,§ he said quietly. §Questioned my heritage. I won't tolerate that. Not from anyone.§

Harry could hear the old pain beneath the anger—years of being called a freak at the orphanage, of being different, of being looked down upon by people who thought they were better than him.

§I understand,§ Harry said softly. §But Tom—being angry is fine. But you can't let them see how much they got to you. That gives them power over you.§

Tom was quiet for a moment, processing this. §You're right,§ he admitted. §I should have been more controlled. More strategic.§

§You're allowed to be angry,§ Harry said. §You're allowed to feel hurt. You just have to be smart about how you respond.§

Tom's fingers stroked the pocket gently. §How did you get so wise?§

§Experience,§ Harry said, thinking of all the times Draco Malfoy had tried to get a rise out of him, all the times he'd had to swallow his anger and be strategic. §Lots of painful experience.§

§The wizards who hurt you,§ Tom said quietly. §They were like this? Blood supremacists?§

§Yes,§ Harry said. And it was true—Bellatrix and her fellow Death Eaters were exactly like this. Obsessed with blood purity, convinced of their own superiority, willing to torture and kill anyone they deemed inferior.

Tom's hand tightened protectively over the pocket. §I won't let anyone hurt you like that again,§ he murmured. §You're mine. Under my protection. And I protect what's mine.§

The possessiveness should have worried Harry. But after watching Tom defend him, defend the idea that power mattered more than blood—even if his reasoning was cold and utilitarian—Harry couldn't quite bring himself to object.

§Thank you,§ Harry said softly.

Tom returned to his work, but Harry could tell he was still tense, still processing the confrontation. And as the afternoon wore on, Harry found himself thinking about what Tom had said.

Muggles were like ants. No need to torture them—just ignore them.

It wasn't acceptance. It wasn't equality. But it was better than active malice. Better than hunting them for sport or trying to dominate them.

Maybe that was the best Harry could hope for. Maybe turning Tom Riddle into a champion of Muggle rights was impossible. But turning him into someone who simply didn't care about Muggles—who left them alone, who focused his ambition elsewhere—that might be achievable.

It wasn't perfect. It wasn't what Harry would have chosen.

But it was better than Voldemort.

And right now, that had to be enough.

Winter break was approaching rapidly, and the castle buzzed with students making plans. Some were excited to return home, others dreading it. Harry watched through Tom's pocket as conversations swirled around them—talk of family gatherings, Christmas presents, holiday parties.

Tom, characteristically, said nothing about his own plans.

It was only when they were alone in their usual alcove one evening that Harry brought it up.

§You're staying at Hogwarts for winter break, aren't you?§ Harry asked.

Tom's hand stilled on his Charms essay. §Yes. I always do.§

§Why?§

§Because the alternative is returning to the orphanage,§ Tom said flatly. §And I'd rather stay here, even with the castle half-empty, than go back there.§

Harry's heart ached. He remembered that feeling—dreading the return to the Dursleys, finding excuses to stay at Hogwarts whenever possible.

§But summer,§ Harry said carefully. §You can't stay here for summer. They make everyone leave.§

§I know.§ Tom's voice was tight. §Every June, I pack my things and take the train back to London. Back to that miserable place. And I spend three months counting the days until September.§

§Not this time,§ Harry said firmly. §We talked about this, remember? We're leaving together. Finding our own place.§

Tom looked down at him, something vulnerable in his expression. §You really meant that.§

§Of course I meant it.§ Harry lifted his head. §But we need to plan. We need to find somewhere we can actually go. And we need to get you that burner wand.§

Tom was quiet for a moment, then nodded slowly. §There's a Hogsmeade weekend coming up. This Saturday. We could... look around. See what's available.§

§Perfect,§ Harry said.

𓆙 𓆙 𓆙 𓆙 𓆓 𓆓 𓆓 𓆓 𓆙 𓆙 𓆙 𓆙 𓆓 𓆓 𓆓 𓆓

Saturday arrived cold and clear, frost glittering on the grounds. Students bundled in cloaks and scarves made their way down to the village, chattering excitedly about visits to Honeydukes and the Three Broomsticks.

Tom walked among them but separate, as always. Harry was tucked safely in his pocket, warm and comfortable, watching the world pass by through the small opening.

Hogsmeade looked much the same as Harry remembered from his own time—cobblestone streets, shop fronts with cheerful displays, smoke curling from chimneys. But there were differences too. Some shops he recognized were missing, replaced by others. The fashions were different, the students' robes cut in slightly different styles.

Tom bypassed the usual destinations—Honeydukes, Zonko's, the Three Broomsticks. Instead, he headed for the quieter end of the village, where smaller shops lined narrow streets.

§Where are we going?§ Harry asked.

§Somewhere less... observed,§ Tom murmured. §If we're looking for places to rent, I don't want half the school knowing about it.§

They passed a small tea shop, a secondhand robe store, and finally stopped in front of a narrow shop with a faded sign: "Mulpepper's Apothecary & Sundries."

Tom pushed open the door. A bell chimed, and the scent of herbs and old parchment washed over them. The shop was cramped, shelves packed with jars and bottles and mysterious objects. Behind the counter sat an elderly wizard with wispy white hair and thick spectacles.

"Good afternoon, young man," the shopkeeper said, looking up from a ledger. "Looking for something specific?"

"Just browsing," Tom said with that charming smile. "My father asked me to look for some rare books while I was in the village. I heard you sometimes carry unusual items."

"Ah, yes, yes." The shopkeeper gestured vaguely around the shop. "Feel free to look around. Books are in the back corner. Careful with the stacks—some of them are a bit unstable."

"Thank you," Tom said smoothly, moving deeper into the shop.

Harry peered out from the pocket, taking in the cluttered space. Dusty shelves held everything from potion ingredients to tarnished silver instruments to stacks of yellowing parchment. And there, on a shelf near the back—partially hidden behind a display of protective amulets—was a small case of wands.

§Tom,§ Harry hissed quietly. §Over there. Behind the amulets.§

Tom's eyes flicked to where Harry indicated. His expression didn't change, but Harry felt his heartbeat quicken slightly.

Tom moved casually toward the back of the shop, pretending to browse the books while positioning himself near the wand display. The shopkeeper had returned to his ledger, seemingly unconcerned with his young customer.

§They're unregistered,§ Tom murmured in Parseltongue, so quietly Harry barely heard him. §Has to be. No legitimate wandmaker would sell through a place like this.§

§Can you reach them?§ Harry asked.

§Not without being obvious,§ Tom said. §The shopkeeper may look distracted, but he's watching. And even if I could grab one, how would I explain it? I can't exactly purchase an illegal wand as a Hogwarts student.§

Harry's mind raced. Tom was right—any attempt to buy a burner wand would raise questions, possibly even alert the authorities. But they needed that wand if their summer plan was going to work.

An idea formed. Reckless, probably stupid, but possible.

§Pull me out,§ Harry hissed. §Pretend you're letting me stretch. Get me close to that case.§

§What are you—§

§Just trust me,§ Harry interrupted.

Tom hesitated, then carefully withdrew Harry from his pocket, letting him coil loosely over his forearm. To anyone watching, it looked like a young wizard simply tending to his familiar.

"Interesting snake," the shopkeeper commented, glancing up. "Don't see many of those in Britain. Where'd you get him?"

"Found him in the Forbidden Forest," Tom said, which was technically true. "He was injured. I've been caring for him."

"Ah, you're a Parselmouth then. Rare gift, that." The shopkeeper adjusted his spectacles. "My nephew's boy has it. Strange thing, speaking to serpents."

Tom made a noncommittal sound and moved closer to the wand display, angling so Harry was near the partially open case.

§There's a wand in the front,§ Tom murmured in Parseltongue. §Hawthorn, I think. About nine inches. But I still don't see how—§

Harry didn't wait for Tom to finish. In one swift movement, he lunged forward, his jaws closing around the slim wand. Before Tom could react, Harry swallowed it whole, the wood sliding down his throat uncomfortably.

Tom's arm jerked in shock, nearly dropping Harry entirely. His eyes were wide with disbelief.

§What did you just—§

§Keep browsing,§ Harry hissed around the uncomfortable lump in his throat—or whatever the snake equivalent was. §Act normal.§

Tom's expression was frozen somewhere between horrified and impressed. Slowly, mechanically, he turned back to the bookshelf, pulling a random volume from the stack.

"Find anything interesting?" the shopkeeper called.

"Just looking," Tom managed, his voice remarkably steady considering his snake had just committed theft. "Nothing that is drawing my attention."

"Ah well. Come back anytime. We get new inventory regularly."

"I will. Thank you." Tom tucked Harry back into his pocket with exaggerated care, then made his way to the door.

The bell chimed as they left. Tom walked at a measured pace down the street, not hurrying, not drawing attention. But Harry could feel his heart hammering through his robes.

Only when they'd turned two corners and reached a small, deserted alley between buildings did Tom finally pull Harry out again.

§Are you insane?§ Tom hissed, his voice caught between anger and amazement. §You just stole a wand! If anyone saw—if the shopkeeper checks his inventory—§

§He won't notice for ages,§ Harry said, though the wand was extremely uncomfortable inside him. §That case was dusty, half-forgotten. He probably doesn't even know what he has back there.§

§That's not the point!§ Tom's hands were shaking slightly as he held Harry. §You could have been caught. We could have been caught. And now you've swallowed a wand—can you even... is it safe?§

§Snakes can swallow things larger than their heads,§ Harry said, which he was pretty sure was true. §I can get it back up. Just... not here.§

Tom stared at him for a long moment, then, unexpectedly, he laughed. It was a sharp, disbelieving sound, but genuine.

§You're absolutely mad,§ Tom said, but there was something like admiration in his voice. §Brilliant, but completely mad.§

§We needed a wand,§ Harry said simply. §Now we have one.§

Tom shook his head, still smiling that genuine smile Harry so rarely saw. §Come on. Let's get somewhere more private. And then you can... retrieve it. God, I can't believe I'm saying this.§

He tucked Harry carefully back into the pocket and set off toward the edge of the village. They walked past the Shrieking Shack, past the last few cottages, until they reached a small copse of trees that provided cover from the main road.

Tom knelt and set Harry on the ground. §Alright. However you're going to do this, do it now before someone comes by.§

Harry concentrated, feeling extremely undignified, and began the unpleasant process of regurgitating the wand. It took several tries, his body fighting the unnatural movement, but finally the hawthorn wand slid back up and out, landing on the frost-covered ground between them.

§That,§ Harry said weakly, §was disgusting.§

Tom picked up the wand, examining it carefully. It was simple, unadorned, with no maker's mark—exactly what they needed. He gave it an experimental wave, and a small shower of golden sparks erupted from the tip.

§It works,§ Tom said quietly. §Not perfectly attuned to me, but functional. And completely untraceable.§

He looked down at Harry, his expression complex—gratitude, amazement, something that might have been affection.

§Thank you,§ Tom said softly. §That was... incredibly reckless and dangerous and I should probably be furious with you for taking that risk. But thank you.§

§You're welcome,§ Harry said, still feeling slightly nauseous. §Now can we go somewhere warm? That was exhausting.§

Tom's laugh was softer this time, warmer. He carefully pocketed the burner wand in his coat—separate from his registered wand—and gently lifted Harry.

§You really are extraordinary,§ Tom murmured as he tucked Harry back into the enchanted pocket. §I've never met anyone—anything—like you.§

Harry settled into the warmth, feeling Tom's heartbeat against him. §Is that a good thing?§

§Yes,§ Tom said simply. §It's a very good thing.§

As they walked back toward the village, Harry allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. They had the burner wand. They had a plan for summer. And Tom was smiling—really smiling—at something Harry had done.

Maybe, just maybe, this was working.

Maybe Harry really could save him.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

The rest of winter break passed in a blur of quiet contentment. With most of the castle empty, Tom and Harry had the run of the place. They spent hours in the library, returned to the Chamber of Secrets twice more to retrieve additional books, and explored parts of Hogwarts that were usually too crowded to visit.

Tom seemed different after Christmas—lighter, somehow. The gift of the Chamber had done something to him, shifted something fundamental. He smiled more, laughed more easily, and the controlling edge to his behavior softened into something gentler.

§You're in a good mood,§ Harry observed one morning as Tom hummed while organizing his notes.

§Am I?§ Tom looked up, surprised. §I suppose I am. This has been... nice. Having the castle mostly to ourselves. Having time to actually study what interests me without constant interruptions.§

§And having company,§ Harry added.

Tom's smile was soft. §Yes. That too.§

On the last Saturday before term resumed, Tom surprised Harry by suggesting another trip to Hogsmeade.

§We should look around,§ Tom explained as they walked down to the village through freshly fallen snow. §See what resources are available. Start thinking practically about summer.§

The village was quieter than usual, most of the Hogwarts students still away on break. The shops were open but not crowded, and Tom moved through them with careful purpose.

Harry watched through the pocket opening, fascinated by this glimpse of 1940s magical Britain. Some things were the same—Honeydukes still sold the same sweets, the Three Broomsticks still served butterbeer. But other details were different. The fashions, the products in shop windows, even the way people spoke had a formal quality that felt foreign to Harry.

§What's that?§ Harry asked as they passed a shop displaying strange silver instruments.

§Astronomical equipment,§ Tom said. §For calculating planetary movements and their effects on spell casting. Mostly used by people who take Divination seriously, which I don't.§

§And that?§

Tom followed Harry's indication to a shop selling colorful bottles. §Potions ingredients and pre-made draughts. Useful if you're not skilled at brewing, which I am, so not particularly interesting.§

Harry kept asking questions, partly out of genuine curiosity and partly because he enjoyed hearing Tom explain things. Tom was a natural teacher when he wasn't being condescending—patient, thorough, clearly enjoying the opportunity to share his knowledge.

They stopped at a bookshop, and Tom spent nearly an hour browsing the shelves. Harry watched as he selected books on Arithmancy, Transfiguration theory, and—more concerning—several texts on defensive magic and dark creatures.

§Planning something?§ Harry asked as Tom paid for his selections.

§Always,§ Tom said with a slight smile. §Knowledge is never wasted.§

As they left the bookshop, Tom paused in the street, his expression thoughtful.

§What is it?§ Harry asked.

§I've been thinking about summer,§ Tom said quietly. §About where we'd actually stay. I looked into renting a room here in Hogsmeade, but...§

§But?§

§It's too close,§ Tom said. §Dumbledore comes here regularly. Half the Hogwarts staff do. If someone saw me, if word got back to the school that I wasn't at the orphanage...§

§You'd be in trouble,§ Harry finished.

§Exactly.§ Tom resumed walking, his hands tucked into his pockets against the cold. §I need to be somewhere that's not connected to the magical world. Somewhere no one would think to look for me.§

§Like where?§ Harry asked, though an idea was already forming.

§Muggle London,§ Tom said, and Harry could hear the distaste in his voice even as he acknowledged the logic. §There are cheap lodgings in the city. Bedsits and boarding houses that don't ask questions as long as you pay on time. No one from the magical world would ever think to look for me there.§

§And you'd be close to the orphanage,§ Harry added. §In case you needed to show up for any reason.§

Tom's step faltered slightly. §Yes. That too.§

§How do you usually get back to Hogwarts?§ Harry asked. §Doesn't someone come to get you at the start of term?§

§Dumbledore does,§ Tom confirmed. §Every year. But if I'm staying in London anyway, near the orphanage... I could just be there when he arrives. Make sure I'm at Wool's on the appointed day, act as if I'd been there all summer.§

§Would the orphanage staff notice you'd been gone?§

Tom's smile was cold. §Mrs. Cole, the matron, is a drunk. Half the time she doesn't know which children are there and which aren't. And the rest of the staff barely pay attention to us. If I'm careful, if I visit occasionally to maintain the illusion...§

§You could manipulate them,§ Harry said carefully. §Make them remember you being there even when you weren't.§

Tom was quiet for a moment. §I've been practicing Legilimency,§ he admitted. §And its counterpart, memory modification. It's delicate work, but yes. I could plant false memories. Make them think they'd seen me at meals, doing chores, sleeping in my bed. Especially with Mrs. Cole—her mind is already so muddled from drink.§

Harry felt a chill that had nothing to do with the winter air. This was classic Voldemort behavior—casually discussing the manipulation of muggle minds, viewing them as tools to be used. But at the same time, it was necessary if their plan was going to work.

§It would only be for the summer,§ Harry said. §Just to give you somewhere better to stay. Somewhere you're not miserable.§

§I know,§ Tom said. §And I... I appreciate it. More than I can say. The thought of not having to spend three months in that place, of having somewhere that's mine—ours—it's...§

He trailed off, but Harry could hear the emotion in his voice.

§So we do it,§ Harry said. §Muggle London. You find a bedsit or a room somewhere. We spend the summer there. You visit the orphanage just often enough to maintain the illusion. And when Dumbledore comes to collect you in September, you're there waiting like a dutiful student.§

§It could work,§ Tom said slowly, warming to the idea. §It really could work. I'd need to research areas of London where lodgings are cheap and landlords don't ask questions. Save money for rent and food. Practice my memory charms until I'm certain I can use them reliably.§

§You have until June,§ Harry pointed out. §That's plenty of time to prepare.§

Tom stopped walking and pulled Harry from his pocket, cradling him carefully in his hands despite the cold. His dark eyes were intense, searching Harry's face.

§Why are you doing this?§ Tom asked softly. §Helping me plan this. Giving me the Chamber. Offering to spend your summer in some dingy London flat when you could stay at Hogwarts or go anywhere else. Why?§

Harry met his gaze steadily. §Because you deserve better than that orphanage. Because everyone deserves somewhere they feel safe. And because... you're my friend. I want you to be happy.§

Tom's expression shifted through several emotions—surprise, confusion, something that might have been vulnerability. §No one's ever wanted that before,§ he said quietly. §For me to be happy. Just... for its own sake.§

§Well, I do,§ Harry said. §So deal with it.§

Tom's laugh was startled and genuine. He tucked Harry carefully back into his pocket, his hand lingering there for a moment. §Alright then. Muggle London it is.§

As they walked back toward the castle, Harry could feel Tom's excitement building—the energy of having a real plan, a real escape from the place he hated most. And Harry felt his own cautious hope growing.

This could work. They could spend the summer together, away from the orphanage's misery and away from magical society's expectations. Three months where Harry could continue influencing Tom, showing him that there were other paths besides power and darkness.

Three months that might change everything.

That evening, back in the dormitory, Tom pulled out parchment and began making lists. Harry watched as he wrote in his precise, controlled hand—neighborhoods to research, amounts of money he'd need to save, supplies they'd require.

§How will you get money?§ Harry asked, suddenly realizing they hadn't discussed this crucial detail.

§I have some saved,§ Tom said. §From selling potions to other students. And Slughorn pays me to help organize his stores. It won't be much, but enough for a cheap room and basic necessities. I will have to visit Gringotts and exchange it.§

§Do you know how much you'll need?§

§I have estimates in my notebook. I'll start researching neighborhoods in London where lodgings are cheap and no one asks questions about a teenager living alone. I can forge any necessary documentation if required.§

He returned to his lists, occasionally muttering to himself about logistics. Harry watched him work, saw the careful planning, the attention to detail, the determination to make this succeed.

This was Tom at his best—brilliant, focused, using his considerable talents toward a concrete goal. If Harry could keep him like this, keep him focused on living rather than on conquering death, on building rather than destroying...

§Harry?§ Tom's voice broke through his thoughts.

§Yes?§

§Thank you. For pushing me toward this. For making me believe it's possible.§ Tom's hand found Harry, stroking his scales gently. §I've spent so many years dreading summer, counting down the days until I have to go back to that place. But this year... this year I'm actually looking forward to it. To our summer together.§

§Me too,§ Harry said softly.

§I won't let you down,§ Tom promised. §I'll find us somewhere good. Somewhere safe. Somewhere that's ours.§

§I know you will,§ Harry said.

And strangely, he believed it. Whatever else Tom Riddle was or would become, right now, in this moment, he was a lonely boy who'd been offered something precious—a home, a companion, a summer free from misery.

And Tom would do everything in his power to make it work.

Harry could only hope that in doing so, Tom would also find a reason to choose a different path. A better path.

A path that didn't end with Lord Voldemort.

§Get some sleep,§ Harry said gently. §Classes start again soon. And you have a lot of planning to do before summer.§

Tom's smile was soft. §Always practical. Alright. Goodnight, Harry.§

§Goodnight, Tom.§

As Tom settled into bed and the lights dimmed, Harry coiled in his warm nest and allowed himself to feel hopeful.

They had a plan. They had each other. And maybe—just maybe—they had a future that didn't end in darkness.

Harry could only pray he was right.

The castle filled rapidly as students returned from winter break. The quiet, peaceful atmosphere Tom and Harry had enjoyed for two weeks evaporated overnight, replaced by the usual chaos of hundreds of teenagers returning to school.

Harry woke to the sound of loud voices and trunks being dragged across the dormitory floor. Tom's roommates had returned—Lestrange, Avery, and the others—filling the space with their presence and their noise.

"Riddle," Lestrange said, "I forgot you stayed over break, must have been dreadfully boring with no one around."

"It was quiet," Tom said neutrally, not looking up from the book he was reading. "I got a lot of work done."

"Of course you did," Avery said with a laugh. "Always studying. Don't you ever take a break?"

"Knowledge doesn't take breaks," Tom replied smoothly.

Harry felt Tom's hand drift to his pocket, a brief touch of reassurance. They both knew Tom's break had been anything but boring—discovering the Chamber of Secrets, planning their summer escape, spending peaceful hours together. But that was their secret. No one else needed to know.

Classes resumed with the usual intensity. Fifth year was a demanding schedule—OWLs looming at the end of the year, professors piling on homework, expectations high for students like Tom who were expected to excel.

Harry spent most of his time in Tom's pocket, listening to lectures and watching through the small opening as Tom took meticulous notes. It was strange being back in classes—hearing Professor Dumbledore teach Transfiguration, watching Slughorn fawn over his favorite students, seeing younger versions of people Harry knew from his own time.

In Potions, Slughorn was in fine form.

"Excellent work, Tom, excellent!" he boomed as Tom presented a perfect Draught of Peace. "See here, class? This is exactly the consistency you're aiming for. Smooth as silk, color like molten silver. Ten points to Slytherin!"

Tom accepted the praise with his usual gracious smile, but Harry could feel his indifference to it. Slughorn's approval meant access to resources and connections, nothing more.

"Now then," Slughorn continued, "I'm hosting another little gathering this Saturday evening. Tom, you'll come of course. And Miss Greengrass, your work has been exemplary lately... I believe your father mentioned you're interested in curse-breaking? I have a colleague from Gringotts I'd love you to meet..."

Harry listened to Slughorn build his collection of useful students and felt a mixture of familiarity and discomfort. Some things never changed, apparently. Slughorn had been doing this for decades, would continue doing it for decades more.

§Another party,§ Tom murmured in Parseltongue, too quiet for anyone else to hear. §How tedious.§

§At least the food is good,§ Harry offered.

He felt Tom's chest shake with suppressed laughter.

𓆙 𓆙 𓆙 𓆙 𓆓 𓆓 𓆓 𓆓 𓆙 𓆙 𓆙 𓆙 𓆓 𓆓 𓆓 𓆓

"Today we'll be discussing Inferi," Merrythought announced, her wand tapping the blackboard to make notes appear. "Corpses reanimated through Dark Magic. Highly dangerous and, thankfully, quite rare in modern times. Can anyone tell me how to defend against them?"

Several hands went up. Tom's, of course, was among them.

"Mr. Riddle?"

"Fire," Tom said promptly. "Inferi are repelled by flames. A well-cast Incendio or Flagrate charm will drive them back, and sustained fire will destroy them entirely."

"Correct. Five points to Slytherin." Merrythought's stern expression softened slightly. "Though I would add that circle of fire protections are most effective—containing the Inferi while keeping yourself safe. Now, can anyone tell me why necromancy is classified as one of the darkest branches of magic?"

Harry listened as the discussion continued, feeling increasingly uncomfortable. Tom was engaged in this lesson in a way he wasn't in most others—leaning forward, asking questions, clearly fascinated by the subject matter.

§This is dark magic,§ Harry hissed quietly.

§This is knowledge,§ Tom corrected, his voice equally quiet. §Understanding how dark magic works is essential to defending against it. Or haven't you learned that yet?§

Harry couldn't argue with that logic, even though he recognized it as the same reasoning that would eventually lead Tom down darker paths. You had to understand dark magic to fight it—but at what point did understanding become temptation?

"For homework," Merrythought announced at the end of class, "I want two feet on the historical uses of Inferi in warfare, and the countermeasures developed by the International Confederation of Wizards in 1863. Due Friday."

Tom made a note in his precise handwriting, and Harry could practically feel his excitement at the assignment.

§You're really interested in this,§ Harry observed.

§It's fascinating,§ Tom said as they left the classroom. §The magic required to reanimate a corpse, to bind it to your will—it's incredibly complex. Few wizards have ever mastered it.§

§That's probably a good thing,§ Harry said carefully.

Tom was quiet for a moment. §Perhaps. Though knowledge itself isn't evil, Harry. It's what you do with it that matters.§

The words were reasonable, logical even. But Harry had heard Hermione say the same thing about books in the Restricted Section, and he knew where that kind of curiosity could lead.

§Just promise me you're not planning to actually create Inferi,§ Harry said, trying to keep his tone light.

§I promise,§ Tom said, and he sounded amused. §I have far more interesting projects to work on. Like perfecting my memory charms for summer.§

The casual shift from dark magic to their summer plans was jarring, but Harry was grateful for it. Tom's interest in necromancy was concerning, but at least he had other things to focus on. Better things.

Transfiguration with Dumbledore was always tense. Harry could feel Tom's muscles go rigid the moment they entered the classroom, could sense the way Tom's magic coiled tighter under Dumbledore's watchful gaze.

"Welcome back," Dumbledore said, his voice warm but his eyes sharp behind his half-moon spectacles. "I trust you all had a restful holiday?"

There was a chorus of affirmatives from the students who'd gone home. Tom said nothing, and Dumbledore's gaze lingered on him for just a moment too long.

"Today we'll be working on human transfiguration," Dumbledore continued. "Specifically, changing the color and style of one's hair. A simple enough transformation, but one that requires precision and concentration. Sloppy work can result in permanent changes or, worse, damage to the scalp itself."

He demonstrated on himself, his auburn hair shifting to black, then silver, then back to its original color. "Now, pair up and practice on each other. Carefully."

Tom partnered with Lestrange, and they set to work. Harry watched through the pocket opening as Tom's wand movements were perfect, as always. Lestrange's hair shifted from brown to blonde to red, each transformation clean and precise.

Dumbledore circled the room, offering corrections and praise. When he reached Tom and Lestrange, he paused.

"Excellent work, Mr. Riddle," Dumbledore said, but his tone was neutral. Not cold, but not warm either. "Your control is exceptional, as always."

"Thank you, Professor," Tom said politely.

Dumbledore lingered for a moment, studying Tom with those penetrating blue eyes. Harry held very still, suddenly aware of how exposed he was—if Dumbledore decided to search Tom, if he discovered Harry...

But Dumbledore simply nodded and moved on to the next pair of students.

Tom's hand moved to his pocket, pressing briefly against where Harry was hidden. A gesture of relief, perhaps, or reassurance.

§He suspects something,§ Harry hissed quietly.

§He always suspects something,§ Tom murmured back. §Dumbledore sees threats everywhere. It's his nature.§

§Maybe he has reason to,§ Harry said carefully.

Tom's hand pressed harder against the pocket. §Not from me. I've done nothing wrong. Nothing he can prove, anyway.§

The addendum was telling, and Harry felt a chill run down his spine. How much had Tom already done that Dumbledore couldn't prove? How many rules had he broken, how many dark experiments had he conducted in secret?

Harry was beginning to realize that saving Tom Riddle might be a far more complicated task than he'd imagined.

𓆙 𓆙 𓆙 𓆙 𓆓 𓆓 𓆓 𓆓 𓆙 𓆙 𓆙 𓆙 𓆓 𓆓 𓆓 𓆓

That evening, Tom retreated to the library with Harry hidden in his pocket. They found their usual alcove—tucked away behind the Restricted Section where few students ventured.

Tom pulled out his homework but didn't start on it immediately. Instead, he withdrew Harry from his pocket and set him on the table.

§How are you holding up?§ Tom asked. §Today was a long day. Lots of classes, lots of noise.§

§I'm alright,§ Harry said, touched by the concern. §A bit tired, but fine.§

Tom conjured a warming stone and positioned it near Harry. §The castle is too crowded now. Too many people, too much attention. I preferred it when it was just us.§

§Me too,§ Harry admitted. §But we'll have that again in summer. Just us, in our own place.§

Tom's expression softened. §I've been thinking about that. About what kind of place to look for. Somewhere quiet, I think. With good light for reading. Near a library if possible, or at least a bookshop.§

§Sounds perfect,§ Harry said.

§And somewhere with a window,§ Tom added. §So you can see outside. Get fresh air when you want it. I don't want you to feel trapped.§

Harry's heart clenched. Here was Tom, planning their summer accommodation, thinking about Harry's comfort and happiness. It was such a stark contrast to the cold, calculating Voldemort Harry had known.

§Thank you,§ Harry said softly. §For thinking of that.§

Tom's fingers found Harry's scales, stroking gently. §You matter to me,§ he said simply. §Your happiness matters. I want our summer to be perfect. For both of us.§

§It will be, we should work on your homework,§ Harry said. §That essay on Inferi isn't going to write itself.§

Tom's expression shifted to one of academic interest. §Actually, I've been thinking about the assignment. Merrythought wants a historical overview, but I'm considering going deeper—analyzing the actual spellwork involved in creation and control.§

§That sounds like it would require research in the Restricted Section,§ Harry observed.

§I have permission,§ Tom said. §Merrythought gave it to me last year for my defense research. The librarian barely checks anymore—I'm in there so often she just waves me through.§

Of course he was. Tom Riddle, model student, trusted completely despite the darkness lurking beneath his polished surface.

§Just... be careful,§ Harry said. §Some knowledge isn't worth having.§

Tom looked at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. §You sound like Dumbledore.§

§Maybe Dumbledore has a point,§ Harry said quietly.

The silence between them stretched, weighted with things neither of them could say. Finally, Tom sighed.

§I'm not going to do anything dangerous,§ he said. §I'm just curious. That's not a crime.§

§No,§ Harry agreed. §It's not.§

But as Tom began writing his essay, delving deep into the theory and history of necromancy with obvious fascination, Harry couldn't shake his unease.

Tom Riddle's curiosity had always been his greatest strength and his greatest weakness.

Harry could only hope he could channel it toward light instead of darkness.

Winter melted into spring, and with it came the mounting pressure of OWLs. The fifth-year students grew increasingly stressed as exams approached, spending long hours in the library and snapping at each other over study space.

Tom, characteristically, seemed unbothered. He continued his usual routine—perfect marks in every class, additional research in the Restricted Section, and careful planning for their summer escape.

Harry watched it all from his privileged position in Tom's pocket, occasionally offering commentary or asking questions, but mostly just observing. He was learning more about Tom with each passing day—not just his brilliance and his ambition, but his quirks, his habits, the small things that made him human rather than the monster he would become.

Tom had a habit of tapping his quill against his teeth when he was thinking. He preferred his tea with too much sugar and no milk. He was left-handed but had taught himself to write with his right hand because the orphanage matron had told him left-handedness was "sinister." He couldn't sleep without some form of light—even a small candle—because the darkness reminded him too much of being locked in the orphanage cellar.

These small details built a picture of Tom Riddle that Harry had never considered before. Not a dark lord, not a villain, just a traumatized boy trying to control a world that had always seemed determined to hurt him.

One evening in late March, Tom returned to the dormitory with a newspaper tucked under his arm. He waited until his roommates were asleep, curtains drawn around their beds, before pulling Harry out and spreading the paper across his desk.

§Look at this,§ Tom said, pointing to the classifieds section. §Rooms to let in London. I've been collecting these, comparing prices and locations.§

Harry peered at the tiny print. "Bedsit in Whitechapel, 10 shillings per week." "Room in boarding house, King's Cross, meals included, 15 shillings per week." "Furnished room, Southwark, quiet street, 12 shillings per week."

§How much money do you have saved?§ Harry asked.

§Nearly three pounds,§ Tom said. §And I'll earn more before summer. Slughorn pays me weekly for organizing his stores, and I've been selling study guides to the younger students preparing for their end-of-year exams.§

§Study guides?§

Tom's expression was almost sheepish. §Notes, really. Organized summaries of key topics. They're quite popular with the first and second years. I charge two sickles per subject.§

Harry felt a surge of affection. Tom was essentially running a small business, using his academic prowess to earn money for their summer escape. It was entrepreneurial and clever and so very Tom.

§Which areas are you considering?§ Harry asked, turning his attention back to the newspaper.

§Somewhere near Bethnal Green or Whitechapel,§ Tom said, his finger tracing a route on an imaginary map. §Close to the orphanage but not too close. The rents are cheap because the areas are rough—lots of poverty, crime, bomb damage from the war. But that works in our favor. No one asks questions in neighborhoods like that.§

§And you'd be safe there?§ Harry asked, suddenly worried. Tom might be magically powerful, but he was still sixteen, and Muggle London in 1944 could be dangerous.

§I can handle myself,§ Tom said confidently. §And I'll have my wand. Both of them, actually. Anyone who tries to cause trouble will regret it.§

There was that casual willingness to use magic against Muggles again. Harry pushed down his discomfort.

§What about furniture? Food? Supplies?§

§Most of these rooms come furnished,§ Tom said, scanning the listings. §Basic furniture—bed, chair, maybe a table. We'd need to buy food, but there are markets nearby. And I can cast preservation charms to keep things fresh longer.§

He'd clearly thought this through in detail. Harry felt a mixture of pride and anxiety watching Tom plan so carefully.

§When will you actually go look at places?§ Harry asked.

§I've been thinking about that,§ Tom said slowly. §I could use a Hogsmeade weekend to take the Knight Bus to London, look at a few rooms, put down a deposit. But I'd need an excuse for where I was in case anyone asks why I wasn't in the village.§

§Tell them you were researching in the Hogwarts library,§ Harry suggested. §No one would question that.§

Tom's smile was sharp. §Exactly what I was thinking. The library is large enough that if someone claims they didn't see me, I can say we must have been in different sections.§

§When's the next Hogsmeade weekend?§

§Two weeks,§ Tom said. §April fifteenth. I'll go then. Find us a place, secure it, come back before anyone notices I'm gone.§

His excitement was palpable, and Harry felt it too. This was really happening. They were really going to do this.

The next two weeks passed in a blur of classes and preparation. Tom threw himself into earning money, taking on extra work from Slughorn and producing more study guides for the younger students. He also spent hours researching London neighborhoods, memorizing bus routes and street names, planning his trip with military precision.

Harry watched it all with growing fondness. This was Tom at his best—focused, determined, using his considerable talents toward a positive goal rather than dark magic or revenge.

They still had their difficult moments. Tom's controlling nature hadn't disappeared—he still arranged Harry's heating stones obsessively, still checked on him constantly, still got irritated when Harry questioned his decisions. But those moments were balanced by genuine affection, by Tom's obvious care for Harry's wellbeing, by the way his face lit up when they discussed their summer plans.

The Knights of Walpurgis still met occasionally, though Tom seemed increasingly disinterested in their discussions of blood purity and magical supremacy. He went because it maintained his image, because the connections were useful, but Harry could tell his heart wasn't in it anymore.

"You've been distracted," Avery said one evening after a meeting. "Ever since winter break. Is everything alright?"

"Everything's fine," Tom said smoothly. "Just focused on OWLs. They're less than two months away."

"Still," Lestrange added, "you seem... different. Happier, almost. It's strange."

Tom's hand moved to his pocket, pressing briefly against where Harry was hidden. §If only they knew,§ he murmured in Parseltongue, too quiet for the others to hear.

§Let them wonder,§ Harry hissed back.

April fifteenth arrived cool and bright. Students headed down to Hogsmeade in chattering groups, excited for a break from studying. Tom walked with them as far as the village, then quietly slipped away toward the Knight Bus stop.

§Nervous?§ Harry asked from the pocket.

§No,§ Tom said, but Harry could feel his racing heartbeat. §Excited. This is it, Harry. This is when it becomes real.§

The Knight Bus arrived with its usual dramatic appearance—a brilliant purple triple-decker bus that materialized out of nowhere with a loud BANG. The conductor, a young wizard with spectacular acne, barely glanced at Tom.

"Where to?"

"Bethnal Green, London," Tom said, handing over a few sickles.

"Right you are. Hold on tight!"

The journey was chaotic and nauseating, the bus careening through space at impossible speeds, stopping and starting with jarring abruptness. Harry was grateful to be in Tom's pocket rather than experiencing the full effect.

They arrived in a shabby London neighborhood—narrow streets lined with terraced houses, many showing bomb damage from the war. Laundry hung between buildings, and the air smelled of coal smoke and poverty.

Tom pulled out his list of addresses and began walking, his posture confident despite his youth. Harry watched through the pocket opening as they passed shops and pubs, mothers with prams, old men sitting on stoops.

The first boarding house Tom visited was immediately rejected—the landlady was too nosy, asking too many questions about his family and school. The second was too close to a pub that looked rough even by London standards.

The third, on a street called Durward Street, was promising.

"Room's on the second floor," the landlord said, a tired-looking man in his fifties. "Twelve shillings a week, paid in advance. No visitors, no noise after ten, no funny business. You keep it clean and pay on time, we won't have problems."

The room was small—barely large enough for the narrow bed, battered wardrobe, and small table by the window. But it was clean, and the window overlooked a surprisingly quiet courtyard.

"I'll take it," Tom said. "I'll need it starting June first."

"First week's rent as deposit," the landlord said, holding out his hand.

Tom counted out the money—coins that represented weeks of careful saving. The landlord pocketed it and handed Tom a key.

"June first. Don't be late or I'll rent it to someone else."

"I won't be late," Tom promised.

Back on the street, Tom walked until he found a quiet alley, then pulled Harry out.

§We have a place,§ Tom said, and his voice was filled with wonder. §An actual place. Ours.§

§It looked good,§ Harry said. §Small, but good.§

§It's perfect,§ Tom corrected. §It's quiet, the landlord doesn't care who I am or where I come from, and it's close enough to the orphanage that I can check in when needed but far enough that no one will connect us.§

He was practically glowing with excitement, and Harry felt it too. This was happening. They really were going to spend the summer together, away from the orphanage and away from Hogwarts.

§Thank you,§ Tom said suddenly, cradling Harry gently. §For this. For giving me something to look forward to. For being...§

He trailed off, struggling for words.

§For being your friend,§ Harry finished softly.

§Yes,§ Tom whispered. §For being my friend.§

They stood there in the alley for a long moment, Tom holding Harry carefully, both of them absorbing the reality of what they'd just done. Then Tom tucked Harry back into his pocket and headed for the Knight Bus stop.

They had a place. They had a plan. And in less than two months, they'd have their summer.

That night, back at Hogwarts, Tom couldn't stop smiling. He sat at dinner with his usual companions, maintaining his careful mask, but Harry could feel his excitement thrumming beneath the surface.

§It's real now,§ Tom murmured in Parseltongue as he reached for his goblet. §We're really leaving.§

§We really are,§ Harry agreed.

And as Tom returned to his dormitory and began studying for OWLs with renewed focus, Harry allowed himself to feel hopeful.

They had a summer ahead of them. Three months where Harry could influence Tom, could show him that there were better paths than darkness and domination. Three months where Tom wouldn't be alone and miserable, festering in resentment.

Three months that might change everything.

Harry just had to make sure they counted.

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