Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There were fires overtaking the northern entrance to the Shelter. Tom could feel his heart pounding an irregular beat inside his chest, the thrum of drill sirens and screams in the air. People were pushing and pulling, ebbing and flowing around him, scrambling for safety they wouldn't-couldn't reach.

(His mind knew, already, what he was trying not to think about, facts and figures and distance-plus-rate-of-bodies-cannot-equal-safety.)

“Mrs. Cole!” One of the younger children cried. 

Tom did not bother to turn and see them all huddled behind her, clinging to each other against the force of so many people running. He did not bother to take his eyes away from roaring flames and the pile of loosely stored goods, some of which were medical, some of which were mechanical-electrical-explosive. The other orphans cried and screamed, but Tom watched the fires reach greedy red fingers toward the cache of very explosive supplies and knew.

(As he had always known things, in abstract ways. Known that there was more to apples falling from trees before he ever picked up a scientific text, knew that water reflected the light and coloration of anything over a big enough body of it, knew that he was special.)

Tom watched the explosion happen, and felt his fingers fumble in his jacket pocket, reaching for the one thing he’d never parted with since he was eleven. He’d only just curled his trembling hand around the wood of his wand when he felt the sear of heat against his face. He had a terrible, resounding realization - a realization he was finally acknowledging, now that the proof of it was brushing up against him - that this was it. He was going to die.

(The dark creature that lived inside him screamed in rage and tried to push to the forefront, but that would only get him killed quicker.)

There would be no second chances here. No way out. This was all his life would amount to in the end. A long series of rage and confusion and loneliness. He could admit to the loneliness, now that he was dying. Hecate, but he wished that just once, his life had been touched by something other than ill-informed hatred and reactionary violence.

His eyes snapped closed against his wishes, because the truth of the matter was that Tom Riddle was a coward, terrified of death and anything that came after. 

(He was not a good Catholic boy. There was no heaven waiting for him. But there might be a hell.)

He could feel the searing warmth but no pain, yet there was a force pulling-pulling-pulling on him, wrenching him back. 

(He'd amounted to nothing. He was nothing. He was dying and he'd managed nothing in life.)

Tom Riddle knew darkness, then blinked out of one existence. 

And straight into another.

Luna Lovegood paused in carefully picking apart the petals of a vibrantly yellow sunflower, her attention caught by a low, piercing sound. It started as a thrum in the back of her mind, and then turned into a siren song at the forefront of it. Luna dropped what she was doing in the potions study and followed where the call lead, drifting over the cool floors of her family home like she might drift on air.

(That is to say, like she might drift on air with a broom in hand. Of course, Luna wasn’t the best at flying. Her magic would much rather be doing other things.)

“Moon Drop?” Daddy called curiously, as she wandered through the family room and towards the front door. 

Luna couldn’t answer. Something far more important was happening. She could feel it, could see it, entire portions of the possible future, of the possible time-line, being re-written. Something in their version of reality was about to change drastically. Luna’s toes sunk slightly into the Earth with her first step into the vast moors of their property. She didn’t pause, merely drifted on, pulled on a string she’d never realized was tethered to her. Daddy followed, quiet and curious, and they both came to a stop before one of the Fairy-Rings. 

Luna peered curiously at the faint unweaving of time, the shimmer of new possibilities, and Daddy stared into the ring like it might produce a full Fairy court at any moment. 

(Which was not, she saw, and impossibility, but not likely to happen at that particular moment. Fairies were tricky like that.)

The weight of crashing waves, the violence of the sea, was suddenly such a predominant thing in her mind. Luna folded easily onto her knees and focused on breathing through the harsh onslaught of power that was not hers and was not Daddy’s. Olde Magic filled the air, crushing in the space of the Fairy-Ring. The sound of distant, screeching lightening, and the tart, tangy taste of something inhuman on her tongue. Citrus and sour candy, sparks along her senses. Luna sank into the feeling and let herself simply be, eyes wandering over the swirl of magic and the crash of fate. 

There was a loud pop, like the uncorking of a particularly large bottle of butter-beer, and then there was simply a boy sprawled out in their Fairy Ring. Luna blinked down at him and watched as his present and possibilities all shimmered, watched them form and re-form in the most unsettled manner she’d ever seen.

“Moon Drop,” Daddy said slowly, crouching down next to her, “There’s a strange boy in our Fairy Ring.”

Poor Daddy sounded so confused, and Luna couldn’t blame him. She knew - had known-felt-seen? She wasn’t sure she’d expected exactly this, really - he’d been coming, but didn’t, for the life of her, know why he was important. She only really understood one thing.

“Hecate is asking us to watch over him.” She sighed, eyes drifting up a thin, too-thin wrist to settle on the boy’s closed eyes. 

(He was far too skinny, in her opinion. That couldn’t be healthy.)

Daddy shifted next to her, and then pulled out his wand airily. 

“We best get him somewhere warm then.”

Luna nodded, as that did sound like a fine plan. She was suddenly very grateful that she’d started more food for diner that afternoon than they really needed.

There was the faint smell of lavender and citrus, the cloying taste of too many herbs and spices in the air. Below that, the smell of a classic English roast, and the screech of a teapot, the drifting scent of Earl Grey. A small silence interrupted only sparsely by distant, soft voices and the clink of something he couldn’t place. When Tom struggled his eyes open, he was nothing but confused. The last thing he remembered was searing heat and the hazy-afraid-dark feeling of impending death. His heart started beating too-hard in his chest, his breathing stuttering out. 

(In the depths of his mind and magic, his darkness was wrapped tightly-protectively around him, fangs bared and body bristled with confused-rage.)

He flailed in the confining, stupid blanket he’d been wrapped up in, and struggled to sit up. His vision felt blurry, his head fogged still with the instinct to freeze-fight-run. He managed to get himself upright, at least partially, but his arms were trembling too much to hold him up for long. 

Probably the most surprising thing was the pair of warm-cool-soft hands that gripped one shoulder tentatively and helped him sit up. The vibrant, crisp taste of magic fluttered over him, not probing or pushing or taking, but giving. Tom disliked the idea that he was being weak in front of someone, initially, but then something stronger than his desire to appear strong reared to life. 

(Lonely. So very lonely, this feeling was. Tom had no idea which was a lie where it came from. He’d told himself he didn’t need people when he was six-turning-seven, when the Darkness underneath his skin first made a brutal appearance, and that had been true ever since. . . It had, hadn’t it?)

One of the hands on his shoulder shifted and was suddenly on his forehead, carefully brushing through his hair. 

“Oh, you’re quite warm.” A voice said. 

(The hand left his head. He tried to pretend he hadn’t been leaning into the cool press of skin on skin.)

That voice was clear and airy, dreamy and distant, all while being firmly present. It was also the softest, kindest tone anyone had ever taken while speaking to him, without appearing like some adult that thought they knew better. Something icy and glass-like was pressed to his lips, and he almost jerked back. 

“Shh now, it’s alright,” the voice declared, and that hand was back in his hair again after a small hesitation, “you’re suffering from Temporal Magiks. This potion will help clear your head a bit so you can get up to eat. I’m sure you’re quite hungry.”

Tom tried to focus on the words ‘Temporal Magiks,’ but couldn’t because the glass vial was being pressed questioningly to his lips again. He would have thought, being a Slytherin, it would have taken more effort on this stranger's part to have his lips parting and his body tensing for the surely disgusting taste of some potion.

(If Lestrange could see him now, he’d be crowing with laughter.)

The potion tasted like rotten apples and lemonade - so not really the most terrible he’d ever had - and it took — well, he’s not sure how long it took to work because counting was hard with his brain all fogged and his everything still shaking slightly. 

What he is sure of is that those hands didn’t leave him through the process. One was a steadying tether on his shoulder, the other was attempting to keep his hair out of his face. Tom leaned into the touch despite his internal promise to not be weak.

(He knew why he kept breaking his own rules. He was in shock, and this stranger was showing him care he rarely received. For a touch-starved Orphan, that would be hard to resist. It did not mean that he would continue being weak once he felt better. Maybe if he repeated this enough, it would become a truth.)

“Try opening your eyes?” The voice very much asked, and Tom realized he had no idea when he’d first closed his eyes after forcing them open.

He turned all his determination and fuzzy focus into making his eyelids lift. 

(It was harder to do than he wanted it to be.)

He was sitting on a bed, and from his vantage hunched over the side of it, feet awkwardly placed on the floor, arms weakly braced on his knees, he could see a pair of smaller, bare feet in front of him. Her toe-nails were pale blue, and her largest toes had colorful flowers charmed to bloom and wilt on them. Definitely a witch then. 

(Maybe he’d apparated in a last-ditch attempt to save himself?)

Her ankles looked especially pointy, but there was the beginning of a pair of sheer, tight leggings stretching up. They were pale yellow. The skirt - far too short to be decent, wasn’t it? - he could only just make out from his vantage looked to be a deep, sparkling blue. 

Her knees suddenly bent, and the hand on his head slipped down. Tom stared at the girl that was facing him - but not looking at him, rather at the area around his head - and contemplated that she was exactly like her voice had led him to believe, and nothing like it all at once. 

Her hair was long pale blonde and slightly golden, eyes wide and silvery - there was a ring of deep grey around her pupils, drawing attention in. She wore a mint-green blouse, the cut just slightly too big for her, but that hardly made it look ill-fitted. The faint, soft curve of her brows gave her a surprised look, and the almost absent way she was observing the area over his head should have been disconcerting. Instead, he felt calmed by the fact that she wasn’t looking at him.

(He could be weak in this moment, without her really looking at him.)

Her lips, a soft pink, parted - as if in additional surprise - and her words came out sounding just as pleasantly soft and airy as the rest of her looked. 

“You’ve quite a few Wakspurts in your hair. I’ve chased most of them away now, but you should be careful. A big enough swarm eats memories.”

Tom blinked slowly at her, the fogs still drifting through his mind making her words even more nonsensical. 

“Whut?” He asked, and the word came out in the roughened drawl of a child that had been reared in the darkness of Eastern London’s backstreets. It wasn’t the cultured, learned accent he’d adopted after Hogwarts, wasn’t the voice he used to sway and manipulate and control. 

“It’s alright,” she cooed, her small, soft hand reaching up and briefly running through his hair again, “you have time to let yourself adjust.”

Then she was standing and tugging him up, so easily keeping him steady when he swayed. He didn’t have a chance to question her, because the next thing he knew, they were stumbling down a spiral staircase, and he was being seated at a dining table. A man was already seated across from him, papers with colorful, scribbled notes strewn in front of him. His hair was much paler than he girls, much more curly and much less wavy, and when he looked up, his eyes were a deeper, grayer blue. Still, there was no mistaking the faint resemblance between them. The girl skipped past them both and started checking pots and pans on the stove, then she came wandering back. 

“Supper’s done, Daddy,” her eyes flickered in his direction, and her eyes widened impossibly, “I’m sorry, we haven’t introduced ourselves! I’m Lovegood, Luna Lovegood, and this is my Daddy.”

The man looked up, his eyes focusing on Tom for a bare minute, his smile just as soft and absent as his daughters. 

“Lovegood, Xenophilous Lovegood. It’s quite good to see you up. You are?” 

Tom fought through the haziness in his mind, trying to pull up the boy who could so easily use his words to get his way. That boy was lost in the fog, leaving behind the Orphan from London. 

“Riddle, Tom Riddle.” The words were hoarse and honey-thick, a sure sign that he was the furthest thing from pureblooded, if his name hadn’t already done that. 

Xenophilous’s eyes lit in an odd way and he smiled, a sunny, purely happy thing. 

“That’s a good name! A walking riddle - a boy who is contradictions and turns of phrase, yes?” Tom had been willing to argue that his name was not good, but was stopped short by such a simple way of looking at the connotations of it. 

It was . . . Confusing, to be sure, the way this man was looking at him, being a very-clearly pureblooded wizard who . . . Was nothing like Malfoy or Nott’s parents. Luna suddenly sat down between them, placing a large, round platter of rolls down, and a series of dishes and pots started levitating themselves to the table. The next hour was a whirlwind of — of something. The Lovegood’s were calm and collected - and possibly extremely dotty, if the way they simply accepted that he’d apparently just appeared in their back yard was anything to go by. Xenophilous cut the roast for them, and Luna very insistently kept pushing roast potatoes and carrots his way.

Tom merely drifted in the middle of it, eating because he was hungry and his head was foggy, listening to them speak because there was little else to do with his own mind turned against him. Were he in his right mind, he knows he would have already pried as many details about their location as he could from the two. Though he distantly doubts he’d have to try very hard. They are such honest, open books, he’s extremely disconcerted by it. 

(Sitting with them was like living in the dark and being shown the sunshine. It hurt, knowing that he, who lived on lies and manipulations and double-standards was being so easily welcomed by them now. They would turn away from him the instant they knew. Everyone always did. It was much harder to shove the hurt down when he felt so disconnected from everything.)

By the time he got around to asking what had happened, his mind was feeling more centered, even if the fog hadn’t completely left, his hands still trembling every few minutes. 

Luna looked up from where she’d been absently pushing her potatoes around, her attention drifting away from eating more often than it drifted to it. He and her father had already moved onto after-dinner tea, but Xenophilous hardly seemed concerned with the girls' slow eating habits. Luna smiled in his direction, almost dazedly, before she responded. 

“Lady Hecate asked us to watch over you. You’ve been Temporally Displaced, taken out of your own time, and placed in another.” 

After dropping that particular bomb, so simply that she might have been talking about the weather, Luna returned her attention . . . Not to her potatoes, but to the salt-shaker by her elbow. Tom waited for her to elaborate, but it didn’t look like an explanation would be forthcoming.

Thankfully, Xenophilous either saw Tom’s confusion, or was taking pity on him. 

“From time to time, if a young wizard or witch in the Time Tree is in a desperate situation, they get displaced from their own time - from the time in which they died too young or too early,” Xenophilous started slowly, looking more and more excited with every confusing word, “our time isn’t connected to your time, except that at one point, somewhere in our past — or even future — a decision was made that created a separate branch. In your timeline, you’re dead, but in ours, you live, maybe even have lived, or still live.”

Tom stared. He stared so long that he could almost feel the fog threatening to come back and consume. 

“Whut?” He drawled again. 

Luna glanced his way and smiled dreamily. 

“You're a time-traveler now, Tom.”

Tom stared some more, and then decided he was done. 

“I reckon I'd like to pull a Bo Peep.”

Which wasn’t what he’d meant to say, but Luna nodded seriously to her potatoes. 

“Daddy? Tom would like to go back to his room now? I think he’s quite tired.” She sighed, eyes drifting over his head before they settled back on the salt shaker. 

Xeno nodded in a similarly absent way, and then stood. 

“I’ll show you to your room!”

Blessedly, no more confusing conversation took place, and he was shortly laying down again, drifting to sleep even with his mind looping back over the damning words he’d just been given. 

You’re a time-traveler now, Tom.

They’d said like it was no big deal. 

In your timeline, you’re dead—

They’d said, like it wasn’t Tom’s biggest nightmare, dying. And yet, he drifted to a fit-less, dreamless sleep. Worrying was for another Tom. This Tom was very tired from almost dying and apparently time-traveling on sort-of-accident.

When Luna woke the morning after Tom Marvolo Riddle landed in their Fairy Ring, it was to the smell of bacon and eggs. This was enough of a worry that she didn’t drift in the hazy, no-where space between visions like she usually did after waking. Daddy was far too absent-minded to be cooking anything on his own - he’d nearly burnt the house down last time he tried making breakfast.

She hurriedly put on a bathrobe - the pretty, shimmering purple one Daddy had sent her last Yule, while she’d been in Hogwarts and he was overseas. A particularly strong Possibility tried to catch her attention as she was making her way downstairs, but she shoved it aside for later.

“Daddy? You’re not cooking again, are you?” She called, hurrying into the kitchen — only to stop in surprise. Tom was sitting very properly at their dining table, the daily prophet open in front of him. 

(He looked angry and bothered by something within it, but when his eyes flashed up to hers, the emotion was wiped away, like it had never been. His Possibilities were rewriting themselves again — and that was almost distracting enough to leave her befuddled.)

“Your Father ran out very early this morning, after I managed to get more of an explanation for my . . . Situation, from him.” He said slowly, his voice lacking the thickened, heavy drawl of East London. 

Luna tilted her head towards the sound in interest, eyes drifting to the shimmering peeks into his person that hung around him. Normally she tried not to look at such things, but Tom was a special case. 

(Would-be-has-been-must-be? It was hard to tell. She knew who he might have become, had he stayed in his own time. She knew who he had become, in hers. The question was — what would he be now?)

“Daddy does that sometimes. It’s why he’s not allowed to cook.” She responded belatedly, blinking away from him and towards the stove. 

“I’ll go get dressed.” She sighed, absently brushing away the Knowings that tried to filter in front of her. 

Tom said nothing to her while she retreated, and that was fine. He was still quite confused, even having got answers. She’d have to clean the Wakspruts off him again before they went to the Bank. She moved through her morning routine slightly quicker than normal,  not wanting to leave Tom alone for long. 

(He was thinking about leaving, and she couldn’t allow that. It was only a thought in the back of his head, so there was no real vision to it, but that way lay darkness.)

As a result, her hair ended up a damp mess over her shoulders, which she shoved a handful of butterfly pins into, simply to keep it out of her face. When she made it back down into the kitchen, Tom was leaning against their sink, looking out into the yard beyond. He looked pensive, almost too thoughtful, and Luna hurried to speak. 

(Dark, dark, dark. Whatever he was thinking was a bad idea.)

“Daddy should be back inside soon. Hobble-runts don’t like extreme daylight. They’re only active between three and seven in the morning.” Luna explained, claiming the seat across from him and shuffling Xeno’s papers into organized piles without really looking at the content.

Tom turned towards her, and something that passed as a smile drifted onto his face. She observed he was very good at mimicry, but that he also needed to learn how to smile for real. Truly being happy was a power in itself, as there were some creatures you simply couldn’t drive away without some happiness — like Wakspruts. 

“Does your father often run around chasing . . .” She could tell he wanted to say ‘imaginary creatures,’ because most people did, “Hobble-runts, in the early morning?”

Luna nodded, and then got up to help in dishing out breakfast before the timer on the oven had finished going off. Tom was struggling with what he wanted to say, she could tell, so she remained silent, out of respect for all his unsettled thoughts. Unsettled thoughts were quite destructive when not given the proper space to sort themselves out. 

(They tended to eat the settled thoughts and then everything turned into a big mess, and the next thing you knew? Wakspurt infestation.)

“Your father said that as the family that Lady Hecate placed me with, you’re honor-bound to assist me for the next two years at the minimum?” Tom said slowly, and she could tell he was still extremely unsure about staying with them. 

“Oh yes. It’s not a very well-known fact, for obvious reasons, but Temporal Travelers happen quite a bit. Every country has a different way of dealing with them, of course, but in Britain, the family that finds them — or is blessed with them — is responsible for making sure they catch their own footing. It’s often been found that Temporal Travelers will stay with the families that find them even after the two-year period, but it’s not a requirement.” Luna explained, carefully spreading the mixed-berry jelly over every conceivable inch of her toast.

Tom was staring at his own plate of food with a deeply contemplative look. 

“I wouldn’t want to be a burden—” he started to say.

(Dark-dark-dark—)

“Never mind about that. It’s just Daddy and I here, and most days, it’s just me, because sometimes Daddy travels for work. It can get quite lonely when I’m on my own. That doesn’t mean we have to be friends, if you’d rather not, but just having someone else around would be nice.” Luna explained. 

(Be honest, her magic was whispering, over and over again. Honesty is key. Luna could see where it was coming from. For a boy used to living with lies — ‘You’re a freak-monster-menace-’ — honesty would be a draw, even if he didn’t want it to be.)

Tom was staring at her again, but she was too busy piling her bacon together, building a wall between her toast and her eggs. She disliked it when the yoke touched her toast.

“You don’t pity me.” Tom stated slowly, and Luna blinked down at her wall of bacon in some confusion. 

“No, of course not. What’s to pity?” She asked, eyes drifting up to settle on his forehead. To her horror, there was a handful of Wakspurts starting to gather over his head. 

(She couldn’t really see them clearly, but the faintest shimmer in the air always denoted their presence.)

“Oh dear, they are quite attracted to you, aren’t they?” She muttered, shifting to her feet and slowly reaching out, waving her hand over his hair carefully. 

Tom stared at her in confusion - she could tell because when her eyes dropped back to his forehead, his eyebrows were furrowed - before he abruptly stood and placed his plate in the sink, then leaned against the counter. Putting more distance between them. She’d possibly have to start asking if she could remove the Wakspurts, because he seemed bothered by her simply doing so. 

“I don’t think I understand anything that’s happening.” Tom declared, and he sounded very bothered by it. 

Luna smiled faintly in his direction, eyeing the slowly-settling hints of his future. There were a couple blurry spots still, but whatever he was thinking, he was no longer considering wandering off on his own. 

“Daddy says that life is often confusing, but never boring for it. I tend to agree.” She sighed, then tried to devote herself to finishing a meal. 

They said very little in the following stretch of waiting, but very little needed to be said. It was the most comfortable stretch of waiting that Luna had ever sat through with another person close to her age.

(He was fourteen - she didn’t think he’d told her that yet, but at some point he must, because she Knew. Fourteen and born as the year died. There was something poetic to that.)

“Can I ask why you don’t ever look at me?” The sudden question scrambled Luna’s thoughts, and she blinked at him in startlement.

She shifted the slightest bit, her heart clenching in the cage of her chest. 

“It’s impolite to read someone’s face without knowing them first.” She said carefully. 

(Faces were very tricky. She tried to avoid them, because they threw her for a loop - sometimes seeing a certain face had her spiraling into a world of could-be’s and might-have-beens. Sometimes she looked at a face and learned uncomfortable things - like the exact time they would die, no matter their decisions in life. Sometimes she looked and was drown by the veritable oceans of alternate faces that person could have had.)

“What do you mean?” He asked slowly. 

Luna contemplated how best to answer, then set her fork down carefully, since she was having trouble eating anyway. 

“Faces tell you a lot about a person. They’re almost like . . . Like book covers, but for people. I find I know more about a person from their face than I do from talking to them. I think it’s a little rude, to pick up so much without ever saying anything, you see?” She said, just as slowly as he’d asked the question. 

Tom went quiet, but it was a thinking sort of quiet, rather the kind of quiet that usually followed in Luna’s wake. The kinds where her year-mates were coming to their own, wrong conclusions about her, and deciding she was silly and strange. Tom’s quiet was thinking in a way that meant he was puzzling over her words, and knowing that in and of itself - that he was taking what she said into serious consideration - made her feel . . . 

Fluttery. Soft. Like there was warm, melting butter in her heart and stomach. It was nice, having her words treated so seriously, rather than flippantly ignored. Daddy burst into the room then, and Luna turned her head in his direction. 

“Moon Drop! You’re awake! This is wonderful — we can take Tom to Gringotts and get the process started!” Daddy chortled, in an unusually good mood for not catching a Hobble-runt.

Luna smiled at her father’s eager energy, and stood, glancing at Tom, still leaning against their counter. 

“What, exactly, is this process?” He asked. 

“Oh, no one knows. Those that go through it are put into a very serious vow of silence over the whole thing, because even if Temporal Travel isn’t as unusual as everyone makes it out to be, it’s rather serious.” Xenophilous declared airily, popping open a robe cupboard and digging through it for a moment before he tossed a soft, butter yellow one over his shoulders, and then glanced at Luna. 

Considering she hadn’t been paying much attention when she picked out her clothing, Luna glanced down at herself as well, and was pleased to find that she matched this time. A deep purple blouse with rabbits embroidered along the hem, enchanted to hop every few minutes, and a mustard yellow skirt with a carrot patch on the right-hand side. There were sparkles in her deep blue leggings, and for a moment, she enjoyed wiggling her toes just to see the faint glimmer. 

Her father stepped up to her, and he was placing a soft blue summer robe over her shoulders. Smiling up him, Luna shifted to slip her arms through the sleeves, and Daddy started speaking again. 

“Please, help yourself, Tom!” He announced, motioning to the robe closet. 

Tom hesitated only a moment before he shifted forward and flicked through their selection, but finally pulled out a deep green one and - with only a small amount of awkwardness - put it over his shoulders. Luna admired the way the green looked against his pale skin in an absent manner, following after Daddy as he lead them all to the Floo. 

“I only assume you’ve used a Floo before?” Daddy asked, and Tom replied, though Luna didn’t catch the words he used. 

(Her mind was a swirl of deep green and black, the colors seeming very important for reasons she couldn’t say.)

“Alright, to the Leaky Cauldron then, Moon Drop!” Daddy called, and Luna obligingly reached for the Floo powder. 

Despite her new distraction, there was a part of her that was all too eager for what followed. Goblins, after all, were the most interesting, funny sort of creatures that never failed to make things more interesting. 

(Even as the Floo sprung to vibrant life, the back of her mind was a swirl of deep green and consuming black, and she could not, for everything in her that was-knew-had-been-would-be, say why.)

Tom stepped out of the Floo as easily as he did most things, and was very satisfied to note that he had hardly stumbled. His first time using a Floo, he’d done so, but it appeared that every time after got easier. This was a good thing, as he would have hated to stumble in front of Luna or her Father. The Lovegoods might have been odd, but they were also the only people he’d ever met that seemed to revel in his attitude, rather than being put off by it. He’d only noted halfway through breakfast that he’d hardly had to put on a mask at all. It was . . . 

(Warmth and cold i n equal measures, the Darkness inside him curled tightly and waiting. Waiting because even the most accepting rarely wanted to see all of him. Tom shoved those feelings aside harshly.)

“We’ll do some shopping after the bank, if that’s alright with you Tom. You’ll need your own clothing.” Xeno muttered as they ambled towards the bank. Tom nodded as he observed father and child closely, puzzling over them.

It was bizarre, to realize he’d been more honest with perfect strangers than anyone else to date, and they hadn’t yet looked at him with revulsion or awe. In Luna’s case, he wasn’t sure she’d really looked at him at all. Her gaze always shifted over him, as if his face and figure were unimportant, her eyes always settling on some nowhere point above his head or shoulders. 

He understood, to some degree, what she’d said about faces, but there was something about how she’d worded it that made him believe that, for the first time, she hadn’t been completely honest.

(But it also hadn't been a lie, or at least, not a lie meant to keep him in the dark.)

Xenophilous lead them into the bank, and several of the Goblins nearest to them paused in work and looked up, directly at Tom. He didn’t like that. The Goblins were highly attuned to magic, and at present, they were all looking at him with some degree of fascinated interest.

“Xenophilous Lovegood, here to see the Goblin manager in charge of handling Code Seventy-six cases.” Luna’s father declared airily to the goblin teller he’d lead them too. 

What was really surprising was how swiftly they were lead back to an office, when Goblins were known for rather spitefully making people wait. 

(Though Tom had never had that experience - being polite and cordial had usually gotten him seen as swiftly as they were able.)

“How do you know so much about this if everything is supposed to be kept quiet?” Tom asked as they were walking back, voice very politely low.

Xeno blinked at him over a slim shoulder and frowned in confusion. 

“Haven’t I mentioned great-aunt Terra yet? How silly of me.” He replied, then turned around again, almost absently following the Goblin.

Luna shifted a little closer to him and responded for her father, her eyes drifting over the floor in front of her as they walked. 

“Great-aunt Terra married a man who’d been Temporally Displaced quite far into the future. He was from the Hogwarts Founders time, and was simply stunned at all the changes the world had made. She found him being drug off by Fairies, and saved him. Of course, she isn’t the only Lovegood in our family tree to run into a Temporal Traveler. You could say we’re drawn to them. Or maybe they’re drawn to us?” 

Tom wasn’t sure to say to that any more than he was sure how to respond to half the things she’d told him so far. It also hadn’t really answered his question. In the office, Xeno and Tom were ushered into a seat directly behind a desk where one Goblin was scribbling furiously on some parchment. Luna drifted towards an armchair that had been set against the far wall.

“Right then. To business.” The Goblin declared, and Tom took a quick look at his name plaque. 

Gapingmaw the Ripper. Tom truly enjoyed Goblin naming. 

“Greetings - may your enemies continue to tremble beneath you,” Xenophilis started, wide eyes on the Goblin across from him and practically bleeding excitement, “Yesterday afternoon, Tom Riddle appeared in the back of our property, unconscious and simply bleeding with Temporal Magiks.” 

The Goblin stared at Xeno for a heart-beat of time, then sighed, muttering something in Gobbledegook under his breath that Tom couldn’t catch, before said Goblin produced a sharp golden dagger and a familiar piece of parchment. 

“Three drops of blood, if you would.” 

Tom obliged, watching as the parchment started to fill itself out. There was no new information on it for him, so he handed it back over. The Goblin stared at it quietly - blankly - for a stretched minute before he started muttering under his breath again and started scribbling more furious notes. Those same notes vanished when he tossed them into a box at his elbow, and Gapingmaw steepled his fingers and sighed.

“You enjoy causing a fuss every time you come here, don’t you Lord Lovegood?” The Goblin asked, scowling at Xenophilous. 

Tom could honestly say he was surprised that the man held a title. 

“There’s nothing wrong with a bit of fussing.” Xenophilous returned easily, smiling eccentrically at the Goblin. 

The door opened behind them, and two other Goblins walked in. They all argued quietly over the parchment, then one of them - quiet begrudgingly - handed over a leather folio and marched away again. Finally, Gapingmaw turned to them and smiled a toothy, Goblin smile. 

“Right then. I’ll start setting up the mandatory paperwork, and inform the Ministry that we need a Temporal Services Agent. After we have all of that paperwork done with, we’ll move on to vaults and vault access, shall we?” 

Unfortunately, this did not serve to answer any questions Tom had about what was presently happening. Neither did the following two hours, where a harried, eager looking man in Ministry robes bustled into the room and cooed excitedly over Tom. He wanted to rip the man’s briefcase out of his hands and hit him with it within the first few minutes.

He was asked a series of questions that made sense —

“What were you doing before you woke up here in our time?”

“On a scale of one to ten, with one being none and ten being deadly, how dangerous was that situation?”

“Where, geographically, did this happen? I have a map for reference here.”

“What year were you born, and what year was it before you woke up in this one?”

And then there were the questions that made no sense at all. 

“What’s your favorite color?” 

“Do you celebrate the Muggle holidays, or practice Wixen tradition?”

“What was the last thing you ate — before you traveled?”

“Any strange cravings since you first woke up here?”

He hadn’t thought the Ministry could get more ridiculous, but finally, the man smiled wide and bright, double-checked he had everyone’s signature, and then laughingly declared them done. 

“I’ll get working on having the Headmaster of Hogwarts sworn to silence, and get him to fast-track your papers - at least, as much as one can with Hogwarts. You,” he said this while looking at Gapingmaw, an eager light in his eyes, “will immediately send me all relevant information, including his new name and date of birth?”

Gapingmaw looked frankly offended to have the man asking, and growled him out of his office before he turned back to Tom. 

“Now, we cannot allow you to continue using the name Tom Riddle, as our records show that this time-lines version of you still lives, somewhere. You’ll need to pick a different inheritable name. I have compiled a list of options, based on what we know of your alternate self and what you qualify for at present.”

Tom blinked, a little stunned, but nodded and glanced over the provided list. Finally, with a sigh, he circled Thomas Cadmus Slytherin, deeply disturbed that this time-lines Tom Riddle hadn’t yet claimed the Slytherin title. There were fifty years between him and this version of him, weren't there? What had he been doing?

(Tom had quietly claimed it at thirteen, but had been unable to act on his titles until he was fifteen without negative repercussions. If this version of him was too stupid to claim what he had, Tom was not going to be kind and just leave the titles sitting there.)

“Excellent. And your date of birth?”

Tom blinked at the Goblin and then frowned. 

“I’m fourteen. Fifteen in December.” He reminded, probably unnecessarily. 

“So you agree to the birthdate December 31st, 1980?” Gapingmaw pressed, and after a very quick mental calculation, Tom nodded. 

Gapingmaw sent him a toothy smile in response. 

“Wonderful. I’ll be sure to send that information along with everything else, once you and Lord Lovegood sign this Contract of Care.”

Tom accepted their copy and read it carefully, trying to puzzle over all its meanings. He had a lot of questions - questions that the Goblin in front of him answered first with some amusement, then with some impatience. Finally, he signed, a little hesitant with his name at first. 

(The contract itself boiled down to this — the Lovegoods were responsible for helping him navigate the world for the next two years, emotionally, physically, and financially, as the family that found him and claimed guardianship over him. There were, as far as he could tell, no negatives.)

“Excellent. I’m going to pop over and get Tom set up with a trust fund under the Lovegoods.” Xenophilous finally declared, after he’d affirmed he didn’t need to sign anything else. 

Tom, apparently, still had some paperwork to fill out.

“Miss Lovegood, would you mind overmuch if I placed a silencing ward up around you?” Gapingmaw called, and Luna blinked down at her book dazedly. 

He’s not sure where she produced it from, but she’d had it between one moment and the next, her legs tucked up underneath her in the chair. The girl glanced up and blinked dreamily over at them, then smiled, looking back down just as slowly. Gapingmaw seemed to take that for an answer, because he flicked his fingers and a ripple of magic enveloped Luna.

“Now, Mr. Slytherin, I have some unfortunate news I feel you must learn from a neutral source.” Tom already hated where this was going. 

Goblins, the hardiest of any creature he’d encountered, considered very few things unfortunate. 

“Alright.” He agreed slowly. 

Gapingmaw gave him an odd sort of look and sighed. 

What he had to say made Tom’s stomach drop, and the proof he produced made him sick. The books, the articles, the hazy, roughly pieced together information the Goblin had, less because it was widely known fact and more because Goblins made it their business to track their clientele. 

“We know not by what means this version of yourself went about creating his power-base, nor do we much care why there was such a clear devolution. What we do care about is that we were promised a stagnant account would be brought back, and then nothing came of it. You will, of course, remedy this.” Gapingmaw finally ended. 

After telling him that the slightly silly name Tom had fashioned for himself out of boredom had become a thing feared across Britain. After telling him that a version of himself had turned away from plans for politics and towards indiscriminate killing. After the foundations he’d started building his future dreams on began to crumble. 

(What happened to claiming his Lordship? To bringing the Dark Sect back into equal power with the Light, rather than the imbalance it had been? What had happened to keeping magical children in the hands of Muggles safe? What had happened!)

His magic reared away from his careful control, all those damning words ringing in his head. His shock was just enough, his fury was just enough that the inky black tendrils of his magic, normally so tightly wound it hurt, flung off their bindings and whirled from him like vicious honey. Sickly sweet and cloying, that was his magic. It always wanted to be known, to be seen, to be used. Tom tried to draw it back, because the Goblins were not enemies he wanted to make, but his breathing was too harsh and his mind was abuzz with those damning words.

(A trickle of something other along his spine, the weight of a gaze he'd forgotten was even there.)

Tom's head whipped around, and he found that Luna Lovegood was staring at him. Not at the space around his head, or over his shoulders, or some middle point between them. She was looking at him, finally, and she was seeing what he was. Her reaction did not fall under the two he had come to expect, at this point in his life. She did not draw back quickly in horror, like he was a live, wildfire that had tried to consume and burn and destroy. She did not lean forward, entranced and enticed and eager to feel, reaching with her own magic to touch the liquid Darkness of his. 

She simply stared at him, as if she was seeing him — meeting him, for the first time. As if he was a puzzle she hadn't realized she'd been tasked with solving. Luna Lovegood looked at him, and his un-tethered magic, and did nothing he expected her to.

(His magic stilled and slowed, the slow-moving whirl of it settling around his shoulders with the same sense of confusion he felt. This day was full of firsts, and Luna was quickly turning his already crumpled world view upside down, because—)

Because good girls like Luna Lovegood did not offer him small, soft smiles from across a room rich with the taste of his raging magic. Girls like Luna, too honest and too soft and too giving, did not smile at monsters that bore all their teeth. Tom's magic retreated from the room as if burned, and Tom took a breath, looking back to Gapingmaw apologetically. 

"I'm sorry. I wasn't expecting . . . Any of that." He announced. 

The Goblin watched him with blank, beady eyes and nodded solemnly.

"It's not every day one learns a version of themselves turned into a psychotic megalomaniac intent on wiping out a majority of the world populace." The Goblin responded, a little too gleefully, in Tom's opinion. 

The damn thing was probably enjoying Tom's distress. Thankfully, Lord Lovegood came back at that point. He paused in the doorway of the room, giving the whole of it an absent, airy sort of glance before he smiled softly at Tom and Luna.

"Are you all ready? It's rather late, and we should be getting our other errands done." He softly declared. 

Tom stood and bowed briefly to the Goblin behind the desk. 

"May your enemies fall before your blade." He intoned, grateful to be called away before he forgot himself - again - and ripped the Goblin's smug, gleeful smile off its face.

"May your Gold overflow. Gringotts will be contacting you about what you wish to do with your accounts, after all of the paperwork to make you a legal citizen has been finalized." The creature returned, looking at Tom like he knew what he was thinking and found it funny. 

Luna stood and skipped towards the door wordlessly, her gaze again absent and unseeing. Tom thought that was maybe for the best. 

(His breath was still too harsh, his heart still stuttering in blind fury, but his Darkness, his Monster, stayed firmly withing, wrapped around his Core in shock. No one had ever smiled at them like that. No one. So her not-looking now. . .)

Just encase she decided to be afraid of him after all - like any sensible person - he didn't want to see the fear in her eyes, or deal with tedious blubbering. 

(He could not handle that in his present state of mind. It was one thing thinking yourself a monster. Another entirely to be told you actually became one in a version of your life.)

The Lovegood's lead him into Diagon, and he let himself be distracted by their absent-minded advice and poor fashion-sense, just for a little while. There was no harm in ignoring one's problems for little spaces of time. 

(Later — Much later, after an afternoon arguing with both Luna and Xenophilous about color choices and styles. After being forced to let Xenophilous pay for his new clothing and several books about recent history - and other things he'd hardly considered, like toiletries - he walked deep into the woods that lay beyond the Lovegood household and released the full, raging force of his magic. He ripped trees to shreds and twisted rocks to dust and let his magic do the panicked, wrathful screaming for him. He very pointedly did not feel bad about it later. There was too much peace inside him after to feel bad, even when Xenophilios spent the next morning excitedly blathering on about what it might be that had ripped up the forest.)

Chapter Text

They fell into a routine, somehow. In the two days since the bank, Luna and her father had integrated him so seamlessly into their lives, he felt like an outsider and an insider all in one. It was unsettling, how well they fit him into their world. As if he’d always been there. 

He hated the juxtaposition of feeling weak, wanting care, and feeling strong, like he needed no one. It left him terribly conflicted with himself, and that was never a good thing for him to be. 

(Being at war with himself meant he didn’t have control, and if he lost control, he would lose himself.) 

He had needed no one his whole life — but three days with the Lovegoods, and he suddenly desperately craved the soft smiles and easy affection. He was hoping that it would all boil down to shock, because otherwise, it simply didn’t make sense, his new position in the world. 

He took to walking the odd moors that surrounded the Lovegood house - not a manor, not a mansion, but a house shaped like a Rook. Tom was still puzzling over that, but hadn’t yet built up the desire to ask. What he did know about the Lovegoods thus far was that they were a Noble and Ancient House, qualified for a Lord and Ladyship, and that Luna was using an alternate trust-fund from the Lovegood one - because Xenophilous had gifted him that one. This meant that she was capable of inheriting an alternate title, but he had no idea what.

“Hello, Tom.” Luna called, dreamy and sighing. 

Tom glanced up and paused, tilting his head. Luna was standing perfectly still, barefoot and muddied, her eyes on a rather large, mossy looking boulder he didn’t remember being there from his last walk. She was wearing a rather overlarge pale-blue dress made out of a material he couldn’t name. 

There were two large pockets on the front of it, and one of them was drenched and heavy looking. She wore pale green and shimmery leggings - also drenched - and there was what looked to be a streak of mud up her arms. 

“Luna,” he greeted back, taking a hesitant step forward, “where are your shoes?” He asked. 

The girl blinked away from the boulder she stood in front of and looked down. Toenails lacquered a pearly-purple wiggled in the grass, and then she shifted in confusion. 

“It’s possible I forgot them by the lake.” She sighed. 

Tom hadn’t been aware there was a lake near-by, so he drew closer in interest. 

“Why would you have left them there?” He asked. 

Luna turned from the boulder fully and her eyes drifted across his shoulders with her response. 

“Well, I saw the Gillyweed and I though Neville might like some.” She stated. 

He felt himself frowning, and tried to smooth the look out. 

“Neville? Who is he and why would he want Gillyweed?” He asked. 

Luna hummed in thought and drifted towards him slowly. 

“Neville is Hari and Hermione’s best friend. He’s a Hufflepuff, and quiet keen with Herbology. It will be his birthday soon.” She explained. They finally came even, and Tom nodded slowly. 

“Why don’t we go get your shoes? You’ve not told me about Harry and Hermione yet.”

(And Luna had talked to him about a lot of things in regards to Hogwarts over the last two days, but nothing about these supposed friends of hers.)

Luna took to the invitation to share like she did most things, with a pleased smile and a slow, slightly dazed blink. It was again odd to think this girl, who’d offered him kindness even knowing what he was, was unused to being listened to. 

(He wondered if these friends she referenced were like the ‘friends,’ from his time. Willing to associate with her and speak to her, but with some ulterior motive in mind.)

“Oh, Hari and Hermione are in my House! I didn’t become friends with them until halfway through my first year, when Hari discovered the Nargles were taking my things and hiding them. He helped me get them all back, and then he introduced me to Hermione.” She started, easily leading him into the woods. 

Tom made a sound of acknowledgment, and that seemed all she needed to keep talking. 

“Hermione has a hard time accepting that there are simply some things not written in books, but she’s alright besides that. She’s actually very kind - and very fierce. Hari teases that if she was a little less book smart and a little more reckless, she’d have made a decent Gryffindor, because she’s not afraid of defending her friends.”

Tom was rather sure he wouldn’t like Hermione, for that alone. Gryffindor’s drove him crazy.

“Neville is in Hufflepuff, like I said, and he used to be very shy and nervous. Hari says Neville has more steel in his spine than the Eiffel Tower! I rather believe it, since he sometimes looks at people who are misbehaving and they start behaving instead. Hermione says it’s due to being friends with Hari. He stumbles into a lot of trouble all by himself.”

Tom tilted his head at her in question, just as they broke through a wall of bushes, and he suddenly found himself on the edge of a lake. Luna’s eyes blinked slowly, then her attention drifted along the shore, moving forward with slow steps. 

“Even if they don’t believe in the things Daddy and I know about, they’re still very kind. Hermione will even let me talk about Daddy’s adventures, and Hari bought a subscription to the Quibbler as a show of support.” Luna continued. 

“So they’ve never seen your creatures either?” He asked. 

(A small portion of him that had been wondering if these creatures were a recent discovery relaxed.)

Tom caught sight of a pair of bright pink trainers, the canvas cloth looking a little damp. There were two rumpled, rolled socks in mustard yellow laying over the top of them. 

“Oh, not to my knowledge.” Luna agreed, and tentatively crossed the smooth stones and dark sand towards the rock she’d placed them on. 

“How do you know they’re real, then?” He asked curiously. 

Luna paused in unrolling her socks, then blinked over at him curiously. 

“The same way you know magic is real.” She stated matter of factly. 

While she had a fair point, Tom maintained his disbelief. 

“I would still prefer to be able to see for myself.” He stated. 

Luna smiled slowly, absently at him, even as she slipped her socks on, then shoved her feet into her shoes. 

“Seeing isn’t always believing, Tom.” She stated. 

Tom might have argued that, except she looked up at him - she focused on him and smiled, and it was all warmth and acceptance. Instead of informing her that he was, in fact, the kind of person that needed proof for things, he kept his opinions to himself and turned away. 

“It’s your turn to make lunch.” He called instead. 

Luna bounced up to his side just as he crossed back through the bushes. She didn’t respond, didn’t argue. She simply let a steady silence settle between them, and that was, perhaps, the most comforting thing he’d been given since he woke up dazed in the Rook House.

There was a letter from Gringotts waiting for him when he got back. Included were his copies of legal documents, which he tucked away, and a small ledger with written recommendations about what might be best to revive the stagnant accounts he now controlled. He worked on his response to that for the rest of the afternoon, and sent it off by that evening. 

Stranded in a time he hardly understood he may be, but that didn’t mean everything was lost to him. He still had control of some things, and he would hold onto that control with both fists clenched. Tom Riddle hated when someone else was in charge. 

Luna took a seat across from Tom, curling into one of the overstuffed chairs with a book in hand. A quick glance told her that he was occupied by the book he held in his hands, his brow furrowed in thought. She found herself staring at him again — not an unusual occurrence, in the week since the bank.

(In the five days since their walk.) 

Ever since she’d seen him, it had been hard not to look. There were so many faces to his personality, so many hidden avenues. She’d felt bad about the secret looks, at first, but then she realized Tom knew she was looking and hadn’t asked her to stop.

She wasn’t sure if this was a good or a bad thing, and there were too many faces of him for her to tell.

(And one of those faces, the one that was darkness and shadows and rage, hadn't seemed to mind her looking.)

“Anything interesting in my face today?” Tom asked, and quirked an eyebrow at the book in his hands.

Luna allowed herself to blink, then peered closer at him. 

“You’re suffering from a very deep thought, but it’s still unsettled, so I won’t inquire after it. Unsettled thoughts that are interrupted eat settled thoughts, you know.” She shared easily. 

Tom’s eyes—

(Deep blue, so blue, like the ocean; crashing-taking-drowning. The dark heart of the sea always just beneath the surface.)

Tom’s eyes lifted to hers and she found herself struggling to look away. The eyes were windows to the soul, just as much as a face was. She couldn’t afford to fall into Tom’s soul — she didn’t have even a bit of beaten copper on her, to ward off memories.

“How do you define settled thoughts?” He asked. 

Luna blinked and realized she was staring at his shoulders, let her eyes drift up to his jaw curiously. 

“As thoughts that know what they are, of course.” She sighed easily. 

Tom’s lips frowned, and she wondered what she’d said wrong this time. 

“What if they never settle?” He asked. 

Luna tilted her head slowly in response, giving herself time to consider him, not wanting to say the wrong thing again. 

“Then they become ghost thoughts.” She shrugged. 

Tom’s frown didn’t go away, but it didn’t get worse either. Perhaps it was the tone she was using? 

“What do ghost thoughts do?” Tom asked. 

Luna settled back further into her chair and contemplated the splashes of possibilities that hovered around him. Nothing new, but nothing helpful either. She was rather alright with that.

“Ghost thoughts are thoughts or ideas that resurface from time to time, haunting you for a bit. If they still don’t settle, they keep on being ghosts,” she explained slowly. 

Tom stared at her for a minute longer, then slowly nodded, looking perturbed. He didn’t lapse into quiet, like Luna half expected him to. Instead, he lay his book down in his lap and motioned to it with a single hand. 

“Can you explain the idiocy of this last war to me?” He asked. 

Luna, having seen what this boy might have become in his darkest moments, blinked at him in amused surprise, before she stood from her chair and slipped onto the couch next to him, peering over the page he’d motioned to. 

“Ah,” she sighed, “you don’t agree with the Dark Factions statements about blood-supremacy?” She asked.

Tom gave her a sidelong look that was thoughtful and searching. 

“No. Anyone with half a brain can ask a muggle-born to get a blood-inheritance test, and they will be, in some fashion, linked to a squib line. Muggle-born are really nothing more than half-bloods that have resurfaced in an otherwise inactive line of magic.” He explained. 

Luna contemplated how many people this version of Tom Riddle might have convinced of this fact in his own time, but did not look into the portion of his Possibilities that would have told her. Those would die soon. Knowing the information inside them would help nothing. 

“As true as that may be, enough angry people in a group can be told the simplest lies and mob-mentality will have them believing it whole-heartedly,” she shrugged, settling deeper into the space next to him and cracking open her own book - which she then turned upside down, just to see if there any hidden messages. 

“You're suggesting a whole group of people that should have known better decided they wanted to destroy more than they wanted a functioning society?” Tom demanded. 

Luna squinted at what was most assuredly a warning about Helipoaths, but replied all the same. 

“It’s not as though it happened overnight, Tom. It took years for the Dark Factions policies and opinions to get so convoluted. You can track it best by looking up old Ministry Records about bills passed and Legislation put forth.” She offered on a faint breath. 

Tom went quiet next to her, and Luna flipped her book back upright after she’d scribbled down the message she’d seen in the margins. 

“How does one go about looking up Ministry Records?” Tom inquired slowly. 

“Oh very easily. Simply send a letter to Gringotts, and ask them for all records and submissions that pertain to what you're curious about. They’ll charge you a fee for the services, but it’ll get done faster than if you go to the Ministry Archives yourself,” here she paused to give him a very serious look, “especially since the Ministry is a dangerous place. They have an Army of Heliopaths in the basement.”

One of Tom’s eyebrows rose, and she could tell he was doubting her again. 

“What, exactly, are Heliopaths?” He asked.

Luna was all too happy to tell him. 

(Xenophilous Lovegood returned to check on Luna and Tom, muddy from a brief hunt through the forests to find the two still sitting there, bickering back and forth over the different creatures that the Ministry most assuredly had locked in its many basements. Xeno smiled and moved along - there was no need for an intervention here, and he desperately need a shower after that brief altercation with a Snuffling-Switzer-Stone.)

It was three weeks since the bank - the middle of July, in 1994. It had taken him this long and several re-reads of the recent history books he’d gotten to accept his slightly shaky place in the world. To understand how far a version of himself had fallen. To realize that the soft smiles and the tender affection that the Lovegood’s handed out weren’t stopping, and that he probably wouldn’t ever stop craving them.

(The affection was a slightly less important issue than this realities version of himself. This world’s Tom Riddle vanished after Hogwarts, returned briefly, and then slipped quietly into obscurity. He couldn’t track his own movements, and it had frustrated him at first, but he’d come to accept it now.)

This version of Tom Riddle had gone mad. He wasn’t sure how or why, but the man had gone off his rocker and straight into a lake. He did not intend to follow the same path — which meant that aside from his political ideals, he was stepping away from all the little projects he’d been tinkering with. 

Finding a way to avoid death would have to wait - in fact, he could go a long time without ever thinking about Death again - as would the various spells he’d been fiddling with to make himself stronger. 

While the rites and rituals he’d been rough-drafting to that point were meant to make him physically able to withstand duress - like a building falling on him, or Billy and his gang cornering him in a crumpled room - he was no longer willing to risk the possibility that performing them may have altered his mind.

(Besides, he’d no longer need them here, in this time. There was no muggle war going, and the Lovegoods, despite his reservations about how long they’d actually let him stay, were not violent people.)

The most violent he’d ever seen Xenophilous Lovegood was when the man ate. He ate with gusto, like every meal would be his last and he intended to enjoy it as wildly as possible. It was a far cry from his daughter. Luna, even in that moment, was staring absently at her toast, picking at her breakfast. 

(Getting the girl to eat was, perhaps, the most difficult thing about living with them. For whatever reason, Luna Lovegood had a hard time concentrating in the morning. She was fine at other times, would pick at her food with single-minded determination, but the mornings were the most trying - and notably the only meal her father was always there for. Tom himself wasn’t even sure how or when he’d come to care about these things.)

Suddenly, an alarm went off through the kitchen, and both Luna and Xeno stopped eating to look at each other with barely contained glee. Then they were off, both of them out of their chairs so fast the furniture tipped over. They were out the back door, large looking fishing nets held in hand, and Tom was slowly standing and crossing to the window over the sink. They were running around in erratic circles outback, directing each other nonsensically and slapping the nets onto the ground. 

Tom watched them do this, sipping his tea and breathing and simply trying to come to terms with the fact that this was his life now, at least for however long he stayed with them. He was still skeptical about him being entirely welcome with them, if he was honest. 

(Luna had seen, knew about him but had said nothing yet. She’d seen the darkness that lived in him, but instead of turning away, she’d stared back in fascination. It hadn’t been the sick, worshipful fascination of Lestrange, who was as Dark as all his ancestors before him, but a searching, watchful fascination. Eventually, he knew, that fascination would fade and he would be asked to leave.)

Finally, Xenophilous slapped his net down . . . And he was promptly drug off his feet. The man was pulled violently for ten feet before Luna tossed her net over his and yanked. Together, they pulled . . . Something back towards the shed he’d been asked not to go near. Xeno laughingly flicked his wand at the door, and the two disappeared, and were back again in two minutes. 

(Luna started back towards the house, and Xeno slipped back inside the shed and Tom stared in discomfort.)

Tom watched as Luna approached, mind blank and entirely unsure how to process what he’d seen. Or hadn’t seen. There hadn’t been anything in the net to him, but something had been dragging Mr. Lovegood towards the woods. Tom hadn’t been able to make out a shape within the slightly bloated net, but the Lovegoods had just drug something into their shed.  

(The small bit of proof that something he hadn’t been able to see had been very real and very much caught made him nervous. Because what if? What if there were animals most people couldn’t see? What if Wakspurts and Nargles were real? What if Luna wasn’t simply making things up? This was very disconcerting for the boy inside Tom who was an academic, and even more disconcerting for the creature inside Tom that thought it was the superior monster.)

“Oh Tom,” Luna cried as soon as she was in the house again, “it’s amazing! We’ve caught a Split-toed Blubberwart!” She crowed. 

Tom stared at her and couldn’t help that in that moment, he was speechless for reasons besides the unnerving possibility that there were invisible creatures. Because Luna Lovegood was framed by the doorway and the morning sunlight behind her made her radiant. 

Her hair was lit like white gold, her eyes a shimmering, luminous silver. Her smile was wild, giving warmth, the slightest of dimples to her left cheek making her appear impish. There were grass-stains on her pale jeans, and mud on her bare feet, and her sparkly, deep pink shirt with the flower patches was slightly askew on her shoulders. 

(Shiny. So very shiny. Shiny and warm and living. The darkness inside him wanted to pluck out her eyes and keep them for itself. The boy he was wanted to clench her smile close, hold it so tight in both fists so that it could never, ever leave him. He’d never been able to ignore things that were shiny.)

“It was the biggest one I’ve ever seen, Tom!” Luna continued, skipping towards him and bouncing on her muddy toes. 

(It was with slow-building horror and wild fascination that Tom realized, in that terrible-wonderful-frightening moment, some portion of himself had claimed Luna Lovegood. Some part of him had recognized her as a treasure he wanted to keep and hold.)

Her smile went impossibly wider underneath his gaze, and her eyes, they were fully focused on him. It was like the bank all over again. She was watching him back and she was open and accepting and joyous. There were no quick glances when she thought he wasn’t looking back. No secret watchfulness. 

(Or perhaps, Luna Lovegood had claimed him. It hardly mattered with the realization that he would never willingly leave her to her own devices. She was far too warm and far too soft, and despite himself, he liked her. She smiled at him like he was a person. If he left her on her own, someone else might come along and break her.)

Tom felt his lips twitch into a slow, feral smile.

“That’s wonderful, Luna. What will you do with it now you’ve caught it?” He asked, truly interested, when he had some proof that her creatures probably existed. 

Luna’s eyes damn-near twinkled up at him, but it wasn’t as irritating as when Dumbledore’s eyes did the same. 

“Study it of course! Would you like to join us?” Luna asked. 

(The creature that was Tom Riddle purred inside his chest, and Tom’s smile grew. It was an unfortunate fact now that he would never, ever leave Luna Lovegood, but she might wish he had, when she realized what everyone always did.)

“I’d love to. There is something to your creatures after all, and I’d hardly be a good sport about it if I didn’t learn as much as I could.” He agreed. 

Luna’s smile seemed to freeze, being quickly overtaken by an expression of awe. 

“You mean you’re really starting to believe me?” She asked, so quiet. 

Too quiet. He was suddenly worried he might have done some damage with their tiffs over the truth to her creatures.

“How can I not when you and your father just caught some invisible . . . something?” He returned, watched as her smile started to grow back, but was somehow impossibly softer.

“No one’s ever been willing to believe me before.” She whispered, and looked so overjoyed by the prospect of him believing her that he was stunned by the gentleness. 

He’d put that smile there. He’d made her look that gentle. Tom had no idea what to do with this realization any more than he knew what to do over the fact that he’d claimed Luna Lovegood. So instead of doing anything, he let her usher him into the study, where she pulled out journal after journal, all written by Lovegood men and women, and talked to him about the animals depicted in the pages.

(If the price to pay for Luna’s smiles and the Lovegood home was silliness and unsettling creatures he couldn’t see, he’d gladly make the trade-off.)

Things had changed, since Tom had decided to believe her about the creatures her family had spent centuries studying. The change was still too new, still too young, for her to put her finger on what, exactly it was, but it was something. 

(A knowing, an understanding, always just out of her reach or on the tip of her tongue. Like a particularly difficult word to remember. As someone that had very few of these moments - moments where she was uncertain over something - she was both exhilarated and nervous.)

Tom, for the most part, appeared unchanged. Though — he smiled at her more easily, less like he was uncomfortable with the expression his face was making, and more like he truly enjoyed the quirk of his lips. 

(Like he enjoyed smiling at her as much as she liked seeing his lips twist in that certain, tiny way they did.)

She leaned back, away from the canvas she’d been painting on in the middle of the Yellow Parlor, to contemplate the colors and shapes and figures she’d been painting absently. She was slightly alarmed to find that one of them was Tom, sitting in quiet a lazy manner, what might be a book propped open in his lap. The figure leaning close to him on the couch - a couch that could only be the colorful, patchwork one from the Rook House’s family room - could only be her. 

It was very rare that her hands let her paint such things. (Usually, she unconsciously painted a knowing or a vision.) It was soft-serene-content, all gentle lines and unworked shadows. The painting itself had so much potential. Much like the thing on the tip of her tongue did - the Knowing she couldn’t quite grasp was rife with potential.

(With so many things Luna couldn’t name them all.)

“It looks rather good.” Tom’s voice startled her enough that she felt herself jump, her hand flying up to cover her heart where it started beating double-time in her chest. 

Tom’s feet rounded the small space she’d marked out with spare, paint-smeared sheets, and then he was crouching down across from her, his face twisted in wry amusement. 

“My apologies. I did knock, but you were occupied,” he said slowly, blue, blue eyes tracing the lines of her painting. 

Luna shook her head, mute with the wild drumbeat of her heart and the burn in her cheeks, and she reached for a rag to distract herself. She had the soft blues she’d used as shadows streaking down her hands and arms, yellow on her fingertips, and oddly enough, a brilliant red line down her left forearm. 

Curious, Luna let her gaze drift over the painting, looking for the red. She found it in the cheerful-looking outline of carnations sitting in the window to the left of her and Tom’s painted faces.

“Did you need me for something?” Luna asked, feeling able enough to speak through the pound of her heart. 

Tom blinked away from the painting below him to glance up at her, and he smiled — smirked, really, the twist of his lips was small enough that it might not have counted for anything else. 

“Lunch is ready.” He offered. 

Luna blinked, and realized quite suddenly that she was ravenous. 

“Oh, that’s wonderful,” Luna admitted, feeling no shame in the way her stomach grumbled. 

Tom eyed her hands with faint interest, then stood and rounded back towards her, offering his own hand down. Luna took it slowly, caught by the long-fingered-bluntness of his hands —

(In some visions, they were long and spidery and clawed — and right that moment, at least one version of him was still spidery-fingered and clawed.)

But when she looked back up at him, she was caught by the unexpected realization over what the Knowing - a Knowing that had bothered her ever since Tom had quietly started working his way through her Family’s journals with intent fascination - was. It was so simple, so unexpected, she wasn’t quite sure how it had evaded her, until that moment. 

(But perhaps the image in front of her helped, just a little. Perhaps it was seeing her hand, smeared with faint color, and curled into his own. Or maybe it was the soft light over his face as he looked down at her — the gleam in eyes a deep ocean blue, sharp and seeing and focused. Maybe it was simply that she was in-tune with herself, for the first time since . . . Sometime, realized that her heart was still pounding too hard in her chest, despite the fact she was no longer startled.)

Tom Riddle was much more than she’d ever thought he was. He was more than she’d ever been allowed to believe or see. And she had developed an entirely unexpected crush on him. 

“Oh,” Luna breathed, and made herself stand, ignoring the questioning tilt of Tom’s head. 

If she looked too hard, she might tell him, and even with how much she wanted to be honest with him she knew one thing absolutely. Tom, as he was at that moment, would have no idea what to do with her admitting freely that she liked him. So. 

(So for right then, she would eat the lunch he made and come to terms with feelings that had snuck up on her, and hope that she didn’t break her own heart. Boy’s like Tom, after all, rarely looked away from the stars they were reaching for — and she knew that was where his focus was-is-always-had-been.)

Xenophilius Lovegood left very abruptly, there one day and then running out of Rook House like a hurricane the next. Tom had come down expecting to make breakfast and found the whole house whirling and twirling, things floating wildly towards an open briefcase on the kitchen table while Xenophilius dashed around madly. 

Luna had been sat at that kitchen table, dazedly watching the briefcase getting filled. Xeno had been the one to distractedly explain that he’d gotten a tip over a giant, Magical Elk, about how he’d be gone until he found it and written something substantial about it and the way it had been terrorizing a muggle logging town.

“It will be quiet a feature for the Quibbler!” The man proclaimed, and the briefcase clicked shut.

The dotty man leaned down to plant a kiss on his daughter's head, then to Tom’s surprise, he was pulled into a hug before the whirlwind of a man was gone, vanishing into the Floo with an excited laugh. Luna had looked unbothered the whole time, or held the appearance of not being bothered. There was a certain tightness to her jaw that he’d never seen before.

“Are you hungry, Luna?” He asked, softly. 

Luna blinked at him, and then nodded slowly, looking suddenly relived.

“I’m sorry Tom. I meant to make breakfast today.” She sighed. 

Tom shrugged as he drifted past her, pulling out everything they’d need for some porridge. It would be quick and simple, and better yet, Luna was more likely to eat it if there was a whole meal in a bowl and not multiple things all on a plate. 

(She spent too long separating her eggs from her toast, or sequestering her potatoes in the very center of her plate.)

“I haven’t heard anything from Hogwarts yet. Did they change the dates they sent out letters?” He asked. 

It took a minute for Luna to respond. 

“Oh, I suppose they have. I’m not sure when they changed it though. I’ve always gotten mine July twenty-third.”

She cooed, and Tom contemplated that sending the letters on the eighteenth would really be more appropriate. He wondered why they’d made the change, but didn’t put any more thought into it, sparing a glance at the colorful, overlarge calendar on the wall that separated the living room from the kitchen and dining room. 

(It was charmed to update itself, likely because the residents of the house were terrible at keeping track of dates.)

It was July twentieth. It had only been five days since he’d come to the uncomfortable realization that he was attached to Luna - and to some degree Xenophilous -  and he would have three more days before they heard anything from Hogwarts. He wished he could choose to skip those days, especially now that Xeno was no longer available as a slight buffer. He enjoyed Luna’s company - far more than he’d ever enjoyed anyone’s company - but he didn’t know what to do, now that he realized she mattered.

The morning Prophet came just then, and Tom flicked the kitchen window open wandlessly. He settled in across from Luna with the paper, passing her the pages she tended to steal from her Father - the sections that generally covered lost animals or rubbish for sale, or small stories about shop-keepers - while he skimmed through the main headlines. 

“Tom?” Luna asked softly, just as he was getting up to finish their breakfast. 

He made a small, absent sound, and Luna took it as a cue to continue speaking. 

“Are we friends?” She asked. 

Tom hesitated in pouring in a tad more milk to the porridge, then continued on, something . . . Odd clenching around his heart. 

“Would you say we are? I’ve — well, I’ve never had an honest friend before. People others would call my friends were only ever friendly with me because they wanted something.” He replied slowly. 

There was a briefly thoughtful silence, and then Luna appeared out of the corner of his eye, drifting over to the cold-storage shelves to pull out berries and nuts.

“I would say we are. I really like spending time with you. You always have interesting things to say, or a point of view I hadn’t thought of. I certainly hope that I haven’t been a bother to you?” She replied, still so refreshingly honest.

Tom felt his lips twitch into a smile that didn’t feel odd on his face. 

“Then yes. I suppose you could say we’re friends.” He confirmed. 

Luna went still next to him, where she’d come to place the berries and nuts, and then she seemed to relax all at once, almost seeming to melt over the counter. 

“I’m glad you're here, Tom. I get so lost when Daddy leaves, I sometimes forget I’m real.” She whispered. 

Tom was still trying to figure out what that even meant, days later, after another quiet breakfast where she managed to eat her food with only some distractedness. Unfortunately, Luna continued to be a rather intriguing mystery, despite his best efforts to figure her out. Perhaps that was what he liked best about . . . Having her as a friend. 

(It still felt odd, to give her a title like that. It felt odd and right, and it made him angry-confused-hurt if he thought about it too hard. It had taken him until he was fourteen bloody years old to make a friend, a real one not a fake one, and he’d had to take a trip through the Temporal Field to do so.)

Tom had trouble sorting his emotions that weren’t very clearly anger, rage, or indignation on the best of days. Trying to sort through his now was exhausting, and left him sprawled on the couch in the living room, pretending to read while Luna did something in the kitchen.

(He suspected she was trying to make a lunch, but she’d been extra distracted since the previous afternoon, so he remained dubious over how well this lunch would turn out.)

“We’ve got our Hogwarts letters!” Luna called from the kitchen, and Tom blinked past the words on the page he hadn’t really been paying attention to. He was up and moving before he’d acknowledged the intent to move. Luna was sitting on the counter by the sink. There were abandoned food items on the opposite side of the sink - which looked suspiciously like she’d been trying to make sandwiches - and a Hogwarts barn owl drinking water from a perch at the end of the counter. The ends of Luna’s glittery purple skirt had fallen into soapy dishwater. 

Tom absently flicked his wand and vanished the water in the sink, then dried her skirt for her before he took his letter from her outstretched hand. Luna didn’t even seem startled by the actions, her eyes absently drifting over her own supplies list. Tom took his up and smirked at the name on the front. 

Mr. T Slytherin,

The Blue Room

Rook House

Devon, near Ottery St. Catchpole

“Would you mind shopping with Hari and Hermione?” Luna asked him, and when he checked, her eyes were on the far wall, entirely day-dreamy and pre-dotty looking. 

He leaned against the sink next to her and watched her absently twirl her hair between her fingers. 

“No, I suppose I’ve heard enough about them by now that I won’t be entirely uncomfortable.” He offered. 

(Besides that, he had questions for the boy who supposedly ‘destroyed,’ this realities Tom Riddle. Not that he put a lot of faith behind the verdict of the Wixen populace of Magical Britain. Any group of people that dubbed a literal baby as their 'savior' needed reality checks. It was almost sad that fifty years hadn’t much changed the ridiculousness of Magical Britain.)

Luna sent a small, soft smile in his direction. 

“Daddy won’t be back in time for shopping, so we can go whenever,” she said slowly, attention drifting down to her swinging feet. 

The Floo chimed just then, and Luna slipped down to pad towards it, with Tom following after.

“Luna?” Someone called, and Tom was greeted by the disembodied, floating head of a slightly androgynous boy sitting in their - in the - fireplace.

“Hello, Hari!” Luna called, folding down in front of the open call. 

Tom felt much more keenly interested in finding out that this was Harry-who-stopped-the-Nargles and also Harry-the-Boy-Who-Lived-and-hated-it.

“Luna! Hermione, Neville, and I just got our letters! They’re both staying over right now, and we were wondering when you wanted to do shopping!” The boy greeted, a wide smile splitting the seam of his flame-formed mouth.  

“Oh, Tom and I are available anytime, really.” Luna offered, smiling at the head in a soft manner. 

Tom disliked seeing that smile directed at someone else, but managed to beat down his possessiveness enough that he could calmly take a seat in the nearest armchair and sprawl in a manner that would have given Malfoy a hissy fit.

“Tom?” Hari asked in confusion, and Luna blinked at the disembodied head. 

“Haven’t you received my letter yet, Hari?” She asked. 

The head started to shake, and then its eyes went wide and a small, blurry movement took place. 

“The letter! I knew I kept forgetting something! You sent two of them really close together and I responded to the latter one before the former! I never even opened it! I’m such a moron!” The boy exclaimed.

Luna smiled again, and it was a smaller, much more airy thing. 

“That’s alright. Read it when you can. Are you all available tomorrow?” She asked. 

They got a confirmation, and then the Floo went quiet, after a brief and slightly distracted goodbye. The flames quickly turned red and cheerful, and the girl in front of the fire carefully placed another log over them. Luna shuffled back on her knees and then climbed up onto the seat across from him, smiling at the area around his head in that day-dreamy way she tended to. 

“You don’t mind shopping tomorrow, do you?”

Tom shook his head, settling back more comfortably. 

“No. It’s fine. I need more clothes anyway. I’m getting rather tired of the same three pairs of shirts and trousers.” He shrugged. 

That day they’d gone to the bank, he’d gone as lightly as possible because Xenophilous had insisted on buying. And also because both of the Lovegood’s were horribly, garishly colorful people, and Tom hadn’t wanted them sneaking anything outlandish into his purchases. Now, he held a little more trust towards the girl, and it would be a matter of him spending his own money. Well, his own and whatever Luna insistently pressed on him.

(He could tell from the look in her eyes that she would be pressing some money on him. The Lovegoods took being his ‘Host-Family,’ rather seriously.)

“Yes, I suppose you do need more clothing. And a formal suit.” She mused softly.

Tom was about to ask why he’d need that when the Floo lit up again. 

“Luna Love! I don’t know if you can hear me, so I’m leaving a message — I’ve just gotten word from a friend in the Ministry! You need to make sure you add a formal dress and formal suit to yours and Tom’s supplies! I don’t know why, just that you’ll need it. Much love to you both, I’ll see you come Ostara”

Tom stared at the Floo and the fading, distracted-looking head of Xenophilous, then glanced at Luna curiously. She simply smiled back at him, all soft and warm and secretive, and Tom sighed in resignation. 

There were never any straight answers with Luna Lovegood.

(He was secretly alright with that. Besides. He had his suspicions.)

The next morning, Luna was up before he was. She looked well-rested, if slightly dottier than usual, and she’d made them breakfast sandwiches. Tom ate his while eyeing the overlarge sunflowers printed onto her white blouse, and the bright yellow leggings underneath her pale green skirt. There were - he was positive on this - sunflower petal earrings made of real sunflower petals dangling from her ears. 

“You’re . . . very colorful this morning,” He noted, and Luna blinked at him owlishly from her place perched on the kitchen counter. 

(In the very back of his mind his Monster scowled over the extra colorfulness, because there had to be a reason for it, hadn’t there?)

“I checked my horoscope this morning and it told me sunflowers would be lucky for me.” Luna breathed, picking at her sandwich a bit before she shoved the last couple bites in her mouth and slipped down from the counter. 

Tom stood as well, watching her pull on a deep green summer cloak with a large, embroidered sunflower on the left breast. Tom plucked up the deep grey summer cloak he’d gotten after the Bank, only shoving the last of his own sandwich in his mouth when Luna lead him into the living room and towards the Fireplace.

“You have the pouch Daddy gave you for your vault?” Luna asked, eyeing him intently. 

Tom nodded, and Luna tossed Floo powder into the Fireplace with a flick of her wrist. They arrived in the Floo room of the Leaky almost right on top of each other, then moved out to the Alley. 

“We’re meeting at Fortescue’s — it’s where we usually meet up.” Luna declared, giving him a pleased smile when he flicked the soot off both of them. 

“Well then,” he sighed, offering his arm, which she slipped her own into easily, “you best lead the way.”

He was trying not to grimace while he spoke, but he must have failed tremendously. 

“You don’t like ice cream, Tom?” Luna asked. 

Perceptive, mad girl. He felt his lips twitch into an oddly pleased smile.

“It’s far too sweet. I only tried some once, at Hogwarts — nearly lost my lunch, it was so sugary.” He shared slowly. 

Luna hummed in thought, then smiled suddenly. 

“Fortescue’s has a slightly bitter cranberry ice cream. I quite enjoy it, with a scoop of orange sherbet. You could try some of mine, if you like?” She offered. 

If anyone else had offered him the same, Tom might have taken offense. However, this was Luna, who’d only shown consideration for him - rather than pity. 

(She’d noticed he didn’t like mushrooms and stopped making them. She noticed he like Earl Grey tea instead of Lavender and Rose Hip, and started making sure there was Earl Grey for every tea time. Luna, seemingly by her very nature, was considerate of other people.)

“I suppose trying it can’t hurt,” he agreed mildly. 

The smile he got in return was so easily given, he’d feel bad if he were a better sort of person, but he wasn’t. He would take as many smiles as he could get, because they were being freely offered, and Luna did so even knowing the truth of him. 

They arrived at the ice cream parlor - which was much bigger than he remembered - before her other friends did, and he let her talk him into sampling a handful of bitter ice creams. Most of them - even the sour apple and tart cherry - were too sweet for his tastes. The cranberry, however, was rather bitter enough he didn’t mind it so much. 

He got a small cup of it plain, while Luna got a slightly larger cup of it, and two scoops of the orange sherbert she mentioned, which was then covered in toppings. Tom very openly grimaced at hers, to which she seemed to have no problem smiling cheerfully back at him for, and they settled in to wait while Luna indulged. 

They’d barely been there a few minutes when they were interrupted.

“Luna!” A female voice called, and then a girl with deep, warm bronze skin and perhaps the wildest curls he’s ever seen was squeezing the blonde girl into a tight hug.

A boy - the same androgynous one from the fireplace - dropped into the seat across from Tom, with another boy more awkwardly folding himself into the one directly to Tom’s left. 

“You must be Tom then, yeah?” The boy that could only be Harry asked. 

Tom contemplated his creamy, russet complexion, the almost artful way his heavy black hair was braided over one shoulder, and the live-fire of his green eyes a little distantly. This boy was certainly striking, but didn’t seem the type to be the defeater of a Dark Lord.

“Slytherin, Thomas Slytherin, at your service.” He agreed easily, and rather enjoyed the various stages of shock that followed. 

“Slytherin? Like — like Salazar Slytherin?” The boy to his left asked in surprise. 

This, he supposed, was Neville. He was all dark blonde hair and tall gangly-ness. His eyes, hazel-brown and warm, were the most striking thing about him, but that didn’t change the aristocratic arch to his cheekbones, nor the way he sat with practiced grace. A pureblood, this one.

Tom nodded curtly, scooping up a polite seeming amount of ice cream and popping it in his mouth. The boy - Neville, he had to remind himself - startled out of his shock and flushed. 

“Forgive me, I’m Longbottom, Neville Longbottom.” He announced, tipping his head. 

(It was a little surprising that they all accepted his new surname so easily. Then again, none of them were Gryffindors.)

This spurred the two Claws across from them, Harry and Hermione - Luna was right, those curls did defy gravity somewhat, but it was simply fascinating watching them sway about - to elbow each other and then rush to introduce themselves. 

“I’m Granger, Hermione Granger!” The girl declared, big warm eyes gleaming, plush lips smiling across at him, which — well, it was odd, receiving a smile from someone not Luna.

“And I’m Potter-Black, Hari. That’s Hari spelled like it should be for my ancestor's culture, not British culture.” The boy announced. 

(And Tom would admit to some surprise here, because everything he’d read about the Boy-Who-Lived spelled his name as H-A-R-R-Y. The specification made sense, given this.)

“Would that be H-A-R-I?” He asked curiously. 

The Boy-Who-Lived gave him such a pleased smile, he figured the answer was yes, and then—

“Luna, dear please tell me that’s not all you’ve eaten this morning?” Hermione interrupted, looking worriedly at the cup of ice cream Luna was still steadily making her way through. 

The girl blinked away from the treat absently and gave a dazzling smile. 

“Oh, no, it was my turn to make breakfast this morning. Tom and I had sandwiches.” She declared, then popped another overlarge spoonful in her mouth. 

Tom flinched at the very idea of all the sugar she was eating. 

“Oh? That’s wonderful then — we’ll be right back.” Hermione cooed, patting the table near Luna’s hands and then hurrying over to the counter. The boys followed her lead, and he watched them have an intense-looking, whispered conversation while they ordered. 

When they came back, Tom found he was grateful he and Luna had gotten here early enough that he had just finished his own ice cream, because looking at the veritable pile of chocolate sauce on Hari’s made his entire jaw ache. 

“So,” Hermione started nervously, and Tom found himself putting on a mask for the first time in . . . A while, “Luna’s letter didn’t say — how did you come to be staying with the Lovegood’s?”

Tom gave what he was hoping was a politely nervous look, then turned his attention to Luna. The blasted girl just sent him one of those damned absent smiles and turned her attention back to her treat with gusto. 

(He could already tell the sugar was going to be something of a problem in a little while.)

“There was . . . Something of an accident, where I lived before. I ended up being the only survivor. Mother Magic caught me up before I . . . Well, before I died, and deposited me into the Lovegood’s care. We checked with the Bank — I have no living caregivers.” He managed. 

He’d originally intended to outright lie to anyone that asked, but that was before he’d taken a look at his Hogwarts letter and realized that Albus Bloody Dumbledore was of course still alive and well, and would probably be trying to tell anyone that would listen that Tom was a bad egg. 

(For reasons that had never made sense to him - that infuriated him - Dumbledore had been convinced that Tom was the Magical equivalent to the Second Coming of the Devil. Given what this realities Tom Riddle had done, perhaps he wasn’t so far off — but then again, maybe that might have been avoided entirely if the man had done his bloody job as a responsible adult.)

So. Partial truths and whatever the secrecy vow he’d been forced to take would let him reveal. He didn’t much like it, but really, he also hadn’t much liked nearly dying, so he wasn’t going to complain about having to tell some half-truths. 

“Oh, that’s horrible!” Hermione gasped, and oddly, he felt she was being sincere in that sentiment. 

“Tough break, mate,” Hari agreed, giving him a sad look that managed to not have an ounce of pity, “not sure how I would have handled something like that happening to me, but you look like you’re doing alright.” 

Neville nodded along, but both boys were watching him with clear concern, and Tom was wondering if caring was actually something people did in this time, because no one had ever cared in the thirties. 

“I’m quite alright, actually, but . . . Thank you for the sentiment.” He declared, ignoring the urge to fidget where he sat. 

Hermione’s expression turned from concerned to curiously-confused. 

“Are you sure you’re alright? Shock can sometimes last for months you know and losing your loved ones—” he was going to have cut her off right there.

“I didn’t love them. They were caregivers - who very rarely found it in themselves to either care or give. I’ll freely admit that while what happened was . . . Intense, my shock has centered much more over the fact that I am alive and much better off, rather than the fact that they’re dead. But again, thank you for the sentiment.” He stated. 

(He was waiting for their eyes to go distant and watchful, for their expressions to morph into frowns. He’d been told often enough his whole life he should feel something for the women that had ‘raised,’ him and the children he was reared with, but he knew that would never happen. Mrs. Cole had been a bigot and a drunk, Martha had been a doormat unwilling to catch Mrs. Cole's ire, and the children they'd reared had been nothing but wolves, scrappy and weak, who’d formed a pack against him because he was odd and refused to conform.)

Luna plucked up his empty cup and tossed both hers and his into the rubbish bin to the side, then looked back to him with dazed, slight eccentric eyes. He wondered if the sugar was already hitting her system.

“It’s alright Tom. It’s like Daddy said. We’re not going to let anyone hurt you - you don’t have to be nervous,” then her eyes drifted to Hermione, Hari, and Neville, “I know you’re worried but you really don’t have to be. Tom and I have become good friends!” She stated, while bouncing the slightest bit. 

The three in front of them still seemed to maintain some concern, but they also notably relaxed, if only slightly. 

“We have supplies shopping to do,” Luna reminded, and that spurred her friends onto finishing their own treats quickly. Tom was unused to having someone that could actually read him, much less went out of their way to soothe him.

Luna linked their arms together as they walked, bouncing more than slightly, and Tom let himself be lead. There were some shops here he didn’t remember, some that must have sprung up in the last fifty years or so. He had, for instance, never seen the Magical Menagerie before - that had used to be a divination shop. 

(He was privately glad that it had clearly gone out of business, because the woman that had run it had always been a touch too handsy for his taste, the very small number of times he’d found himself inside.)

It took a better part of the day to get everything, what with the crowds that came a couple of hours into their shopping. Well, the crowds and the fact that he was in need of more clothing. He hadn’t been lying when he’d stated he was tired of the same handful of shirts and trousers. Of course, this particular bit of shopping took much longer than even he’d expected because after Hari and Hermione found out he needed clothing, an unholy fire lit in their eyes. 

“Have you ever shopped in Muggle London? They have some of the softest clothes you’ll ever find!” Hermione declared, with Hari nodding emphatically. 

“I’m not sure what your stance on muggle-things is, but honestly, muggle fashion is far preferable to Wizen fashion!” Hari added, then gestured down at himself and Hermione. 

He would admit that the soft-looking shirts they wore and the far-tighter-than-he-thought-appropriate jeans did look rather comfortable. He still hesitated, because he would be going into Slytherin house, he knew, and the stance on muggle made clothing in his time had been dim. Neville and Luna were suddenly in on the conversation as well, looking just as excited, if in much quieter ways. 

“They really are quite comfortable, Tom.” Luna cooed. 

“I’m not sure what all you know about Hogwarts, given you haven’t been attending it, but there are Slytherin students that prefer to spend their weekends in muggle fashion. The 'rules' regarding it have been something of a grey area in the last few years. It wouldn’t be acceptable at a formal function, but just casually? It should be fine.“ Neville announced, clearly the only one among the four who was accurately able to read Tom’s concerns. 

Which was alarming in itself, really.

“I suppose we could take a look, but I highly doubt I’ll find anything of interest.” Tom finally muttered. 

(Though really, he was relieved. Rook house could get cold, and the Wixen made jumper he’d gotten just wasn’t heavy enough for him. He’d been using warming charms so much, he barely even needed to focus to cast and recast one wandlessly.)

Luna looked at him like he’d given her the shiniest gift she’d ever seen, and then he was being drug towards the Leaky. He was not looking forward to being in London again, and looking forward even less to having to walk through the Leaky of all places. 

They stopped just inside the back doors of the pub so that all those wearing robes could remove them and places them in bags - Tom had been very pleased when he’d realized he could afford the black leather satchel that was currently slung over his shoulders. He’d had to buy most things second hand before, had been at risk of the pre-used items suddenly breaking down. 

(But no one had ever owned the trunk he’d bought, or the bag he was currently using. Their enchantments were shiny and new, and all his.)

They stepped out of the Leaky and Tom stopped short. London was nothing like he remembered. There were electric lights all over the place, not just in the fanciest looking homes. The store fronts and people and everything looked . . . Alien. Alien and not broken and crumbling. Alien and nothing like they should have. How had fifty-odd years changed so much? 

“Welcome to London, Circa 1994,” Luna whispered at his elbow, slipping her arm into his. 

Tom welcomed the weight, and let her and the over-eager, clearly shopping fiends in front of them lead the way to what they called ‘the best shopping center.’ He very begrudgingly admitted, within a few minutes inside the first store, that Muggle clothing had come a rather long way - at least in some areas. He ended up purchasing an assortment of heavier, softer jumpers, plain cotton shirts and tees, and a handful of trousers and jeans that Hari and Neville shoved at him.

It was exhausting, and Hermione and Hari kept trying to make him wear more colors than Black, grey, white, and green. He did, to his astonishment, not mind the softer blues or more muted greens and yellows that Luna showed him. They were finally done well after noon and returned to Diagon when Hermione declared they’d all forgotten extra parchment.

(Or in Tom’s case, any parchment.)

“Will you and Tom be coming to our Party?” Hari asked Luna, after they’d all piled out of the stationary shop. 

The three had seemingly come to some sort of agreement, in between Fortescue’s and Muggle London, that if Luna liked him, they didn’t have anything to be suspicious of. He wasn’t sure how to tell them that Luna had poor self-preservation instinct, and that they should very much be wary of him still, so he’d said nothing at all to their friendly chatter and simply started being himself, rather than distantly polite. The portion of him that was entirely petty disliked that they’d been consistently shrugging off his dry remarks and sharp-to-borderline-rude comments.

“Party?” He repeated. 

Luna perked up next to him and gave him an eccentric, excited look that was all too reminiscent of her father. 

(And in that look, he could see a much stronger resemblance than he’d originally noted. Not just similar, but strikingly so.)

“Hari and Neville were born just a day apart! They celebrate together.” She shared. 

Hari was nodding now, looking just as excited as he had hours before, cooing over Quidditch supplies. 

“Yeah, it’s going to be wicked this year! We finally finished fixing up the house, and Siri said he’s going all out on the Courtyard decorations!” The boy added. 

“Siri?” Tom asked, feeling a faint stirring of irritation for everything he didn’t understand. 

Luna blinked at him slowly, tilted her head, and then nodded sharply before she looked around, then linked their arms and started tugging him towards an alcove where a heavy stone bench was sat. Luna flicked up a ward, and then Hari, Hermione, and Neville all followed. Curious, Tom settled back onto the edge of the bench and watched. 

Luna took a seat next to him and turned fully, tucking her legs up underneath herself. 

“Siri is Sirius Black, Hari’s Godfather. Up until last year, he was wrongfully imprisoned in Azkaban. Last year, before the start of Hari’s third year and my second, he escaped for some rather . . . convoluted reasons. He spent a whole year breaking into and out of Hogwarts, until finally, the DMLE received conclusive evidence that the man he’d been accused of murdering was both alive and had framed him, and that the Ministry had covered the whole thing up. It was a rather large scandal. I’ll see if I can find the old papers for you - I know I kept them.” Luna explained, if slightly rambled, and Tom took a breath. 

“Alright. This Sirius is now your guardian then? Who were you living with before?” He asked, ignoring the sly looks and the smug smirk that had passed between the three people behind Luna while she was describing the ‘conclusive evidence that lead to scandal.’ 

“Sirius is my guardian now, yes. My previous ones were . . . Not suitable. Let’s just say that they were magic-hating muggles and leave it at that, yeah?” Hari rushed out, looking distinctly uncomfortable, and Tom felt his jaw tighten in understanding.

“Say no more. I think I understand,” he muttered, then to change the subject, “when is this party?” 

“July thirtieth through the thirty-first!” Hari declared, smiling again, all soft and friendly-like. 

Tom blinked at him in confusion. 

“That’s two days.” He stated. 

All four other teenagers around him nodded with small, mischievous smiles. 

“How do you hold a party for two days?” He asked, frowning. 

Hari Potter-Black’s eyes went wide and excited. 

“Oh, he’s never known the joy of a forty-eight-hour party,” he whispered, as some children back in the orphanage used to whisper excitedly when they saw presents at Christmas with their names on them.

Tom regretted asking not long after, as each one of them filled up the space with long, convoluted stories about everything you could do at said forty-eight-hour party. By the end of it, he was shaking his head to try and clear it of what sounded like - to him - absolute nonsense. 

He wanted to say he would not be attending, but Luna asked him if he’d attend the event with her with so much hope he begrudgingly accepted. Having a friend whom he actually enjoyed being around was much harder than he’d originally anticipated. 

Chapter Text

July the thirtieth, he and Luna packed what Luna called an overnight bag. It consisted of a couple of changes of clothing, sleepwear, toiletries, books, and the presents that Luna had drug him out to get, the day after they’d gone shopping with Luna’s friends. 

Tom had gotten both boys a set of quills he’d noted they’d looked at intently, and a journal. Neville’s quills were creamy white, with flowers on the front charmed to bloom and wilt on repeat, his journal embossed with twisting vines. Hari’s quills were various shades of blue, with quidditch balls charmed to fly up and down the lengths. The journal was painted leather, a snitch that changed position in a repeating loop. The gifts were nice enough for a new acquaintance, but the bare minimum of what he was obligated to give.

(Luna’s gifts had looked far more personal. Neville’s a painted jar full of Gillyweed, and a book about the uses of various ‘exotic,’ plants - such as Gillyweed. Hari’s gifts were a statue carved out of Jade in the shape of what she claimed was a Thestral, and a book about the newest theories behind wards with elemental properties.)

They left Rook House in the late afternoon, and arrived into the parlor of a house that was both familiar and not familiar all at once. Hari and a tall, skinny man with a riotous mass of wavy black hair and deep blue-grey eyes were waiting to greet them. 

(The man looked lanky and gaunt, like he’d previously been trying desperately to put on weight and was now struggling with the appearance of not-eating-enough.)

“You must be young Thomas!” The man declared, smile all open and wide. 

(The Lord Black of his time would eat this one alive and spit him back out in a heart-beat.)

“Yes, Sir. Thank you for having me in your home.” He responded dutifully, easily stepping to the side when the Floo flared behind him. 

He waved the soot off of both himself and Luna when she walked through, looking dazed but pleased all in one. Luna forwent the formalities and simply walked right up the Lord, tossing her arms around him in a hug that he returned, looking quietly pleased as he did so. 

“Little Luna. Still as airy as ever — tell me, where did you dig this boy up? His manners would have made my Mother weep with happiness.” The Lord cooed. 

Luna twisted out of his arms slowly, then moved to give Hari a hug as well while she responded. 

“Mother Magic brought him to me. She was quite concerned over him, if you must know, and I’ll ask you not to tease him too badly, Lord Sirius.” 

Hari and Sirius both laughed, while Tom pondered over the truth behind Lady Magic being ‘concerned’ for him. Luna turned to him then and smiled wide. 

“Would you like a tour?”  

Tom glanced at Hari and Sirius, and dipped his head in a bow before he nodded to Luna. They placed the presents for Hari and Neville in the right area, and then Luna skipped through the halls, chattering away about things that had changed since the first time she saw it, and how they hadn’t done something Hari had written to her about doing, and a whole stream of words that Tom let her speak and Luna was all too happy to give him.

They were eventually found in one of the parlors, going through the books on the shelves there, by Hermione, Neville, and a tall, sandy-haired boy with pale blue eyes. The boy greatly resembled Thaddeus Nott, even if there were facial features that were unfamiliar. 

“There you are Luna!” Hermione sighed, smiling wide. 

Her curls had been done up into many twists, which fell down her back and over her shoulders. There were sapphire and bronze-colored beads and charms decorating her hair, and a handful of coils on either side of her head had been pulled back and clipped.

She was wearing a royal blue blouse, a pair of semi-translucent leggings that were metallic, and a ‘jean-skirt.’ Tom still maintained that of all the new skirts he’d seen, the jean variety - which fell only to this girls’ mid-thigh - was the most inappropriate — Mrs. Cole would have died of shock had she ever seen someone wearing one.

(Though he’d also freely admit he’d never much cared for how other people viewed clothing in general, since most of society's views were heavily influenced by the Church. And he’d dearly like to see Mrs. Cole faint in affronted shock. So.)

There was a long-sleeved shirt in mustard yellow tied around Hermione’s waist. Neville was dressed in a prim and proper looking shirt and trousers set in deep, warm brown, with a trim waist-coat in honey-gold. The Nott-look-alike was wearing something similar, but in black with a deep blue waist-coat and a light over-robe in pale blue. 

“Hello Hermione,” Luna sighed, drifting over to give the girl a hug. 

Tom dipped his head in greeting to all three, then turned to carefully place the book he’d been flipping through back on the shelf. When he turned around again, Luna had just stepped back from gifting Neville with a hug, whispering something to the boy that had him beaming a smile.

“Thomas, this is Nott, Theodore Nott.” Hermione offered, waving a hand to the boy at her other side. 

Tom nodded again, letting a practiced smile slip into his face. It felt a bit rusty, sitting there. Rusty but familiar. He'd have to start practicing how to be a Slytherin again, since he'd gotten so out of practice in the last few weeks.

“Slytherin, Thomas Slytherin. A pleasure to meet you, I’m sure.” He offered. 

Nott blinked at him first in surprise, and then in surprised-interest. 

“The pleasure is mine. I’ll fully expect you to be in my House then, come this Hogwarts term? Hermione and Neville have been telling me you’ll soon be joining us.” He offered.

He was much more soft-spoken than his . . . grandfather - though it was possible that Old Thaddeus had a child late in life. Regardless. Thaddeus Nott had been one of the sharpest minds Tom knew, and could get away with being a little loud and brash every now and then. 

(Of all his pretend friends, Nott had been the most tolerable, next to the ever-amusing Malfoy.)

“I can assure you, given what I have read and heard, you’ll be seeing me in a green and silver tie come September.” He smirked. 

Nott returned the smirk for what it was, and dipped his head. They were then ushered towards a courtyard that was bursting with plants, both exotic and native, and lights and pulsing music and movement. There must have been thirty other people in the courtyard. He was just beginning to regret his decision to accompany Luna when she drug him into the gyrating masses. 

“Let’s dance Tom!” She called. 

It took less than a minute for him to realize that ‘dancing’ had changed drastically in fifty years. It took barely a minute more for him to realize that Luna had no idea what dancing was supposed to look like regardless. 

“Luna, you’re going to hit someone.” He warned — shouted, more like, given the unholy volume of the ‘music,’ that was playing. 

(Less because he cared if she hit someone, and more because he didn’t want to have to curse someone at her friend's party, should her victim take offense.)

Luna caught sight of him standing - out of range - beside her awkwardly and blinked at him, tilting her head curiously. 

“Do you not want to dance?” She asked-shouted, and Tom hesitated only briefly before responding.

(Only briefly because this was Luna, and he found that he had no trouble being honest with her. This would have - maybe should have - disturbed who he had been weeks before.) 

“It’s not so much I don’t want to dance — just that I don’t know these . . . dances.” He finished slowly, eyeing the — highly inappropriate, and in this, his view was not based on what the Church cared for — positions some other teens were in. 

Luna slipped a little closer, leaning in so she wasn’t exactly shouting. 

“Then dance how you know. That’s what I do - except it’s hard for me to concentrate sometimes on the music, so I never know if I’m hearing it right.” 

Tom blinked down at her, then glanced up and around them. They were surrounded on all sides by dancing people, and the music was thrumming around them, and — well. No one would notice if they did whatever they wanted, would they?

“I could teach you?” He offered, holding out a hand.

Luna blinked down at his palm, and then smiled up at him, and he felt his shoulders loosen slightly. She slipped her hand into his, and he walked her through a few steps for a quick swing - a short and jaunty thing, something one of the dance instructors from his childhood had taught only briefly, because it had been considered too involved. 

(Given some of the dances going on around him, he was going to say it was just fine.)

They spent the next hour like that, him leading her - a little awkwardly - through quick-paced dances, her laughing outrageously anytime she misstepped. It was . . . Well, it was fun. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had fun in a public setting. 

(All the moments over the last weeks didn’t count. That fun had been exclusively between him and Luna, or both of them and Xeno. He’d come to expect that he would enjoy himself in her company.)

At some point, half of the dance floor was cleared so that Neville could open presents, and Luna sat down to drink punch and watch. The boy looked downright pleased when half of the gifts ended up related to herbology, and then deeply touched when he hefted up the jar of Gillyweed and smiled brightly at Luna. After, they sat for a little longer, Luna getting into an animated conversation with Lord Black before the man drifted off again. 

She’d barely really looked at him, but he found himself standing after the Lord had walked away. He was still the one to hold out a hand, his smile slight but there. 

“Dance with me?” He asked. 

Luna took his hand without hesitation and laughed some more, and they slipped into the crowd that had already gathered again. It felt like hours more before they stumbled away for food and cake, then eventually migrated over to a space where an assortment of games had been set up. 

He would never admit it (except maybe to Luna) but Tom actually rather enjoyed himself. He almost forgot that they weren’t returning to Rook House, until much later that evening. 

“Tom? Would you like your own room, or did you want to join the sleepover in my room?” Hari asked him, leaning over the table across from him. 

He and Luna had claimed a table near the back of the Courtyard, and her friends had been slowly migrating towards it, as the thirtieth started to end. Tom blinked at him - then hesitantly looked to Luna for direction.

“They don’t bite, Tom.” She teased, soft and sleepy, and he found himself smiling slightly at the sight of her, slumped over the table next to him, but heavily leaning towards his shoulder. 

“I suppose the . . . Sleepover, in your room would be fine.”

(Primarily because he didn't want to risk getting lost if they placed him somewhere without foot-traffic, and a little bit because he was curious about what a sleepover was.)

He watched Luna droop a little further, and turned his attention to Hermione.

“Where is Luna staying?” 

Hermione flashed a smile at him, all bright and cheerful, and sleepy, standing slowly. 

“I’ll take her up.” She cooed. 

Tom stood to help anyway, trailing after the two. After, Hari showed him where he’d be sleeping, and Tom claimed the right to the washroom first in the face of the handful of sleepy boys already in the room, murmuring to each other in quiet conversation. He didn’t think he’d be able to sleep, but surprisingly, after he’d changed into loose pants and a long-sleeved cotton shirt, and chosen a spot to lay down — he dropped off, only faintly aware of someone asking him . . . Something. 

(A something he very much ignored in favor of curling further into the blanket he’d been given. Being social was more exhausting than he remembered, even if he’d only spoken to Luna and some of her friends and virtually no one else.)

The next morning he was woken by a couple of other young men that had chosen the ‘sleepover’ in Hari’s room casting a rather loud Caterwauling Charm. The culprits, that Tom could see, where a pair of ginger-menaces that had caused some commotion the night before. 

He hadn’t been paying much attention then, because he and Luna had been dancing, and nowhere near whatever trouble they’d caused. Now, he was blindly flinging a couple stinging hexes after them, to the sound of Hari’s (and several other boys) loud cheering. 

“Tom, you’re my new favorite person!” The boy declared, hugging his comforter close and drooping. He was also glaring mulishly at the gaping door the two boys had disappeared through.

Tom scowled at the other boy, glared at those around them that appeared much more goodnatured and awake, and then turned to roll back into his blanket. His plan of pretending everyone else didn’t exist died a quick death when there was a soft, almost airy knock on the door, and several of the boys around him let out actual squeals.

“Terribly sorry,” Luna’s voice called, not sounding sorry in the least, “I was just wondering if Tom was up?” She called. 

Tom repressed the urge to sigh like a plebeian and instead, sat up and frowned at her. 

“What? No, ‘good morning Hari?’ No, ‘happy birthday Hari!’ Nothing, for me, Moon Drop?” Hari called, sounding sleepy and still rather mulish. 

Luna passed an amused, absent look at Hari, and another amused look at the boys around the room that were either lounging in various nightwear - the dark, rather too-pretty pureblood in the corner who’d slept in loose pants alone - or rolled into their blankets in embarrassment - Neville looked like a tomato - before she responded. 

“I would love to, Hari, but Lord Sirius wanted to be the first to say it to you,” She confided, then her eyes drifted back to Tom, “Good morning Tom. Did I pack my book about the various uses of Billywigs in your bag?”

Tom had already elected that he’d be getting up, was in the middle of folding his blanket and shoving it and the pillow he’d claimed to the side. 

“It would be a nicer morning if I’d hit those ginger prats more than once,” he muttered, then tugged his bag onto his shoulder, “a moment, Luna,” He grumbled louder.

He stood and tromped as much as he was able towards the door, then paused to dig through his things until he found that Luna had, in fact, placed her book in his bag by mistake. 

“Here,” he offered, then scowled at the room full of boys, who were watching him in various states of too-much-interest. 

After he’d claimed the nearest washroom and gotten dressed, he tossed his bag back into Hari’s room as he was passing, ignoring the interested looks being sent to him by Nott and the dark boy in the corner. He further tromped down the stairs much better than he’d tromped across the room earlier, and only gave pause at the sight of curtains over a portrait twitching violently and something giving a muffled shriek. 

The area around the portrait looked new, like it had been given a fresh coat of paint - though to be fair, the whole house looked that way - but also worn. Like someone had been chipping at the wall around it to no avail. It piqued his curiosity, especially since Luna had given very little information about it the day before. 

“Oh, don’t get too curious about that,” someone cooed, and Tom just barely repressed the urge to jump.

When he turned, the ginger menaces — it did not surprise him that they were twins — were standing at the top of the stairs, grinning down at him crookedly.

They looked like Prewetts, except for their noses. In fact, were their noses a tad larger, they’d be the spitting image of Ignatius Prewett. 

“Took forever for us to help Sirius seal her up!” One of them stated. 

Tom scowled in response, but unfortunately for him, his own curiosity must have shown, because the two got a rather sly look about them that was almost exact.

“Want to know who it is?” The opposite twin asked, starting down the stairs in tandem with his twin.

“We bet you do!” The other added, grinning. 

“If you’re dying to tell me, who am I stop you?” Tom asked slowly, eyeing them suspiciously when they stopped on either side of him. Their eyes, a hazel that was almost blue, if a muddy sort of blue, were far too mischievous for his comfort.

They tried to sling their arms over his shoulders and he easily took a few more steps down, then turned on his heel and continued his trek. They slipped up next to him well before he reached the first floor, but didn't try to touch him again.

“Well, if you really must know,” one of them began, 

“That was the portrait of old Walburga Black,” the other started, and Tom was beginning to see the pattern.

“Lord Black’s late mother—”

“Nasty old Portrait, she was—”

“Always screeching venom about blood purity and classicism—”

“Without having anything of real substance to say, you know?” They finally ended in sync, their smiles sly and sharp. 

Tom found he wasn’t exactly surprised. Walburga, even in his time - reality? - had been a rather . . . Outspoken girl. That she’d grown into an outspoken and venomous woman wasn’t baffling. What was surprising was the way her son had turned out despite that.

(Though internally, he had no problem admitting that even the most placid of personalities hid the worst sort of memories. Lord Black appeared happy and chipper, but he was also a man only recently released from Azkaban and still healing from it. Ignoring the memories of an unpleasant childhood was likely nothing to trying to ignore memories of the most feared prison in the Magical North, but Tom wasn't about to make assumptions.)

“Ah, I see.” Tom hummed, and then gave no warning when he stopped abruptly, pointed his wand at them, and cast a similar caterwauling charm to the one they’d used on the sleeping residents of Hari's room. 

The way they jumped nearly a foot and gaped at him with startled expressions — expressions that were only slightly different — was almost satisfying. Tom gave them the coldly polite smile he’d used to both strike fear into others, and soothe those around him in the last four years. 

“Don’t look so startled!” He cooed, moving past them again and ignoring the curious creak of wood to his right, “Fair is fair, yes?” He asked, and then slipped into the dining room. 

He was immediately pleased to find that it was actually the dining room, because it would have been awkward if he’d gotten it wrong and needed to go looking. Those already present were watching the door when he walked through, and Hermione blinked at him from her seat at the table curiously. 

“Did Fred and George try to pull another prank?” She asked. 

Tom shrugged quietly as he slipped into the seat next to Luna, a seat he’d been about to walk past, except she moved her feet from it and sat up straight, smiling at him in welcome. There was already a cuppa sitting in front of it. Tom took a sip and smiled, then glanced up to where seats were swiftly being filled. It was mostly children at the table with them, but there were a few adults. 

One of them was a thin, pale, dour-looking man with long black hair and dark robes. His eyes were equally as black and bottomless, and were it not for the fact that there was something faint and familiar in them, Tom would have given him very little thought. As it was. 

The way this man was watching him back was . . . Disconcerting. 

“Fred, George? Are you alright? You look a bit lost.” Someone else called. 

Tom managed to look away from the adult, and over his shoulder, where Hermione’s gaze was trained. The ginger menaces were standing in the doorway and staring at him in a mixture of confusion and amusement.

“Well, we were just wondering—”

“Who this bloke here is?”

They started, their broken speech very definitely a pattern, and Tom took a sip of tea slowly, then turned back around when he felt Luna nudge him. He only distantly heard Nott, who had just come in, introduce him, but his interest was on the page Luna was showing him in her book. 

“It says this potion is rather easy. I was thinking of trying it when we got back home.” Luna confided, leaning over her armrest to study the illustration on one page distantly.

“ . . . Do we have dragon blood in the house?” He asked, eyeing the list of ingredients. 

Luna hummed again, and then shrugged her shoulders. 

“If not we could order some - or go to Diagon.” She sighed. 

Tom nodded, sipping his tea again before he reached out to flip the page. He grimaced at the amount of Flobberworm Mucus actually needed, but was intrigued enough at the idea of a potion that detected invisible things that he nodded to Luna in agreement.

“That does seem interesting.”

The chairs to his right squeaked when they were pulled out, and then the twins were sitting in them. He felt more than saw the sharp warning look that Hermione shot them, and came to the conclusion they were likely to try pranking him. 

(Given that Hermione had used the word ‘another,’ with such exasperation he was sure that the two were notorious pranksters. Rather like the Prewett boy he recalled from his own . . . Reality? He still had no bloody idea what the right terminology should be.)

A couple of minutes later, a loud shout came from the hall beyond the door. 

“Happy Birthday PUP!” Lord Black’s voice echoed - a sure sign he’d used a Sonorus Charm - and he was rather proud he only flinched slightly. 

“Sirius! Not so bloody loud!” Hari’s voice shouted back, but it sounded mirthful. 

Another voice, soft and soothing, said something, and a burst of laughter echoed again. A quick glance down the table showed that the pale, dark man was now scowling at his cup rather than watching Tom intently, and the couple other adults in the room all look exasperated.  And then the door was flung open and Lord Black came bounding in, looking far too excited. He was followed shortly by Hari, who was wearing extremely casual muggle clothes, and another adult. This man was sandy-haired and scarred, wearing a comfortable looking jumper, and smiling wide at Hari’s back. 

“Alright everyone! Up! Up! It’s time to sing happy birthday!” Lord Black shouted. 

Hari’s cry of protest was loud, his hands waving sharply. 

“No! No, Sirius, really! That can definitely wait until the cake! Remus tell him!” The boy shouted back, looking to the sandy-haired bloke pleadingly. 

Remus — who Tom only vaguely recognized from the night before — gave the Lord Black a chiding look, and as a result, the man seemed to forcibly subdue himself, though he looked exasperated to be doing so. 

“Fine! Fine. No singing yet. Honestly!” He barked, then huffingly pulled out a chair for Hari. The food at the table seemed to increase two-fold when the boy sat down, and they enjoyed a mostly quiet breakfast. 

(One where the twins to his right tried to prank him no less than six times in the span of forty minutes. They seemed both pleased and confused when each attempt ended up hitting someone other than Tom.)

Finally, when everyone was done eating, they were all ushered into a large sitting room, and Remus — whose surname Tom still hadn’t been able to discern — started walking around handing out odd objects. Objects Tom only realized were port-keys when he was handed one. His — theirs, he corrected, when he heard the order to ‘buddy up,’ — was a length of braided twine.

Luna leaned over to peer at the one they’d be sharing, and then shuffled closer to him when Nott suddenly appeared, smile slight but calculating. 

“Mind if I share with you? Blaise and Neville are sharing with Hermione, and I’m not all that comfortable with some of the other people here.”

Tom dipped his head in a nod, even as Luna exclaimed that 'of course' he was welcome. He wondered if Nott, like him, was close to only one person at this event, and had only come to keep that person company. 

“Neville,” the boy announced, distant amusement in his eyes as he watched Tom back, “I’m friends with Neville — and Hari, but I only became friends with Hari and Hermione through Neville.” 

(Tom was beginning to realize he’d have to work harder on rebuilding his mask, because no one should have been able to so easily discern his thoughts after knowing him for less than a day. Luna didn’t count. She was Luna.)

“I don’t suppose you know why we’re all being handed port-keys?” Tom asked the other Slytherin. 

Nott frowned then, glancing over his shoulder to where Lord Black was excitedly saying something to Hari. 

“I’m not entirely sure, actually. I know from Neville talking that he and Hari chose their own events for their parties, which is why Neville’s took place in a garden. I don’t know that anyone but Hari and his guardians know what Hari planned.”

That was more disconcerting than the tall, dark, pale fellow that was watching him again. Hari struck him as the type of person that chose activities more than he chose general socializing, and Tom had been quite comfortable with choosing to (not) socialize the night previous. 

“Who’s the pale bloke in the black robes?” He asked, not taking his eyes off of where Hari was now gesturing wildly around him. 

A small silence, and then Nott spoke again, voice just subtly quieter.

“That’s Professor Snape.” Lovely. Another Professor in a short string of them that had some bizarre fascination with him.

“He’s also Lord Prince,” Luna shared, voice just as quiet, and that was shocking enough that he glanced down at her. 

Her eyes were trained on the ceiling, almost absent in their interest. 

“He’s Lord Prince and a Potions Master, and the Head of Slytherin House.”

She shared, eyes flickering to him only briefly before she lay a hand on his arm. It only occurred to him as she was doing so that his fist had clenched over the braided twine in worry.

“He’s a good man, even if he likes to pretend he isn’t.” She soothed. 

(It, surprisingly, went a long way towards calming him down, her soothing him.)

“Yes, well, don’t go telling everyone that, Lovegood.” Nott chuckled, and Tom pretended like he wasn’t startled to remember that the other boy was still standing there.

“He’s the Potions Professor, I take it?” He asked his fellow Slytherin.

Nott’s expression went sly and thoughtful again, cool blue eyes flickering over Tom’s face questioningly. 

“One of the best. Abrupt in his manners, to be sure, and rightfully biased towards Slytherins, but he knows his way around a Cauldron better than the people that smelt them. Lord Malfoy says he’s the best Head of House Hogwarts has seen in a hundred and fifty years, and the most academically accomplished wizard of his time.” 

The tone of voice used to state all of this would fool someone else into thinking it was freely given, but Tom could read the expectation in the other boys' tone. The statement in-between the words that said ‘I don’t have to be telling you this, but I am, and it’ll cost you information of equal value.’

Nodding with the most neutrally polite smile he’d given since waking in Rook House, Tom relaxed and let Luna link their arms together, just as Sirius let out a sharp whistle.

“Everyone! Grab your port-keys and hold on tight!” He announced, then started a count-down. 

Luna obligingly reached out to clutch the middle of their port-key, and Nott grabbed the end of it. Around them, others hurried to do the same, and finally —

Finally, they were being spun round and round even while they stood in place, the world shrinking and squeezing away from him through a rubber tube. The next thing he knew, they were knocked to their knees in a large, empty field, where several adults he didn’t recognize from the previous day were setting up tables and chairs with magic. 

Among them was a trio of pale blonde heads, and Tom would have recognized the Malfoy Lord and Heir when they turned from three miles off and half-asleep. The older looked startlingly similar to Abraxus. The same harsh jaw, even if it was older than the jaw he was used to, the same shape of the eyes. The younger Malfoy had slightly more delicate — slightly more pointy — features, which he must have gotten from his mother. 

“Well met, Lord Black,” the older Malfoy called, dipping his head in a brief bow.

Lord Black rolled his eyes and returned the bow, the sharp smile suddenly spreading over his mouth never dropping. 

“Yes, yes! Well met and grand tidings! Honestly, Luci, it’s like we’re not even family!” Lord Black barked, and though the tone was light, there appeared to be some tension between them. 

Hari was very pointedly ignoring both the tension and the greetings to approach the Malfoy Heir, and though Tom couldn’t hear what was being said, body language and the occasional drifting tone indicated they were bantering.

“Alright! Since everyone is here, accounted for, and ready, we shall now explain today’s party!” Sirius announced, apparently done with the mildly-threatening glaring contest he’d been indulging in. 

Remus stepped up and flicked his wand, and out in the field, several large — familiar — hoops started floating up and drifting apart. Another adult a ways off opened up a trunk and started pulling out brooms, while another still set down a familiar-looking case. 

Tom felt a disgusted feeling settle in his stomach. 

“Today, we’ll be playing pick-up-Quidditch!” Sirius announced, with a proud smile. 

The crowd around them either whooped in excitement or groaned in irritation, and though Tom didn’t do either, he was glad to know he wasn’t the only one not likely to participate in such a ridiculous thing.

“I’ll be honest. I quite preferred Neville’s celebration.” Tom announced, eying the mostly empty field they were setting up in with distaste, and completely tuning out of any further explanation. Luna laughed next to him, then skipped towards where the refreshment tables had been set up. 

Behind them, there was a sharp clap and a sudden increase in chatter, so he assumed the explanations were done. Their current company at the tables seemed comprised of those more interested in sitting down and talking. It was a smaller group than the rather large group of people who wanted to get on brooms and try to kill each other with enchanted balls. Tom sent another dissatisfied look at the mock Quidditch pitch being set up, then followed after Luna as she took up two cups of tea and headed for a table. At least the girl showed no inclination towards getting on a broom and fluttering about. 

(He’d been half-concerned she would, and then he’d have to grab a broom of his own, just to keep her from floating off.)

“You’re not going to play with us, Tom?” Hari asked excitedly as he dashed about, pausing by where he and Luna were getting themselves situated. 

Tom only gave the boy half his attention, the other half on the bowl of punch down the way he knew he’d seen the ginger twins slip something into. No one drinking it seemed to have anything wrong with them, but it was likely a timed thing . . . 

“No, I’ve little patience for the sport.” He replied, and then turned his full attention to the Malfoy heir when his hair spontaneously started growing and sparkling. 

Several other people started to suffer the same fate, and Tom would admit — it was clever. Clever and rather amusing, from an outside perspective. Hari laughed when he followed Tom’s gaze, and then eagerly moved on, fairly running towards the pitch. 

(Where the ginger twins seemed to miraculously appear, as far from the punch bowl as could be and proclaiming innocence to an irate — and still sparkling — Malfoy Heir.)

Luna popped open her book, and Tom settled back to observe, and for a total of three minutes, there was blissful silence. 

And then Nott and the tall dark boy that was his shadow were sliding into seats across from him. Tom felt his expression slip from neutral curiosity to faint interest as he watched them set themselves up. Then of course, somehow, Neville appeared baring a small tray of sweets that he set on the table. 

“We haven’t been introduced yet,” the boy between Nott and Neville announced, smile all easy, “I’m Zabini, Blaise Zabini.”

Tom recognized that easy smile and the glint in those eyes. It was much more familiar to him than anything else he’d yet come across in this time, even Nott’s more cautious cunning. He felt his own version of that smile slip onto his face, and was rewarded with the faintest flicker of Zabini’s dark eyes.

“Slytherin, Thomas Slytherin. A pleasure to be sure.” He announced. 

Zabini did much better than Nott had in concealing his reaction to the name, the only noticeable sign a slightly widening of his smile.

“A Slytherin? Pray tell, where have you been hiding all these years?” He asked. 

Tom managed to think only distantly of a string of dead-end-leads, a life lost to obscurity and the eventual total immersion into a persona that had only come into being out of boredom. His smile was still slightly tighter than he would have liked, for all that he tried not to let his own irritation and anger show.

“Feels as though I've been in a whole other life,” he mused absently. 

Luna’s soft, surprised chuckle helped him shake off the rest of his lingering irritation for this realities Tom Riddle, and he ignored the flickering looks to give a more appropriate response. 

“I was kept fairly close to home. My tutelage up to this point has been handled by my . . . Keepers, but with them gone Lord Lovegood felt it would be better for me to have a structured environment.” He announced. 

Neville gave him another of those concerned looks, but his attention was fairly quickly drawn back towards the mock pitch, where a game had started surprisingly fast. 

“Do you mind if we ask why your — you called them Keepers? — why they thought home tutoring was the better option?” Nott asked, head tilting in a familiar way. 

Zabini was openly staring between him and Luna, something close to suspicion in his eyes.

“Well,” Tom started slowly, tone bordering on hesitance, and in a flash of what he’ll later call sheer-brilliance, he shrugged awkwardly and said the first thing that came to mind, “given who my biological father was — I mean, there were issues.”

Luna paused in flipping the pages of her book, to tilt her head in his direction. There was a stretched couple minutes of silence, a silence in which Tom decided that being his own son — or perhaps Grandson — wasn’t the worst sort of half-truth. Meanwhile, his vow to the irritating Ministry chap in charge of his case was protected, and either faction was allowed to come to their own — wrong — conclusions about him.

(And, he realized slowly, anything Dumbledore said about him could be twisted to look like the biased, hateful slander of a man who’d failed to protect Magical Britain’s youth from Tom’s ‘forefather,’ or ‘father,’ over a decade before. Just the griping of a man that wanted to bear the sins of the father against the son, and all that rot. It could actually work very nicely for him.)

“Well,” Nott said at length, a small little smile twisting the corners of his mouth, “regardless, I’ll be pleased to have you in our House. You seem an intelligent, pleasant sort, and we’re sorely lacking in those.” 

Which may as well have been Slytherin code for: You’re not half as irritating to speak to as some other bigots, and we intend to form a clutch for our own mental well-being. 

“Yes, I quite approve,” Zabini announced, smile far more wolfish now that he’d been given a story and a bit of gossip to hold over his peers head, “we’ll of course be happy to show you around come September First.”

Neville gave both Slytherins a slow, reproachful look, and Tom suddenly realized that the soft-spoken Puff must be a Mediator. 

“Do you mind if I ask how you’re both friends with Heir Longbottom?” He asked, probably a bit forward, but now he had to know if the Hufflepuff-Slytherin Union was still in play. Or if this realities version of him ever worked for something like that as his First year Scheme. 

(It had been a hassle, given the time period and the tensions, to get everyone — especially the shy, pack-minded Puff’s — to agree to a working union between their houses. In the end, the promise of protection from bullies in exchange for - truthful - alibis won them over, just like it did the members of his own house. Of all the first-year schemes, his had ultimately been the best, because it carried on through the years. He’d been proud of it. This realities him was a fool if he hadn't done it. Well, a bigger fool.)

“Oh, we’ve been friends since first year,” Zabini answered, smirking at Neville, who’d already turned his attention back to the game, “we got to know him on the long walks from the Great Hall to the lower levels of the castle. He knows Draco — that’s Malfoy, Draco Malfoy — a bit through us, just like we know Hari and Hermione a bit through him.”

Which wasn’t enough information to determine if the Union was still in place, but definitely made it a possibility. Tom nodded along though, and only turned his attention away when there was a lot of screaming and whooping from the pitch. He turned just in time to watch Hari pull out of a steep dive and thrust his arm up, something golden glimmering in his fist where he hovered a meter and a half above the ground. 

“Bollox,” Neville hissed, rubbing at his chest slowly and taking deep breaths, “Scars me out my wits every time he pulls that stunt!” The other boy exclaimed, then stood to march towards the pitch. 

Hermione, wearing a referees robes, was already circling Harry on a broom, and shouting.

“How did you come to be a ward of the Lovegoods?” Zabini asked. 

Tom sighed, and turned his attention to the boy slowly. He could tell, from the gleam in his eye, that there were a lot more questions than that on the tip of his tongue.

(What he wouldn’t give for some music. Then he could pretend not to hear. Until one of the bloody Slytherins in front of him cast a muffling charm. Could they cast a muffling charm? There were enough adults present that the Ministry couldn’t really track it, could they?)

Tom answered or evaded questions in that manner for about an hour and a half, until all the players on the pitch had had a chance to exhaust themselves, and then the tables filled up when they descended in a hungry mob. The Ginger Menaces weren’t exhausted enough to not try playing pranks, and Hari wasn’t exhausted enough to not pester Tom about playing the next round, and Tom was exhausted enough to start flinging hexes, but didn’t because the people around him were going to be his classmates, and he didn’t want to walk into Hogwarts this time around with a whole bushel of enemies.

Finally, it was time for Harry to open presents. Hari did so with much aplomb and quite a bit more blushing than Neville had. Though, if anyone else was surprised by the boy stopping halfway through unwrapping a small, plainly-wrapped box and then standing to launch himself three tables over at the dour Potions Master, no one showed it. 

(Well, no one but him, since Luna leaned over to whisper an explanation in his ear. )

“Professor Snape is Hari’s Mentor. Hari has a rather dab hand at potions, and before Lord Sirius was set free, Hari saw him as a father figure. Still does.” She whispered. 

Tom observed the way the dour man seemed to sigh resignedly into the tight hug, one pale, potions-stained hand reaching up to pat at his braided hair. Lord Black was glowering, but appeared to be equally as resigned to his ward hanging off the potions master, babbling a mile a minute. Tom was confused, but decided to question things later, when his questions wouldn't be potentially insulting to anyone. Hari eventually returned to opening presents, though he had immediately slipped what appeared to be a bronze locket over his head before he did so.

Once that was all done, Hari and all those playing worked through the cake like it was a battle to see who could finish fastest. To his horror, Luna stood to join the party of Quidditch-players, when several of them cried-protest at playing again so soon. Hari showed a great deal of surprise himself when Luna skipped up and asked to referee, but even more surprise when Tom stomped over after her. Even if he had to play a position to use a broom, at least being in the air guaranteed that he’d be closer at hand than he would have been on the ground. 

“You do know how to play, right?” Hari double-checked, just as Tom was strapping on the robes that were being provided for the players — all of them enchanted to turn the team colors, once chosen, and defend against the crisper air above. 

“Of course I do,” Tom huffed “I just generally don’t see a point to it.” He added, frowning at the broom in his hand. 

Hari laughed in mock-outrage, his wild green eyes flickering to where Hermione was helping Luna get her referee robe on. 

“Just under exonerating circumstance, eh?” The boy teased. 

“I’ll be closer at hand on a broom than on the ground, should she get distracted and start to drift into a Bludgers path,” Tom shrugged, eyeing the boy sharply. 

(And trying very hard to ignore the warmth spreading over his cheeks.)

Hari just smiled at him slowly, mischievously, and Tom didn’t like that one bit. He showed this by sniffing disdainfully at the Claw and stomping past him, to Malfoy’s team. The blond looked surprised when he introduced himself, and Tom ended up as incidental Keeper, since theirs bowed out of the match in favor of more cake. The Ginger Menaces appeared on the sidelines, looking extremely excited — which seemed bad, to Tom — and then suddenly they were playing.

(Tom hated it. He hated needing to use the broom to fly — no matter that it was being very obedient — he hated the crisp air, he hated all the activity.) 

The first ten minutes of the game dragged slightly, because he was trying to get used to the players, but after he knew them, it got easier to catch or block the Quaffle. It was still irritating beyond belief. But. Pretending that the Quaffle that he caught and always inevitably threw back at someone’s face was Dumbledore’s head seemed to help. In fact, it was almost fun, after a point, because the chasers that came at him had started to do so warily. 

(Which he didn’t really understand. It wasn’t like it was his fault that their patterns were so obvious. They all had tells, and if they wanted to hide them better, that was a them problem. As it was.)

The chaser coming at him suddenly dropped and tossed the Quaffle up and over, to one of their fellows, who’d been trying to sneak up from the right. Tom was blocking the throw before the slim, frustrated-looking girl had even gotten the ball and tossed it. Another, slightly louder cheer went up this time when he tossed it back, and the timed gong — these were all short matches, meant to be played in thirty-minute bursts — sounded. Luna drifted towards the ground and Tom followed . . . And was immediately mobbed by Malfoy and his team, who were all throwing exclamations at him rapid fire. 

“How long have you been playing!”

“I don’t remember seeing you around Hogwarts, where are you from?”

“They just pulled a Tormalund Feint! Perfectly! And you blocked it!”

“How did you manage to do that every time!”

Tom sighed.

“I should have stayed at home.” He announced to no one in particular. 

He could hear Luna laughing at him from outside the mob. For that, he'd get her back. Somehow.

The day after the party, Luna walked through a doorway only to have her hair charmed soft, sparkling blue. She was enchanted. Enchanted and pleased, that Tom felt comfortable enough with her to play harmless pranks. Naturally, of course, it lead to a pranking war that lasted three days, in which Tom's hair ended up a lovely shade of shimmering lilac no less than four times, while Luna consistently found her books would up and crawl away from her. She wrote to Harry to get ideas after day one, and in response, the twins sent a whole packet of suggestions. 

(She only used a handful of their ideas, because she wanted Tom to have fun, not be irritated, and she imagined that staining his teeth black or charming the doorways to sing to him as he walked through might irritate him.)

They finally called an end to their war when, while she was charming his shoes and socks to dance away from him, and he was charmed her paints to change color at random, Hari sent them a package that was a trap. Upon opening it, their skin turned sparkling and pearlescent, their hair a rainbow shimmer. It was sort of unanimous that they had one enemy and one enemy alone. 

(No matter that she thought the pearlescent skin was really rather lovely.)

They set up in the family parlor, and started writing out plans, and though Luna wasn't the best at staying on track, she thought her rune-work was really rather lovely, when combined with Tom's crafty rune circles.

"Should we try for a potion-infused candy next, do you think?"

Luna asked, attention only half on her drafting page, because the parchment Tom was preparing was so much more interesting.

"I'm not sure Hari is silly enough to eat any candy sent to him, after this." Tom muttered in response. 

Luna hummed in acknowledgment, and they quietly went back to work. Instead of sending the result creation to Hari directly, they forwarded it to Neville with the promise to leave him out of it if he sent it along. 

(Neville flooed her, just after he got it and worriedly asked her a string of questions about what was in the letter. Silly Neville.)

"It's not going to hurt him, Nev. He played a prank on Tom and I, and we're getting back at him." she soothed. 

Neville still seemed dubious, but then, Neville didn't approve of pranks in general, no matter how fun they were intended. 

(He especially detested the twins' pranks on Samhain, which usually involved singing - or screaming - pumpkins that popped out of nowhere and followed people around.)

Luan had never had quite so much fun before, as she did in that odd week of time where she was allowed to pull pranks and have fun. She hadn't had many opportunities for doing so, because it was always so much harder to think at Hogwarts, and because her Housemates would take any pranks she pulled as a real act of war. Their treatment of her would be so much worse as a result, and it was already a bother to deal with. She accidentally said as much to Tom, while they were relaxing and waiting for Hari's response, sipping their afternoon tea.

"I think," Tom said, slow and smooth and for the first time dangerous, "I need to have a word with your Housemates."

Luna found that she could look at him, in that moment, at the Possibilities that were dark and dangerous. 

"Oh, no, don't do that," she said, shaking her head. 

"Luna, you can't just —" he started, and she knew what he was going to say. 

"I can let them bully me," she interrupted, smiling because he was sweet to worry about her, "because they don't matter, Tom."

His confused, still outraged look prompted her to explain.

"What they do hurts for now. But it only hurts for now. It won't hurt me in ten years, or twenty, or even in three. I am as I am, Tom, and they are as they are, and in my future, I will be elsewhere and they'll still be here. They'll be living ordinary lives and thinking ordinary things, but I'll be doing something extraordinary." She shrugged. 

Tom was staring at her, in that inscrutable, thinking way he tended to, and Luna only managed to look away when the floo chimed. She stood to go answer the floo, and Tom's voice followed her, stopped her in the doorway. 

"Maybe it won't affect you in the long run, Luna, but it affects you now. You're my friend. Whether you like it or not, I won't stand for other people hurting what isn't theirs to hurt." 

They were quiet words, all the more meaningful because she knew that Tom had never said anything like them to anyone. They were also hurt. That wasn't what she'd intended. 

"Oh Tom," she sighed, glancing back, "it's not that I don't appreciate you wanting to look after me, or that I don't like you looking after me. I do. I just don't want you to get yourself in trouble. Really. What would happen to you if they decided they didn't like your meddling?" she asked. 

"Nothing," he bit out, turning to frown at her, and she wasn't sure if she was imagining the way his brow softened the slightest bit, "nothing would happen to me, Luna, because it would only take one warning."

She wanted to say that he still shouldn't take that risk — Hari only got away with it because of his unwanted fame, after all — but honestly, really? How could she ask him not to be who and what he was? 

"Just don't get yourself in trouble, Tom," she sighed, turning back to the insistently chiming floo, "that would affect me more."

She couldn't. 

(It was Hari, calling her across the floo, complaining because the letter they'd sent had turned him — and Remus and Sirius by accidental extension — a solid, ever-changing color from head to toe, no matter what he put on, and even his Maurader guardians — and by consequence Fred and George — couldn't reverse it. She and Tom laughed over it, quietly, then had to explain how to reverse it. Neither of them talked about her bullies, or the fact that they were infested with Nargles, or anything to do with punishment, again. There was no need when she knew he would do as he saw fit, and when he knew she wouldn't approve of anything harmful, or that would make the situation worse.)

The next day, surprisingly, found him more . . . relaxed around her, but she wasn't complaining. It was good to see him smile.

(She probably should have remembered that Tom's idea of harmful was vastly different than her own.)

Chapter Text

In the fall of 1994, many individuals were hoping for many things. 

Hari Potter-Black was hoping that this year would be the school year where nothing happened; No possessed professors that drug him into burning rooms and tried to make him just-give-them-the-stone; no mysterious creatures paralyzing hapless students; no escaped mad-men or rats that were secret old men hiding inside childrens pockets—

(No glances in the halls, the weight of being known for something he didn’t do almost worse than the previous weight of being known as the delinquent half-Indian kid. Almost worse than being only one in a dozen half-Indians in Little Whinging.)

Hari wanted — was desperately hoping for — a school year where the excitement happened to other people.

Unfortunately, given the mess that was the Quidditch World Cup, he's thinking he might not get that lucky.

Ivan Karkaroff was hoping to bring home a champion. He was hoping to prove that his Mother-country was superior in every way to others, to have something to hold over the necks of the fool British — who flinched and scurried from everything dark as if it would taint them. Who didn't seem to realize that doing so was weakening them as a people, was limiting their capabilities and leaving them open to outside attack. 

(And because Snape would be at Hogwarts, and this was his opportunity to prove to the other man everything he’d rejected when he rejected the position that Karkaroff had offered him years before. When he’d rejected him.)

Really, he was hoping for glory. 

For himself. 

For Krum. 

For his country. 

(And, in his heart of hearts, he was hoping to find proof that his fears were unfounded. That the Dark Lord was not returning. That he would not be hunted and tortured and ripped apart by his former masters slaves.)

........

Viktor Krum was hoping for a quiet last year. Or, in the absence of that, at least one that was conductive to his life goals.

(The ones that involved being a Quidditch player for the next decade, and then quietly retiring to pursue his interest in Transfiguration and History.)

Then he’d been asked — ordered — to participate in the Tri-Wizard Tournament. Headmaster Karkaroff would not take no for an answer, and suddenly his ability to graduate with honors hung in the balance. All he’d been hoping for after was to survive his last year. The more he read about past tournaments, the less he thought this would be possible. Even those that didn't die were horribly disfigured or injured, often unable to continue living as they had been.

So. 

Instead of hoping that he survives the tournament, he hopes to bring honor to his family, to finish his tasks as diligently as he's able, to perform magic with aplomb and pride — 

(And secretly, he hopes to enjoy his time living whole and hale while he can. Hopes to enjoy his time spent at Hogwarts. Hopes to find friends on foreign soil. Hopes to find something worth facing the Tournament for — because Glory is useless if you’re dead, and he is not a fool.)

Viktor Krum has very simple hopes.

(And realistically, no expectations for any of those hopes to pan out.)

Bartemius Crouch Jr. (when he had regained the capacity to hope and think and feel and live) was simply hoping for revenge. He wanted to make his biological father suffer — wanted to make his chosen father proud. So he’d gathered as much strength as he could, gathered as much of his wits as possible, and concocted a plan.

A plan that relied heavily on Hari Potter-Black, and Dumbledore's ego. 

(And also on Bartemius keeping his wits, when most days it was a struggle to breathe.)

Winky helped. 

His loyal, loyal elf —

(Always more loyal to Barty than his father, having been from his mother’s family. Always more loyal to Barty than anyone else would think, for all she cowed under his father’s fists — but he’d known she would find a way to help him. The same way that he’d known that his Lord wasn’t gone.)

She had been the one to find his Lord. To tell him of Barty’s plight. To help free him. Who then helped him plan, nursed both himself and his Lord back to semi-health, agreed to watch over Him while Barty was playing out his portion of the plan — 

Barty could only hope that it would all be enough.

That his Lord would rise again.

Voldemort didn’t have much room for hope left in his heart, but he did his best to cumulate some. He didn’t have many options, and besides that, Barty had never before let him down.

He didn’t think anyway. 

Couldn’t remember. 

(Couldn’t remember a lot of things. Didn’t remember much at all, aside from the perfect clarity that was Hari Potters entire first year. He hadn’t understood it then, when the thrum of living had been a nearly-there taste on lips not-quiet formed. He did now.)

It had been his proximity to a Horacrux, the Diadem so very close that he’d been able to retain the time spent back at his first real home. The thrum of living and potential that made them memorable now. He understood what it meant, even if he didn't want to — even if the very idea of it managed to cut through the haze in his mind with visceral, all-consuming fear.

So. They had a plan, and the creature that was only occasionally Voldemort had some hope.

(But only as much as he could dredge up when thought was simple and living was just within his grasp.)

Albus Dumbledore was hoping against hope that whatever this new threat Tom — younger again, not yet broken by his own follies, not yet aware of his past, if the Temporal Agent that had briefed Albus was to be believed — planned, Albus would be able to face it. He was hoping that the older Voldemort — the one of their time — never learned of his younger self's appearance. He was sure nothing good would come of the two uniting. 

And he had no doubts that they would unite.

(Tom Riddle, when still a child, had been so far off the norm of the Laghari-Dupont Scale for his age-range, Dippet had needed to help the professors devise a new extra-circular program for the child. That slow but steady growth had stopped after the Chamber opened the first time. After Myrtle Warren. After a half-year of stress and fear.)

He had no reason to think that they wouldn’t unite their powers. 

(Because even crippled by his own follies, Voldemort was a power.)

Above all, Albus was worried and frustrated — concerned with the safety of his students and the safety of Magical Britain. The Ministry would fight him — was fighting him — and young Potter had no interest in listening to him. That was without even mentioning that he couldn’t warn anyone, because of the vow he’d taken — foolishly — wouldn’t let him. 

And so. 

He was hoping that Hari Potter would rise to face his destiny, that he would find it in himself to be brave, and stand against what would, no doubt, be a force unlike any of them had ever seen. 

He was also hoping that having his good friend Alastor Moody near would bring him a measure of comfort, and provide an additional set of eyes. 

(Even if he coudn't tell his oldest friend why he needed him to watch the students closely.)

Bartemius Crouch Sr. was hoping to finally bury his deepest shame under the weight of his greatest triumph. In years to come, the first thing people will think when hearing his name won’t be ‘father of a Death Eater,’ but ‘the man who brought glory back to British Soil.’ The Triwizard Tournament would be that glory. It would finally prove to the rest of the world that the Dark Arts weren't necessary to be great, that separating them from good, normal witches and wizards was fine. But the Tournament was just the beginning.

(Because if they were successful now, if he could garner enough support, he intended to take the Tournament to an international level — to unify the Magical world in their hunt for fame and fortune.)

He needed the Tournament to go well. He needed it to be big, and loud, and impressive. He needed everyone to love it. 

And hopefully — hopefully it would be enough. 

(Enough to finally escape the weight of his son’s shame and his wife’s death. Enough.)

Alastor Moody was a simple man, one that believed in few things as much as he believed this: Vigilance was very different from Paranoia. Both were a good way to keep you alive, but only one of them truly did you any good. 

It was a shame that for all that, he'd failed in it. 

(He wasn't even sure how it was possible, how the flighty, quick little bugger had gotten the drop on him. What good was a magic eye that didn't see an ambush coming?)

Needless to say, he was beginning to see the appeal in Paranoia. Not that it did him much good now. 

But it was fine. This was fine. Albus would see through the tramps acting, would know that he wasn't Alastor Moody. Would know that the man pretending to be his friend was an impostor. 

(He hoped.) 

Chapter Text

Come September first, Tom was . . . A mess of contradictions.

He was itching to be back at Hogwarts. Possibly because as much as he liked Rook House, he was bored. He knew the land now, almost as well as Luna, because he’d spent so much time wandering around it with her. He’d read every book they had — minus the family texts that described all their creatures. Those took a lot to slog through — and all his own school texts. 

(Not much had changed in fifty-odd years.)

He’d even managed to do all of the ‘preliminary examinations’ that had been required of him before he was allowed to enroll in his chosen electives. Everything was done via Owl, but he could tell he’d impressed this set of teachers. 

(He was glad to note that the transfiguration teacher this time around didn’t seem overtly biased.)

Opposite of that itch to be in Hogwarts halls, to walk familiar paths, he dreaded the idea of leaving Rook House. The Lovegood home was safe — probably the only home he’d ever been in that felt like one, aside from Hogwarts. The Orphanage had never been home like Rook House was. The keepers there had never been his, not like the Lovegoods were.

(Another, much quieter worry was that his . . . friendship with Luna, which was so easy in Rook House, would fade once they were at Hogwarts. She was in Ravenclaw and he would be in Slytherin, and they wouldn’t be spending as much time together, and he wasn’t sure how this was supposed to work — them being apart but being friends. How did this work?)

In the moments he allowed himself to think about it, really think about it, he worried about what was going to happen when he and Dumbledore met. He knew, of course, that the irritable Ministry agent in charge of his . . . Situation, had placed the old man under oath (that he had been looking for people that would have known this Tom Riddle and was doing the same with them) but Dumbledore had always done everything he could to spite Tom. 

Not that he was going to let that scare him. 

He wouldn’t be a Slytherin if he was afraid of some verbal sparing or potential political schemes.

(Again, not that he’d been acting overmuch like his Slytherin self with Luna.)

For all of these reasons he was nervous when it came time for them to leave. It was like being eleven all over again; worried that he was going to be so far behind all his peers; worried that he wasn’t going to mesh well with others; worried that Dumbledore was going to cause problems. Luna took care of breakfast quietly while he pretended not to be worried, seemingly able to tell he wasn’t up for conversation.

(Well, it was that or she was in another of her mood’s, and given the way she was poking at her breakfast with mild disinterest . . . )

Tom took over packing a lunch while Luna blinked at her own breakfast owlishly. He looked over her trunk and school satchel before they left, double-checking that the charms and runes he’d put onto them were still just as strong. 

(After hearing some of her stories about school, he’d be-spelled and warded all of her things, with her permission. Everything she’d intended to take had been gathered together, and he’d ensured that no one would be able to take her things without her explicit permission.)

After, they flooed directly to the Express platform. They were an hour early, but it was bustling none the less, as it always seemed to be on Platform Nine and three-quarters. Tom was greatly enjoying the familiarity of the train. Still the same garish shade of red, still surrounded by the same faint-hazy aura of magic. Still a thing that represented a gateway to something bigger. Hari and Hermione met them a few minutes later, followed by Lord Black.

Behind Lord Black, Lupin — whose surname he’d finally managed to get from an amused Luna, after the pranking war — stood watching them with worried eyes. Hari stopped to hug both of the men goodbye, smiling wide and excited as they waved him off. Tom tipped a nod in their direction, then turned to helping Luna up onto the train. 

“I have been meaning to ask — what is the relationship between Lupin and Lord Black?” He muttered to Luna quietly. 

It must not have been quiet enough, because Hari answered, to Tom’s surprise, his smile when Tom glanced back slightly sad. 

“We’re actually not sure if they’re partners or just suffering from mutual Survivors Remorse.” 

Tom didn’t understand that explanation anymore than he’d understood the need for a forty-eight-hour-party, and glared appropriately for the - probably very purposeful - confusion. Luna veered away from their procession down the train to dart into an empty compartment, and Tom followed. 

“Sirius and Remus were friends with Hari’s parents, remember? Well, they’d known each other since they were eleven, got roped into the war together, and they survived his parents deaths, and in Sirius’s case, got blamed for them. After he got custody of Hari back at the end of last year, what with the whole Pettigrew Disaster and the Ministry proving how incompetent they were again, Remus came to live with them and hasn’t left.” Hermione summarized, being far more helpful than Hari. 

Tom nodded to her, glared again at Hari, and then turned to see that Luna had settled in cross-legged on the seat. He sighed over her lack of propriety, but since she was wearing a longer skirt, he let it be. While he got their luggage situated, Hari and Hermione exclaimed out the window at familiar faces — and in one instance, ducked down sharply, as if they’d seen someone neither of them wanted to be noticed by.

(The only thing he noted when he glanced out curiously was quiet a few people with bright ginger hair.)

“Having actual guardians this year will really be helpful for you, Hari,” Luna hummed, turned her magazine upside down and squinting at it suspiciously, “especially against the Paddle-backed Snufflers.”

Hari smiled at Luna in response, only some confusion in his eyes. Tom had found that this was the regular response to Luna’s out of the blue . . . observations.

“Thanks Luna,” the other boy said slowly. 

Tom made a mental note to ask the girl what a Paddle-backed Snuffler were the next time they were alone. He was beginning to wonder if there was some sort of secret index hidden in her house he could use, instead of relying on the erratic, broken up notes of her ancestors.

(There were no less than three of her ancestors that would stop mid-sentence while explaining something, and move on to a different creature, only to continue explaining in a different book. Piecing together all the information they had to offer was a frustration. But also a puzzle. Tom wasn’t sure how to feel over it as a response. He disliked being frustrated, but he enjoyed puzzles.)

“Right,” Hermione sighed, and there was fond exasperation in the girls wide brown eyes, her smile slow to come but there all the same, stretching around her large front teeth, “How has your summer been, both of you? We didn’t talk much about it when we went shopping — or even during the party, a few weeks ago . . . Or in the brunch, after.”

(The brunch where they’d refused to talk about the Quidditch World Cup. Tom gave the girl a narrow-eyed look to let her know he’d caught the unspoken message there. She pretended not to see and he repressed a huff of irritation. He would find a moment to press, because all the information in the Prophet had sounded false.)

The one relief was that Hermione did almost sound contrite over the lack of information sharing. Tom had only waved it away each time because they were only recently aquatinted, and he still had no context for half of their paranoia. Luna stirred, flipping a page idly even as she glanced to the racks over the other girl’s head. 

“Oh, summer was simply lovely! Tom has become my very best friend, and he has the most fascinating perspective on things,” the girl declared, and Tom found that he was . . . Pleased over the girl’s words, “We went on walks, and I showed Tom all the secret places on our property, and he’s an official Apprentice to the Lovegood Code.”

(Pleased and warmed, and equal measures exasperated by her honesty. For once, not at all cynical or confused about the notion of friendship. Not that he’d ever been overtly cynical over their own friendship, but . . . Well.)

Hermione blinked in befuddlement over the last bit of information, then seemed to decide it wasn’t her place to ask (though he could tell she dearly wanted to) and moved on. Hari merely looked amused.

“Were they long walks?” The other boy asked slowly, a grin starting to stretch over his face. 

“Oh, yes. Sometimes we brought a picnic, because the offerings were a bit too numerous to simply carry in our pockets,” Luna shrugged, flipping a page in her magazine and frowning at the upside down picture on one side.

Hari quirked an eyebrow at Tom in question, and Tom retained his blank expression easily, staring back. Evidently seeing that neither Tom nor Luna would be elaborating, Hermione grasped at another subject. 

“You know, you never said, when we first asked about it — how did Xeno come to be your guardian over anyone else, Tom? I know you said Lady Magic was involved but . . .How? Did you just . . . Pop up in front of the Lovegoods, out of nowhere?” She asked, leaning forward in interest, curiosity practically pouring from her. 

Tom leaned further back in his seat, smoothly rested an ankle on his knee, and turned his attention to Luna. He had no intention of trying to explain it all, and he wasn’t even sure what he could say, given his magical vow, so letting Luna answer was bound to be amusing. For him anyway.

“Oh, hadn’t I said?” Luna asked, her attention fluttering away from her magazine and towards the window. 

Hari made an amused-impatient noise that seemed answer enough. 

“With a Fairy Circle.” Luna sighed contentedly.

As if it was the most obvious thing in the world. Something that might have been fond amusement welled inside his chest and he had to repress a grin, instead quirking an eyebrow at Hermione’s sputtering. 

“A Fairy Circle?” She repeated, a furrow building between her brows, and befuddlement in her voice. 

Luna made a non-committal humming noise, idly flipped a page without even glancing at it. Hari looked like he dearly wanted to ask a follow-up question, but wasn’t sure what it should be. 

Tom, of course, knew which Circle she was talking about, because she’d pointed it out to him, but he pretended ignorance and shrugged at Hermione and Hari’s searching looks. It was the sort of movement that said ‘don’t ask me I was unconscious,’ without the need to actually say the words.

They were interrupted from any further questioning by Neville shuffling into the compartment with a welcome smile, followed shortly by Nott and Zabini. Tom shifted closer to Luna to make a bit more room, and over the course of the next hour, he was surprised to find that when Zabini and Nott said they were ‘acquainted,’ with Hari and Hermione, it actually meant that they were friends.

(The real kind, not the fake kind.)

Neville was clearly the link between the two groups, but they were all comfortable in each-others space, they had stories to share that involved all of them over the last three and half years, and more, their personalities seemed to suit each other. 

Hermione and Nott were the grounded, logical types, while Neville was the too-patient mediator, Hari and Zabini the energetic (in their own ways) voices of the group.

“It’ll be fine, you know.” Luna whispered next to him. 

Tom tipped his head towards her without looking away from where Zabini was sprawling against Neville and smirking at the Puff’s fine blush.

“You and I will still be friends no matter that we’re in two different houses,” she elaborated. 

Tom might have stiffened if it had been anyone else reading him so well. As it was, he relaxed slightly, leaning into her because he could, and Luna shifted to tuck her legs underneath her, resting her head against his shoulder, idly flipping through her magazine. 

Tom divided his attention between reading over her shoulder — when she flipped it right way up — and observing the group of people he’d stumbled into an . . . Acquaintanceship with, under Luna’s guidance. The train started to move and the others settled down only marginally, having played some odd rendition of musical chairs as they all tried to decide where they fit. 

In the end, Nott was sitting across from Tom, ignoring Neville and Zabini, much to the Puff’s obvious and blushing frustration as he fended off Zabini’s flirting. Hermione was curled up on the end of Tom’s bench, putting Luna between Hari and Tom. Hari, Neville and Nott were all debating something Quidditch related and trying to drag him into it when Tom saw his opportunity to strike.

“What happened at the Quidditch World Cup?”

The silence that fell was deafening. Zabini and Nott were both smirking at him, and clearly trying to decide what the information was worth, when Hermione flicked her wand at the compartment door and Neville then Hari quickly followed suit. It was the same motion they’d made to ward themselves during their shopping trip.

(And, he suddenly realized, not just precaution but habit. Not for the first time, he found himself wondering why they would build that kind of habit.)

“Death Eater sympathizers attacked some of the half-bloods and Muggleborn that were there with family,” Hermione said slowly, rolling her wand between her palms. 

Neville looked a little more pale when he leaned into Blaise’s shoulder, eyes wide and focused on somewhere over their heads. 

“They were setting things on fire. They . . . They were going to light the kids they’d taken on fire and —”

Nott and Zabini both reached out to the other boy then, an easy looking comfort to give, and Hari stirred slowly. 

“There was something so weird about it all,” he contemplated, glaring at the floor of the compartment. 

“How so?” Tom inquired, settling against the window more while Luna curled around his arm, lips pressed into a flat, unhappy line.

“The whole thing was just — too perfect? They showed up exactly at Midnight with hostages. They practically paraded around with them for precisely fifteen minutes, and at the end of it, an unmasked, unnamed man — also presumably a Death Eater — stole a wand and used it to display the Dark Mark over the event. And then they disappeared before the Aurors arrived on the scene.”

Tom tilted his head in thought, and Luna hummed absently, and the mood was markedly worse after — but at least now he knew that the stories of ‘over-eager,’ fans causing a riot were false. It took several minutes before everyone seemed to wordlessly decide to muse about the event at a later date. 

(Neville seemed all too relived over this, his shoulders still slumped and his eyes wide. There was something more to his reaction than met the eye, but Tom would not be pressing.)

They’d just settled in again, talking about what kind of Defense Professor they might get this year — Tom had been aghast to learn that they did not have a steady one, and even more aghast to find that they had had some truly ridiculous Professors — when someone knocked on their compartment door.

It slid open a moment later, the wards that had been placed on it bleeding away like liquid.

“Anything from the Trolly, Dears?”

The slight tension in Hari’s shoulders disappeared, and he smilingly bought several of each treat, then proceeded to insistently share around the compartment. They settled into an easy silence and peace then, interrupted only by Hari and Zabini routinely trying to make Hermione try some sweet or another.

(Tom himself could only be persuaded to sample an acid pop.)

It was, to his surprise, the most relaxing trip to Hogwarts he'd ever participated in.

At some point, Luna lost track of time. Her thoughts had been growing fuzzier and fuzzier all day, had gotten a bit harder to track once the train had started moving. Now, Luna drifted. She blinked at the same page in her magazine, she absently listened to her friends being friendly, and all the while, she could only focus on the static wave of Future-may-be-might-be’s. She was exhausted from trying to hold them back. 

(Was trying to work up the energy to actively comb through them, but to do so would be so daunting.)

She fell asleep. She didn’t mean to, but the weight of so many visions, of trying to keep herself together but separate, had been very heavy after the last few months of only sparse contact with large crowds. 

(After the last few months where the only time she was drug under was when something truly monumental was changing in the world.)

Besides all of that, Tom had been a warm, steady comfort, making it easy for Luna to sleep. So she did. When she woke, it was to Hermione gently shaking her shoulder, and coaxing her out of the compartment to change. She dressed on auto-pilot, listening with only half an ear to the conversation Hermione was making. The weight of so many could-be-might-have-been futures was a sick pressure in her mind. The one thing she was truly aware of was the fact that Tom's presence was like an anchor, dragging her into the present any time she drifted too far. 

(It was disconcerting, to go and come back so repeatedly, to find that she wasn't aware of when they left the train, reached the carriages, or even noticed that Cousin Draco had arrived.)

It's only when they're isolated in the carriage, only as their little group is given a buffer between themselves and others, that she manages to focus enough to watch Tom watch Hogwarts come into view. His expression was — 

(Awed-pained-watchful-confused. Equal parts yearning and equal parts nervousness.)

She wasn't sure everyone else noticed all these things, because his eyes barely flickered, his lips barely parted, his face so very good remaining artfully blank. She decided then that she wanted Tom to feel welcome more than anything in the world. She wanted him to not have to worry about this too, when he was worrying about many other things. If it was the last thing she did, Luna would help him find a place, not just in the modern world, but here, in Hogwarts. He needed it. Even if he didn't think he did.

To Tom’s surprise, he had at some point fallen asleep, leaning against Luna and reading his book. One moment he was contemplating the history book in his lap (and trying to look like he wasn’t plotting) the next Hari was carefully poking him awake and informing him they needed to get changed. Luna and Hermione went together to get do so, and he and others changed in the compartment. 

(Which wasn’t, he was irritated to note, as awkward as he’d found it to be in times past. Mostly because he was . . . Well, he was in better shape now than he used to be. Not as skinny or underfed, not as irritated with the second-hand clothing. Because Tom’s uniform and clothes weren’t second-hand, and it was strange how much that effected him now.)

Luna attached herself to his side as soon as she slipped back into the compartment, their group choosing to stand back and wait for the foot traffic to thin out before they left the train. Hari — who had quickly proven to be the bolder one among Luna’s friends — linked arms with Tom on his other side and started dragging him towards the carriages. 

The Thestrals tossed their head at him when they noticed him staring, and Tom wondered if there would be any of the herd he’d been familiar with still left alive after fifty years. He’d never gotten around to looking for more information about them, before the last semester ended. 

(Tom made a mental note to see if any further research had been done on Thestrals in the last fifty years.)

“The Library is both better and worse than it used to be,” Luna hummed quietly next to him, her eyes dancing airily around them. 

She’d been increasingly unfocused on the train, and now she looked down-right distracted. In fact, he wasn't even sure she was aware of speaking. Tom had to steady her before she could crawl into the carriage, and though he was aware of drawing attention, he pretended like he wasn’t as they sat down and the rest of their group settled in. Before the carriage started off, the Malfoy Heir suddenly crawled in and shut the door, lounging on the seat across from Hari and next to Zabini. 

“Ferret face! We didn’t catch you on the train?” Hari exclaimed, leaning forward with a sharp smile. 

Malfoy smirked back, making himself more comfortable in his seat.

“Well, I had to pave the way for the new House-mate and potential new Keeper we’ll be gaining this evening.” He announced, eyes swinging to Tom expectantly. 

Tom frowned in response, quirking an eyebrow. 

“While I’m sure I’ll be in Slytherin, I’m not sure where you got the fool idea I’m at all interested in playing Quidditch ever again.” He drawled. 

Malfoy smirked at him, and it was such a familiar smirk, he felt a spark of irritation and exasperation. That was a smirk that said ‘I have a scheme going and you will not be ruining it.’ Blasted Malfoys. 

“Tom isn’t interested in Quidditch. Not at all. You should just give up.” Hari announced, glaring at the blond Heir. 

Hermione let out an exasperated huff just as Malfoy swung back around, and Tom was ‘treated,’ to a carriage ride full of competitive bickering that involved a lot of references he wasn’t privy to and didn’t want to be. 

“Are they always like this?” He found himself asking, watching as Hari practically lunged across the space between him and Malfoy to argue that if the Slytherin team stopped pulling so many pranks in the matches, they never would have beaten Ravenclaws score the year before. 

(It should be noted this was a point that had been made repeatedly, and one that Malfoy denied being true emphatically.)

“If we’re lucky they’re willing to be this tame normally,” Neville sighed, flipping another page in his book. He’d pulled it out from somewhere as soon as Hari and Malfoy started arguing, and Nott was helpfully holding up a Lumos so he could read over Neville’s shoulder.

But then — then the tension Tom hadn’t been aware of was suddenly front and center because they passed the familiar stretch of concealing trees and it was there. Hogwarts. It was . . . It was still like coming home, like being welcomed by distant family, but there was something different to it this time. Like it was both true, and the furthest thing from true. 

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Hari asked. 

Tom forced himself to nod, watching the way the castle glowed in the dim light, the way that the carriages ahead of them seemed to disappear into nothing as students got off and scrambled inside.

Soon enough it was their turn to get out and enter the building, and Tom followed the group he’d accidentally been coupled with, arm securely linked with Luna’s. He felt equal measures content and disconnected, being in familiar halls while also being surrounded by faces he could only recognize by the way a nose arched or a jaw curved. 

For just a moment in time, he was both contented and . . . Disconcerted. 

“Ah, yes,” someone said, and Tom felt all of his minimal contentment melt like chocolate in the sun, “You must be young Tom!”

The man he turned to face was familiar in all the ways that still irritated him. Dumbledore had only changed in the most artificial sense. His hair was snow white and wispy now, his beard long enough to tuck into a belt. He still wore the most garish robes Tom had ever seen — and had possibly gotten worse in fifty years — and the twinkle in his eye hardly concealed the suspicion there.

(Suspicion and irritation. Dumbledore hadn’t been able to read Tom’s mind since he stumbled over the books about Legilimency and Occlumency and realized why, exactly, Dumbledore always seemed to know what he was thinking.)

“I prefer that you refer to me as Thomas or Mister Slytherin, Sir. We’re hardly aquatinted enough for you to be familiar with me.” Tom clipped out. 

Luna leaned into his shoulder, and he adjusted a little to help support her. Dumbledore’s eyes flickered between them, but the small, jovial smile stayed in place. Finally, he nodded absently and chuckled, nodding to himself as if he'd just had something confirmed, and Tom had apparently been lying to himself ever since he arrived in this timeline. He’d never wanted to hurt someone more than he wanted to hurt the old man in that moment. 

“Right, well, come along, young Tom,” he beseeched turning with a swirl of his robes, and thankfully missing the way Tom’s scowl darkened. 

Regardless, he followed the old man through the throng of students, towards the Great Hall. It was only mildly surprising to find that he wasn’t trying to shuffle Tom into his Office and pester him with useless questions or pleasantries. Hari and Hermione hovered next to him with Luna while they waited for the Hall to finish filling, and though he got more than a few curious looks — from students and faculty alike — Dumbledore eventually called the chatter to order with a smile that Tom still hated. 

(He was hoping fifty years and a few months would be enough to stop caring, but no. He still very much hated this man. But then, it had only really been a few months for him, hadn’t it?)

“Now, I know we’re all eager to greet our next round of first years! However, we’ve had a surprise transfer in the form of young . . . Thomas Slytherin. As a result, we’ll be breaking from tradition and sorting him ahead of the first years.” 

The familiar hat and stool were produced, and the pale, dark-robed Potions Master from Hari’s party hefted the hat up with an air of exasperated irritation. Tom obligingly slipped towards the stool at the Potions Master’s gesture, clenching his jaw tight to keep from scowling at Dumbledore some more. 

(He was, after all, only supposed to have just met the man.)

Dumbledore was staring at him with dark, uncertain eyes, but Tom didn’t (and couldn’t) let it bother him. He’d tired to stop letting the man’s opinion matter in the beginning of last year. (In his original time.) Tom sat, finally turning away from the first real wizard he’d ever met as if he didn’t have a care in the world. 

The hat above him gave a surprised, startled sort of sound, and then started laughing - which surprised the whole hall - a second before it huffed out;

“SLYTHERIN!”

(He was fairly certain it hadn’t even landed on his head.)

Tom stood back up again, nodded to the Potions Master, then turned sharply on his heel and moved towards Slytherin table. Luna and her fellow Claws had already taken a seat by then, but they all still sent him small, congratulatory smiles. The students at Slytherin table shuffled aside to allow him room, eyeing him with interest and slight suspicion, with the exception of Nott and Zabini, while Malfoy looked like everything was going according to whatever plans he had. 

(Nott and Zabini had made space for him between them, and he was not foolish enough to pass up the opportunity to accept their temporary protection.)

He was surprised, in surveying the table, to note that the Ginger Menaces from the party also sat under the Slytherin Banners, and sitting next to them a girl with the same ginger hair . . . Who looked at him like he was a particularly terrifying — and confusing — ghost.

Befuddled, Tom turned his attention away from the girl, and towards where the Great Hall doors were opening. The group of children being lead in was small, comparitively, and the sorting was being conducted by a stern-faced woman that was probably the Deputy. He could feel eyes on him from all directions — most esspecially from Dumbledore and a giant of a man that he almost recognized but couldn't place — and much like when he’d been eleven, it made him want to break something. 

(It would be ridiculously easy to hurt the people around him. All he’d have to do to make someone else hurt was want them to hurt.)

At that moment, a young girl got sorted to Ravenclaw, and Tom shifted to clap politely, his eyes flickering over the Claw’s table until they found Luna. She was sitting somewhat apart from her own year mates - at least assuming that house seating hadn’t changed much - but next to Hermione and across from Hari.  She chose that moment to look up and smile in his direction in a manner he’d come to recognize as encouraging. 

Tom figured he could save breaking people for when it was really necessary. 

(And for when Luna wasn’t around to see it happen. He knew enough about her to know that she might still take his hand if it was smeared with blood, but she’d want to know all the details - the what's and whys - and Tom always had a hard time explaining why he felt others needed to be a little broken.)

The only thing of real interest after that was when Dumbledore made himself the most hated man in the school, and not just by Tom. 

“— it is also my painful duty to inform you that the inter-house Quidditch Cup will not take place this year,” Malfoy let out the most offended squawk that Tom had ever heard, and at the teachers table, the stern woman - who did in fact sit in the Deputy’s chair  - looked ready to upend the table, “This is due to an event that will be starting in October, and continuing throughout the school year, taking up much of your instructors time and energy — but I am sure you will all enjoy it immensely.”

Tom was sure he would hate it, given that assurance alone, but perhaps he was just allowing himself to be spiteful. Regardless, the number of deadly looks the Headmaster was now receiving made him all too amused to care.

During the actual feast, it was easy to evade the questions being thrown at him, which was good, considering he wasn’t sure how to answer most of them. They toed the line of his vow, and until he tested the waters, he wouldn’t know what was alright and what wasn’t.

(He was internally horrified that he might have to send a letter to his Ministry handler. The chap had seemed the type to be just as irritating in a letter as he was in person.)

The only interruption came when the doors flew open and man with a peg-leg and a magic eye came limping in, face set into a harsh glower. There was something wrong about him — about his magic, about his face, about his everything. He looked right through Tom, and Tom didn't like it. He did not like it at all — he liked it even less when he found out this man was to be their DADA Professor. From what little information he'd picked up, the last few Defense Professors had been dangerous in some way or another, and he was very willing to believe that of this man.

Thankfully, he didn't seem to be paying any particular attention to any of the students, so Tom forced his attention back to his meal, and the antics of his Housemates.

It was even got to be almost amusing again, after a point, some of his new house-mates persistence. The faint familiarity of word-play and evasion was comforting as the castle itself hadn’t managed to be just yet. Looking around the table at children he didn’t know but were the same, helped to ease the feeling of displacement. 

(But just some.)

“We’ll show you down to the dorms with the Prefects, if you like.” Nott said quietly, sipping at his tea slowly. 

Tom studied the soft, fluffy carrot cake on his plate and nodded. 

“It would be much appreciated.” He agreed mildly. 

Internally, he highly doubted the way to the Commons had changed, but better to be cautious in this. He stood with Nott and Zabini when Malfoy and a dark-haired girl gathered the first-year Slytherins together. Unexpectedly, most of the House joined them, shuffling them along down the corridors. 

As he’d expected, the way to the commons hadn’t changed, but the entrance had. It was no longer a large portrait of a hooded woman standing over a cauldron, but a blank slate of wall, whose only tell was a small, serpentine carving at the four corners.

Slytherin house itself had changed. 

The changes weren’t just in the common room, somehow warmer than before, bigger, with more windows looking into the lake, and study tables and bookshelves to one side of the room. It wasn’t just in the many blankets and pillows strewn over comfortable-but-posh looking furniture. 

It was the new Head. Severus Snape was a man that was both amusing and intriguing, and one whom Tom wished had been his Head of House fifty years in the past. The discomfort he’d felt at Hari’s party, with this man’s too-intelligent eyes watching him, seemed silly for reasons Tom couldn’t place. 

After all, it wasn’t like he was professing love and care for all of them. It wasn’t like he’d outright stated that they could go to him and he would help. But it was all implied, wasn’t it, in the way the students looked to him, listened to him attentively. It was in the way he’d designed the common room. It was even in the way that he took clear care, in explaining how the rest of the school viewed them to the first years.

(It was a little drastic to Tom, all these changes. The rules and functions of it now operated much more like a close-knit family that also had political aspirations than just a political party that stuck together to stay alive, but only long enough to stab each other in the back. He wasn’t really sure how to feel about it.)

“My office hours are posted on the community board — should you have need of me, you will have my attention, but do try not to involve me in issues a Prefect could just as easily solve.” The man finished now, giving them all a slow look, and then straightening imperceptibly.

“And finally,” he drawled, and then the faintest of smiles twitched over his lips, his dark, dark eyes just slightly soft for the first time, “Welcome home.” 

Tom felt the desire to lay down and just. Not get up for a bit so he could process all these changes. 

(He was a little put out that Slughorn hadn’t been replaced sooner. Fifty years sooner.)

So he did just that, slipping towards the dorms under the curious gaze of his new year-mates — his new house-mates. He was in bed long before the others showed up, but that didn’t mean he slept. His mind was far too consumed with how things might have been, if he’d walked into a Slytherin House more like this one from the start.

(How things might have been different, not just for him, but for the person he had been-might-have-become, the one that had gone mad and made war, and a mockery of the most terrible moments of his childhood.)

His first night in the Slytherin dorms — also changed drastically, but not in anyway he’d minded — had been restless. As a result he wasn’t in the best of moods the next morning — he detested the fact that it was a weekend, instead of a school day — when he followed Nott and Zabini out of the dorm. 

(While also dodging Malfoy and whoever the mountain of muscle next to him was. He had no idea what they wanted when they’d started for him, but he had no intention of finding out. Especially since an unholy fire had lit in Malfoy’s eyes the night before, after he found out Quidditch was canceled.)

“You know you’ll have to confront Draco and Warrington eventually.” Zabini purred to one side of him. 

Tom tilted his head, his brow furrowing as he matched up the name to the bulky, brute of a boy. He certainly had looked something like a Warrington. All thick features and muscle. The Warrington from Tom’s time had still retained some aristocratic features though. 

“Is that who Malfoy was with, Warrington? Who is he?” 

Nott made a thoughtful sound, then explained slowly. 

“Heir Warrington is the Quidditch Captain this year. Or he would have been, if it hadn’t been canceled. Malfoy has been telling him you’re one of the best Keepers he’s ever seen, and now they both want you on the team for next year.” Nott shared. 

Tom scowled in response, and to his surprise, Zabini spoke up before he could promise that such a thing wouldn’t be happening. Ever. 

“Now, I know we’re only recently acquainted, but I did decide to look after you, so I feel as though I should give you some friendly advice,” the Italian started, ignoring Nott’s disparaging snort on Tom’s other side, “right now, you’re being allotted the same courtesy that the first years are, being kept out of House Politics until you have your feet under you. But in three weeks time? In three weeks time, the House is going to start poking at you, trying to figure you out. They’ll be far more inclined to let you have your mysterious secrets if you happened to be more than just the transfer student with a respectable name, but a pedigree that is a . . . shall we say, mystery.”

Tom frowned even harder at that, and Nott took over a little too seamlessly for this to be something that was spur of the moment. He really must be tired, if he was only now seeing the trap.

“Regardless of said pedigree, we’ll look after you — you’re officially a Slytherin now, and Slytherins stick together. But all that would be made easier if you were the team Keeper that helped win as many games as possible — for house pride, of course.” 

It was a little uncomfortable, being out-logic-ed and out-maneuvered on his first day back. He really was eleven all over again. Or perhaps he just needed some strong tea — it was hard to say. 

“I’ll think about it.” He grumbled, then increased his pace when he caught sight of the Great Hall doors. 

(Were Nott and Zabini lesser Slytherins, they would snicker behind him, he just knew it. That thought, unsurprisingly, only made him more irritable.)

The hall was only half full when he walked in, but he immediately caught sight of Luna, who was predictably staring dazedly around her. Tom ignored Nott’s questioning look and Zabini’s hovering presence, choosing instead to start towards the Ravenclaw table. 

(Perhaps not the best move, on his first day, but there was hardy anyone at Slytherin table anyway, and he needed wanted familiarity, right then.)

Slipping into the open seat next to Luna made him feel a bit better, and ignoring the sudden hush over the portion of the table that noticed made him feel a little more in control. He preoccupied himself with putting together a bowl of porridge, and nudging things Luna was more likely to pick at than her plate of eggs and toast closer to the girl. 

“Good morning Tom.” Luna greeted slowly, eyes a little distracted when they drifted from her goblet to him. 

“Good morning, Luna. What have you eaten?” He asked, direct and stern.

Luna blinked at him in startled surprise, and then slowly looked down at her plate. The brief face she made at seeing her eggs touching her toast was all the answer he needed. 

“Right then. Give me that,” he sighed, taking her plate away and shoving it into the empty space to his right, “and take this.” He ordered, placing the bowl of porridge he’d just prepared in front of her. 

Luna blinked down at it and smiled faintly. 

“How did you know I wanted porridge?” She asked the bowl, delicately picking up the spoon inside to scoop some up.

Tom sent a brief look to the plate he’d shoved aside, then turned his attention to making another bowl — this time actually for him. Nott plopped down into the space he’d shoved the plate, swatting it aside to start making his own, and Zabini took up a post on Luna’s other side. 

Tom very purposefully ignored their amused looks to answer Luna absently. 

“Your eggs were touching your toast.” He sighed. 

Across from him, Hermione finally stirred from her half-asleep, blinking stupor, her eyes widening even as her brow furrowed.

“What does that have to do with porridge, Tom?” She asked, leaning across her own breakfast - which she was ignoring in favor of what might have been coffee - with Hari mimicking her across from Luna. 

“It just does.” Tom shrugged, not giving anymore thought to Luna’s peculiarities now than he had when he first noticed them.

“Huh. Right.” Hari hummed, taking a slow sip from his goblet and watching Tom speculatively. 

“Would you like a tour around the castle today?” Luna asked her spoon, blinking at the bite of porridge on it. 

Tom wished he could say no, but instead nodded slowly. 

“That would be appreciated, yes,” he grumbled, fixing himself some tea. 

“We can show you the pitch!” Hari exclaimed, lips stretching into a wide grin. 

Tom eyed the boy speculatively, almost pityingly. 

“You know Quidditch is canceled, yes?” He asked. 

The glare Hari sent him rivaled Malfoy’s, but was quickly replaced by another beaming smile. 

“Doesn’t matter. We’ll figure out a way to play!” He declared. 

Tom sighed into his tea.

“I was concerned you were going to say something stupid like that.”

Because if Hari decided to contrive some way to play, Malfoy would somehow catch wind of it, he was sure, and the next thing Tom knew? He would be fighting them all about being kept out of their nonsense game.

“I think a series of mock games could be quiet fun. Tom is a very good Keeper,” Luna announced, dreamily sighing into her tea. 

(He quiet detested that his heart warmed over this pronouncement, and that he weakened just slightly to the idea of it. Because it was ridiculous. There was no reason for him to want to play, just because Luna thought he was good. Was this a part of Friendship? Tom would like to exclude this part of Friendship, if it was. Could you exclude parts of Friendship?)

“Stop encouraging them.” He ordered. 

Luna merely turned to smile at him distractedly before her attention began drifting into the rafters and stayed. Tom found himself grumbling like a plebeian, but still reached out to drag a plate of fruit closer to Luna and nudge her until she was picking at some strawberries. 

“So . . . I can show you the pitch first, right?” Hari asked, smile all mischief and spite.

“I suppose you’ll just do whatever you want, Heir Potter-Black.” Tom snapped back, with no small amount of sarcasm. 

(Tom was shown the pitch. He still thought it was unimpressive, even if they had replaced the benches at some point in the last fifty years.)

Luna drifted. The beginning of the semester was always the worst, but it seemed especially bad this year. There was something coming. Something happening. In the background, something just out of her sight, just out of reach. It sat the heaviest on Professor Moody and Hari, and she did not like that at all. Hari's track-record with Defense Professors spoke for itself in that regard. Then there was the shadow in the later half of their semester. 

A great-big rolling wave of Uncertainty that felt impossibly heavy, and rife with Potentials. Luna was afraid of it. 

(Danger, it seemed to scream, I am rife with danger.)

The nice thing was that Tom was in quiet a few of her classes, that she was given half-days of awareness past the hazy weight of Knowing's and Possibilities. They would settle down soon, she knew, and then she wouldn't need the blanket of Tom's presence to drag her back to awareness quiet so often, but while they took their time bombarding her, Luna was left drifting and increasingly unnerved by what she saw.

(Cedric Diggory's Possibilities left her shaking and nauseous. The cloud of duality that followed Professor Moody left her still and quiet, trying not to be seen. The danger that kept trying to latch onto poor Hari made her furious and aching to bat it away, though she knew her blows would do no good. You could not outright your maybe-might-be-future.)

All of this together made it hard to try and focus on what Dumbledore was planning. 

Because he was planning something. 

The expression on his face when he'd first seen Tom had told her that much, as had the flicker of shadows in the Possibilities around him. Albus Dumbledore had always and forever been at odds with all versions of Tom Riddle. Luna didn't trust whatever he thought he knew, or thought he could achieve by working this Tom into his plans. He was far too ready to make unnecessary sacrifices to achieve his goals for what he considered the Greater Good.

Her Tom was not a sacrifice. He was not a pawn. He would not be the necessary sacrifice for the 'good,' of others. 

Nor would her Hari.

(And beside all of that, Luna would never forget the way that Tom's face had shut down when he'd seen Dumbledore. The way all the contentment she'd been able to feel had turned to guarded cold. The way he'd leaned into Luna and stood stiffly, as if expecting a blow.)

Luna would focus on this like she had never focused on anything before. 

Just as soon as she stopped drifting.

The first couple weeks of classes seemed to go by in a blur. Not a lot had changed in fifty years, but at least Luna was in most of his classes. It made navigating his place as an unfamiliar Slytherin a tad easier. 

The school as a whole gave him a wide birth, while the Gryffindor’s seem to think it was their Hecate-given mission to make his life harder for his surname. They either jeered at him in the halls, watched him with no small amount of suspicion, or scurried away from him like he was some sort of monster. 

(Bloody Gryffindor's.) 

His Housemates took to him with no small amount of glee when they discovered that he was, in fact, a Parslemouth. This was a discovery that was entirely on accident on his part, because be hadn't paying enough attention while a Housemate had been grooming their (technically contraband) pet Corn Snake. Jezebelle Ramos (whose magical family immigrated from Spain thirty years ago) was chatting idly to a friend when her snake Tulio slipped his sinuous head unto Tom's book and huffed out;

Silly human is always getting so distracted while itching my scales.

This had been a common complaint every time Tom found the snake lurking and picked him up to put him somewhere safer than the cool ground. His response was, therefore, automatic.

'Humans are often silly and forgetful, you can't hold it against them. Much.' 

He soothed, reaching out absently run the blunt of his thumb nail down the snakes head. The silence didn't register until he'd turned the page and Tulio started complaining about 'his human stopping why?' When he looked up, half of the Common room was looking at him. Malfoy and Nott with horror, Parkinson with something he didn't care to place. He couldn't figure out why or what he'd done, so instead of face it, he'd put his book away, carefully deposited Tulio back with Ramos, and walked away. 

Walking away, unsurprisingly, did not make the whispers fade. It had only been three days since this occurrence, and the complete flip within the house was irritating. His housemates now regarded him with something like deference, and he wasn't entirely sure why. (At least at first.) He just knew that some of them seemed to think it was now their Hecate-given mission in life to follow him around like guards. 

(It had only made sense after Malfoy had quietly taken him aside and explained to him, in rushed, awkward sentences that those children were the children of Death Eaters, and they were all under the impression that he was the Dark Lord’s Spawn, and could he please confirm or deny this accordingly. Tom hadn’t known what to say so he’d thanked Malfoy and stalked off.)

(This, to no one’s surprise, helped nothing.)

He and Luna remained close — to the irritation of some and the amusement of others — and by the time the second week was coming to a close, Tom was slightly regretting his sorting. So much so that he'd started combing the library for possible ways to resort. He loved Slytherin house, but the way that they were acting now was . . . 

A contradiction. 

In his own time, he'd fought for every scrap of respect, bullied his way into the higher ranks, and maintained his position with a vicious hold.

Here, now, he was being given respect based on the crimes that another version of him had committed with some backwards idea of taking ultimate control in mind.

(And it greatly complicated his play. He could feed off of that reputation. Pretend to be his own progeny, use the fear he saw in some faces to his advantage. But if he did, it would cast a shadow over his every interaction. His friendship with Luna — and the baby friendship he was trying to build with Hari and Hermione — would be misconstrued or perverted into something it wasn't. It was difficult, trying to decide what to do with all of this.)

Ultimately, and disgustingly, he would have to contact his handler at the Ministry. There was too much in play here for him to rashly make a decision. He needed more information.

Unbidden, the words that Mrs. Cole often spat came to mind. 

The work of the wicked is never done.

Chapter Text

September 22nd, 1994

Severus Snape would be the first person to admit that he is not a good man. He's made plenty of mistakes in life, done plenty of terrible things, and no matter the exonerated circumstance that lead to each of those things, the blame is all on him. Its why he's worked so hard, over the last decade and some years, to be better. He still wasn't good—  

(Hecate, but no amount of penance would be likely to accomplish that. He's a bitter, disillusioned bastard and he knows it.)

But he wasn't nearly as wreaked as he had been, nearly thirteen years prior standing on the astronomy tower with a bottle of firewhiskey in one hand and just barely holding himself back with the other. 

He'd nearly jumped. Nearly given up his worthless body to the only home he'd ever known, wondering if maybe . . . maybe doing so would set all his wrongs right somehow. He nearly took that final step forward — until Pomfrey was suddenly there, carefully leading him away from the edge. Albus had tried, before her, but Severus was more likely to jump to spite the old bastard than listen to him, and he'd said as much to the man that had promised to give his best and failed to even try.

Poppy had set Sev to rights in that quiet, no-nonsense way she had, gotten him bundled into her Infirmary, and the next morning he'd made a deal with Albus that naturally benefited Severus more than it had Albus.

(Because even foggy-headed and wanting to End It, Severus was a Slytherin through and through.)

For ten years, Severus had lived and worked and breathed to make up for his own mistakes. He taught because it had been part of the bargain, and the only way to protect students like he'd been was to be in a position of power in a place where they were vulnerable. To be Head of Slytherin House, to look after those students that no one thought needed looking after, he worked and revised and fixed Slytherin House to his liking for ten years.

In the fall of 1991, he'd been thinking about stepping off the Astronomy Tower all over again, because Albus hadn't stopped talking about Hari Potter, James spitting image in attitude and beliefs, according to Dumbledore. 

(And this is where some of the quiet bitterness that Snape had buried in the ten years since his former Best Friends death comes crawling from its grave, because Snape had trusted Albus. The old man had promised that Lily's son was safe, and he'd trusted him.)

The Hari Potter that had stepped forward had not been the spitting image of a cocky, entitled James Potter. He'd been smaller than the shortest average eleven-year-old, with wide, fearful eyes and a tremor to the hands that were clenched in his robes. He'd been sorted into Ravenclaw after a lengthy time under the Hat, and over the next few days, Severus was shown more and more signs that the wild, brash child Albus had painted didn't exist. 

Hari Potter barely ate, and seemed to never sleep. He jumped at loud noises, and only seemed to feel safe behind the open pages of a book. He and Granger had been attached at the hip, each of them struggling to ask the most questions about a world they were brand new to. Severus will forever remember the look in the boys eyes while he gave his customary first-year speech to the Ravenclaw/Hufflepuff class, and the way he'd shyly asked for more information about potions afterwards. 

If Albus had thought that Severus was a good man, those opinions were quickly destroyed when Severus had, at the end of that day, marched into the mans office and completely trashed it in his rage, having come from speaking to a concerned and enraged Filius, Hari Potter's medical exam still burned into his mind. 

Albus had apologized, but he'd apologized for the wrong things. 

(Like the 'necessity,' to send Hari back into an abusive environment.) 

Severus was not a good man, and he fully accepted that fact when he'd taken his first free weekend to pay a friendly visit to Petunia Dursley. 

That following summer, and every summer until Sirius Black was cleared of charges against him and deemed safe to act as Hari's guardian, Severus Snape had collected Lily's Son for 'Remedial Summer Lessons,' from his relatives. He did not, if Severus could help it, spend anymore than a couple days with the Dursleys.

Hari had only asked him once what he'd done to Petunia and Vernon. 

(Severus hadn't told him, because he may not be a good man, but even he had standards, and it hardly mattered what he'd done, so long as there was no proof of it.)

The point is; Severus has lived long enough to recognize when something vital is being concealed from him, so when Albus Dumbledore tells him to watch Thomas Slytherin, Severus knows there's something the man isn't stating.

(Has learned that the trust he'd given the man had been entirely mistaken.) 

That's hardly what concerns Severus though. What concerns Severus is Thomas Slytherin himself. 

He is, by all rights, a child that shouldn't be possible. The last true Slytherin Heir had been Lord Voldemort, and the last time Severus had seen Lord Voldemort, he hadn't looked healthy enough to produce an heir, even assuming he held such interests. 

(There were many rumors, only ever whispered when they were far, far away from their Lords ears, about Voldemort's lack of interest in anyone, no matter their status or willingness. Severus hadn't ever much cared for them, but he'd always been willing to believe there was a grain of truth to them. Voldemort had seemed untouchable — as if he existed in a plane above the rest of them, shrouded through a milky veil. Severus knew now as he couldn't have then that such had likely been due to his slipping sanity, his magic becoming increasingly manic.)

All that aside, Thomas Slytherin wasn't as . . . vicious, as Snape would have expected Voldemort's heir to be. There was a sense of danger about him, it was true, and the boy had a perfectly threatening range of smiles . . . 

But he was friendly with and friends with a wide range of school-mates, and Severus remembered the conversation he'd purposefully overhead at Hari's party — he was a Ward of the Lovegoods, and had quiet the friendship with Miss Lovegood. The two were quiet often together, even going so far as to take turns sitting at the others tables during breakfast and lunch. Through Miss Lovegood, Mister Slytherin seemed to become fast friends with Miss Granger and Hari, and through them, Mister Longbottom. 

(And that was without mentioning that Zabini and Nott had taken him under their protection, and Draco seemed determined to befriend him.)

Severus supposed that if the boy was a danger, it would make sense to get to Hari through Miss Lovegood, but . . . 

It didn't fit, with what he had of the boys character thus far. 

Slytherin was serious and no-nonsense, except, it seemed, when it came to petty revenges. Quietly protective, if the way he hovered by Lovegood was any indication. A worrier, if Hari was to be believed, and Severus had observed the boy trying to nudge Lovegood into eating often enough that he did believe it. Not one to socialize over-much, considering his tight group, but he'd been nothing but unfailingly polite. Studious and apparently never without a sense of interested curiosity when it came to knowledge. 

They'd had a single Counseling meeting since the start of term, to speak about what the boy wanted in life, and he'd been nothing but quietly thoughtful while Severus explained what his marks, should they continue to be O's and E's, could do for him. Ultimately, the boy had expressed a desire to teach, which had both taken Severus by surprise and made sense. 

(The Prefects had informed him that Mister Slytherin had taken to helping the first and second years with their homework and essays in the back of the Common Room.)

They were only three weeks into class, and he was already one of the more reliable students in Potions. The other Professors had nothing but praise for him, save Moody — whom Severus tried to avoid on principle — who had grunted mistrustfully about the boy during the last Staff Meeting. That was hardly surprising, considering the friendship between Albus and Moody.

Overall, there wasn't enough information for Severus to believe the boy was anything more than one of his Slytherins being discriminated against for his name and House Placement, so Severus was determined to do what he did best. 

Gather information and piece the puzzle together bit by bit until everything made sense. 

They were nearing the end of the third week of classes when Luna woke and simply knew. She felt refreshed. Alive. The visions were there, yes, but they never really went away. No, the visions were instead the equivalent of lazy, stretching cats around her, where before they'd been screeching banshees in her mind. It was the closest she would get to the muted, background hum of visions that followed her at Rook House, and for that, she was grateful.

She'd never missed thinking so clearly, but she'd never had much of a goal before. Now she did. 

(A goal that was, she felt, simple but profound, and had been inspiring her mother's family to new lengths since they fled the Romans invading Greece. A goal that her father's family strove for as well. One she was all too happy to claim the mantle of, slipping it over her shoulders with determination.)

Luna had someone - one might even argue multiple someone's - to protect, and she could not do so by dallying around with visions. 

(Couldn't risk dallying. There were too many people that would love to drag her Tom down, out of nothing more than self-righteous spite and an inability to put rational thoughts together. Too many people that wanted something-everything from him just because they could.)

A glance at her calendar told her it was Thursday, and after a quick wash and change into her school robes, she went looking for her notes from the last few weeks, internally cringing at the mess they probably were.

Luna would be the first to admit she didn't mind a little chaos, but she wasn't a Ravenclaw just because she was well-read and Quick-witted. 

(Even her most hectic messes had an organization to them. Even her most random statements had a purpose.)

To her surprise, there was a semblance of organization to her jumping, all-over notes, which seemed to stem primarily from the elegant, looping scrawl that took up small portions of them. She recognized the shorthand — and the penmanship — immediately, but still had a bit of trouble believing it. 

Tom hadn't ever struck her as the type to help someone organize their notes. But, well, she could admit to never actually sitting down to study with him. Their quiet days in the library of Rook House might find him combing through her ancestors' books, but Luna had only ever kept him company by reading next to him, and providing him with breadcrumbs to follow when he became lost in the books.

Smiling, Luna flipped to the start of the year and shoved the rest of her class books into her satchel, idly paging through (and trying to organize) her notes as she headed for breakfast. Now, she knew, the game was truly beginning.

Now, she was awake enough to play. 

He dreamed of wandering dim, gloomy halls. Of climbing trick-stairs and dodging past portraits, until he reached the seventh floor. There was a blank stretch of wall there, across from . . . something. He stared at the wall, and something stared back, begging to be released. He paced and paced and paced in front of the unyielding stone, unsure as to why he did so.

(Want to be whole. Come get me. Want to be alive.)

But—

But Tom was whole.

The bricks began to creak and crack, almost bubbling out in a pattern that seemed like . . . 

Well, like someone else was on the other side, banging on the walls, trying to push through. Like something was trying to break free. 

Tom stopped pacing to stare. 

(Save me. Take me. Use me. Youknowyouwantthepower.)

He didn't know why he was here. 

(No! Come find me! Claim me, take me use me!)

He didn't understand.  

(ICanGiveYouAnswers!)

Tom turned away from the stretch of blank wall and ran. Whatever was trying to break free howled in rage as he fled.

Jolting awake, Tom took a deep, shuddering breath, and once again found himself incapable of remembering what had startled him out of sleep. The dreams, whatever they were, had started within the first few nights of being back at Hogwarts. Now, he woke every other day well before dawn, drenched in sweat and with a pounding headache. 

In the year since he'd forced himself to learn Occclumency, that would have been an indicator that someone — usually Dumbledore — was trying to break into his head. But none of his studies had shown that Legilimency could be cast from a distance. 

Scowling, because he knew he was Awake Now, Tom slouched out of bed and went looking for a clean pair of robes and his toiletries. The only good thing about his new and vexating sleep schedule was that it gave him additional time to complete homework so that he could use his study time for things that actually interested him.

It's not until a couple of hours later when his Dorm mates start to stir that he realizes he could head to the Great Hall, and he sets aside his Revision for Charms in favor of packing up. He absently goes through the morning pleasantries with his Dorm mates — whom he's mutually polite with, even if they still seem wary of him — before he slips out the dorm and towards the Commons.

There's the typical amount of early-rising and early-working students in the Commons when he passes through, but it appears as though he's beaten Zabini and Nott. This doesn't stop him from leaving the Common Room anymore than it typically did. 

(Tom both understood and respected the reason for Slytherins traveling together, but there was no one in Hogwarts, aside from the obvious handful of teachers, that he was all that concerned with being cornered by. Any student, be they his own year or above, would not be much of an obstacle.)

Walking, at the very least, seemed to be helping the ache behind his temples. 

It had taken until the third week of September, but Tom, despite the unfortunately hazy dreams, was managing to find his footing in halls that were both familiar and not. The stone around him no longer felt so alien, just as his House-mates no longer looked like complete strangers. It was nice, to be finding a semblance of balance. 

Well, at least it was before he looked up from the stairs he'd just mounted and found himself arrested by the sight of something that should have occurred to him from the start. 

(Alas, to his private embarrassment, he was only just then realizing that the Portraits — and Ghosts, he suddenly connected — were watching him with wary, suspicious eyes. He felt a fool for not taking them into consideration before that moment.) 

As it was, he was briefly frozen and staring back at the Picnic by the Lake Portrait which had always hung halfway between the dungeons and the basement. In his natural time, it had been a portrait that never paid him much mind. At present, however? It was filled not just with the resident three ladies in cheerful, Renascence attire, but also with a handful of other portrait residents that were watching him just as intently.

Maintaining an air of indifference had never been so hard, but instead of fully giving away his thoughts, he merely tilted his head at the portrait curiously, nodded a good morning, and then continued on his way.

He knew, logically, that Hogwarts portraits and ghosts were bound by some honor oath to not reveal anything overtly private about the students that walked their halls. That did not stop him from being nervous about the way they had watched him. 

He needed to write that damn Ministry Agent.

This newest worry was shortly shoved to the back of Tom's mind, so he could focus on putting on foot in front of the other, on breathing through the sudden increase in his headache, and so that he could try to re-organize his Mind Palace, to make up for the lack of forethought in regards to the Portraits. 

Thankfully, something else shortly drew all his attention.

When he hurried into the Great Hall, a quick glance showed that Luna was already there, and appeared present and aware, one of her school notebooks open in front of her as she spooned up porridge. Hermione was chatting at her from across the table. He hadn't seen her so clear-eyed since the start of term. 

They managed an entire conversation on the way to their first class, without his friend once drifting off into her own world. It was as much a relief as a mystery, another piece of a puzzle he didn't know the shape of. 

This, at least, was a good revelation, as Luna now seemed back to normal. Well — back to a normal.

(Back to her Special Luna Brand of normal.)

Their first block promised to make his headache worse, but at least he had biscuits in his pockets and several cups of tea in him.

The Slytherin/Ravenclaw History of Magic class, for all that it was nice to share with Luna, was exceptionally boring. Binns, unfortunately, hadn't changed at all —which meant that half of the students were fine-tuning homework from other classes, while the other half were reading whatever they wanted— and Tom was extremely disappointed to see that he hadn't been replaced yet. 

(The boredom did not help him keep his mind engaged more enjoyably. No, he was quite occupied with trying not to stress over this newest revelation regarding the portraits and ghosts, all while pretending to revise his Transfiguration homework.)

Beside him, Luna was going over her homework with a diligence that she hadn’t had in the last few weeks. He was glad to see that whatever had made her so distracted, it seemed better now, at least enough that she was giving her studies serious consideration.

“Tom?” she whispered. 

He tilted his head at her, marking his place in his book, which she rightfully took as a sign of his attention, and scooted even closer, spreading out her DADA essay. The idea that they would later have to attend the class dropped his mood from agitated-but-reasonable to absolutely irritable.

Defense, which used to be his favorite subject, was now his least favorite.

“I don’t quite understand what I’m supposed to be writing about. Professor Moody’s prompts don’t match the notes taken — how does the way we would approach fighting either a Nundu or a Dragon relate to our knowledge of common hexes, jinxes, and curses? Neither Nundu's nor Dragons are affected by any of those things.”

Tom shrugged, a bare twitch of his shoulders, and tugged one of her spare scraps of parchment closer to scrawl several titles on the margins of her doodles. 

“I’ve no idea, honestly. He’s a bit erratic, but at least we practice Defence. From what I can gather, the fifth and seventh years love him for that reason alone, even if half of them are terrified of him.”

Tom did not love him. Tom wanted to break every bone in the man's paranoid, pompous body. Luna likely didn’t realize this, as she’d been especially distracted during his first handful of lessons. (A fact which played no small part of why, exactly, he wanted to maime their DADA Professor.)

“Are these the books you used for your essay?” Luna asked, and Tom wrenched his thoughts away from the rather dark path they’d been turning towards. 

“Some of them. The first, third and fifth, for sure. The rest are just ones that provide first-hand experience in Dragon-and-Nundu-wrangling, which you might enjoy.”

Luna hummed, then settled back . . . though she didn’t move away, shuffling into his space with the kind of ease that Tom used to think only long-time friends could have, but which came very easily to himself and Luna. It was his opinion that the ease all came from Luna. She was, after all, one of the easiest people to be around.

(If one managed to ignore her viciously disgusting year-mates. Tom was waiting until everything was truly settled, until their guard was absolutely lowered, to have a . . . discussion with them. He did not plan on telling Luna about this.) 

She was calm and content, settling into long silences or excited chatter as if it was natural — and even at her most distracted, she was sure of herself and comfortable in her own skin. It was hard to not feel easy around her. Only Jealous Idiots would dislike her.

When class finally ended, they followed the rush from the room at an easier pace. Several of his year mates followed them, chatting amongst themselves. Jezebelle Ramos, John Samson, and Heathcliff Bellamy fell into step with him and Luna, and Tom tried not to twitch in annoyance. While he didn’t have the easiest time with his year-mates, they were far and away better from his first Hogwarts Experience, where it had been a fight every day to prove he belonged among them. They were tolerable, at the very least.

(The exception to those fights had been Nott, Lestrange, and eventually, Malfoy. Those three boys, of the dozens of others, had seen something in him worth ‘befriending.’ Having the advantage of time travel and a . . . A something with the Lovegoods, Tom could see that what they’d likely been drawn by was the power, and that they’d used it against him somehow.)

“Are you and Miss Lovegood going to the library before Arithmancy?” Ramos asked, eyes darkly amused for all that her expression was perfectly blank. 

Tom turned to scowl at the route ahead of them and did not look back. Just because they were tolerable, didn't mean he wanted to have them as tag-alongs.

Nodding, Tom did not hesitate to not only keep walking, but to speed up, before Samson — who, he understood, had an uncle that was a follower of Voldemort — could make up an excuse to very much become a tag-along.

Luna kept easy step with him, even despite having her nose buried in an armful of her notes, her satchel half-hazardously stuffed. They had an hour before Arithmancy, then lunch and then a two-hour block of DADA. Tom, quite personally, would like nothing more than to finish his revisions for next week's homework, and spend the rest of his time doing nothing but slogging through even more modern history texts he'd pulled from the library stacks.

This desire is, naturally, why the Weasley twins materialized out of nowhere with sly grins and mischief practically pouring from them. 

“Great Lord Slytherin!” The one he was reasonably certain was Fred started.

“He of the fabled line of Snakes!” Probably-George crowed.

“Who speaks and listens to their dulcet tones!”

“Who is full of mercy and charm!” Tom couldn’t help snorting at that.

“And let's not forget he’s also quite handsome!” Luna, who'd been peeking at the twins since their arrival, giggled, appearing quite curious and deeply amused. 

Tom managed to wait all of a minute to see if they would add any more prattle, but when they simply stood there, grinning back at him, he sighed. 

“What do you want?” 

(Let it be noted that this was and always would be the wrong thing to ask the Weasley Twins.)

Barty was confused. He'd been confused since the start of term, and with every passing day, he got more confused. The source of this confusion was presently sitting in the third-year Slytherin/Ravenclaw DADA Class, staring back at him with bold suspicion and outright hostility. It was a disturbingly familiar stare.

He wanted to get on his knees and offer his loyalty, to bow and beg and scrape and worship— 

(The boy had snagged his attention but briefly at the start-of-term Feast, a lick of power curling from him that had been heady, but had faded quickly. Barty had given up looking for it in favor of keeping a firm hold of his Moody Impression, sure that Dumbledore would realize he was an imposter with every second that passed.)

Thomas Slytherin had been openly hostile since their first week — since their first class, really — when Barty, in full character for Moody, had snapped at Miss Lovegood (who even now sat on the boys right, absently doodling on her parchment and not paying attention) for clearly not displaying any vigilance. Then, in a move he'd known the old cougar to use, had spent the rest of the class tossing things at her head. He hadn’t relished the thought of actually hurting the girl — her mother, Pandora Lovegood, had always been good to him — but he quickly found he had no cause for concern. Over hurting her, at least.

Mister Slytherin had caught each thing that Barty-as-Moody tossed, either physically or with his wand, and with everything he caught, his hostility got increasingly bolder. To the point that he was actively tossing them back at Barty whenever he made the mistake of turning around.

Barty stopped making the mistake of turning around.

Somehow, that didn’t stop the boy from tossing things at him without being noticed, even by the magic eye. 

(The look on his face had been flat and icily furious the entire time.)

He shouldn't feel so intimidated by a child of all things, but there was something about this one that was heart-wrenchingly familiar and terrifying. 

Something that made him want to offer up his life, his magic, his loyalty, if he would just smile at Barty and Barty alone—

Plus. The Slytherins of every year treated him with a reverence that he simply shouldn't have. And the last name was impossible. 

(Unless he considered that it was very probable that his Lord did have children. Or a child.)

He was itching for the first of October to arrive, so he could make his report and get either a confirmation or a denial or — Orders. He needed orders. He didn’t know what to do with this boy that was both like and unlike all the other children. 

(Who was, if the rumor was to be believed, a Parslemouth.)

A quick flash of something out of the corner of his eye, and Barty-as-Moody ducked, hobbling to the side and raising his wand with a scowl, attention swinging in the direction of the harsh thunk-crash that followed his evasion— to find that a heavy, bronze bookend, shaped like a winged boar, had crashed into one of the classroom bookshelves.

(He recognized that bookend. It came from the Library. He thought they were unable to be taken from the Library.)

Slowly, Barty turned. 

Mister Slytherin stared back at him, almost innocently, except for the fact that his eyes were lit with cold fury.

“Constant Vigilance, Professor,” the boy drawled, smirking a smirk that was so-very-disturbingly-familiar. 

Well. Real Moody would have cast a stinging hex at him for his cheek. Barty was a much smarter person. 

“Five points to Slytherin, Mister Slytherin.”

This, Barty would like noted, did not in any way appease the boy that might very well be his Lord’s spawn. In fact. It only seemed to make things worse.

It had been hours since The Incident with the Weasley twins, and Tom can still feel the desire to smash something itching under his skin. It is, in part, why he swiped the book-end to begin with, intending to find an unused, un-portraited hallway to throw it down until it broke . . . but impulsively tossing it at Moody had worked well enough. It had almost been satisfying, actually. Up until it wasn’t.

Up until he was still itching to rip and rend and tear and—

He could still feel the glitter against his skin and the look of satisfied delight on the Weasley twins' faces as Tom — reluctantly — hissed parseltongue at an oddly formed metal snake. 

A snake that had then exploded into an array of green and silver glitter. Luna had been painted and bedazzled with his house colors, and the Ginger Menaces in question had already been halfway down the hall before he could cast the first hex after them. Removing it hadn’t been hard, but having trouble removing it wasn't the point.

Not in Slytherin House.

Falling for the trap had been the real humiliation.

Falling for it under the guise of simple curiosity (on the part of the twins) had been worse.

He'd been given plenty of time to stew over these facts since DADA let out, following Luna to what appeared to be an impromptu study session by the lake, lead by a scowling Hermione. Tom wished he could relax, because something told him he would desperately need it, given that he had Potions with the Gryffindor's in the two-block period before Dinner. 

"Has Professor Moody forced you lot to use the Unforgivables?" Hermione demanded as she had every day for the last week, ever since Moody had done so with the Fourth Years. 

"No." Tom clipped back, settling down on the edge of the rather large blanket someone had laid out, turning to scowl at the lake. 

"Professor Moody did that?" Luna asked absently, settling down next to him, leaning heavily against his shoulder. 

Hermione let out a small sound of exasperation, though there was some fondness in it.

"Yes, Luna, he did. Poor Neville looked ready to pass out the whole class." 

Luna hummed next to him, and a small silence lasted, up until Hari had the gall to say;

"You've done a rather fine job removing the glitter, Tom." 

Merlin and Morgana.

(Tom had removed it long before he and Luna even step foot in the Library. How did he even know about that? Had those bloody twins been telling everyone? )

"Friends are overrated," Tom grumbled, wanting to both march away, and turn around to fling hexes. 

He had the perfect ones, right on the tip of his tongue. All it would take would be to lean away from Luna and attack while Hari least expected it. 

Then of course Luna leaned more heavily on his shoulder, and he sighed deeply, to the sound of highly irritating giggles behind him. Luna leaned in just a little more, seemingly begging him to just let it be with the weight of her shoulder pressing into his. Tom wished he was cruel enough to ignore her.

The itch under his skin would subside so quickly if he just-turned-around . . . But the budding probably-friendship he had with Hari and Hermione would be ruined, and by extension, they would try to keep him from Luna, so ultimately? The risk outweighed the reward. 

He'd just have to find someone to hex that no one his group of tentative friends liked. Maybe he could try ambushing Moody. He was always harping on and on about Constant Vigilance and always being prepared, and even if it didn't work, it would be energy well-spent. Especially if it meant that the man paid for all his bloody crimes against Luna in the process.

"Tom," Hari called, after he and Hermione seemed done giggling. 

Tom did not turn around, but he did tilt his head back a little. Hari seemed unsatisfied with having only a portion of his attention.

"Tom. Tom!" Hari called again, voice too amused for this to be anything important.

"What, Hari?" Tom sighed, watching as several tentacles rose from the black lake to swipe idly at a handful of large birds in the air above the lake.

There was a slight pause, and then his senses lit up, his wand flicking out, catching a pale, glittery ball he recognized — the twins had been selling them in the Common Room a few weeks ago — and Tom looked past the ball slowly to where Hari was sitting cross-legged, a shite-eating grin stretched over his face. 

"Constant Vigilance!" Hari shouted loudly.

And then Hermione tossed another glitter bomb at him from her position to Hari's left.

Tom startled back from the small explosion of purple and silver glitter, scowling down at his stained robes, and then slowly looking to Luna. Luna, whose left shoulder and face were smeared with glitter, smiled a slow, mischievous smile.

"I think they've declared war, Tom," she cooed.

This brought his anger up short, mind skidding to an angry stop. The last time Luna had said something to that effect, they'd spent a good portion of the remaining Summer Hols pranking the daylights out of one another. Suddenly smiling at his first-ever-real-friend, Tom slowly turned back to Hermione and Harry, who had stopped laughing to watch them curiously, and were now eyeing him wearily.

"You know Luna, I think you're right." 

And then he spelled the glitter bomb back at Hari's face. 

It hit front and center, and a few quick charms cast while rolling away from Hermione's attempt at retribution meant that the glitter (bronze and blue and purple and green) across Hermione and Hari's robes and faces would be a little hard to get off. 

They incidentally didn't get any revision done.

(But he did go into Potions in a much better mood than he'd expected to.)

Dear Mr. Johnathan Cadbury,

I hardly know what to write, or how to explain it, but I'll endeavor to do my best.

I appear to have gotten myself into a bit of a tight spot. People are asking me questions, trying to dig for answers, and the more I try to misdirect, the worse things get. I need a solution, an answer, for why I am the way I am, and more, for who I am in this time. The temporary alias you gave me worked at the start, but never let it be said that a Slytherin ever settled for surface facts. 

My Housemates seem to think I am either the child or the Grandchild of the most recent Dark Lord. I don't know what I can say, or do, with the vow we have in place, and I am quickly being stripped of options. 

You should know it pains me on a physical level to be revealing all of this to you, so I dearly hope you can give me satisfactory answers. 

Regards. 

T.C. Slytherin.

September 23rd, 1994

He doesn't stop to consider the importance behind it being the end of the third official week of classes. Not until the morning after the beginning of their prank war, when it’s far too late for him to have devised a way to stay just a step ahead of Warrington and Malfoy. The boys in question bracket either side of him almost as soon as he steps into the Common Room that morning, and to his horror, he realizes that he’s let the idea of Quidditch and all plans to avoid it fall from his mind. 

(Hari had, to Tom's extreme vexation, helped devise a plan for all the Quidditch fanatics of the school to keep playing through the school year. The lunatics were setting up a fake pitch and everything.)

“We’ll be holding try-outs tomorrow, Slytherin,” Warrington rumbled, expression grim and hard. 

“You’ll be a good chap and show, won’t you? For House Pride of course?” Malfoy adds, smiling just as sharply as Abraxus used to. 

Tom hated him a little bit.

(His darkness stirred and offered up the option of breaking him. It was, Tom determined, far too much energy to expend on someone like Malfoy, who was annoying but potentially useful.)

“Yes, yes, fine,” Tom huffed, shooting a glare at Zabini and Nott, who were laughing at him from the safety of the Common Room entrance. 

Nott waited all of a single flight of stairs to speak. 

“Are you actually going to show up at the try-outs tomorrow?” 

Tom considered it, then shrugged. 

“I’m not sure. I understand the logic behind doing so — politically, the Quidditch team-members are afforded more leeway, both in-house and in certain other areas, but I’m not positive I want to put energy and effort into the game itself.” 

Zabini hummed, thoughtfully, though there was a strange gleam in his eyes. Nott just smirked slightly, but neither of them offered any advice. He hadn't’ really been expecting any — these were Slytherins, after all — but he kept a close eye on them all the same, looking for anything he might have missed in their expressions. He was still somewhat undecided by the time that dinner rolled around, until Luna padded up to the Slytherin table and plopped down right next to him, smiling serenely.

He paused in organizing his Astrology notes to tilt his head at her in question. Usually, Luna ate dinner at her own table (or at Neville's) while breakfast and lunch were equally divided between her own house and his. 

She seemed oblivious to the looks this earned her from people that still didn't seem to know better, but Tom did notice, and he very pointedly smiled at them with all his teeth. When they no longer had a blatantly obvious audience, Tom turned his full attention to Luna.

“You’d make a very good Keeper, Tom, and I think having a way to exert energy would be good for you.”

Which . . . was actually a fair point. He did have a lot of energy to exert, and it wasn't like he could rip up the Forbidden Forest, as he had occasionally ripped up trees near Rook House. In fact, it was far and away a more valid point than any other, especially when Tom could still feel the itch to Walk up to Professor Moody and break something important.

He was not considering it more seriously just because Luna thought he would be a good Keeper. 

(You couldn't, he had found, exclude parts of friendship, like the warm bubbly feeling in his chest every time Luna gave him an honest compliment. He felt he might be rather worse off for this sad fact of life.)

"Thank you, Luna, but it's still an awful lot of energy for a game I don't much care for," He tried, shifting uncomfortably even as he carefully scooted some rolls closer to her. 

Luna obligingly took one, then turned to stare him straight in the eye. 

"You don't need to like it to use the benefits Tom, and playing would be very beneficial for you." She declared, then turned a startling amount of focus to eating. 

It is, he decides much later, once the shock of the words had passed him, the most beautifully Slytherin thing she's ever said to him. 

(It makes his heart flutter and his chest ache.)

He feels like he's being manipulated. 

(He's not sure he minds, as long as Luna, who wouldn't-couldn't hurt him, is the one doing the manipulating.)

September 24th, 1994

When Draco Malfoy makes the mistake of barging into Tom's dorm and trying to drag him out of bed, the wards Tom placed around his curtains send the blond prat flying into Ethan Carter's bed. This wakes Samson and Bellamy, and Tom pokes his head out to stare at them all with raised eyebrows when they start shouting, but takes his time getting out of bed otherwise, because he really doesn't want to be doing this.

He's only doing it because Luna made good points about why he should. 

(Only the allure of potentially being able to throw the quaffle at someone's head has him sighing his way out of bed and into the washroom to change. That and Draco's loud and rambling whining. Malfoy's, apparently, never changed. Draco's rant peeters off around the same time, and Tom promises himself that if the blond had only been complaining to motivate him, he'll exclusively aim all his quaffle throws at the blond boy's face.)

When he emerges washed, dressed in loose exercise clothing he'd had forced upon him, and pre-irritated, Malfoy is smirking a smug, Malfoy smirk at him. 

(He promises only himself that he will throw Every Quaffle at that face today. Every. Single. One.)

He doesn't have a broom, but Hari and Luna had told him not to worry about that the night before. He's extremely suspicious about them being in any way prepared to accommodate his lack of broom — had Luna planned for him to try out somehow? — while also feeling slightly concerned for his safety. For reasons beyond him, Zabini and Nott are waiting in the common room to follow them to the designated practice area. 

The try-outs were being held in a wide glen a little further from the castle than the actual Pitch. Some dense foliage protected them from obvious view, and from what Tom understood, this was because when the teams themselves had proposed being allowed to play pick-up-games in a slightly official capacity, they’d been denied. Which naturally meant that they were going to do it anyway. 

Rumor had it that McGonagall and Snape were the only staff members who'd wanted to agree to the pick-up-games, both of them bitterly disappointed that their opportunity to hassle each other had been taken. He was fairly certain they were investing a ridiculous amount of personal time into helping Hari ward their mock Pitch.

This wasn't as surprising as it probably should have been.

(After all, even the Puffs seemed entirely willing to ignore, bend, and break the rules if it meant Quidditch matches and house pride.)

Apparently, the art club was working on making a mock-trophy for the house that won the year's unofficial competition. 

When they got there, Hari and the Ravenclaw team were already milling about, along with the straggling Hufflepuff team. Tom had been and still was confused as to why they were calling it 'team try-outs' if all the teams were involved, but he also didn't really care. His own goal for the day remained the same. 

(To hit Malfoy with Every Quaffle.)

Still. They did a lot of running and push-ups, and basic exercising first — and here is where the Gryffindors finally decide to show up, looking hassled by their manic-eyed Captain, and having to work on catching up — before any of them got on brooms.

This is where Tom paused, because he didn't have his broom yet, and the team didn't have a spare that wasn't an ancient school broom. (And they weren't allowed to take the school brooms, or Hooch would know what they were doing.) This wasn't an issue for long, because several more spectators suddenly arrived, with Luna and Hermione intermingled.

Luna was holding a wrapped broomstick, looking absently pleased with herself, which didn't really bode well for Tom's Peace-of-mind, but he walked up to her anyway, ignoring the clear divisions that the teams had made to cross through the Hufflepuff team, and then the Ravenclaw as well. 

The twins laughed at him. 

He sent several absent-minded stinging hexes their way, and they started swearing. Tom stopped paying attention to them and gave Luna's package a curious head tilt. Luna beamed at him and handed it over, and Tom made short work of tearing the wrapping off of it. The sleek broom beneath earned a whistle from several of the players around them, but Tom ignored it to properly observe the gift he'd been given. 

It was a little taller than him, with a divot in the wood about where his hands were likely meant to go. The wood had been painted a vivid Slytherin green, except for two, diagonal black slashes near the tip of the handle, and the bristles seemed loose and bushy. The stir-ups were silver, and along the shaft, the name of the broom was inlaid in silver. 

"A Comet Two Sixty?" he asked. 

Luna nodded, bouncing on her toes slightly. 

"It a good broom for most positions. I know you don't care much for flying, but this will serve you well." 

Smiling, even if it was only the barest twitch of his lips, Tom sighed and thanked her. 

"Slytherin! Get on the field!" Warrington called, already on his broom and staring between Tom and Luna with that gleam in his eyes Tom had learned to be wary of in Hari, "you can flirt later!"

The rest of the Slytherin team chuckled loudly, Malfoy among the loudest, and Tom clenched his teeth, narrowed his eyes, and decided he had a new goal. 

To hit all his housemates with as many quaffles as possible. 

He succeeded rather well, in his most humble opinion. He stopped ten out of every fifteen shots at the goals — which he belatedly realized were the same ones from Hari's birthday party — and his return volleys smacked someone in the face eight out of every ten times. He was a bit disappointed he hadn't gotten Warrington the two times he'd attempted, but the older student was a more seasoned player than Draco, and he had more muscle. 

He also seemed to find Tom's attempts extremely amusing.

Tom was made to try for Chaser and Beater as well, even though those positions weren't open, and while he did alright as either, it was clear he was a better Keeper than anything else. It was unanimously decided that he was much too tall for Seeker, which had him smirking at Hari across the field in a very antagonizing way.

(He'd managed, when no one was looking, to charm the Ravenclaw Seekers over-robes to dance away from him.)

Tom, naturally, made the team. He glared appropriately for this affronting abuse of power and begrudgingly sat still for Luna to have someone take a picture. One picture turned into several when the team he was now a part of gathered around, hooting and making ridiculous amounts of noise. He only put up with it for Luna and Xenophilius. 

(They’d both promised Xeno plenty of pictures, at the man’s insistence.)

Finally, he was allowed to return to the castle . . . only that didn't quite happen, because he saw the Thestrals in the distance, and Luna asked if they could go flying with them, eyes wide and hopeful. Tom had absolutely no problem in getting to know this herd of Thestrals, and flying with the darling creatures was bound to be more entertaining than Quidditch had been. 

(Even if the look of terror on Malfoy's face when he saw that last Quaffle coming at him had been brilliant.) 

Tom agreed, mounting the broom and letting Luna hop on, and then they were off. 

It is, he will admit just to himself and Luna, one of the better days he'd ever experienced.

(At Hogwarts at least. Nothing quite comes close to several of the summer mornings spent lounging in the Lovegood library with Luna, surrounded by magic and utterly content.) 

Severus Snape watched Thomas Slytherin take into the air with Luna Lovegood sitting behind him, their destination clearly the Thestrals flying in the distance, and he wonders at what it is, exactly, that is so familiar about the boy. 

He'd noticed something both inherently recognizable and entirely alien about him when he first caught sight of the boy in July, at Hari and Heir Longbottom's party. It hadn't simply been the quiet that seemed to permeate the Child's lanky bones. Nor had it been the carefully hidden darkness that kissed along the senses. Rather . . . 

It had been the way he tilted his head. The way his eyes gleamed with some deeper thought. The twist to his brow as he puzzled over the people around him.

Albus had hinted that there was something wrong with the boy, something evil about him. 

(The Headmaster thought that of several Slytherin students, and it is exactly that attitude that loses him support where he might have otherwise had it, had he bothered to look deeper than surface appearances and connections. But Dumbledore had proven time and again that no one buys into the House Biases as much as he does.)

Albus tended to willfully misinterpret little things to make them bigger than they were, and he'd been known to be entirely wrong in the past, about such things. 

(At least, entirely wrong about most of Severus's students, who were all children that had no other framework to reference but the ones their parents laid out for them, no other examples but the ones their parents held over their heads. He's done what he could, over the years, and things are getting better, but those in Slytherin House will never be saints. They had far too much Self-preservation for that.)

"Uncle Sev!" Hari called, drawing his attention away from Slytherin and Lovegood's retreating figures to the small group that was approaching him. 

Hari and Draco were in the lead, and elbowing each other roughly, each trying to talk over the other. 

"I didn't know you were coming to try-outs! Did you see the Feint I did!" Hari exclaimed, shoving at Draco's face. 

"Why didn't you stop Tom from aiming for my face Uncle Sev! Look at this bruise!" Draco countered, pointing at a faintly red cheek. 

Hari scoffed, rolling his eyes in an unseemly fashion. 

(In very much the same way Lily used to, in fact.)

"Oh please. That's hardly a bruise! Wait, no, Uncle Sev, have you seen my robes? They literally jumped up and danced away from me when I went to put them on and —" Draco shoved Hari out of the way then, and the two of them got into a petty squabble that Severus had little patience for, eyes flickering back to the now distant figures bobbing along to a dance the Thesterals were leading. 

"Professor?"

Turning his attention towards Miss Granger with a sigh, he was startled to realize that Hari and Draco were wrestling on the ground some distance away, like toddlers, with Heir Longbottom trying to separate them and Zabini egging them on. Nott was standing with himself and Granger, eyes tracking Slytherin and Lovegood . . . or perhaps, tracking the Thestrals in the distance.

"Yes, Miss Granger?" he sighed, watching from the corner of his eye as Hari ended up sitting on Draco's back, cackling like a maniac (once again reminding Severus all too much of Lily) while Draco tried to get the little prat off. 

"Will Tom and Luna be alright, flying over the Forest like that?"

Turning his full attention to Miss Granger, he nodded shortly. 

"I very much doubt anything will happen to them while the Thesterals are keeping watch."

The girl — who'd once been a constant headache for himself and others and had come a long way from that — blinked in surprise then nodded sadly. 

"I'd suspected he was able to see them but lacked proof." 

Curious, Severus took the opportunity he'd been unwittingly presented and put on a concerned look, very purposefully poorly concealing it as he motioned her back towards the Castle. Nott's sharp look and shuttered expression reminded Severus why, exactly, the quiet fourth-year was one of his favorites.

"I don't suppose you'd care to enlighten me? I've attempted to reach out several times, but Mister Slytherin is quite taciturn and I find myself concerned."

Miss Granger passes a suspicious look over him, but because she's an unusually sociable Ravenclaw and not a Slytherin, she easily capitulates. 

"I . . . don't know much, but I'm also very concerned for him. He says he's fine, but how are you fine when an explosion —"

Miss Granger is a fountain of information, as she ever has been. Everything she has to say begins to paint a murky, if more interesting, picture than the one he'd held previously.

(And proves that Slytherin must trust her, if he'd accidentally let so many things slip around her. Severus wondered if it had been intentional or accidental on the usually cautious boys part.) 

Mr. Thomas Slytherin had been named for his father (a fact Miss Granger only suspected, rather than knew, based on things he'd mentioned in passing over the last few weeks) but considered himself an orphan. He'd never known his mother, except how she died, and had been raised by an unknown people he referred to only as his 'Minders,' or 'Keepers.' Neither descriptor was at all reassuring. An explosion of some kind (which had apparently involved a lot of fire) had taken the lives of those who'd been left with his rearing, and he'd insisted he wasn't all that torn up about it. 

Miss Granger thought he was repressing his trauma and would suffer a psychotic break any day now. 

Severus was thinking that when Mister Slytherin had told Miss Granger that the Lovegoods were the best thing to ever happen to him, he had meant within his entire life, and not just as a result of his 'trauma.' 

(The indicators for abuse were all there, after all, even if they were the best hidden Severus had ever seen. It was, unfortunately, not the first or last time he would ever see or discover such things within his House.)

Regardless, he still had a mystery on his hands. 

(And a burning awareness in the very back of his mind that he was trying not to look at too hard, not liking at all what his mind was suggesting, what the whispers within his House speculated. He was not prepared for that.)

September 25th, 1994

In the two days since he and Luna had declared war against their friends on the edges of the Black Lake, their games had spread to a third of the school, who seemed to take it as some sort of personal challenge, to try and one-up the 'Instigators,' as they were being called. 

(Even though Tom and Luna, personally, had only pranked Hari and Hermione, the Weasley twins, and several other Slytherins, such as Nott, Zabini, and Malfoy.)

Tom, personally, took much relish from getting petty revenge on the Weasley-twins, via their morning cuppas exploding into multi-colored bursts of glitter. And unlike their glitter-traps, his didn’t come off with a simple Finite. In the silence that followed the Pranking Kings being pranked in the middle of the Great Hall, Tom smiled a slow, satisfied smile at them from over his tea.

It didn’t help to ease the itch under his skin in quite the same way that repetitious ball-throwing had, or make him feel any less like a caged animal — the pressure he felt had been building too long, was waiting to be released in the most violent manner — but it did show that he was very willing to give tit-for-tat. 

(And that was without even counting the multiple other pranks he’d hidden inside their dorm, having spent the last two days plotting them out, and his very early morning laying them down. The earliest timers would have run out by now. His first traps were officially active.)

In between dodging pranks and doing homework, before the last proper week of September started, Tom and Luna idly lounged in the Library, or in an empty classroom someone had claimed for an art club. There, Luna would paint or draw, and Tom would read — Or more often than not, watch Luna paint between pages.

The closer October got, the itchier his skin felt.

He needed to break something.

Finding out about Zacharias Smith was like receiving a present.

Smith had, apparently, been spreading rather nasty rumors about Luna over the last few weeks. Most of them involved entirely fictitious ideas about what he and Luna must have done, over the summer. Considering that Luna was thirteen and Tom would be fifteen in a few months (never mind that Luna would be fourteen a couple of months after that) he took extreme exception to such slander against his best-and-first friend. 

Which officially and rather beautifully made Smith the perfect target, so long as Tom didn't do anything truly lethal or (physically) lasting. 

He was very careful not to mention his intentions to Luna, but he suspected she knew anyway, if the disapproving look she'd given him was anything to go by. 

(Unfortunately for her, Smith's crimes were far too steep for a simple look to stop Tom from enacting his own brand of justice.)

Hours after he'd finally found the perfect target, the Slytherin Court finally held its first meeting, and he’d been quietly invited to represent the Third Years, alongside Ramos.

This is a position that he’d had to fight for before, fight for and fight to keep. Tom accepts because he’d be a fool not, and begrudgingly considers that he will, in fact, have to send the letter he'd been sitting on to his Temporal Representative the following morning. He now needed definitive lines for what he was and was not allowed to say.

September 26th, 1994

The Weasley twins were very smart, and very clever, and entirely too mischievous for their own good.

They were also unused to someone that could match them in cleverness (at least in terms of pranks, though they did manage to run circles around most people in their house, with the always-an-exception of Zabini and their Head of House.) So when they tripped into no less than three pranks on the way from their Dormitory to the Common Room, and ended up covered head-to-toe in ever-changing glitter, their skin dyed vivid pink and eyes sparkling enough to rival the Headmaster, they felt nothing less than awed elation. 

(They'd assumed they'd found them all, after that first night. They were so incredibly delighted to be proven wrong.)

When they looked into eyes of deep-sea-blue, just faintly gleaming with self-satisfaction in a face that, once fully matured, would garner all the attention all the time, Fred and George Weasley were fully aware that this — 

This was nothing less than the Best Kind of War, and Thomas Slytherin was nothing less than the Best Kind of Playmate.

They got him back by charming his shoes to change color and glitter like stars and shoot sparkles with every step (after having taken a bit of inspiration from the charms work he used on their own glitter-stuck selves). They enchant all the doorways he frequented to announce him in song form. They lay down jinx traps that make his hair grow to his arse, and they apply make-up hexes to the mirrors in his dormitory loo.

Some of their traps hit. Some of them miss. But the point isn't to get him, at this point — the point is to play, and Thomas Slytherin plays hard. He copies their prank spells on the doorways and alters them just so, and suddenly, the doorways in the Common are screaming when the twins walk through them. Their own hair ends up to their knees and glowing like the Aurora Borealis.

On the opposite side of this, watching him walk into the Common room wearing the most tasteful, heart-stopping make-up charms — an almost natural Smokey-eyed look with dark eyeliner and faint glimmer on wide cheekbones, his lips artfully natural-looking — a tiny bit stuck to his face isn't as priceless as the intrigued look he sends them across the room.  

(They do feel a little bit odd, thinking of a boy the same age as their little sister as pretty, but there's really nothing they can do about it.)

The point is; the twins have started paying a lot of attention to Tom Slytherin over the last few days.

Which means they take immediate notice when he starts plotting something clearly-not-kind for Zacharias Smith. 

(There is something to the gleam in his eyes when he glances at the Puff, something the clench of his jaw, that promises bad, bad things.)

It's taking into consideration all the pranks and traps and fun they'd had when they waltz up to the young Slytherin descendant and, after giving him plenty of time to move away, toss an arm each over his shoulder and lead him to one of their workrooms. Slytherin had only quirked an eyebrow at their approach and only seemed mildly distrustful of being lead away by them, which they take as a win. 

And when they look at him and don't even have to try to speak in synch to say;

"How would you like some help with whatever you're planning for Smith?"

(Because they had heard what Smith had been saying, and decided that whatever their violent ickle friend had planned, it was probably-definitely well deserved.) 

They're entirely, astronomically delighted to watch a vindictively-gleeful smile bloom over Tom's face. 

"Is this you calling a temporary truce?"

He knew them so well. 

"Naturally!" George snorted,

"We can't have some poncey," Fred started, eyes fierce,

"Nasty," George added,

"No good," Fred agreed,

"Complete and utter," George specified,

"Toe-rag of a person insulting sweet ickle Moon Drop!" they finally finished. 

Did they mention that their favorite thing about Tom was that he didn't swing his attention between them when they shared words? His gaze sort of settled on some in-between space while they went back and forth, as if they were one whole person rather than two people easily mistaken for one sort-of-person. 

(Don't get them wrong, they liked being individual, but sometimes, it was irritating that people couldn't make up their minds to separate them or keep them together, even in their own heads.)

"Well," Tom drawled, leaning over the table between them, smirking a dangerous smirk, "in that case, I need a very big distraction."

George grinned and Fred smirked, and they tossed an arm over each other, feeling giddy. 

"What a coincidence!" George gasped. 

"Distracting people is our specialty!" Fred declared. 

It was the beginning of a truly beautiful friendship. Whether Tom Slytherin wanted to admit it or not.

Chapter Text

September 28th,1994

Dear Mr. Slytherin,

Never fear my young friend, I have been giving this much thought since our first meeting in June, and I can only say I am delighted that you've incidentally ended up on the route you have. It lines up rather nicely, with everything I've been doing on my end, and if you will meet with me on October the eight during your first Hogsmede weekend, I can go over these plans (and revise our vow) with you to your satisfaction. 

We will meet at the Three Broom Sticks, and I shall apparate us to Gringotts for the procedure. Should you like, please do invite Lord Lovegood and or Miss Lovegood, unless you would like me to extend the invitation myself, as I'm sure you'd feel more comfortable with a familiar, and I'll laughingly declare, a better-loved face.

I look forward to hearing more from you,

Kindest regards,

Johnathan Cadbury.

October was on the horizon, Cadbury's letter was burning in his robe pocket, and he could safely say that Hari, Hermione, and Neville were probably also his friends. The trio argued with his Slytherin Guards enough that they definitely weren’t just ‘Luna’s friends that sometimes hung around him even when she wasn’t there,’ just like Nott and Zabini had somehow wormed their way into his circle while he wasn’t looking. Just as the Weasley Twins were starting to, much to his annoyance. 

(Occasionally joined by Malfoy, who seemed to take great joy in being in most people's circles, the blond prat fluttering from one group to the next with practiced ease.)

“Dumbledore is staring again,” Nott announced quietly. 

Since it was too early in the morning for Tom to give a fig what Dumbledore was doing, Tom made a small, non-committal noise and continued preparing his tea. Zabini suddenly shuffled aside, and then there was the lightest of pressures on his left shoulder. Luna settled down next to him with a sigh, blinking around the table at the food available. 

“You’re late,” Tom mused, passing her a plate of buttered rolls.

“Professor Flitwick was asking for help after charms class today,” she agreed, smiling in a distracted way as Zabini scooted the plate of fried potatoes to her. Nott offered him the platter of bangers, and Tom passed it to Luna. 

She at least did more than pick at her food now, actually managing to eat whatever was put on her plate. The one time he’d outright asked since the beginning of term, Luna had admitted that she struggled to reacclimatize to Hogwarts for the first bit, and that no she wasn’t sick. He’d taken her words about as serious as the Weasley Twins took life, and kept monitoring her. He’d learned that the biggest threat to Luna — aside from her housemates, who would pay just as soon as he figured out how to do so without being caught — was Luna herself.

“Hagrid is staring again too,” Nott muttered unhappily, and Tom almost turned to look at that. 

He’d come to surmise, over the last odd month, that this realities version of him had done something particularly nasty to Rubeus Hagrid, because the man was both terrified of him and hated him, though seemed distinctly confused by him, as if he didn't look quite how he should. He’d tried to talk Luna into dropping the half-giant’s Care Of Magical Creatures class, but Luna adored the damn lessons, so Tom had kept them too. 

(He was really regretting signing up for this particular elective, just because Luna happened to also be taking it. For Arithmancy and Runes, it wasn’t a problem, but Care was becoming a hassle.)

“Yes,” he grumbled slightly, sipping at his tea slowly, “thank you, Nott.”

“I wonder what you did,” Zabini mused. 

Tom wished he knew. He’d slap himself if he thought it would do any good. 

(But it wouldn’t, because it was clear to anyone with eyes that Hagrid was Dumbledore’s man, and if Dumbledore hated Tom, Hagrid would find reason to hate Tom, even if the version of him that Hagrid knew hadn’t done anything to him.)

“Oh, it’s nothing Tom did,” Luna said slowly, methodically cutting up her beef, “it’s just that he’s infested with Fizzy-whippers.” 

That sounded familiar — like something he’d read but briefly. 

“Fizzy-whippers.” Nott repeated with some disbelief. 

Luna nodded sagely, her attention remaining on her plate of food, for once. Tom nearly kicked Nott for trying to distract her, but since she showed no signs of not not-eating, he let it be. Well, let it be after a pointed look and warning glare.

“Yes, you see, Fizzy-whippers—” Luna started, and was cut off by a shrill scream from outside the Great Hall.

The Weasley Twins came running in, chased shortly by a blonde in Hufflepuff robes that was swinging her bag rather violently at them, and the conversation was quickly forgotten in the face of the newest prank played. 

(Which naturally became so exaggerated due to the Hogwarts Rumor Mill that by Lunch it was completely different than what actually happened.) 

It wasn't a good day, but it wasn't a bad one, and at least Luna ate all three meals and seemed chipper. That was really all he could ask for, in the face of uncertainty that was what, exactly, this realities Tom Marvolo Riddle had done to the glowering men at the Professors table.

(He was sure, whatever it was, he wouldn't be very happy with it, considering what he did know.)

And at the very end of it, he received a plesant surprise.

"Oh Tom-ikens," Probably-Fred called, looping an arm around Tom's shoulders halfway to Slytherin House.

"Just wait till you see this!" Probably-George chuckled.

(That begrudging aspect of letting the Twins close slowly faded, over the next hours between the end of dinner and the beginning of curfew. They really were the most brilliant kind of barmy gits.)

September 30th,1994

Tom spent the better part of two days meticulously tracking Smith through the school. It was a bit hard to do without being obvious about it, or it might have been, if the twins weren't utterly mad. 

(Brilliantly mad.)

They had an enchanted chalkboard (it took up half a bloody wall) that was a literal map of Hogwarts. Apparently, they'd gotten the idea from a map that Hari's father had helped make. Tom managed to link the chalkboard to a spare parchment that the three of them shared, taking turns tracking Smith through his day.

That didn't mean they were idle. 

Thus far in the (dwindling) prank war, Smith had been targeted quite a bit -- apparently his attitude wasn't all that popular even in his own house. It made sending slightly more targeted pranks at him all the easier, so long as they weren't too malicious. Itching powder that would break him out in a rainbow-colored rash. A minor hex (on the surface level anyway) that made him cluck like a chicken for seven hours. A charm linked to his robes that made his shoes squeak and squelch like they were sopping wet with every step. 

And Tom's personal favorite--

A potion and hex combination that would make Smith (and only Smith) see an imaginary figure in every shadow, as if he was being stalked by some great evil. The longer Tom administered the potion, the more ominous the figure would seem to his mind. 

The hex would only work if the specific protein within the potion was present in the victim's system. To ensure that Tom didn't need to worry about regularly dosing Smith, there was an additive in the potion that would cause an addiction to the type of protein Tom was binding the hex to. 

(It gave him great pleasure, to know that not even Smith would find his addiction suspect in the weeks to follow.)

Fred and George had stared at him quietly when he shot off the idea, giving a short list of ingredients they'd need and the brewing process they might consider, and then they'd proposed marriage.  

"You'd fit right into the family!" Fred declared. 

"Well, not with Mum or Ron all that well. They're still wobbly about Slytherins," George added, and Tom could tell Fred was going to finish the sentence, so his gaze settled on the workspace between the brothers. 

"But Charlie and Bill would think you're a riot!"

"Hmm. Sadly I'll be declining, thank you." Tom had said, and was immediately wary about the way the twins eyes flickered in sly understanding, their grins exactly what Tom thought Mrs. Cole would have imagined with the phrase 'a devil's smile.'

"Because someone else holds your heart?" They ask in unison, leaning forward across the work table eagerly. 

"Perhaps a blonde,"

"Pale,"

"Airy,"

"One might even say absent-minded,"

"Wise beyond her years,"

"But adorably odd,"

"Blue-eyed miss?" They finally finished, looking like eager puppies.

Tom sent a stinging hex at them (well, a stinging hex or three, when they inevitably dodged the first and laughingly ran away) and then turned back to his work. He had revenge to administer. 

He could deal with the twins' impetuous assumptions later. 

Or never.

(It was almost startling to realize that he didn't much mind the twins teasing, since theirs was done without derision.)

It was only when he looked back to his work that he realized that the twins had left before finishing their portions of the next stages of the plan — and they’d likely done so on purpose. 

“What was even the point of making a plan if they aren't going to help with it?” He growled.

Regardless. Tom was more than capable of handling what was left of their unfinished portions. Really, it looked like they had simply abandoned the aspects of it that weren't at risk of exploding if they did something wrong. He wasn't sure if that made them adrenaline junkies or very considerate, and decided not to dwell on it too much. Once he was finished, he went looking for Smith.

(It was never too late or early in the day to drive the git barmy with a random prank he couldn't blame on any one person in particular.)

Tom found Smith in the library and wasted no time ducking behind the stacks, out of view of Pince, then casting a heavy concealing charm. Then he set about in laying a series of pranking traps, the first of which was a piece of parchment he scribbled a ridiculous little love poem on, drawing a looping heart on the front, as he'd some younger Slytherin girls doing a few days prior. 

(He wasn't quite sure what the appeal in it was, but apparently it was some sort of romantic gesture.)

This note he floated over to Smith only once he was sure that the traps were set and ready. As soon as the parchment reached his table, bumping into his elbow, Tom swiftly turned and left, ducking out through one of the lesser-used side entrances to the library. 

Behind him, he could hear the faint echoes of his efforts, and it made him smile, though he was careful to be less obvious the closer he got to the Great Hall. 

(Which he approached from a stairway leading from the basement. The extra effort he put into running around was worth it, when he arrived with just enough time to make a plate and see the show.)

Smith came barging into the Great Hall, stomping and glowing head to toe in bright, eye-blinding pink. Even his robes were pink, and shimmery. His steps shot out sparklingly hearts in deep red, his complexion looked ruddy and embarrassed (only half of which Tom knew was his doing) and when he sat down, the pink seemed to seep into the bench and table surrounding him. One girl, with strawberry blond pigtails, jerked her sleeve away from him and it came away dyed a florescent pink. After that, there was noticeable distance between Smith and the rest of his house, and a fair bit of snickering. 

Professor Sprout left the head table to try and cancel out the enchantments, which only seemed to make them grow pinker. 

(Exactly as intended.)

After the snickering had died down and Sprout had led Smith away, Tom turned his attention to far less embarrassing pranks. Such as making the twins plates scream every time they took a bite, or Hermione's quill dance away from her laughing, or Neville's herbology books revolt against him, running away from his bag as quickly as their cumbersome bodies could carry them. 

It is the first time in his life that people who knew he was responsible for something turned to look at him and laughed over his efforts, rather than sneered. 

And then Hari threw a glitter bomb at him from across Ravenclaw table, and Tom forwent eating to give the little shite chase when he tried to run away. 

Their unexpected and entirely destructive game of hide and seek got them all a single detention with McGonagall, and another day spent helping Filch scrub the hallways clean, but it was well worth it, to have Hermione join the game and ambush him, to have Luna side with him send the other girls shoes dancing away from them, to have the Twins and Neville join in an unexpected manner. 

To realize that Zabini and Nott had been there in the background, smirking, helping neither side but making their own, and had quietly escaped the detentions simply by not being caught, the bastards. 

It was so unexpected, to have friends at this juncture of his life, but he couldn't say he regretted it.

(They might be smarmy. Impetuous. Too noble to be real. Too naive on some aspects to be livable. But they didn't seem to mind him, and he didn't mind them, and that might be all he could ask for, in friends.)

It was a rather beautiful day.

He was on the seventh floor again. No matter where he tried to run to, he always, always ended up on the seventh floor. Something was waiting for him, behind a stretch of innocuous wall across from a tapestry he couldn't focus on. He felt the urge to pace and didn't know where it came from so he didn't-do-that. His feet tried to move anyway. 

It took all of his will to stay still. 

(Why won't you come for me?)

The voice whispered from nowhere and everywhere, half-formed and garbled, half a memory and nothing he'd ever heard before. 

"I don't know who you are." Tom stated, breath coming too-heavy for simply standing, and then he found himself taking a lumbering, jerking step. He didn't want to move.

(You made me! You abandoned me! Take me! Claimmeuseme!UseME!)

Shaking his head was an exercise of will, and Tom could feel a cold sweat dripping down his face. His trembling legs took another step. 

"I don't know what you are, but I'm not responsible for you."

A feeling of insurmountable rage welled in the walls around him, and the blank stretch of wall ripped like the ocean at high-tide.

(I will make you use me!)

Such a quiet, almost soft threat shouldn't have inspired as much dread as it did. The wall started falling towards him, stone melting and bubbling and churning, and Tom held his breath, shutting his eyes tightly, waiting for the fall, the crash the—

Tom woke because he fell out of his bed, dripping with sweat and body aching as though Warrington had been putting them through the bloody ringer in training. A trembling Tempus told him that it was barely midnight.  He didn't remember what he'd dreamed about, but he did know one thing. Tom did not want to go back to sleep.

Instead, he stood on shaking legs and gathered a change of clothing, heading into the loo. He would head to the common room with a blanket, and he make adjustments to his plans.

Sleep was over-rated anyway, when there were additional steps to take in his revenge.  

(He was not afraid to sleep. He was not afraid to sleep. He was not—)

. . .

. . . 

(He was afraid.)

October 1st, 1994

Barty as Moody hobbled off the grounds as soon as he could get away, trying not to look excited. Moody only showed excitement when he was about to do something inadvisable to others, after all. He needn't have worried so much. The only ones out and about were the school Quidditch teams, who were flying laps around an empty field too far from the Pitch for it to be anything but a 'secret' training program. 

(Thought they were clever, they did, but everyone with half a brain knew they’d set up a slightly-against-policy Quidditch Pitch.)

Barty was careful to not deviate from his path, and to draw as little attention as possible. 

He desperately needed to speak to his Lord. He still somehow ends up dodging a Quaffle, and looks up and up and up to see Mister Slytherin there, looking down at him with cold, cold eyes. 

“Sorry Professor. Just checking your Constant Vigilance,” and then he smiles, and it's nothing kind, nothing apologetic.

(It is something that somehow uses all of the boys perfectly white teeth.) 

"Two points to Slytherin, Mister Slytherin, for keeping me on my toes," he gruffs begrudgingly, heavily aware of the rest of the Slytherin Quidditch team watching him with wary suspicion, drifting closer as if they might intervene should he try to do something to Mister Slytherin in return. 

Mister Slytherin does not acknowledge this, except to summon the Quaffle back to his hands wandlessly, eyes cold cold cold as he turns away, hurling the Quaffle at Warrington. Barty didn't waste time continuing on his way, always aware of a burning sensation on his back that suspects is Mister Slytherin, and Moody's magic eye tells him is most assuredly Mister Slytherin. 

(That smile had sent a shiver through his bones, an eagerness through his heart. He knew that smile. He knew the feeling that swelled in the face of wandless magic that shouldn't be possible. Knew this boy— )

He must speak to his Master.

He apparates away only once he's sure that Dumbledore's wards are well and truly behind him, and he stumbles his way up to the derelict mansion his Lord has taken refuge in. It thrilled him to know that he had perfectly timed his last dose of Polyjuice, that despite the mental instability he knew he faced, bits and pieces of him were coming back. He was not mended, but he was mending, clicking the pieces of himself back into place like a distorted puzzle. 

(He has not been so close to being himself since the summer he ran away, just hours away from his seventeenth birthday, felt the rush and burn of the curse his father fired on his retreating back. He's still not sure what it was — only knows that in the decade under the Imperius, he hadn't been allowed to do so much healing as he was now, disguised as a man he hated on principle and constantly under Dumbledore's eye.)

He discards Moody's wardrobe by the door, quickly changing into a plain black robe he'd brought along for such an occasion, and rushes to where he can feel the ebb and flow of his Dark Lords call. 

"Barty," his lord rasps, weak and reaching, "My favorite Son."

Much as he had so many, many ears ago, upon first meeting his Lord, Barty feels a sense of coming home.

"My Lord," he breaths, falling to his knees and bowing his head, "I've so much to tell you."

(It is not an easy conversation to have, nor for his Lord to hear, by any means. Barty is given a new mission. It changes only somethings.)

October 3rd, 1994

The potion is finally ready, nearly four days after it had been started. Tom would have preferred a faster gestation time, but the smallest miscalculation, he knows, would have resulted in an exploding cauldron, and he rather didn't want to take a chance surviving a second explosion in his life. Tom wastes no time in bottling up precisely three doses of the colorless liquid, which smelled spectacularly of chocolate, and vanishing the rest. The twins had said they could source the specifications of the fancy chocolates that Smith always carried with him (apparently his mother sent them from home every other day) and though Tom wasn't one for confections, he was looking forward to the experimentation.

Frankly, Tom didn't care if they strapped him down and forced it down his throat, so long as it was in his system in the correct amount before he hexed the buggering arse, but he did like the subtlety aspect of the Twin's plan.

“Oh, lookie here Gred!” George cooed, appearing practically out of nowhere and scooping up one of the potion vials carefully, examining the clear liquid with wide eyes.

“Has ickle-baby-brother done it? Is this your masterpiece?” Fred asks, scooping up another and leaning against his brother. 

If they hadn't been holding two of three of the only vials he had of the potion, he would have hexed them to Marlins freezing Tartarus. As it was, he only growled at them once and then set about cleaning his potions station, considering their plan, written in bold letting on one of the large chalkboards the twins had set up.

Fred, George, and Tom Weasley's (I'm not a Weasley–) (Shut up you are now) totally awesome plan for putting Smith in his place!!

Step one: 

Small change targeting – hit him more frequently with prank jinxes and hexes, most especially when he's running his mouth.

Step two: 

Drastically increase step one via Targeted Pranks That Never Stop

And

Drive Smith slowly insane through use of a clever little hex and an even more terrifying potion, made by our ickle baby brother –

(I'm not your brother.)

(Shut up, you don't get a vote. Only Weasley's older than Fourth Year get to vote.)

Step three: 

Arrange for several Honesty Jinxes to hit Smith at exactly the wrong times. If his reputation in Hufflepuff isn't destroyed in two weeks, we aren't doing our jobs right.

(This isn't a job, it's vengeance.)

Step four: 

Always Have an Alibi.

In the week or so that they'd hastily developed the plan, they'd come quite far with it. Smith was practically frothing at the mouth with paranoia, enough so that even his own house had decided to stop targeting him. Apparently, they all felt bad about how the pranks were affecting him. They didn't seem to understand that no one would be pranking the prat if he'd kept his gob shut. 

(Though he had grown noticeably more reluctant to open his mouth and talk around large groups of people, especially with the pranking war still in effect, being fed not so secretly by the Weasley Twins and Hari. Tom could tell, however, that they weren't going to have a lot of time left. The Professors were all growing rather irritable with the pranks.)

Thankfully, tracking Smith down is a non-issue. The prat had developed something of a habit, and thanks to the Twins ingenuity, Tom knew it by heart. While they were getting the supplies for the potioned chocolates ready, Tom tracked the other boy down to the long-forgotten classroom he'd claimed as some sort of club house between the Hufflepuff Common room and the dungeons. The only friend he seemed to maintain in his House was Wayne Hopkins, though Michael Corner and Kevin Entwhistle of Ravenclaw seemed close with the two of them. 

Today, Tom found him alone. Casting the hex he'd developed was as simple as confounding the boy as soon as he'd come out of the room and stepped down the hall, and flinging a rapid-fire string of spells Tom had personally developed for this moment. The Hex complete, he'd confounded the boy again for good measure and disappeared. 

(He'd been tempted to do much more than this, but Luna had made him promise not to do anything too harmful, and really, what he and the twins had planned would be enough, as soon as it was all said and done. After all, emotionally destroying the pratt was bound to be more satisfying than simply breaking him.)

Between classes for the next couple days, he and the twins work on perfecting the chocolates, and its only once they're set and during clean up that Tom starts to settle down. All that was left was to make sure that he was consistently swapping the boys regular chocolates for the ones he and the Twins had made, and that was simplicity in itself. 

(Especially for an orphan boy that had only survived some cold, lonely years in Central London because of his ability to pickpocket. Mrs. Cole would have as soon seen him dead than fed most days. He'd done what he needed to then just as he would now, but for a vastly different reason.)

If Tom was honest with himself over the next couple days, what they were doing likely couldn't be considered a prank, by any means. They were going to mentally torment someone after all. But Smith had it coming, Tom's mind, for the things he'd said and insinuated about Luna, about Hari, about countless people. He was Selfish, unkind, disloyal even to his own house if he felt it would benefit him — 

Tom honestly isn't sure how the bitter boy had ended up in Hufflepuff, aside from the fact that he some distant family connection and seemed just perceptive enough to know what to say to get to those around him. Nevelle and he clashed terribly, Tom knew, and apparently what the boy had to say within the common room was even more hard to hear than what he said outside of it. 

(And, to Tom's irritation, Neville had discovered that Smith's true reason for going after Luna in the way he did had everything to do with his jealousy over Tom's surname. Apparently, their inner-house grapevine said that Smith's parents had tried to cajole the Goblins into letting them claim the Hufflepuff name and title after the beginning of term, but they had been soundly denied, as the rightful Heir to that title did not belong to their family.)

Learning this had only made Tom angrier. 

As a result, he was something of an angry, growling beast until the day the chocolates were ready and he could administer them to Smith.

That day finally came on the fifth of October, when the twins were sure that their confections were perfect. 

"We're going to go cause a minor distraction, just mind you're careful sneaking back to the Common room, yeah?" George smirked. 

"And don't let that git see you!" Fred added, both of them dancing away as quickly as they'd whirled into the room with the completed product. 

Smith would never know what hit him. Smiling — in a manner he was sure that other people would be weary of — Tom carefully sealed his package, and then shoved it in his bag. Smith was in the library again and Tom knew he had minutes to achieve one of the more crucial parts of the Plan. Luckily, Smiths' book bag was laying half hazardously on the floor or getting it to would have been far too suspicious. As it was —

Neither Corner, Hopkins, or Entwhistle was around. It was the perfect time to strike.

All Tom needed to do was simultaneously enhance the concealing spell he'd walked into the Library with, and perform a quiet Accio. The colorful little package that Smith was rarely seen without cautiously scooted across the floor towards him. Tom collected it, spent a harrowing two minutes swapping the items within the package for his own creation, and then carefully sent it back to Smith's bag. Affecting a casual air, Tom nabbed several books from the bottom shelf he was by, and gradually released the concealment charm he'd held, retreating further into the stacks. A quick tempus said he had about an hour, to be seen leaving the Dungeons for the Great Hall, or risk people trying to link him to Smith's behavior. 

Also luckily, the twins had popped up again halfway to the Library, having laughingly run off to bully Hari into sharing his fascinating little map with Tom.

(A map that Tom had already run several diagnostics on whilst heading to the library — after confirming that's where Smith was — and planned on recreating with a few of his own touches.)

He's still not sure how they knew he would choose today to move, but known they had. It was possible that Tom has spent far too much time with them of late. He honestly couldn't remember a time outside of meals that he'd been able to sit down with Luna without the Twins dragging him off. This sent a whole new pang of something through him, and he determined that he would correct such an egregious error.

(Luna may not had said anything, but he had seen the sad look she'd sent him when the Twins had drug him off that morning, all three of them skipping breakfast.)

Regardless, he wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth. By the time he arrived back in the Dungeons, it was nearing dinner time, and the timed-release on his creation would be expiring. The only person who might remember him leaving or entering the Library would be Pince, but she rarely did more than glance in Tom's direction. Thus, the only person that might have known why Smith burst into the Great Hall at Diner and shrieked his way towards Professor Sprout had nothing of value to say for the boy's behavior. 

(He was convinced that Pince only paid attention when very specific students entered the Library because she had added them to some kind of ward. The Twins being on that list was only confirmed every time she ignored him when he was by himself or with Luna.)

Smith made a fuss over some looming shadow following him about from the Dorms, about being stalked by something truly evil, and though the Professors seemed concerned, the students all seemed entirely unconcerned. It was proposed that perhaps an unsettled Boggart had found its way into the castle, Smith was patronizingly consoled, and dinner went on. Tom was very careful not to smile. 

The Twins, sitting further down the table, watched him with glimmering amusement, but were just as careful to keep carefully neutral faces. 

Their plan was, thus far, off to a brilliant start. 

In celebration, Tom pranks Hari no less than three times, gifts Luna a glimmering lilac Butterfly that fluttered about her head cheerfully, and then settles back to watch the chaos unfold as the Twins happily piggy-back off of Tom's singing teacup, dancing silverware, and flapping robes to cause their own kind of mayhem. By the time that dinner was coming to a close, the Twins had run off cackling, their Head of House looked ready to burst a vein, and Dumbledore was watching the entirety of the school with something close to fondness — except where it came to Tom's place in Slytherin. 

(This, he regarded with far too much attention to make Tom comfortable, and more than a fair bit of apprehension that Tom simply couldn't understand.) 

Luna sent him a genuinely pleased smile before they parted for the night and reaffirmed her promise to go with him to Hogsmeade. 

It was a good night. 

Until he slept. 

To say that he had never faced so much confusion in his life as he had in the last month would be an understatement. Albus Dumbledore had grown used to usually having the upper hand, and was thusly unprepared for being on the wrong foot. Because Tom Riddle wasn't acting as Dumbledore remembered him acting. Gone was the effected pleasantries of a boy that thought he was far too clever to be caught. Gone were the false platitudes or obvious lies. Gone was the selfishness, the arrogance, the ego that had seemed to make up the entirety of Tom Riddles heart.

In the places of those things, Dumbledore had seen a young man capable of laughter. Of harmless pranks. A young man that, though he had clearly been plotting something over the last several weeks, seemed to be doing so for the sake of young Miss Lovegood, whom Dumbledore knew was the one to find the boy after his displacement. In the place of Tom Riddle, Thomas Slytherin was a watered-down version of the boy Albus had known. Arrogant where he was confident in himself, Egotistical where he knew he was in the right, selfish when it came to those he'd clearly drawn under his wing, as he had for Miss Lovegood. 

Albus honestly wasn't sure what to make of this new face to Magical Britian's greatest threat, and so he watched. 

He wanted to hope — as he'd once told dear Hari Potter-Black so long ago — that the greatest force on this world had touched Tom. That love had helped him to see the error of his ways. That in learning to care for one person he might become a better one himself. 

But Albus was not a master strategist for nothing, and he would not take chances in this.

"Ah, Alastor. I'm so glad that you could join me." Albus chortled, smiling at his old friend. 

Moody settled into the chair with an uncomfortable grimace, looking exhausted. 

"What's this about, Albus? I've a stack of essays to grade yet." 

Chagrined, Albus nodded. 

"Of course, old friend. I need but a moment of your time."

Alastor grunted at this, and nodded, accepting the tea that Albus motioned to with clear relief — even if he did cast a dozen or so diagnostics on it before he took a sip. 

"Tell me old friend," Albus started, piecing the words together with great care, "What do you recall of a boy several years your senior, in Slytherin house, by the name of Tom Riddle?"

"Gred? Forge?"

Fred and George, in the middle of cleaning up after their most recent experiment, now that they weren't busy helping Tom with his revenge against Smith, turned to find Ginny hovering in the doorway of their lab. It was no surprise to them that Ginny — who sometimes felt like the only sibling that understood them — knew where their lab was, and was smart enough not to come all the way in. Instead, she cast a few basic diagnostic charms at the floor, ceiling, and walls, eyes briefly flickering over the chalkboards with interest. 

It was something peculiar, to see their baby sister freeze, staring at the chalkboard that still held their plan with Tom on it. It was sort of like she'd seen a ghost or spotted a lion, and thought that if she didn't move, she wouldn't be noticed back.

"What's wrong Ginny Binny?"

George asked carefully. It took her several minutes to answer.

"You're actually friends with him, aren't' you?"

Confused, until they glanced over to the chalkboard and saw Tom's more elegant writing intermingled with theirs, they gave her equally as abashed smiles.

"Perhaps it's sort of odd, being friends with a boy not related to us and so much younger, but he's a smashing bloke, under all those glares." 

They spoke in unison without trying this time and were as ever unsurprised that they knew exactly what the other would say. 

Ginny was quiet for the rest of her visit, but she did visit, perhaps simply missing them, as she was sometimes want to do, watching them brew or study or write out formulas for potential spells. By the time they realized she must have skived a class to be hanging out with them, she'd chuckled as she was leaving, winking at them over her shoulder as she went. 

"It was just History of Magic, Gred and Forge. Besides, you've definitely done worse," and well, they couldn't argue with that. 

Still though. 

"Fred?" George said slowly, only to find that Fred was looking at him too, seeming just as put off. 

"That was odd," George agreed. 

Ginny was never quiet. Not when she was visiting them. Ginny was all rapid-fire thoughts or explosive ideas for their pranks, ways they could make something loud or impressive. A spin on it they hadn't thought of, because Ginny was full of ideas they didn't have. Ginny always wanted to help.

"Maybe something's wrong." Fred offered, trying to think of anything that had happened in House over the last few days.

"A problem with the Slytherins?" George asked in disbelief. 

Ginny hadn't had problems in House since her first year, and they'd taught everyone just how bad an idea it was to mess with their Baby Sister. 

"We'll keep watch," they decided as one, turning to pack up their work and get to the one class they did actually enjoy in school. 

"What'll you bet Snape'll blow a vein when he sees what we've developed?"

Fred laughed, and George chuckled, and the two of them swiftly went about their day, though both of them were worrying over their youngest sibling.

(Because Ginny hadn't gone so quiet since her first year, that awful first year, when half the house didn't know what to make of a third Weasley in Slytherin, and a monster haunted the halls. Ginny hadn't been so quiet since the Summer after, when they all found out at the end of the school year that Ginny had been Possessed by some dark artifact that had become lost in the school, and that artifact had made her do awful things. Ginny hadn't been quiet like that in a long, long time.)

If there was one thing the Weasley twins wouldn't stand for, it was anyone, no matter who they were, messing with their family. 

October 7th, 1994

Hari Potter had known, without question, that Tom Slytherin was planning something for Zacharius Smith. He just wasn't sure when it was going to happen. A small part of him wanted to warn Tom off of doing anything violent —and he was sure that the taller, paler boy wanted violence. A bigger portion of him wanted to do violence himself after hearing the most recent rumor to circulate from Smith's fat mouth. 

(It wasn't a matter of people believing in the rumors that bothered Hari. It was the way Smith looked at Luna, and the way that people, even those that didn't believe the filthy things being said about dotty little Luna Lovegood, were starting to look at her. At least Luna herself didn't seem aware of the rumors or the looks, her attention more often than not on her sketchbook or an actual book.)

So, watching Smith scream at thin air and run from the room screeching about boggarts before dinner had even ended was vindictively hilarious. 

He didn't pause to consider why Smith would have thought he saw a Boggart. They were, after all, in the tail-end of a prank war.

(One that McGonagall was trying to crush with an iron fist, joined by Snape, to the surprise of many.) 

He only picked up a pattern when this continued to be a theme over the next twenty-four hours, and it only clicked when he happened to look across the Ravenclaw table at Tom’s small, satisfied grin when Smith's frightened shouting started again. Tom hadn't chosen violence. Tom had chosen something far more effective. 

He'd chosen fear through the intangible. 

Hari just couldn't figure out how he'd done it, and it was driving him crazy. Even the Twins wouldn't tell him how, and Hari knew they knew, and he knew it had been accomplished using his Map. So. 

"I beg your pardon?" Tom asked, finally glancing up from his book. 

Hermione had finally managed to drag Tom out for a study session by the lake for the first time in some time, and Luna was clearly delighted by this, sitting firmly next to her Slytherin friend and making flower crowns. Hari wasn't sure where she'd gotten any of the flowers, since they were all out of season for Scottland.  

"I want to know how you did what you did to Smith, or I'm never letting you use my map again."

Hari said stubbornly, jutting his chin out for good measure.  

Tom glared at him for a moment, considering, then seemed to begrudgingly agree, though he didn't use so many words. 

"After Hogsmeade."

Hari wasn't sure why that particular stipulation was necessary, but at least he'd gotten an agreement to satiate his curiosity. 

"What has your class been doing in DADA?" Hermoine cut in, impatient, her notes out and quill ready. 

Hermione had been leading a single-handed mission to get Moody sacked since the awful lesson with the Unforgivables. Hari didn't really blame her, especially since Nev usually found some reason to not be in DADA with them. He suspected the boys head of house had quite a bit to do with that, and could only envy the boy. Moody was half insane on a good day, and completely unpredictable on his worst days. 

The only time Hari had seen Moody give pause was where Tom was concerned. 

(But that was a worry for another time, and so far, Hari seemed to be the only one that had noticed the DADA Professor's weird fixation on Tom.) 

"I really couldn't tell you, Granger. Aside from the mandatory essays, I don't pay much attention in Moody's class." 

That was no surprise. At this point, the whole school knew of Tom's complete disregard for Moody. There were bets on what the next thing Tom would throw at him would be, where it would be, what time of day, and whether or not Moody would effectively dodge. 

"Oh, Professor Moody is quite funny. His eye can see everything but his other face, and the Simmper-Dinkles are constantly infecting him," Luna laughed, looking serene as she finished her first flower crown — which promptly went onto Tom's head, "but he's still a better Professor than Lockhart by far. He actually knows about his subject."

Well. When put like that, you really couldn't argue with Luna. 

(Even though the eye-bit made no sense.)

Hermione seethed quietly, glaring into the distance, and then started scribbling furiously. One thing was absolutely sure — Hari couldn't be more surrounded by wild characters if he tried.

After their afternoon at the lake, in which both Hari and Hermione acquired flower crowns as well, Tom and Luna did some actual studying in the Library. Not that Tom thought Luna was studying anything school related, in the eyes of the Professors. She'd spent their first hour combing through a journal that he knew must belong to a Lovegood, and had spent their second hour thus far making a colorful graph that he was sure displayed Professor Moody's possession via Simmper-Dinkles — though for the life of him Tom was sure he hadn't yet read about those creatures, and was thus only postulating. 

Their studying was only interrupted when, perhaps not seeing him initially, since he had chosen to sit in the corner of the two-person-study-table, seated by a window while Luna sat across from him facing the isle, a girl he had no name for stopped by Luna giggling. Two more were with her, giggling as well, until they saw him. Then they paled drastically. 

"All by your lonesome again, Looney? Where's your scary bodyguard? Did he leave you again?"

"Hello Attkins," Luna said slowly, eyes still trained on her graph, hand steady as she carefully colored in the part she was working on, "lovely to see you."

The girl snorted, ignoring the insistent tug one of her cohorts was giving her sleeves. Tom continued to stare at them, committing their faces to memory. 

"I'm sure it is Looney, what with your new friend running away from you as often as he does now. What happened? Did he get tired of humoring your fantasies?"

"Norma," her companion tried again, and Tom finally, finally had a name. 

"Not now, Yvonne!" Norma Attkins snarled, leaning over Luna and rumpling Luna's graph in the process. 

"Norma, stop!"

The other one hissed intently, dragging Norma Attkins back by her arm. 

"Brooke! What are you —" which is, unfortunately, around the time Norma Attkins saw him and paled. 

He didn't collect the surnames of the other two, but he would. Especially now that he had hers. 

"Lovely day, Miss Attkins, wouldn't you say?" he smiled. 

(He felt as though it might be the kind that Luna routinely called unkind, because they paled even more drastically.)

"I- Ah, ever so sorry, we- I've forgotten something," and then they hurried away. 

Tom just barely repressed the urge to break something, to crush, to rend, to— 

A soft, soft hand, curling over his where he gripped his book too-tight, and when the looked, Luna was smiling at him softly. 

"Thank you," she said simply. 

And he had to wonder. 

Had to wonder how often they had come to her when he wasn't around, spitting such venom, that she felt the need to thank him just for scaring them off. Had to wonder how bad it might have gotten, if he hadn't been around. If anyone sitting in the neighboring study areas would have done something. 

Had to wonder how he could have been so callous, to leave her alone to it for weeks while he selfishly sought revenge for her name.

"Don't," he snarled, still trembling with fury, and Luna's eyes unerring drifted over his head, "I should have—"

"I will, and I must," Luna cut in, smiling softly at his hair, "because above all you care."

Tom would never understand how someone so soft could be his friend, how someone so soft could earn anyone's ire, anyone's venom. Regardless of the answer . . . he couldn't leave her by herself anymore, if it only got worse.

(Because Norma Attkins had been far from done. Norma Attkins had been prepared to keep going. Every line of her so-breakable-spine had screamed 'bully.' Bullies never quit after a short stint of mockery. They kept going until they saw they'd done damage. Kept hurting and digging and twisting until they got the reactions they wanted.)

Tom would not allow anyone to bully his first and best friend. 

(Well. Not and let them get away with it.)

"I'm sorry," he whispered. 

Luna gripped his hand harder, shaking her head.

"You care."

That such a small thing meant so much to her, that she knew it absolutely shouldn't have made his heart stutter, nor his fury fizzle, but . . . 

(But it did.)

Lamely, his monster tried to stir, his darkness confused by the metronome of emptions he'd just experienced and discarded too-quick to keep track. Tom had no answer, and no outlet, and realized quite suddenly that between Quidditch practice and his project with the Twins, he hadn't had to rip, rend or tear anything in weeks. Befuddled, Tom let his monster go back to sleep, his heart settling awkwardly in his chest. 

Friends were so hard.

October 8th, 1994

Tom walked down to Hogsmede with Luna, nervous and trying very hard not to be. After all, Cadbury might have been deeply annoying, but he was still one of the few people Tom knew that had absolutely not-cared about the future of this Tom Riddle, focusing instead on what Tom needed, and what Cadbury could do for him. Aside from the Lovegood's, anyway. The Goblins had been . . . more mixed. He didn't need them to tell him that the greater population would have been baying for his blood. 

Luna was coming along because he refused to be alone with Cadbury for any length of time . . . and he wasn't sure what they were going to do. He may need an outside source to keep track of whatever happened. They were meeting Cadbury at The Three Broomsticks, though the man had sent a missive that morning that he would be coming later than expected, and from there they would either Floo or Apparate to Gringotts. The only real issue was the fact that Moody was very obviously trailing them.

"He's still following us." Nott stated in his no-nonsense way, trudging along at Tom's left elbow. 

Nott and Zabini had been waiting for him when he'd gone to leave that morning. His Slytherin entourage had been fast on his heels, so he hadn't questioned why they were coming along, initially. He was glad for that now.

"Pretty fast, for an old bloke with a bum leg," Zabini noted with displeasure from Luna's other side. 

"Doesn't matter," Tom hummed, eying the snowbanks they were walking along, "So long as the Old Man is out and about, we might as well test his Constant Vigilance."

Nott sighed beside him, Zabini laughed across from him, and Luna smiled airily at nothing in particular, practically skipping along next to him. It took a fair bit of maneuvering, but Tom managed to get his wand out without being obvious, and then he and Zaibini set to work, while Luna and Nott drew back, trying to give them as much coverage as possible as Nott supposedly ducked under Luna's large quilt for warm, to two of them chatting amiably about some book or another. 

About fifteen minutes later, and much to Tom's satisfaction, a stout shout echoed behind them, and a couple student just ahead of them stumbled to a stop and looked back, and Tom and his company continued trudging forward. They reached Hogsmede almost twenty minutes later, and between the jolly Christmas music, vibrant decorations that all moved and twinkled and twirled independent of Muggle electricity and the way it had changed, Tom couldn't decide what was more jarring about the village. 

Luna tucked her quilt away, Nott spotted Scrivenshaft's Quill Shop further down the street, and since Tom didn't have immediate need of anything else, he followed. Luna and Zabini did as well, and Tom surprisingly found that he . . . actually enjoyed himself. He bought a handful of cheap quills, one slightly nicer looking Raven feather quill, and then spent the rest of his time trying to find the most outrageously colored quill for Luna. 

Luna finally settled on a garishly colored fwooper feather quill presented to her by Zabini, its tip teal and it's downy an eye-bleeding purple. 

They wandered a few more shops, and then eventually found themselves in The Three Broomsticks, where Cadbury was seated with a butter beer and cheerfully waiting for them, sans his ministry robes. He and Luna said their farewells to Zabini and Nott, and just as Cadbury was ushering them towards the Apariton area. Just as they were disappearing, Moody's voice could be heard. 

"Mister Slytherin!"

But too late. 

They were gone. 

Tom sincerely hoped that whatever idea Cadbury had come up with, it would include an easy explanation for the most paranoid man in Britian. 

Chapter Text

They appear directly in the office of Gapingmaw the Ripper, which is fortunate. Tom hadn’t relished the idea of dealing with anyone outside the known. The Goblin in question is already sitting behind his desk, long fingers braided patiently atop an empty parchment. By his right hand, an elegant looking quill waits to be used, and at the goblins left, there is an assortment of vials and potion bottles. 

“Mister Slytherin. Right on time,” and then three seats are suddenly arranged, along with heaps of paperwork lined up neatly in front of the Goblin, "we've much to do in a short amount of time. If everyone will kindly read and sign, we can move on."

Tom accepted the first document handed to him, and Cadbury, looking unexpectedly grim, started his explanation. 

"The only reasonable solution I have come up with is to have you adopt yourself. Sort of. I am unsure how much you know of Blood magic or Blood adoption?" at Tom's hesitance, he plowed forward, "Blood adoption is both as simple and as complicated as it sounds. A family that chooses to blood adopt a child will go through the rites and rituals for such adoptions through the Goblin nation. The Goblin nation is the only legal practitioner of the art left in Britian, as it is considered a darker magic. Should the blood accept the child being adopted, they take on some appearances of the parents doing the adoption, though it is never all that drastic. According to our records and my own personal investigation, around the time of your birth, three witches of notable bloodline and power disappeared. All three of them could have perfectly innocent explanations . . . But given that all three of them had come into contact with Lord Voldemort, more like than not they met their ends at his hands. These three seem to be the most fitting for your potential adoption. The first;"

Tom opened the file slowly, something in him not only hesitant but weary, and there was a portrait, slim canvas tucked carefully into the paperwork, staring back at him. It didn't move. The woman depicted was young, with wavy chestnut hair and smiling hazel eyes, her lips quirked in a distinctly smug manner. She looked soft. Happy.

"Arbella Selwyn, only daughter of Erroneous Selwyn, fourth son of Selwyn house. Sorted Hufflepuff at Hogwarts, graduated with honors. A young mistress of Defense, an up-and-coming Enchantress of the highest order. Disappeared in March of 1980 after reportedly refusing to see Lord Voldemort when her presence was requested. Rumors say he went to her, they fought, and she vanished."

Tom could not make himself read any of the extensive-looking information behind her portrait, eyes caught and stuck on her smiling mouth. Another file was offered, and Tom reluctantly took it. The woman inside had soft, well-tanned skin, wild black curls, and lush brown eyes. She was staring somberly back at him. Hanging from a thin silver chain around her neck was a polished stone with a rune carved into it.

"Estrella Black, only daughter of a Cetus and Rosetta Black. Sorted Ravenclaw at Hogwarts, graduated with honors. Estrella's mother was from Spain, her birth family renowned for the necromancers in their line. It was an odd pairing at the time, one of the few instances that the Blacks allowed non-British marriage within their line. Cetus was a fifth son. Estrella herself was known for being a Soothslayer, and her exceptional warding. She disappeared the same night her father's house was sacked and burned to the ground; though there are conflicting accounts as to who did the burning.  Voldemort was reported to be on the scene at the time." 

It was much easier to tear his eyes away from this woman, though ignoring her history was harder. In the file was an assortment of essays from her school days, summaries of the journals left behind that had been salvaged. She had been a brilliant woman, by all accounts. Another file was pressed into his hands with great care. The woman presented this time had straight black hair, sharp cheekbones, and stunning green eyes. She was leaning casually against a statue of a Nundu, looking a little cocksure. 

"And finally, Margaret Monroe. Last of her line. Sorted Gryffindor in Hogwarts, though rumors say she was a hatstall. Apparently, she had a goal that was entirely reckless enough to bump her from Slytherin to Gryffindor, despite the hats first opinion. Her father Lord Monroe passed before her fifteenth birthday. Graduated with middling grades, although that had nothing to do with her intelligence and everything to do with running her family's empire from Hogwarts. She became Lady Monroe by old House Law and went on to be quite loud politically. She vanished after a dual between herself and Lord Voldemort in early 1980, though no one knows why they were dueling."

Tom stated at the three files, three women, whose lives had been summarized and collected, understanding what was happening but —

But entirely unprepared for it. 

"Cadbury. I need you to be plain. What exactly am I meant to do with these?" 

Cadbury's grim look became grimmer. 

"Choose your mother, Mister Slytherin, so that your claim to your title isn't placed in jeopardy, and the whole of Magical Britain cannot bay for your blood without looking like a bunch of bloody twats. The crimes committed in our time are not yours. Not everyone will be willing to see it that way should anyone do some digging and find no evidence of Voldemort siring a child. But, if you are the son of a powerful woman that fought till the last, a son who was tragically ripped from her arms and raised by a couple of fanatic maniacs . . . " 

Tom carefully placed the three files in front of himself, lined up perfectly even with the desk, and breathed. Something was stirring in his chest, something enraged and aching and so bloody confused. Because he understood, he did. He agreed that this would be the easiest way to protect himself. But. 

Those women. They all had a fire in their eyes. A life. They had history and family and talents. And he's just been told that some version of himself had destroyed that, probably. Probably violently. Probably Arbella Selwyn, with her open smile and potential for a bright future, had once been someone shaped like Luna. Brilliant and kind, but self-confident where she felt it counted, and humble where she felt it didn't matter. Everything in her file (he'd managed to convince himself to read it while he was dithering, stalling for time) said she was loved, above all else, by everyone that encountered her. 

A version of him had once probably-possibly destroyed someone like Luna. 

"And if they're alive? If whoever I choose is alive and well and already has a family?"

(It is not the question he wants to ask. But the question he wants to ask cannot be answered by Cadbury.)

Cadbury slowly shook his head. 

"I know you believe me rather foolish, but I assure you. In my department, none are more through in their investigative measures than I am. I found all but Miss Monroe, whom I believe, died to wounds sustained in battle, and perished in a muggle hospital under the title of Jane Doe number seven. All of them disappeared with enough evidence that perhaps, could have led to a child. All of them could be your 'mother.' I promise you Tom, this is the only way to protect yourself, which is my primary goal."

Tom felt his fists clench over his thighs, felt that burning rage in his chest stoke higher, his eyes firmly stuck on Arbella Selwyn's . . . And then Luna's soft hand curled over his shoulder, and her head rested against it, her voice all soothing. 

"You're not this you. Well. Not this Him. You are Thomas and he is Lord Voldemort, and even if your childhoods were mostly the same, somewhere along the lines they were different. Somewhere, somewhen, something changed, or would have changed, and you would always be you, just as he was always meant to be him. In different circumstances, perhaps he could have looked something like you, and never become something like Him, but you can't focus on that Tom. You can only ever focus on the now."

Cadbury was staring at Luna. So was the Goblin. He suddenly realizes that Cadbury hadn't ever looked at Luna before, in their first meeting, having been so focused on Tom at the time. Redirecting his rage to something not as world-altering as his own skewed morals suddenly becoming less-skewed is nothing new. 

"That is very perceptive, Miss Lovegood. . ." 

Tom very carefully sat straighter and leaned in, trying to block Luna from view, very much glaring. 

". . . But I digress. And my apologies, Mister Slytherin. I did not realize the kind of . . . Insinuation I might be making on your character with my explanation. I did not mean to imply that I thought Lord Voldemort had done something. . . Irreparable to these women — only that the wider population of Magical Britain would not believe it outside the realm of possibility. Personally, I have found no evidence of Lord Voldemort doing . . . Anything with these or any women or even any men . . . Save perhaps the Lestrange Woman . . . Though there is a lot of speculation there . . . He seemed entirely uninterested in such things in general. I am merely posing to you the story we must live by, to protect not just our timeline as it is now, but your future."

Tom settled back slowly, breathing and thinking and letting Luna's hand, now tucked into the corner of his elbow, ground him. 

He did not enjoy the insinuation that he — no, not He. He and Voldemort were fundamentally different, must be fundamentally different —

What he did not enjoy was the insinuation that he would come from — rape. Even thinking it made him feel vile — made him feel . . . Sympathy for the women before him. He knew what it was to be helpless — not in . . . that way, but in others, before he realized he was special and had powers — to be made to feel less than. 

(Perhaps this was some of Mrs. Coles attempts at making him a Good Catholic Boy seeping through.)

But Cadbury was right. Of all the solutions, of all the possibilities, of all the stories —

This one would be the most believable to the general population, and the one that would ultimately provide him the most cover. Even should Lord Voldemort really be alive and well, trying to return, as all the Hogwarts rumors said . . . If he was insane, would he even know whether it was the truth? 

Tom didn't think he would. 

"Very well," Tom said slowly, staring at the files. 

Luna, bless her, made it all the easier by slowly reaching out to stroke the three faces, then selected Arbella Selwyn's, depositing her file in his hands. 

"The Selwyn's were once a branch of the Gaunts, but they refused to continue intermarrying . . . And there are none left to try and take charge of you." She said simply, quietly, and Tom nodded. 

He did not want to say it was the file he would have chosen. He hadn't wanted to choose. But there was something in Slewyn's smile that was soft and centered. If he must imagine one of these women as his 'mother' . . . He would have chosen her. 

(Would have wanted to, at least. A much younger Tom Riddle would have been mistrustful of all of them, but Selwyn's smile would have drawn him in, and her laughing eyes would have made him both angry and curious enough that he would have chosen her over somber Black or confident-looking Monroe.) 

Cadbury nodded, clapping his hands, and the other two files vanished into his briefcase, just as two vials and two potions disappeared from Gapingmaw's desk. 

"Perfect! Now, we must have your story in place and all kinks or questions worked out ahead of time. If ever, at any point, something is added, you must let me know. I have a file for you open with the Aurors, but it is a strictly confidential file. No one may open it without my departments say-so, but that does not mean it will never be opened, and anything that is in your story must be there."

Tom nodded. 

"Now, what have you told people already? Even if it is the smallest thing about where or who you grew up with?" 

It took about an hour of questioning before Cadbury seemed satisfied that they had pulled together any of Tom's idle comments or explanations and made it into a larger, working story. 

He had been named after his father, but not by his mother. She had died in childbirth (or been killed shortly thereafter), and his Keepers, Corvin and Maureen Lestrange from the lesser Lestrange branch, who had disappeared around March or April of 1980, had been presumed dead. He'd grown up in an ill-used country manor that had fallen out of favor in the Lestrange family, which Cetus and Maureen had taken over for Tom's rearing. He'd spent a portion of his childhood being compared to Lord Voldemort, and subsequently been tortured violently for not taking to his Keepers 'lessons,' on how to be their Lord. 

(Cadbury made sure to note he should indicate that they both had been quite mad, thinking him the reincarnation of their Lord, rather than his son. How they had placed him under the Cruciatus Curse from a young age, if he did not speak or act the way they thought he should. How they would make him practice for hours the exact way Lord Voldemort had dipped his head or quirked his brow.)

The fire that took their lives and caused an explosion in their home was caused by Fiendfyre, which they had been trying to force Tom to wield, and Lord Lovegood and Luna, in the area at the time for the Quibbler, had come to his aid. He had found Tom, gotten bits of the boy's story from him, and then agents of the ministry had arrived. The Lovegood's had volunteered, and been granted, guardianship over the mistrustful boy. 

He'd survived by magical providence and no small amount of instinct. His Keepers — who had tracked down Selwyn and taken her prisoner, and then taken charge of their Lords heir — had not been kind, and Tom did not miss them. The little he knew about his mother he coveted greatly, and the less said about his father the better. His wand had been fashioned after his fathers — because Lord Voldemort's wand was lost, and Maureen had been an apprentice wand-maker — but was not how he wanted his wand, only something that worked well-enough, which is why he tended towards wandless magic. Tom had made a visit off of school grounds today to have his wand—

"You want to do what to my wand?" Tom asks, very much unkindly.

"Well, think of it more as . . . refreshing it's appearance," Cadbury offered sheepishly.

Drawing back the instinctive 'no,' that wanted to rip from his throat, Tom forced himself to settle back, teeth clenched. He had been given a lot of looks from Dumbledore and Professor Hagrid, the few times he'd pulled his wand out around them. He made it a point to use his wand as little as possible, outside of charms or DADA. Still. It felt . . . 

Wrong. 

The idea of letting someone change his wand was wrong. 

"Who?" Tom made himself ask, staring blankly at the notes Cadbury had been taking, the notes Tom himself had been taking. 

"Ollivander has agreed to assist, as he sometimes does. Despite his appearance and general behavior, he is one of the most loyal, and stubborn, wandmakers our department has ever worked with. He will keep your secrets, Mister Slytherin." 

Tom felt . . . Itchy. And twitchy. And wrong.

(The wand was the first thing he had ever owned that was his. Just his. His entirely, not a trophy he'd taken from someone that saw him as less than, not a second-hand or passed down item. Not something he'd stolen because he needed it. Just Tom's.)

The Monster in his chest stirred slowly, the darkness in him lethargically making its way to the surface in the face of his disquiet. Cadbury stopped muttering across from him, drew in a sharp breath. 

"Ah. I see. That . . . Would explain a lot." Cadbury muttered. 

Luna carefully patted Tom's elbow, and he forced himself to breath, turning to look at her as if turning through tar. 

"I'm sorry Tom. It chose you though — perhaps it won't mind changing with you?" 

The offering was perhaps the most reassuring thing he could hope for. Shuddering and trying not to admit to the visceral fear that skittered through him, Tom slowly nodded. 

"Yes. Well. What else?" 

Cadbury, gratefully, did not linger on the topic, but continued on, scribbling down several frantic notes Tom couldn't make out — He thought they were possibly in a code of some sort — and then tapping them with his wand, watching them reorder themselves magically. 

Tom had left school grounds today because he'd made an appointment with Ollivander to alter his wand — make it more his than an imitation of his 'fathers,' and Ollivander had needed to source some materials, and then the Goblins had requested his presence.   

Tom made sure he wrote down anything they spoke about, and promised to keep an open line of communication should he add anything else to the story. Finally, it was time for him to become his own son. 

(His and someone else's. His and Arbella Selwyn's, who had died before she ever got to do something with her wild intelligence, who was gone most-probably because of something Lord Voldemort did.)

If time traveling hadn't already been the strangest thing to ever happen to him, this would have been it. As it was, he'd seen far stranger things on Lovegood Grounds, so he merely shrugged and ignored the niggling voice in his mind that still felt off about his new history.  

He was given a script to read, which he did while Gappingmaw led them into a separate room, a ritual room by the looks of it, where a complicated looking rune circle was painted over the black marble floors in what might have been actual gold. The Goblin set himself up at the central point, leading the ritual, and Cadbury took charge of the vials and potions that had been left on the desk. Luna remained by the door, holding his cloak and bag, eyes flickering over every point in the room as if watching a complicated Quidditch match. 

He had the faintest impression he didn't want to know what she was seeing. 

"We shall begin now," the Goblin said, and then grinned a nasty grin, "do be warned, Mister Slytherin. The following experience, I am told, is quite unpleasant."

Tom had no doubt it was. What little he knew of blood rituals usually did involve pain. 

"Of course," Tom agreed, mentally trying to settle himself. 

Cadbury gave him a sympathetic look. 

"Try not to lash out, no matter how it feels," he advised. 

Tom only grunted at that, and settled on his knees. The Goblin drew a dagger, and motioned towards Cadbury. 

"Let us begin." 

The Goblin began chanting in Gobbledygook. Cadbury opened the two vials and tipped them carefully into the two potions, while Gappingmaw stepped forward and slit both of Tom's thumbs. Three drops of blood went into the potions, and then the potions were set in Tom's hands. Cadbury motioned for him to hold them at chest height. Tom did so, and felt them warm unnaturally, all while a slow, steady drip of blood made his grip on them slippery.

The chanting went on for what seemed an age, all while Tom slowly bled, and the potions in his hands slowly heated more and more and more. It was interrupted only by several breaks in the chanting, in which Cadbury would add something or another to the potions. During one such break in chanting, Gappingmaw gave Tom a serious look, and Cadbury remained exactly where he was. 

"Do you accept the weight of the bloodlines you take on this day?" 

"I take on the weight gladly," Tom returned, having memorized the short script they'd given him. 

"Do you swear to uphold the honor of the bloodline you step into?" Gappingmaw pressed, and something began to build in the room. 

"I do so swear to uphold the honor of the families I step into."

"Do you, Thomas Cadmus Slytherin, formerly Tom Marvolo Riddle, give up all rites to who you were to be who you will become?" Gappingmaw asked, and it echoed in the room unnaturally. 

"I give up all rites to my former life and title freely, and take on who I will be gladly."

"Do you take the weight of your family's ancestors?" There was a ringing in the air. Some of that building weight settled on his shoulders. 

"I take the weight."

The air felt filled to the brim with something, heavy and cluttered and judging. Silence hung around him, that building thing rising and rising and rising impossibly, searching, seeking through the room. The potions within his hands went searing hot. There wasn't enough space for the things that were building in the ritual room, watching him, clattering around eargerly. His shoulders were beginning to ache from the weight of it.

"So mote it be," Gappingmaw decreed. 

The air froze, waiting.

Cadbury stepped forward and took the potions, pouring them into the pale chalice that had been placed into the minor circle at Tom's knees. He wasn't sure what it was made from, but he suspected it was bone. His hands were shaking, his palms smeared red from the open cuts on his thumbs. They hung limply at his sides because everything felt too heavy. 

Gappingmaw barked something rough in Gobbledygook, and Tom's hands jerked forward, lifting the chalice above his head without his own direction. 

"By blood be done," Gappingmaw declared, and Tom drank, "or by blood be undone." 

The potion burned. Taste didn't matter, because there was lava dripping down his throat, curling into his gut. The chalice fell from his hands, and he burned from the inside out. He could feel it — could feel the blood curling through his guts, through his intestines, through him. It altered bone and flesh, tore through brain and body, made him shiver and shake and retch. At some point he fell, but he felt nothing on the outside and everything on the inside.

His darkness roared to the surface, his monster on full alert, but his strength, his attention, his focus — it was splintered. He could not rage, could not rip, could rend or tear or scream. All of his willpower went into what was happening within him, where the real threat was.

For a long time, it seemed that the blood was looking. Testing. Tasting him. Judging him. 

His head began to pound. His fingers and toes went numb. 

Finally, in a rush that was searing as much as it was a relief, the burn spread lighting quick through the entirety of him and then settled down. For some time, he simply breathed. For some time, he could only feel relief in becoming aware of the cold, cold floor beneath him, shuddering and shaking and breathing. He pressed his temples to the cool black marble and kept his eyes shut tight tight tight. Eventually, shuddering one last time, Tom forced himself up onto hands and knees, and managed not to vomit for the effort. 

"By blood be done. Welcome to your rebirth. Welcome to the world, Thomas Cadmus Slytherin."

And suddenly the spell was broken. All that weight in the air vanished, and Tom was able to struggle to his knees. His eyes opened against his will and the world seemed fuzzy and disjointed, things moving too slow. Luna was there, ducking under his arm and helping him stand. She was trembling. Cadbury was on his other side, carefully taking his other arm. Tom walked where they led. Sat when they reached Gappingmaw's office again. Stared at a piece of parchment pressed into his hands.

"The revisal to our vow. We'll renew it after you've eaten something."

There was food on a side-table. Tom ate. He isn't sure what, only that Luna handed him things, and he ate them, and finally, he struggled through reading what Cadbury had written. The only thing Tom understood was that the vow would let him tell others only the story they had written for him — his new history. Even under threat of Veritaserum or mind-magics. Tom signed his agreement, then spoke the vow. 

Anything else said to him or spoken, he did not hear. He only knows that between blinks, he is handed food. At some point Ollivander arrives. It is a struggle to run his hands over wood blocks, to run his hands over crystal vials with animal parts, to try and listen. Handing over his wand is even harder than staying awake, or listening when he's being spoken to. He manages to watch Ollivander, between blinks.

He feels it in his soul when his wand, beloved and stubborn, always his, seemingly comes apart at the seams. The gleaming gold feather that makes up his core blazes with power, but waits patiently while Ollivander handles the body of his wand. The original handle stubbornly sprouts a leaf, and Ollivander sets it aside. He crafts a new handle from a small block of warm yet pale wood, and then grafts it onto the remaining shaft of Tom's wand. 

He isn't sure how long it takes, only that by the time his wand is whole again — whole but not quite his, whole but different — Tom is exhausted. 

His wand is handed back to him by a wide-eyed Ollivander with so much something on his face. Tom wished he could read whatever it was.

"Never thought I would see the day," Ollivander said slowly, and when Tom's hand closed over his wand — 

The best kind of fire, the best kind of light, searing right through all the haze, waking Tom enough that he could focus, but barely. 

"Fir and Yew with a Phoenix Feather core. Thirteen and a half inches, quite solid. Assuredly two of the most stubborn woods — they together would require a wielder decisive and sure, one that has strength of purpose, and is by no means meek or unsteady. One version of you did great things. Terrible, indeed, but great. Now, you have a chance to do the same, and a wand loyal enough that it willingly changed with you."

Tom stared at his wand, different and somehow still the same, if with a little more . . . something to its feel. The handle, no longer carved to resemble bone, had a grip. The grip fit him perfectly, though it still offered room to grow. There were carvings of a phoenix, crude but elegant, dancing up the handle towards the tip. A symbolism chosen by Ollivander, or the wood? He honestly couldn't say. All he cared about was that it still fit him, still chose him. It was still his . . . if a little different. And then Ollivander pressed the old handle into his hand. 

"Plant it, Mister Slytherin, wherever you now call home. It is and will always be yours. Yews are ever the most loyal and steadfast of woods."

Tom couldn't speak, so all he did was nod, gripping his wand tight and the old handle tighter. Ollivander left. Tom looked to Cadbury. 

"I'm . . . rather tired. Are.We.Done." He did not make it a question. Found it hard enough to get the words out to begin with.

"Everything else can be finished by mail."

A potion was pressed into his hands. He took it, and five minutes later, felt a kick of energy. Enough that he could walk on his own. The Floo was activated. He and Luna stumbled through together. Dumbledore was on the other side, waiting, and watched Tom with weary eyes. Cadbury stepped through behind them. Tom didn't wait to be dismissed — merely put one stubborn foot in front of the other and headed towards the Dungeons. 

Luna left him on the fifth floor, looking reluctant to do so. He didn't have the energy to talk so he simply squeezed her hand and stumbled away. A Tempus he managed to cast, after some resistance from his new-old wand, told him it wasn't yet dinner. He did not go to the Great Hall, but directly to the Slytherin Common room. Eventually, he collapsed onto his bed, the curtains half-drawn. Thinking was too hard, so instead, he slept. 

He did not dream.

October 9th, 1994

Tom felt like little more than one long bruise. It was worse than any of the beatings before he'd gained control of his magic as a boy. He dearly wished he could stay in bed, but between his aches and pains, and not feeling rested despite being dead to the world for over ten hours, he knew it was unlikely to happen. Besides. He'd promised Hari answers, and he didn't remember Luna getting to her dorm. Unfortunately, he got as far as pulling on his softest jumper (the one in muted, green-grey Luna had picked for him), his most comfortable pair of jeans, and his dragonhide boots, and then he'd subsequently collapsed into a chair in the Common Room by the central fireplace, where he could only glower unhappily at the fire. 

He promised himself it wouldn't be for long, that he didn't even know if Luna was awake yet. His legs were shaking. 

His head was pounding, he was hungry, and his legs were shaky. Everything ached, his magic felt depleted for some reason, and he couldn't remember walking Luna to her dorm.

"Slytherin?" Nott asked slowly, and he snapped his glare at the other boy, "is something the matter?"

Nott seemed unaffected by Tom's glare, which either meant Nott was made of sterner stuff than Tom had realized, or that Tom looked worse than he felt. Which only served to make him more irritated. 

"I don't feel rested. I'm hungry. I don't remember walking Luna to her dorm. Yesterday was a nightmare, and I would rather not go up to breakfast."

Seemingly taken aback by the absolute honesty, Nott blinked at him, then nodded. 

"A bad day then," Nott agreed, and the small crowd that was trying to pretend they weren't watching all stared.

"A bad day," Tom mocked in return, words biting, mind whirling back to — to his 'mother's' history. How he had earned and lost a real connection, a real lead, to a mother and family and bloodline. How even reborn he was still an orphan. How his now biggest lie was now that he had a mother who'd fought to the last for him, had a connection to something more than blood and death and madness. 

The only bright spot in the day previous was that Luna had stayed with him, been his friend, helped him when he needed help without asking for anything in return. That she had cared. 

(Had supported him when he couldn't walk and fed him when he was little more than a vegetable, had quietly explained what was happening when he couldn't focus enough to know.)

Nott said nothing for several minutes, and then tentatively sat on the sofa to his right. 

"Would you like me to get you something to eat?" Nott offered.

Tom was trying to determine the what's and why's of that offer when someone else approached them. He didn't know the older boy. Didn't have a name for the square face or the thoughtful hazel eyes that stopped on the other side of the long coffee table and observed Tom quietly. 

"We haven't been introduced, Slytherin. My name is Mortimer, James Mortimer of House Mortimer. I act as the Speaker of Slytherin House." 

Tom did not give a greeting. He frankly had little energy for even watching the other boy, much less caring for politics at that exact moment. 

"As someone that usually represents our House with decorum and grace, I find myself . . . concerned. Especially after your disappearing act at Hogsmede yesterday. Is everything well, Slytherin?" 

Tom felt his jaw clench with his reply. 

"Quite. Thank you." 

Mortimer frowned at him, shifting only the slightest, and then carefully pressed. 

"I can assure you, despite the speed at which most rumors in house move, no others in the school should learn of it if you are unwell. Should I send for Pomfrey?"

Lacking the usual patience that he acquitted to others, Tom glared. 

"No. I simply slept poorly," he said slowly, "and am not in the mood to speak." 

Even putting emphasis on this did little to deter the older boy, and while Tom would usually respect those who persevered, today was not the day for such things. 

(Today was for finding Luna, assuring himself she was well, finding food, and resting. Hopefully in the library, if not the twins lab, which had a surprisingly comfortable sofa.)

After Cadbury's genius idea of blood adoption, Tom's patience was non existent and his mental acuity was . . . Sluggish. So when Mortimer opened his mouth again, despite Nott swiftly standing and shaking his head, Tom raised his wand in the most lazy way he ever has — trying not to let show how much it made him shake — and hissed out;

"Serpensorta." 

A snake sprung from the end of his wand, turning sharply to hiss at him. 

"Who daresss ssteal me?"

"I do. I require assistance. The boy on the other end; I need him to stop talking. Do not bite him, merely shut him up if you would." 

Although the snake seemed briefly flummoxed, it did an odd dip of it's head, as most snakes he'd ever met did, and then whirled back towards Mortimer, and though the boy had paled and stumbled back, it did not stop the serpent from springing after him, shooting out too fast, swiftly wrapping around his torso and then his throat.

"The sspeaker ssaysss you will not sspeak!" 

It declared, hissing sharply in the boys face.

Tom contented himself with that, settling back to glare at the boy and revel in the silence, his head throbbing with even that small expenditure of magic. Nott shifted uneasily. 

"Tom. I don't suppose — would you like me to fetch you some food?" 

Tom did little more than nod, eyes feeling heavy and heart full of whispering indecision. He knew he had just reacted irrationally. That there had perhaps been a better way to establish a boundary here.

But his head was pounding. His body felt bruised. He was hungry. 

And he did not know if Luna had safely reached her dorm, or been locked out again by her despicable dorm mates. All of these roiling emotions are why, perhaps, he was almost startled when a soft hand gripped his shoulder, and his attention was immediately captured. 

Luna stood in front of him, wearing a rumpled dress in mint green with fall leaves embroidered all over it, a long-sleeved orange shirt underneath the wide straps. He was glad to note, when he glanced down, that she wore her brown winter boots. 

Luna was safe. And had, apparently, gotten into her dorm just fine. 

The rush of relief almost left him dizzy. He very nearly missed what she said next. 

. . .

Luna woke early.

(Or perhaps she'd never slept.)

She did not bother to check if her dorm mates were up and about, anymore than she gave notice to the Knowing's that tried to pull at her attention. She merely rushed through finding a change of clothing, and then left as quickly as possible. She did not stop by the Great Hall first. She knew that Tom would not be there, so instead she went directly to the Dungeons. Across from the blank stretch of stone where the Slytherin Commons were, she leaned against the wall and waited.

Her leg bounced against the stone. 

Luna watched it do so for lack of anything else to do, and tried not to think of —

(Unraveling, all the possibilities that had ever been connected to her Tom's face and being and blood, unraveling at the seams— )

She was thinking about it anyway.

The ritual had been terrible. Tom had screamed, when his body wasn't writhing in pain. She had watched his flesh ripple and his body bow and contort impossibly. She had seen the seed of an Obscurial that lived within his heart rise to the surface, only to react as if in as much pain, curling and thrashing through the air as viscous dark smoke. She had Seen his futures, his possibilities, his visions, everything linked to what he might have done as he was unwind and disperse, as if never there to begin with. 

She had watched him die, and watched him be remade. 

There were new futures there now, slowly winding together as if crawling towards him through too-thick honey. 

(It had been just like when Mummy died, and Luna had known she would for hours, been stuck to her seat, watching her Mummy's dreams and possibilities and life unraveling at the seams. Luna had been unable to speak then, her powers binding her lips together because this had been a Certainty, not a Possibility. Luna had willingly not spoken a word for months after.)

By the time it had been over, she had expected more of a change. Both physically and in his Possibilities.

Instead, he had retained the dark-chestnut waves in his hair, kept his deep blue eyes, kept the complexion of his skin . . . but gained a narrowing to his chin, the baby-fat he'd retained to that point vanished. His jaw wasn't as square, she knew, and his nose was sharper, perhaps, as were his cheekbones. When standing he'd seemed less stocky and more, well, lanky almost. Aside from that, he hadn't gone through any drastic changes. His hair was, perhaps, a little lighter, and he would never be his own exact copy again, but he wasn't an entirely different person. He was just a Tom that could reasonably be his own son.

(And his futures . . . Some aspects of them Before that had been dark or blurred were better outlined. Some aspects were gone altogether. Some were new and some were old, having been with him since before he was ripped through time. But all of them were different than the image she had grown used to.)

Not that anyone would notice that Tom had changed, until the slow-release glamour the Goblins had placed fully faded in five months.

(And no one on the British Isles would ever see what he had lost or gained in Luna's Sight. There were only two others in all the world that would know, and they lived continents away.)

The door to the Slytherin Commons revealed itself, and a harried seeming Nott paused with a foot out the door, looking relieved to see her there. 

"Lovegood. I don't suppose you'd be willing to swear a promise to keep Slytherin Houses secrets and, er, assist us in a . . . matter?"

Somehow Luna had been expecting him, which was not unexpected. Often times in her life she found herself waiting for no particular reason, only to find there was one. 

(In all her lives. In some versions of her life, she waited in a bathroom for a book she didn't know would be thrown. She waited by the sea for mad men in black cloaks. She waited in a forest with thestrals for a boy that was only sometimes her friend, or she waited in a courtyard, for news she already knew was a lie. Luna has made herself an expert in waiting.)

"Oh, I suppose I could, even if I've already promised Tom his House is safe with me," Luna agreed, dragging her mind back to the present even as she padded forward. 

Nott said nothing to that, merely looked at her as he raised his wand. They swore a quick vow, and then she was ushered inside. The entrance to the Slytherin common room was draped in a green tapestry, and beyond a short set of steps, an elegant array of bookcases, sofas, tables, and study tables were purposefully arranged. The large green windows across from the entrance showed the Black Lake shrouded in early morning green, hazy fish-like figures swimming past. There were several fireplaces, but at the largest one, Tom was seated with his back to her.

Around the common room, people were pretending not to stare, with some notable exceptions. The Weasley Twins were openly watching Tom, looking thoughtful. The Slytherin Quidditch team were gathered behind where Tom sat, casually - and likely threateningly - watching with grim looks. Ginny was hovering near a bookcase, watching. There was something fluttering about her shoulders that Luna chose to think about later. 

And finally, there was the Slytherin Court, clustered awkwardly to one side and watching. Luna had never met them, and didn't know anything about the Court, but she knew they were the Court. 

And then there was Tom himself. His attention appeared to be on an older student -the Speaker, something whispered - who was trembling on the opposite side of a coffee table. He was trembling because there was a snake wrapped around his throat, hissing in his face.

"Oh dear," Luna sighed, and several people turned sharply to glare, though that quickly changed to a range of emotions she didn't have the patience for deciphering. 

Sighing, and ignoring the Knowings that fluttered about her head as she approached Tom, she carefully placed a hand on his shoulder. His attention snapped to her, and she was glad to see it was only rage and exhaustion in his eyes. She knew he wouldn't have liked it if the whole of Slytherin House knew about his Obscurial seed. That was a private thing he was weary of showing others, even if he didn't quite realize what it was. There was, however, a swarm of something fuzzy playing over his ears and shoulders. 

That simply wouldn't do.

"That is an awful lot of Nettle-Busters Tom," she chided softly, brushing her hands over his ears and thinking only happy, calming thoughts. She didn't need to keep touching him after, but in the back of her mind, she was still seeing his whole being unravel, and so she didn't stop. 

The faint impressions she could see of tiny little skittering creatures ran in a scattered cloud, and Tom slowly relaxed, though his expression remained unhappy. 

"Luna. I don't recall walking you to your dorm last night." 

Luna smiled, eyes wandering over his hair - a little messy, he probably hadn't brushed it, but no sign of Wakspurts - the bags under his eyes - he still hasn't told her why he's infested with Snag-rooters, and she shan't ask - and finally, landed on his sweater. 

She knew it was one of the ones she'd picked for him, soft and comfortable. That Tom was seeking physical comfort rather than worrying about his image - he was wearing muggle jeans - told her he was not feeling well. 

"You were quite tired, Tom," she sighed, settling in to perch on the arm of his chair. She knew she wasn't imagining when he leaned into her touch just slightly. 

"Why are you angry? You know that only draws things in that eat unhappiness and reveal in discontented thoughts," she pointed out quietly. 

It was the first warning written in all Lovegood family journals, a few of which she knew he had brought with him from home. Tom shifted slowly, carefully, beside her, his shoulders tense. 

"We were having a discussion." He clipped out, attention returning to the older student across from him. 

Luna looked too, eyes drifting over the Speakers clenched hands and tight shoulders. 

"You didn't feel like talking, though?" Luna asked, and knew she was right when Tom turned his attention back to the fire. 

"You can't threaten people just because you're tired, Tom," she sighed. 

The Speaker was staring at her. She couldn't read his expression, but she knew it was thoughtful. 

"He was making noise." Tom grumbled. 

Luna turned to stare at him again — noticed the way his jaw was clenched just-so, noticed that his legs were trembling, noticed the parlor of his skin. 

"People talk, Tom," she shrugged, then stood slowly, offering a hand, "now if you please, I'm rather hungry." 

Tom stated at her hand blankly, and then his hand was in hers, and though she is sure no one else notices, she pulls him up rather more than either of them let on. Tom takes carefully casual steps with her towards the Common room entrance, and they only stop at the top of the stairs, where Tom says something in Parsletongue. The snake wrapped around the Speakers throat drops down, and moves towards them. 

Luna picks the snake up to drape it over her shoulders, and then they leave. She takes him to the kitchens, rather than up all the stairs to the Great Hall. She is positive he could not make the journey comfortably.

As it is — he collapses into a seat at one of the tables as soon as the elves settle down, and he rests his head on his folded arms. Luna lets him sit, and instead puts together a plate. She chooses only his favorites, pours his tea, and requests a house elf to fetch her a pepper-up potion from the infirmary. 

Tom stirs enough to take the pepper-up when it comes, and five minutes later, sits up enough to eat. Luna tries to focus on her own breakfast — a simple porridge with berries, nuts, and honey — but is highly aware of the color slowly returning to Tom's face, the way he doesn't seem as tired or irritable. 

"Thank you," Tom says, quite and without blustering or blushing or details. 

She could tell him that he doesn't look very different, underneath his glamour. She could tell him that it scared her, watching him unravel. She could tell him a million and one things in that instance. 

All she did say was;

"Oh, you are most welcome Tom!" 

And then she pushed another scone at him. 

Something about his shoulders lifted, and something about his eyes lighted, and she knew, as she ever did, she had said the right thing. 

Things would not be easy, and Luna would have to readjust to all the new things in his Weaving, but that was alright. Luna could live with that, if it meant her friend felt even a little comforted by her. 

After breakfast in the kitchens, Tom and Luna ended up in the library, where Tom napped at a particularly sunny window and Luna read across from him. When he felt a little better — a little better but not unbruised, better but not strong — they found their way to the lake edge, where Hari had said he would meet them the day before. Tom hadn't wanted to go, but Luna had insisted that 'sunshine was good for unmakings.' 

Hari looked like he wanted to pounce as soon as he saw them, but gave pause when Tom collapsed onto the picnic blanket and lay down eyes drifting shut. He isn't sure what they say, as he drifts in and out of waking for several minutes, until a warm, calloused hand is carefully patting his own. 

"Tom? Would you like some chocolate? I've got dark, milk, and even some nutty thing that Mooney sent over as this months treat."

Tom frowned, eyes still closed, and tried to remember the last time he'd tried a piece of chocolate before slowly opening his eyes and sitting up. 

"Dark?" He asked softly. 

Hari eagerly passed over a wrapper of something, and Tom rolled it around his hands before snapping a piece off and taking a tentative bite. A rich burst of bitter-sweet flavor exploded on his tongue, and while it was unexpected . . . It was good. He chewed and stared at the lake, breaking off tiny pieces here and there, until he realized he'd eaten half the bar and handed it back in a flustered manner. 

Hari only smiled at him happily. 

"Chocolate always helps, when you're having a rough day. That's Remy's philosophy and it's mine now too."

Tom calculated the lightening in his heart, the way his mind didn't feel so foggy, and could only nod. 

"So . . .how did you do it?" Hari eventually asks. 

Tom blinks at the tentacles slowly rising from the lake, then remembers that they were there to talk about combination spell crafting and potion making. Well. Sort of. But. Tom could do that. Teaching had never been a hard thing for him, when magic was the subject. 

"A potion-hex combination specifically keyed to a protein within Smiths diet that manifests hallucinations when he's alone."

Hari stared at him, frowning, and then reached into his rucksack and carefully placed a roll of parchment and a quill in the center of the blanket. Tom took the hint and stretched out on his stomach, wincing slightly when the movement pulled at sore muscles, and he adjusted the quill and ink to his left side before carefully unrolling several pieces of parchment. 

Luna helpfully placed a handful of dry stones at the corners of the pages, and Tom started drawing. 

"What do you know of potion crafting?" 

Hari's answer was enthused, and Tom could tell why the Ravenclaw was one of Snape's favorites. 

"I shall not tell you everything I put into the potion, that would be far too Hufflepuff for my tastes. What I shall tell you is that if you are creative enough, and if you've ever read Magical Theory by Waffling all the way through and understood it, you might understand this. Just as Clockwise and Anti-clockwise, or deosil and widdershins have an effect on potions and how accurate your craft turns out, so too do they have an effect on spells. By crafting a spell which only works in conjunction with the mental state of the ingestee after  — one might go so far to say — unintentionally ingesting a potion, a whole new area od magic is opened to you. The key is determining not just how strong to make the potion — too strong, and you could poison or adversely effect the recipient, too weak and it does nothing — but when to administer whatever spell or curse you craft in combination with it."

Tom took a brief pause to gladly accept Luna's flask, which he'd watched her fill with tea before they left the Kitchens. As he drank, he watched Harry desperately scribble down notes over Tom's arithmancy and runic sequences, which he had placed into a blank format, so the other boy could work off it for his own if-then experimentation.

"In this case, because I am actively trying to keep not just the body, but Smith's magic from healing or repairing the effects of the potion, I cast my hex on him before it was administered, using a widdershins bases for my spell work, going against the flow of magic. Can you guess how would I have brewed the potion?"

Hari stared at his Arithmancy contemplatively, expression flickering. 

"With deosil movements, for the base? To bind the ingredients initially . . . but magical effects are always sealed in the second half of brewing, so because whatever you brewed is working with, not against the hex, you must have switched to widdershins movements?"

Tom let him stew over it for a bit, sipping at Luna's flask.

"Oh. It wouldn't have been purely one or the other . . . from your vague description of the potion, it's meant to do several things, and if I only guess at what you'd need to encourage illusions, anxiety, panic . . . While keeping it within his character and slowly degenerative . . . And the Hex was only to manifest his illusions more strongly . . . amplify his fears . . . "

Hari was looking at Tom as if her were insane or awe-inspiring.

"How many brewing periods did you have?"

"Five."

Another look, even more head scratching. 

"You're bonkers, mate," Hari stated simply. 

Tom laughed. It's the only time he's ever been okay with someone stating thus. Hari had said it in the way that someone else might call the Weasley Twins Terrors. They discussed other applications of this principle, various ways it could be used for good or ill, until Tom drifted off for a short nap. When he woke up, there was a picnic, Hermione and Neville had arrived with Nott and Zaibini, and Luna gently encouraged him to eat. While he rested on the shore the rest of them splashed about in the lake's edge. 

By the time they headed inside — with Tom's pocket being two dark chocolate bars heavier, and Hari looking dazzled with a new concept to experiment with — it was nearing Dinner, and Tom risked the Great Hall, with some uncertainty. He's thankful he did. He gets to witness Smith, looking pale and paranoid, explode into a shouting match with another Puff and stomp out of the Great Hall. Then subsequently scream in the hallway. According to the students that entered shortly after, he screamed at thin air as they were coming up the stairs and disappeared down the stairs. 

And naturally, simply because the Professors declared a prank war over didn't mean the Weasley Twins listened. Tom found two in his tea, one on his fork, and there was something itching at his magic in the space just behind him. He's beginning to suspect that the twins took some of his ideas a little too seriously, because none of the pranks activated when Tom tricked Zaibini into picking things up. 

He was going to have to be more careful. 

All in all, he had had worse days. 

(Even if he could feel the Court watching him, and Snape watching the Court, and everyone else just waiting. But Tom had delt with the Court before. He wasn't scared.)

. . . 

(Not of them anyway.)

October 10th, 1994

Ginny Weasley came from a large family. Which was, perhaps, an understatement, considering she had six brothers, and though she loved her family, there were times that being a part of the Weasley brood was hard. Because everything that could be done was already being done, or had been done, and even if they were close (a necessity, when one lived in the Borrow, you either got close or lost your marbles) there were days Ginny felt nothing but distance from most of her siblings. 

Bill had already been half out of the house by the time she was old enough to have a personality, and Charlie, though he’d tried, had started his obsession with dragons by the time his second year was out and had little patience for playing with his baby sister, unless it involved dragons.

(He got better at being The Big Brother after he’d left home, and been allowed to breathe. Ginny didn't really blame him for that. Being the lone Hufflepuff in a family of Gryffindors had always seemed to wear on him.)

There was Percy, who’d been itching to go to Hogwarts her whole life, but he never had an interest in playing. 

And then there were the twins. 

(Well. The twins and Ron, but Ron hadn’t ever wanted to play Dollys or help her with her hair.)

But the twins had always been different. They were all quicksilver thought and playful mischief, and they never had a problem bringing her into their closed circle, playing games and letting her help pull pranks. Braiding her hair or teaching her to fly. The twins, despite being four years older, were her closest friends growing up, except for the short period of time that she and Luna were close. 

(Until Luna's mum died and Luna went . . . Somewhere else, mentally.)

Which is how she knew that Tom Slytherin (who wasn't, couldn't, be the boy she’d been haunted by for two years) was okay, despite his demeanor, because Fred and George would never Play with anyone that wasn't.

And because she liked to think that she was an excellent Slytherin, she was going to use the opportunity her favorite brothers provided by making sure that Tom Slytherin couldn't possibly be the boy from the diary that had caused her so much mental anguish. 

(Who now seemed close with a soft hearted girl Ginny used to know, who did not deserve any mental anguish.)

This is how she finds herself approaching George curiously, after he returns to the Common room, the day after the Snake Incident. Fred is nowhere to be found, but that's not surprising. Between the twins, he's the better sneaker, so if they have a plot going, he's likely the one doing the sneaking.

"Fred?" 

"Ginny-Binny!" Fred responded, smiling wide. 

Ginny smiles back a little bit sharper. She got into Slytherin because like her favorite brothers, she was a little too clever for her own good, a little too malicious, and a little too scary. Because she might have been born and bred by a household of Gryffindor's, but it took more than Heart and Courage to over-ride ambition. Ginny's ambition? Well, much like Fred and George, her ambition had only ever been one thing; to be more than just-another-Weasely, even to her family.

"I was thinking that I wanted to learn more about the family business," Ginny started, slow and careful. 

Fred paused, staring at her . . . and then he lit up, smile a supernova and eyes a-glimmer. 

(The twins were never happier than when someone took an interest in their business ideas.)

"Oh Ginny," he pretended to wipe away a tear, "you're growing up so fast, my ickle baby sister. Of course you can join the family business!"

Ginny did not slump in relief, but it was a near thing. She did want to learn more about the twins desires to start a shop. And she did want to help. But . . . she needed them to get close to the Slytherin, possibly the boy who was Voldemort's heir. It seemed impossible to think, even contemplate that she could do so. The boy hadn't actively attempted to make allies or friends within their year. At the beginning of Term he'd spoken only with Luna actively, and rarely with Luna's friends unless spoken to. In fact, he barely spoke to anyone without being spoken to first. 

He watched people though. Watched and observed and very carefully didn't interact. 

Ginny had been watching him too, terrified and wondering. It wasn't until he started interacting with her brothers that she felt herself calm. And now, it was time to make sure that Tom Slytherin was in no way like Tom Riddle. 

Because no one hurt Ginny's family. 

(And if that meant she confronted a boy who sometimes resembled her darkest nightmares, well. Ginny had almost been placed in Gryffindor for a reason.)

That night, they officially end the prank war with the prank to end all pranks. Dumbledore's beard was blindingly orange, McGonagall's hat turned into a dark green tabby, and half the candles turned into a rainbow of canaries, which screamed jokes at people. The doorways sung, the tables levitated eighteen meters off the ground and spun about. Filches hair sprouted daisies. 

It was fantastic.

(Later, much later, the twins officially introduced her to Tom Slytherin, with the explanation that she would be helping in the family business. They'd then tried to make Slytherin's hair ginger and his eyes brown, and the boy had exasperatedly and expertly deflected the spells, giving her a searching look. As in's went, it was subtle. Truly her best Slytherin scheme yet.)

October 1th, 1994

Almost a week since the ritual with Cadbury, and things still ached. Tom found himself tiring more easily, his body trembling unnaturally when he went up and down flights of stairs, the way that breath moved through his lungs ridiculously hard where it hadn't been before. From his research, he could only assume that this was because he had, even if things hadn't much changed, essentially regrown a body. It was similar to but distinctly not his.

Some of his childhood scars were so faded, one wouldn't know they were there unless they were looking for them. The small bits of muscle he'd been trying to build weren't necessarily gone, but too-tight. Like they were ill fitted to too-thin limbs. 

He was hungry all the time. 

He was tired all the time. 

His magic ebbed and flowed within him like it was constantly being drained by something, allowed to refill, and then drained again.

"Moody is staring." 

Nott announced. 

Tom turned instantly to find the teacher at the head table and stare right back. Mentally, he promised himself that if he had an opportunity this meal, he’d toss something at the insane blighter. He was sitting next to Dumbledore and everything, so it was a win-win if Tom missed. It would make him feel substantially better to hit the barmy git with something repulsive. Like the peas and carrots, always dripping with too much gravy.

“Please, Slytherin, for the love of all that’s magic in this world, don’t do what I know you’re thinking about doing,” Zaibini hissed with a forced smile on his mouth. 

Tom caught a flash of red hair - three this time, lately Ginny Weasley was rarely left out of her older brothers schemes - and wicked smiles, and settled down. 

“For once, I’m not the one you should be concerned with.” he soothed, smile likely a tad too-sharp.

By the end of the meal, Moody had dueled the Ginger Menaces out of the Great Hall, then announced he'd asked to be kept on his toes when McGonagall tried to take points. His peg leg was covered in a rainbow of flowers that didn't at all suit him, and the harness for his magic eye was a sparkling pink. 

"I wonder how they've escaped Snape's wrath to this point . . . " Nott mussed to his side. 

"Because the last time he tried to take them to task, they charmed all his robes to dye themselves rainbow, now matter what he wore or how well he washed them," a seventh year up the table whispered, looking deeply amused. 

Now that, Tom thought, eyes flickering to their head of house, was something he'd pay to see.

October 17th, 1994

“Did you hear?” Malfoy says, suddenly at Tom’s elbow. 

Tom doesn't ask for information, and Draco doesn't make the mistake of thinking he ever will, having learned the hard way. 

“There are going to be two other schools arriving here. Well, representatives of them, at the least. My Father said it's related to why Quidditch was canceled this year.”

Tom quirked a brow curiously, and since Draco had the attention of half the common room, he went on to explain, preening under the attention. 

"Representative's of both Durmstrang and Beauxbatons are set to arrive the twentieth. There's supposed to be some event or something where each school shows off thier particular expertise in magic!"

Tom winced. He had some vague idea of what Hogwarts, under Dumbledore's rule, would choose to display, and the thought alone was embarrassing. 

Excited chatter filled the room, everyone speculating and taking bets on why the schools were meeting, and Zaibini, sitting next to him, laughed at the notion that the schools would start an exchange program. 

"They're more likely to bring back the Triwizard Tournament than try to foster international cooperation!" 

The Italian wasn't wrong, especially with most of Magical Britian still being so far behind other countries it was laughable. Not that the average citizen knew that — one had to be a scholar, or have at least traveled, and Luna's father had done both. One of the few full conversations Tom had partaken in with the man had involved just how far behind most of Magical Britian still was, compared to the rest of Europe, Asian, Africa, the Americas, and Canada. It made Tom truly depressed, on occasion, to think of how much time this version of himself had wasted. 

(Had this Tom Riddle not gone insane, he might have done what Tom had always dreamed of. Fixed the imbalance in the world around him. Made a home for himself with his people. Helped to build a society that achived something, stood together, and gave thanks to Lady Magic.)

Sighing, Tom stood and wandered out the Commons, heading for the Library. He'd promised to help Luna with her revision for DADA.

(He finds Hari sitting next to her, being consoled by Hermione. Apparently, Ravenclaw had also caught wind that there was something happening and he boy was overcome with paranoia about what awful thing might happen to him this year. Tom called him an idiot and threw some chocolate at him, then set to work helping Luna sparse out her notes. It was a good day.)

 October 18th, 1994

He was in the Room of Lost Things. Towers and towers of cauldrons, trunks, books, broken bed frames and old dolls with burned or cracked faces. The shadows moved around him. He walked in circles around the clutter, poking at piles of books, shoving aside stacks of cauldrons, with the sense he was looking for something, but unsure what, exactly. That is when the shadows seemed to . . . gather, forming a solid shape that moved around him slowly, always half-hidden by the forgotten pieces around him.

Now I have you, have you at last. Come to me. Come to me. Cometomecometome— 

Tom stumbled back, away from the cavernous darkness and towering, forgotten things. The shadows shifted some more and he made out a shape. A snake, large and angry, hissing at him from the shadows with brilliant crimson eyes. The glowed like dying coals. 

No! Tom screamed. 

Come.To.Me!

The snake opened it's wide, gaping mouth and sprung forwards, taller than him, wider than a desk, swallowing him whole— 

By the time Tom struggles up to the dining hall, Luna is sitting in her seat, reading a book over Nott's shoulder. She had tea waiting for him. Zaibini is watching her with interest, as if she was a particularly odd specimen. Hermione, Neville, and Hari had squeezed into the table opposite, were clearly badgering several exasperated Slytherin upper years over the supposed-to-be-secret betting ring they'd made to the now ridiculous rumors regarding the other schools. 

For the rest of the day, classes are unproductive at best, unruly at worst. Tom makes every attempt to showing how uninterested he is, and instead turns his attention to making sure the first through second years he's tutoring are doing well. Ramos joins him, seeming equally as uninterested, though he imagines that like Zaibini, without any representation from her own country, she has little interest in whatever scheme is happening. 

(She engages him in conversation. He's surprised, but not put off by it. Its the first time someone in his year as done so, and she makes an engaging conversationalist in-between the first and second years questions.)

Later, he's drug to a picninc on the lake, where it's not simply Luna, Hari, Hermione and Neville, but the Twin Terrors, Ginny Weasley, Nott, Zaibini, a Ravenclaw girl that Tom thinks might be in Luna's year. He tries not to interact with everyone overmuch, but still ends up drug into the Worst Game of Tag Ever.

(And after the lake, after the laughter and sunshine and community that came with daylight on the water . . . Tom was nervous to sleep.)

October 20th

Classes were canceled for the day the other schools were scheduled, and for the day following it, so that the incoming students arriving would be able to learn their way around the castle - at least to and from the classrooms they would be borrowing - without hassle. Tom was perfectly fine with this. Hermione was not. It looked like she was ready for a whole new project to take on, since no one was taking her concerns with Moody seriously. Tom only wondered at how long the other schools would be staying, if they needed somewhere to do thier classes.

Hari has remained a nervous wreck, possibly even worse than initially, and barely kept together by Hermione, whose even more incised. The students are forced out of doors an hour before the other schools arrived, waiting on the grounds. Most of them bring blankets or things to do – Tom starts an impromptu tutoring session with the Slytherin first years, while Luna watches the skies. As soon as the first years get bored of the tutoring, Tom is left with little else to do but watch the Professors curiously. 

Snape is stiff and frowning at the lake, had been more irritable than usual lately. McGonagall was half watching her lions and half arguing softly with Dumbledore, looking increasingly incised, Sprout and Flitwick were watching the argument between the Headmaster and the Gryffindor Head of House with grim expressions. The rest of the Professors all looked to be in varying states of agitation. 

(The castle was sparkling. Had been sparkling for near on two days. It seemed that whatever was happening, it wasn't just making the Professors nervous, it was effecting the House Elves as well.)

An hour and half after they'd all been ushered outside, gasps went through the crowd and a neigh echoed through the air. Giant Winged Palimino's were pulling a giant carriage behind them, and out of the carriage  — Which Hagrid carefully guided — stepped a woman that Tom could only assumed was part giant, as she was a fully head taller than Hagrid, and just as thick-boned. Tom was too far to make out what was said, and so cast his eye over the shivering Beauxbaton students, all trussed up in silky, periwinkle robes and obviously regretting it. 

The French students shortly had warming charms applied to them by their Headmistress, and then lined up across from Dumbledore. 

Not five minutes later, the Black Lake started bubbling, and a ship burst forth. A full ship. Tom isn't ashamed to say that he put more thought into the charms and warding that would go into getting a ship to act as a submarine, and so, almost misses the way that Professor Snape stiffens when the Durmstrang Headmaster addresses him. Almost, but not quite. The venomous look their Head of House sends the foreign Headmaster is definitely noted by more than just Tom. 

Half the House takes notice, and because they all respected him, they followed his lead, looking the Headmaster over mistrustfully. 

That is, until Draco Malfoy caught sight of the boy behind the other Headmaster. 

"Is that Victor Krum?"

Things quickly went downhill from there.

Everyone was clamoring for a look at one of the youngest professional Seekers in history, everyone was lobbying questions at the Staff, everyone was being altogether extremely unruly, except for Tom. Tom didn't care a jot for Quidditch, and so, he sat himself next to Luna on the well, they both turned thier attention to watching the Thestrals dance above the Forbidden Forest. 

Eventually, Dumbledore silenced the masses and they were shuffled off. Eventually, they all went to dinner and were awed by Beauxbatons display of charms and ballet, by Durmstrangs use of elemental spells and traditional dance . . . and thus, their display of the Toad Choir ended up making them seem utter fools. 

And then they get the news. 

"We are proud to announce that we here at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry will be hosting the Triwizard Tournament!"

A raucous, disbelieving cheer went through the crowd. 

"I know that some of you may have concern for the danger such a tournament may offer, but I assure you. Only those participants already of age may apply. No one under seventeen will be allowed to place their name in the drawing."

That got more than several boos of disappointment, but Tom very clearly saw Hari deflate in relief at Ravenclaw, practically slumping into Hermione's shoulder. 

At that point, there was some shuffling, as the foreign students had been standing at the back of the hall till then. The house tables all elongated, and they were bid to sit where they pleased. The majority of Beauxbaton's sat with Ravenclaw, just as the majority of Durmstrang headed for Slytherin.  

"With this happy news, I wish all hoping to participate for Glory and Honor good luck, and begin this feast!"

The tables filled, and the noise level increased dramatically. Tom felt a headache brewing, especially when Victor Krum chose to sit across from him. 

"This is going to be an awful school year." Tom announced to no one in particular. 

Zaibini laughed at him, accepting winning from across the table. Nott gave him a concerned look. 

Tom couldn't help but think that he maybe should have just died in that fire. 

Chapter Text

October 23rd, 1994

Tom was three seconds away from hexing Malfoy to eternal, blessed silence. He knew exactly how he'd do it too. He just needed an opportunity —

"Tom," Luna sighed next to him, gently placing another scone on his empty plate.

Tom stopped glaring watching Malfoy, who was sat across from him and peacocking at Krum loudly, and instead turned to the crossword he was doing with Luna.

(Though most of her answers were wrong, or rather, were given in classic Lovegood Family fashion, so weren't correct to the general population.) 

If he had a little peace this morning would have been a pleasant one. The first of few where he hadn't woken up feeling bruised. Even his magic wasn't feeling as stretched, though it was still distinctly odd. And his wand, while it was trying to work with him, was . . . different, but — still his. Just different. 

"Oh, I've been on a broom since I could toddle, father insisted," Malfoy smirked across from him. 

It was very clearly lead-up to another long winded explanation of the tutors he'd had as a child. He'd gone over it so much over the last twenty-four hours Tom could recite them all by heart. Krum's stony expression didn't flicker, but there was a slight weariness to the set of the older boys shoulders. He'd very clearly never had a run in with a Malfoy before. 

(Though it was true that Abraxas was slightly more tolerable, not being as spoiled by his mother as Draco was. Then again, Draco also might have more to prove, being friends with Potter despite the whispers in-house to his father's beliefs.)

Tom almost threw a biscuit at the prat for being so bloody obnoxious and un-Slytherin. Thankfully, someone else took that burden from him, and the Weasley Terrors led Draco away from the table laughing, the pale blond fuming over the mess on his robes as he stalked after them. 

It was a better day after. 

October 26, 1994

Hari fell onto their picnic blanket with a look of content, and behind him, Malfoy floundered in the lake, spiting and cursing and generally looking like his revenge was being plotted even as he flopped his way wetly out of the lake. Zaibini, in an act of clearly-not-helping, snapped a photo, cackling. (Tom is positive the camera belongs to Colin Creevey. He just can't figure out why Zaibini has it.) Hermione sighed and turned another page furiously. 

"You do realize you've likely just reinstated a prank war." Tom drawled, scratching out his arithmancy assignment and starting over. 

"Psht," Hari snorted, smirking, "you say that as if it ever ended for some people. Or are you suggesting that my robes screaming and running away from me after Quidditch practice yesterday was a wild magic phenomenon?" 

Tom carefully reached down to turn a page in his reference book. 

"I haven't the foggiest what you're implying."

Tom would do it again in a heart beat, because Potter-Black (never Hari on the mock Quidditch pitch, Tom had learned that the pitch is where friendship went to die) was a vicious bastard that deserved to be hassled. Relentlessly. Case in point; in a clear display of repressing the truth, Hari charmed his book to fly away from him, squawking like a parrot. 

Next time, Tom was going to hex the boys gloves to weigh one hundred and eighty times their weight and trap him on the ground of the mock Pitch, and laugh in his face when Draco caught the snitch.

October 27th, 1994

— He found the door, but the snake was there, was always there, and it reared at him, mouth gaping wide wide wide— 

Tom ran and stumbled through the Forgotten Things, the path twisted and curling, as if made by a great winding body. He tripped and trudged and scaled where he could, trying to keep a step ahead of the viscous shadows behind him.

He was not afraid. He was not afraid. He was not afraid. Hewasnotafraid — 

The snake found him anyway. It always seemed to find him.

. . .

He woke dripping with sweat and with only a vague sense of foreboding to explain this. Seconds later Malfoy burst into the dorm and declared it was finally a Quidditch match day. That seemed appropriately foreboding enough that Tom sent a series of hexes at the blond prat, though it did little to dispel the clench and ache in his gut. Convincing himself that it was simply nerves over the game was harder than it should have been.

October 30th, 1994

He and Luna watched as hopeful student after hopeful student dropped their name into a relic. Tom wondered idly at what glory they thought they could find in a tournament with a history of deaths. The Weasley Twins rushed into the hall with potions held aloft, cackling like mad geniuses. He suspected they wanted to participate purely because they'd been told they couldn't. Also, because a thousand galleons was nothing to scoff at for children that came from a poorer family, and they needed the funds for their future business. 

(A business Tom not so privately offered to invest in, alongside Hari.)

Ginny Weasley came trotting into the hall at a steadier pace with a quill and a journal held aloft, clearly meant to be taking notes. Tom and Luna paused their game of chess to watch just as the rest of the eager students who were frustrated at the Age Line. 

"Ladies and Gentlemen," Fred started.

"Germs and Worms," George crowed, bowing in unison with his twin.

"You are about to witness a true marvel of mastery," they announced in unison, smiling devilishly. 

Tom leaned forward with interest, and felt his lips twitch at the cheeky; "bottoms up!" The twins drank, arms linked together impossibly and heads dipping back, and in unison, they tossed the bottles to Ginny, and jumped into the Age Line. 

Upon successfully not being thrown out again, the whole hall erupted into applause, even the Gryffindor's clapping, though Tom had noticed that the Gryffindors —  while irritated by the Twin Terrors —  tended to give the gingers some leeway. Likely due to their families history, rather than true respect, but Tom has been wrong before. The twins then slipped pieces of paper into the Goblet with all due caution, crowing again when nothing appeared to happen . . . 

And then the Goblet crackled and gurgled, almost seeming to huff and puff in irritation, and the runes that made up the Age Line activated, kicking the twins from the circle with such violence that the hall erupted into yet more applause, while the twins rolled over several times and came to a tumbling halt.

Luna, who'd been staring at the Goblet dubiously to that point shook her head. 

"They shouldn't tease the old thing so. If it were more spiteful it would have chosen one of them," she muttered to him quietly, almost secretively. 

He wondered if the Goblet was truly as sentient as Luna believed, but given that it was Luna . . . Tom glanced at the Goblet mistrustfully, only listening with half an ear as McGonagall drug the protesting twins, now growing grey beards down to their knees, to the hospital wing, Ginny trotting behind and scribbling furiously. The remaining students, including one judging Hermione Granger, settled into silence when Victor Krum entered the hall. He submitted his name with all seriousness, a somber glint to his eyes. 

"I think our knights have started a duel," Luna mussed. 

Tom looked down to see that yes, in their distraction, the chess pieces had grown bored and gathered into a sort of ring, at the center of which their knights were dueling ferociously. 

"For Merlin's sake," he sighed, watching blankly as Luna's knight neatly beheaded his own, then smashed the remains in victory. 

"That's not very sportsman-like," Luna chided, shaking her head sadly at the pieces. 

As a result they sent up a slew of derogatory words, then proceeded to try and stage a rebellion. It was a little too organized for a chess set.  

"That's enough of that," he sighed, flicking his wand at the board. 

The pieces were reset and repaired, and blissfully silent. Luna gave him an all too amused look in turn. A rush of sound from the entrance of the Great Hall, and Fleur Delacour, a seventh year from Beauxbatons marched with purpose towards the Goblet. 

"I wonder at what they think they'll achieve, entering into a tournament with a history of killing its participants," he hadn't meant to say it out loud, hushed and careful, but he and Luna were the only ones sitting at this end of Ravenclaw table. 

"They have . . . something to prove," Luna said back, almost absent, attention now on the Daily Prophet which she'd spread between them, "Krum, while not happy with the arrangement, needs the prestige to pull away from his family and forge his own path. Delacour has been treated as little more than a pretty face. . . And Diggory wants everyone to know how good Hufflepuff can be." 

Surprised, Tom glanced away from the article about new limitations being placed on the buying and selling of several toxic plants, and found that Cedric Diggory of Hufflepuff had, in fact, crossed the Age Line and placed his name in the Goblet, to much house support. From what little Tom knew of Diggory, he was a mostly decent sort, one who at least didn't stay away from Slytherin's in the halls, and who'd taken exception to Smith multiple times in a public setting. 

For that alone he supposed he would be willing to accept the Puff, should he end up the champion. Tom might even cheer, despite how stupid he found the whole thing.

"He's staring again," the softest of confessions, and Tom is careful to check the staff table, where it was, as expected, Moody staring back at him. Something had happened, somewhere. 

Neither he nor Luna could place where or why, but since the beginning of the month, it seemed to them that Moody spent a lot of extra time either tailing him or watching him with avid curiosity. Tom was unsure as to why, only knew that otherwise their dynamic had not changed. 

(Wherein Tom threw things at Moody and Moody dodged, and everyone pretended that it wasn't outright disrespectful at this point.) 

Moody's magic eye was trained on the Goblet. His human eye was trained on Tom. Intent, focused, and . . . Mysterious. Whatever the reason for it, it could mean nothing good. 

(Had anyone been paying attention, they may have also noticed the other pair of eyes, which continually slid between Tom and the Goblet, nothing but not-good thoughts behind their eyes. But he didn't, and no one else did either, and the person that might have was very purposefully hindered by their own magic.)

October 31st, 1994

Classes were canceled for the morning of the drawing feast. Apparently, the staff had unanimously decided that no studying or attention would be paid on today of all days. It was perhaps the most rational thing he'd heard about the tournament to date.

Tom ended up getting all his revision done at the breakfast table, preferring to spend the rest of the unexpected free day napping. He may be substantially better than the beginning of the month, but he still often found himself tired unexpectedly. Though thankfully his magic had finally seemed to recover. 

(Recovered and surged. Recently, when he was performing magic, he felt stronger than ever. Refreshed. Alive in a way that was all too unexpected, for how awful he'd felt after the ritual.)

Something was different about him now. Something unnamable for him. Luna called it 'rapid growth for a remaking,' whatever it was, so it must not have been out of the norm. Assuming there was a norm for recovery after a blood adoption ritual.

(That might bare some looking into.)

As he was finishing his final set of revisions, a Durmstrang student took the seat he usually reserved for Luna. The sudden silence from his corner of the table might have been a smart wizards first clue that something was amiss, but alas. 

This one appeared rather dim. 

"That seats taken," Tom announced, flicking his wand at the gits plate. It skittered away from his reaching hands and landed further down the table. 

The glare he received might have intimidated a wet towel from Tom's childhood haunts, but him? Less so. 

"Who do you 'fink you are?" 

The words were half legible, the accent much thicker than the others Tom had heard over the last few days. Perhaps he was so dim because he didn't comprehend everything. Tom made sure to speak slowly, just in case that was the issue. 

"Thomas Slytherin. Third year. Future Master of Defence, most probably a Duelist of some nature, and eventual Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor. And you are in her seat," Tom clipped, just as Luna reached them, smiling at the Durmstrang student with ease, even if she wasn't looking at any of them. 

"Good morning Tom, Theo, Blaise," she chirped, eyes drifting over the ceiling. 

Tom didn't give the boy further chance to protest or fight, merely flicked his wand and watched as the boy was forcefully scooted down the bench, being drug by the tan coat they all seemed to wear as part of their uniform. Luna took his place easily, with Nott slipping over to bracket her other side rather helpfully. He could feel the attention of the staff table, but he honestly couldn't find it in him to care, now that order had been restored. 

"Good morning Luna."

Luna blinked owlishly at the ceiling in response, then let her attention drift down to the area just above his head. 

"I'm not hungry," the words were almost mulish, to go along with the absent pout on her face. 

"That's a pity, as I'm afraid I promised Lord Lovegood that you would eat at least breakfast and dinner." 

Luna's pout drifted further down, and was soon pointed at the bangers and toast that was nearest her elbow. 

"Your promise to Daddy isn't my concern," she pointed out. 

Tom sighed. 

(Occasionally she did get peculiar about eating, but thankfully he'd found work arounds for such.) 

"And yet, as my friend, you do care for me, don't you? You care if I'm concerned?" 

Her silence was answer enough, so he pushed a small plate of toast in her direction. Luna contemplated the eggs right next to it for all of a minute before she reluctantly took a small bite of toast. She'd likely be nibbling on it through all of breakfast but she'll have still eaten something. 

" 'voir name iz Slytherin?" 

Glancing across the table, Tom met the eyes of Victor Krum, who was staring across the breakfast items intently. His dark hair was cropped short, his hawk-like nose somehow elegant combined with his sharp cheekbones and square jaw. Equally as dark eyes studied Tom intently, and though he would normally take such things as a challenge, this is also the boy — man? — who spent two days stoically sitting through Malfoys preening rambles. Without expressing irritation. If anyone in the castle deserved Tom's respect, it's likely Krum.

"Yes, Heir Krum," he actually had no idea if the Krums' were Lords or not, but seeing as how he wasn't corrected, he would operate on the theory that they were. 

"I did not know 'zere were Slytherins left," he mused. 

Tom grimaced, then blandly gestured to himself, trying to appear casual but hopefully coming off as awkward. He was proud of his bloodline, but not proud of what a version of him became, bringing more shame to him than the idea that his mother had been a circus freak. 

(Mrs. Cole's most common jeer, in regards to his parentage.)

But his mother wasn't a circus freak. His mother was Arbella Selwyn, according to the new blood burning through his veins, according to the quiet family magic now living in his bones, alongside his own Monster. His 'father,' really didn't bear mentioning, in all senses, and not simply because he was this versions Tom Riddle. 

The awkwardness must have come off as he intended, because Krum gave him another searching look before nodding, then offering his well manicured, callused hand across the table, effectively shocking several of his school-mates.

"Krum. Victor Krum, second son of the Bulgarian Secretary of Treasure to the Ministry." Ah. 

A Lordship indeed. Tom merely nodded, taking the older boys hand, and then gesturing to Luna lightly. 

"Heir Krum, this is Lovegood, Luna Lovegood. Heir to the Lovegood Claim," Luna paused in nibbling on her toast long enough to give a absent wave and dreamy smile to the area over Krums head, and then he motioned to Nott, "Next to her is Heir Nott, Theo Nott, Heir to the Klan of Nott. And on my other side, Zaibini, Blaise Zaibini, son to the Contessa Zaibini."

Handshakes all around, and then Krum struck up an awkward, if pleasant conversation about the course material offered at Hogwarts. It was awkward only due to the older boy's accent, and the few moments he was clearly raking his brains for the correct word in English. Tom could almost feel Malfoy's jealousy from where the boy was sat down the table, currently playing his role for the Slytherin court, though he was careful not to look the prats way. 

Somehow, it was almost as satisfying as all the moments Tom had managed to successfully hit Malfoy in the face with the Quaffle. 

They'd somehow ended up giving Krum a tour of Hogwarts, talking idly about the course material offered, their favorite and least favorite classes, and how the school years typically went (though Luna, Nott and Zaibini had more information for this than Tom) including some fairly alarming amounts of danger. 

" 'Vou are telling me students 'vere petrified and 'vour staff have no idea how?" Krum asks at one point, while thier walking back towards the castle along the Black Lake. Tom would very much like to know the answer to that as well, his frown deep. He didn't like this 'Heir of Slytherin' nonsense at all, and is wondering how the whole lot of them kept it from him the first time they gave vague descriptions of their time in Hogwarts previously. 

(It also explained quite a lot about the suspicion in some eyes the first few weeks they were in school.)

"Well, they grew the Mandrakes," Blaise drawled, shrugging. 

"And then of course the attacks abruptly stopped," Luna added absently, balancing a little precariously on a series of stones along the shore, hopping from one to the other. 

"Though no one knew why," Nott completed, eyes on the book in his hands, his attention absent. 

"I see," Krum frowned, though he didn't look like he saw at all, and Tom didn't blame him.

Tom didn't much see either.

"We should hurry back. The rehearsals will be starting soon," Luna reminded, and Tom reached out to help her off the slightly taller stone she'd clambered on top of. 

The group of girls that had tried following them initially — and then swiftly ran as soon as they realized that Tom was in the group — was still loitering around the doors of the castle when they approached, somehow more smelly and silly looking than before, and Tom felt no shame in planting himself next to Krum so that they could just get through the doors unmolested. After successfully passing with very minimal stopping (and that was only for Tom to glare the giggles into silence and motion them aside) Krum spoke up with a wealth of amusement and gratitude in his voice.

"I must 'fank 'vou, Slytherin, for the reprieve, and beg 'vat 'vou 'elp me around again in future."

Tom considered the offer absently, eyes skating towards where Hari was clearly waiting for them up the stairs to the library, and the star-struck way the Claw was looking at Krum. 

"I shall consider it — If you'll consider introducing yourself to my friend. He's a talented Seeker himself, and quite enjoys your team. He'd be honored to meet you."

Krum followed his gaze to Hari, then seemingly skipped past Hari to Hermione, where a . . . odd look crossed his face, his cheeks flushing as he quickly nodded. 

"Deal, my friend."

What followed was both the most amusing and most painful thing he's ever witnessed. Hari could hardly get a word out at first, though he tried his best, bless him, and then he was a torrent of awe, shakily holding out a hand for a handshake and then promptly seeming to give up on the conversation, staring at his hand. Krum seemed okay with this, instead conversing with Hermione, who seemed confused to be the center of the Seeker's attention, though she put up with it until he was called away. The silence lasted after for all of a minute, and then Hari launched himself at Tom, vomiting a spew of words that made no sense. 

Tom didn't find this so amusing, and promised he would not be doing any more favors for Hari, if this is how he responded to them. They did manage an hour and half of study in the library, the rest of Luna's friends drifting to them slowly. Neville seemed anxious for the whole event to be over, the twins seemed eager to know the results (despite being promised it would not be either of them) and Ginny simply seemed to want to know if Krum was as kind as she'd heard.

Eventually the warning bell tolled, and they all made their way to the Great Hall. They had to sit with their own houses for this particular feast, so Tom settled into his usual seat, was swiftly bracketed by Nott and Zaibini, and surprisingly Malfoy joined their section, bringing with him Greengrass and Parkinson. Ramos, across from him, quirked a curious eye at the assortment, but Tom ignored her — he had no patience for politics just then — in favor of noting that Luna, Hari and Hermione had settled just behind Ramos. Luna looked . . . pale. Nervous, suddenly. Her eyes were bouncing over empty air, her hands trembling. 

It had his shoulder tensing as he subtly looked for some hidden danger. Whatever she was seeing, however — whatever she was seeing, Tom could not. 

The candles above them seemed to brighten down the center of the Hall, and Dumbledore stood to his podium, calling for silence. 

"Hogwarts! We will now commence the Triwizard celebration, with examples of a special skill from each school," which made Tom especially nervous, as to his knowledge, their school had no special skills, "and end with the drawing of the Champions!" 

Applause, each house for once in agreement about their level of excitement, though he was gratified to see that there were quite a few students that looked just as apprehensive as him. 

"Without further adieu; the Students of Beaubaxtons, and their lovely headmistress, Madame Maxine!"

A soft, elegant tone started playing, and then the double doors burst open. The Beaubaxtons students, once again in their periwinkle blue robes, twirled in, a synchronization to their movements that spoke of formal training. They were followed by a cloud of charming silver-glow butterflies, which Tom was sure he'd read about in a charms book, and then they danced, making their way to the front with elegant, graceful movements, every pause in the music or movements sweeping another burst of glimmering, glowing butterflies into existence.

It all finally ended with a rather complicated looking move, wherein each pair was dipped by their partner, and Delacour spun to a stop primly, arms shooting out with a an array of silver-blue birds burst from her. A much tinier girl than he'd seen previously had accompanied her, spinning about in a display of gymnastics that somehow perfectly accented the older girls movements, and then they were both standing straight and tall, holding hands and bowing to Madame Maxime, who had started down the center of the hall when her dancers were halfway through. 

The hall erupted into applause, and more than a few whistles, which earned several boys and girls sharp looks from their significant others. Once that had died down, Dumbledore, still clapping, smiled into the crowd and waved the room to silence. 

"Next, the Students of Durmstrang, and their Headmaster, Igor Karkaroff!"

The doors burst open with a heavy drum-beat, followed by the strong-boned boys and girls that had come with the boat, each of them carrying some sort of dancing stave, which they pounded on the ground rhythmically. Sparks flew from the metal tips, the staves spinning almost too-fast to track, and where Beaubaxtons had been elegant and graceful, this dance was all power and fierceness. It finally ended with two of them breathing harsh flames into the shape of a dragon, and Krum's wild stave dance stopping abruptly in the middle, bowing to Karkaroff. It was an excellent display of charms and elemental magics. 

More applause this time, most especially from the Quidditch fanatics, and then when that died off, Dumbledore rose again, smiling. Tom grimaced. He didn't know what was about to happen, but he did know that he was going to hate it. He was right.

"And finally, Hogwarts presents; the Frog Choir, conducted by our esteemed Professor Filius Flitwick."

The Frog Choir came marching down the center next, and thought they looked a little nervous, that nervousness didn't abruptly dissipate until Dumbledore continued. 

"They shall be singing the school song, and if any of you should feel, I encourage you to sing along!"

Flitwick looked briefly exasperated, but his own good nature had him slowly shrugging it off even as he seemed to reorganize the choir, and then they started singing. And while Tom could admit the Frog Choir wasn't awful, what made it awful was when half the school stood eagerly and sang along. He could feel the other two schools watching in befuddlement, and what's more, Madame Maxine and Igor Karkaroff both looked so . . . unimpressed. 

It galled that the school Tom loved like a home was being judged so thoroughly — and more, that he couldn't fault them. He'd done his research. Magical Britain was behind the times, by at least a hundred years, and had been ever since they had a string of bad luck, magical plagues, two Dark Lords, and one notable Dark Lady.

(The Dark Lady Vidia, who did truly unspeakable things in the name of scientific progression, had hailed from Hufflepuff house, and from all he had gathered, been a true Psychopath. She was before Britain got drug into things with Grindlewald and the Germans, but her marks had been left, mostly in the form of magical restrictions.)

Once the Choir had finished, and everyone was seated, they progressed with the Choosing Ceremony, which Tom mostly ignored in favor of his self-study. He only looked up twice — once when Krum was called, and again when Diggory was called, and he assumed that would be it. Distant, he hears Dumbledore talking. An then a confused gasp through the crowd, and then silence. He only looks up when he feels a tentative hand touch his shoulder. 

Nott is looking at him with wide eyes, expression so carefully blank Tom knows something is happening. 

"Thomas Slytherin. Please make your way to the Champions Hall."

His head snaps up and around, confusion a sudden, rolling emotion in his gut. 

"What?" Dumbledore is staring at him, something ticking in his eyes, now sparkle-less, and Snape is slowly standing behind him, looking furious. 

"You've been chosen, Mister Slytherin."

Whispers break out, and Tom very slowly closes his book. 

"No, thank you." He enunciates slowly, eyes flickering between the Goblet Dumbledore, the furious expressions on the other school Masters, and then finally, Luna's terrified, pale face. 

A silvery doe darts down the center of the Hall, and Snape is suddenly there, swooping down. 

"Headmaster I must protest. Mister Slytherin is barely fourteen. He's shown no interest in participating thus far, and I suspect this is a targeted attack."

Dumbledore frowns at Snape, and they have a hissed conversation, and Tom settles more firmly into his seat, scowling. Finally, Dumbledore turns to Tom, and before he finishes his "Mister Slytherin—"

Tom says;

"No. I did not enter my name, and I will not be agreeing to any contract with some geriatric relic until my Guardian has arrived to review the contract."

The hall froze, stunned, and Tom remained exactly where he was. 

(Inside, his heart trembled. His mind was buzzing with worry. His Monster stirred in his chest, shivering in anticipation, and Tom forced it down. Now was decidedly not the time.)

"Be that as it may, my boy, please go to the ante-chamber with the rest of the champions until we can sort this out," Dumbledore tries, and Tom straightened his spine, shaking his head mutely. 

"Mister Slytherin," Dumbledore tried again, and Tom felt no qualms in interrupting him. Again.

"I'm sorry Headmaster, but there's definitely some mistake. I could not have possibly put my name in the Goblet, nor would I want to. I'm not even of age for one, and for another; According to all the reading one Hermione Granger did of the Goblet of Fire, even stepping into the ante-chamber with the other Champions is a form of acceptance and admittance. I will not be setting foot in that room or outside this Hall until my guardian has been called and we can prove I didn't consent to entering this moronic display of recklessness."

More silence, all of Slytherin staring at him. All of Hogwarts staring at him. The group of people he'd come to think of as his . . . friends, looking furious. And Luna. Looking terrified. Suddenly, he felt a presence at his back, and before he could be worried, Mortimer's voice ran out.

"Respectfully, Headmaster, Slytherin House agrees with our newest member. Thomas has shown little to no interest in the tournament to date, and we will not let the Staff falsely accuse a thirteen year old boy of crossing an Age Line that you yourself put into place. Nor would any of us have willfully submitted the name of a minor. There is something very wrong here, and until his guardian arrives, Slytherin House will not be allowing any contract with that Goblet to be finalized." 

Dumbledore started sputtering, and Bagman looked like Christmas had come early, and Crouch scowled — and Tom felt a warmth and surprise he couldn't quite understand. From the corner of his eye, he could see several seventh years looking over a familiar looking tome. Dumbledore blustered. He tried every trick in the book to convince Tom away from the safety of his House. The Court had moved to stand between him and the Goblet, and only relented when, not an hour later, Lord Lovegood and several ministry employees banged open the doors, looking furious. 

No one could hear anything that happened in the resulting argument, as Professor Flitwick had cast a muffuleto around them, but from the angry gesturing of the Arour and the surprisingly intimidating stance Lord Lovegood had taken, it was nothing kind. It was finally broken when Lord Lovegood tuned to them, looking pale and furious, and the Arour called for him.

"Mister Slytherin, if you would please join us," he growled, glaring daggers at Dumbledore.  

Tom approached only because Lord Lovegood nodded him over, shifting to stand at Tom's free side when they arrived. The seventh year Slytherin students trailed them to the front, clearly surprising the Staff, but that didn't deter them. Crouch approached them, looking irritated, and the red-robed Arour, arms crossed sternly, glared some more in return. Crouch tossed up a privay charm . . . which did nothing when Hari was suddenly by his side looking determined, and the Weasley Twins were hanging off of him. 

"Mister . . . Slytherin . . . I need you to make a vow of truth, upon your magic, that you did not yourself or ask an older student or Professor to submit your name into the Goblet." 

(It dearly looked like Crouch wanted to tell them to leave, but clearly, he was choosing his battles, and telling Hari Potter-Black no apparently wasn't one of them.)

The vow was easy enough to give, and he followed it with performing a summoning charm on the Headmasters Goblet, then filling it with a simple augmenti, neatly proving he had been honest. Crouch stared at him with all seriousness, teeth gnashing. Dumbledore frowned at him from over his half-moon glasses.

"It appears, despite the rules laid down, you have been wrongfully entered into this tournament. Unfortunately, the runes scribed into the Goblet make the contract with it binding upon selection of a participant. The instant it spit out your name, you were chosen. Entering into the Champions Chamber only solidifies your agreement, but does not nullify the consequences, should you choose not to. I'm afraid, young Sir, you will have to participate in the tournament." 

A muttering went out through the Hall, colored by confusion, and Hufflepuff table looked a second away from baying for blood. Tom felt his jaw clench, and was all too glad when Lord Lovegood carefully grabbed his shoulder, an uncharacteristic frown marring his face. 

"This is most distressing, Crouch, and you can be sure that my solicitor will be in touch with the tournaments offices. This never should have been allowed to happen." 

The uncharacteristic growl, combine with the furious expression, has never made Tom respect the man more. Of course, he could hardly focus on that when his heart was a drum in his chest, beating furiously. The only reason he moved back to the Ante-chamber is because Xenophilius gripped his shoulder tight, shooed aside Hari and the twins, who immediately ran to Gryffindor table for some reason, and steered him back to the chamber with a clenched jaw. The waiting Champions looked at them with confusion when they arrived. 

It was nothing to how the foreign Headmasters reacted, but at least he had Xeno to come to his defense. Dumbledore certainly wasn't trying to, though Snape was glowering at Karkaroff and spitting just as much venom, uniting with Xeno in a surprising tag-team. That is, until Crouch broke into it.

"Regardless of the results of the Arour investigation, I must unfortunately announce that Mister Slytherin must compete in the tournament," Crouch announced, looking sour the entire time, "and that the first task shall take place on November the twenty-fourth. Students, you may not seek help from outside sources . . . Though perhaps, Mister Slytherin should be open to advice given by his head of House or professors, considering his age."

Lord Lovegood surged forward then, a mad glint in his eye, an unusual expression for the normally calm man, and hissed a question they couldn't quite make out. Crouch puffed up and hissed something back, and things were quickly escalated. Eventually, the Arour had to physically separate the two, and it left Tom feeling . . . warm. Bagman took over, looking nervous, eyes flickering from Xeno to Tom. 

"The first task will test the Champions daring, nerve, and fearlessness. Go forth now and try to prepare! Good luck Champions!" 

And then he fled the room, with the Arour ushering Crouch after him. Probably for the best. Tom is numb now, but he'd likely finish what Xeno started as soon as he felt better. And then of course the reality of what just happened started to fully sink in. Diggory, Krum, and Delacour all approached him, frowning, and Tom — he knows they all ask him questions, but he can't answer. Can't process. It is taking everything in him to keep his Monster contained and down, taking everything for him not to snap. Tom does not like control being taken from him. Does not like having his choices made for him. Can only say;

"Bollox."

It seems, despite his lack of information, this is exactly sufficient enough for them to understand what had just happened. Diggory gives him a concerned look, Krum carefully places a hand on his shoulder, and Delacour, after staring at him intently, asked if he was okay. 

"Bollox," was all he could manage again, and then Snape was there, leading him away, ushering him towards the dungeons. The already pale man was paler, looking for all the world like he'd gone and turned into a vampire. He was muttering something under his breath, but Tom didn't have the mental acuity to keep track. Tom ended up in his bed, somehow, with a calming drought being shoved down his throat, and then he was sleeping. 

November 1st, 1994

Tom woke enraged. This is hardly surprising, as he'd likely have gone to sleep enraged too, if it weren't for the quick thinking of his Head of House. It's early. Far too early for anyone else to be awake. Tom slips from the dorm after hastily dressing for the day and marches towards the Forbidden Forest, where he proceeds to find a seemingly empty clearing and tear the ground asunder, his Monster let loose in a violent storm. He doesn't know how long exactly he stands there, ripping trees from the ground and shredding them to pulp, only that the sun is actually out when his Monster subsides and he can form a coherent thought. 

"Right then," he breathes, magic pulsing around him like a slow-moving tide. 

By the time he makes it back to the castle, it's nearing Breakfast, and there's enough noise in the Great Hall he knows he'll likely find Luna there. She is, sitting at her table and anxiously watching the area above the doors. She has nothing on the plate in front of her. The Hall silences when he enters, but he pays that little mind. instead he marches up to Luna, sits down next to her, and breathes, trying to keep his temper from flaring at the eyes he feels on him. 

"Tom," Hermione says softly, and he looks up to see the older girl staring at him wide-eyed, "Tom are they really making you compete?"

Tom grimaces at her in response, and an unholy fire lights in Hermione's brown eyes, her lips pursed and her back straightening. He cannot help but think, for the first time, that she would have made a rather good sort of Gryffindor, one he wouldn't even mind being friends with. 

"Well. We'll just have to research I suppose. When's the first task?"

Next to her, Hari, is watching him with equally wide eyes, looking frantic. Tom isn't sure why, but the boy seems . . . especially disturbed. 

"November twenty-fourth." Tom snips, then sets about making himself some tea, only just noticing that Luna hasn't moved.

When he glances at her he stops cold. Luna's eyes are watery, and worry lines mar her face, and she looks so, so afraid. Not of him. For him. Her eyes meet his own, a tangible connection that he wasn't expecting, and then she's suddenly clutching his hand tight, breath coming in ragged gasps. 

"Daddy said he was fighting the Ministry about it. But he won't be able to to much. The Goblet is too old, Tom."

Her words are so soft they might have been his imagining, but her eyes are pools of liquid fear, and even though Tom does not want to be doing this — even though he considers it the height of foolishness . . . he suddenly realizes that he cannot simply charge in, trusting his rage and power to make up for anything else. 

"Don't worry Luna. I'm going to survive this tournament. And then I'm going to shove Crouches hat down his throat, for having the gall to come up with such a moronic idea." 

Though his words are laced with rage, Luna seems to relax slightly, trembling hands still clutching his, but she nods, quick and accepting.

"Yes. Yes. You need to play to survive," she mutters, her eyes leaving him as if a cord was snapping, eyes bouncing over the air above them rapidly, "just to survive."

One of Hermione's journals is already out and on the table, flicked to a new page. She and Hari are conferring softly. Twin weights slot into the spaces beside himself and Luna, and the Twins are there, with Ginny shortly shoving — George? — aside to sit next to Luna. Neville appears on Hermione's other side, looking quietly furious. He has a hissed conversation with them that Tom can't make out, and then all three of them have their heads together. Nott and Zaibini squeeze in next to Hari, Zaibini's smile forced and Nott looking . . . worried.

"Okay. I assume we're going to be making a plan. What is the plan?" Zaibini asked. 

It hits Tom then, unexpectedly. 

He has called them all his acquaintances. Considered them only sort-of-friends, or perhaps friends-of-a-friend. But. But they all considered him a friend. Because they were all here, crowding around Ravenclaw table, quietly trying to plan for something that is unpredictable, worry and rage in the line of their shoulders, and they — they care. If he's hurt. Lives. Dies. 

He was. 

Not ready.

Not for this. 

(Not for something he'd never had, never seemed good enough to have before, and so why was he given it now? Why now was Tom suddenly worth it, when all he'd wanted as a younger boy was this? Something shaped like this?)

Quickly burying that thought down deep, so deep it would hopefully suffocate and die, Tom forced himself to drink his tea and Luna to eat a breakfast, and let Hari and Hermione drag him towards the library, all of these . . . people seemingly deciding to skip their first class with him to steal a table and dig into the history of the Tourney. It was not great. Did not make it better. But it — it did something. 

It meant something.

Something that could be his.

It didn't take away the rage, or make his forced participation better, but it was something. 

Chapter Text

October 31st, 1994

Hari Potter-Black

Hari has been nervous for days. Ever since they were told what the Tourney would entail. Because he had high hopes, with how the year had been going, even with Quidditch canceled. It had been nice. Quiet. He'd had time to devote to studying and reading and forcing Tom Slytherin to be his friend, which he'd decided the younger-ish boy needed more of after a handful of absent comments during his and Neville's birthday parties. 

(And spurred on in no small part by the prank war the younger boy and Luna had willfully walked into, making not just Hari, but Remus and Sirius, delighted.)

Things had been going well. 

And then they'd got news of the Tourney and their schools participation, and Hari had thought; 'ah, so this is the terrible thing that's going to try and kill me this year.' Hermione had told him he was being paranoid. He'd been trying to believe her, up until the feast had started and he'd looked at the goblet, so suspiciously innocent-looking standing there behind the age line. Lying, like most magical objects had lied to him, in some way or another. 

If there was one thing Hari knew absolutely, it was this; no matter how well the Headmaster or other Professors tried to promise that everything was okay, ultimately, something always slipped through the cracks. 

(His trust in everyone else's belief that nothing horrible would happen had died sometime in his second year, if he's being honest. )

In first it had been Voldemort, possessing a professor. In second, some mysterious something petrifying people until, abruptly, it stopped (and then the discovery that Lockhart was a very very bad man) in the middle of the school year. In third, it had been Sirius and the dementors that tailed him, subsequently making Hari's life worse for thier persistence. 

Now, of course, it would be some mystic, ages-old relic that selected the best of the best. Hari hardly felt like the best anything, but he knew that wouldn't stop his horrid Potter luck, which had had plenty of ambient opportunity to connive with the Goblet on the best way to make his year awful. 

And, just as he suspected, still tense even after all three Champions had been chosen, the goblet flared a fourth time, Dumbledore's speech was cut off, and an additional, tiny slip of paper had sputtered into life, drifting down to the Headmaster in a show of innocence that no one really believed. Hari had tensed, shoulders inching up to his ears in suspicion, and Dumbledore had stared blankly at the parchment, a very big something flickering too fast over his face. 

"Thomas Slytherin," he called, voice full of something. 

The hall stilled, everyone slowly turning to Slytherin table, where the heir of Slytherin sat, attention rather obviously on a book in front of him, his cutlery and plate shoved to the side still half full of food. 

"Thomas Slytherin," Dumbledore tried again, and still Tom seemed oblivious, a page flicking and eyes scanning down the text. 

Theo reached out slowly, touching Tom's shoulder tentatively. It's this that grabs Tom's attention, the boy's quizzical look morphing into a confused scowl when he realizes something was wrong. 

"Thomas Slytherin. Please make your way to the Champions Hall."

Tom's head snapped around, something like incredulous disbelief settling over him. 

"What?" He echoed, and Hari knew. 

Whatever was happening, Tom wasn't responsible. 

More than likely, the terrible Potter luck was, and Hari had spread his curse. 

"No," someone whispered, too soft for anyone else to hear, but Hari looked across Ravenclaw table, and found Luna's expression immediately. 

His heart dropped. 

He has never seen the kind, dotty girl look so heartbroken. That, as nothing else could have, made him realize the severity of the situation. Because it was not a prank, not a poorly executed joke. Not a horrible play being acted out to show them what unwilling participation in a death tourney would look like.

His Potter luck really was going to be the death of Tom Slytherin. 

Severus Snape

"Thomas Slytherin."

The Headmaster's words had the same impact as an unexpected gong, set off just behind one's ear. He felt his blood chill abruptly, as if a dementor's hand had just punched through his chest and squeezed his heart. This sensation, combined with the head-rattling gong sound, made him at least partially surprised when he found the strength to grip the table hard, allowing the sensation of the old wood to bring him back to the present he was at risk of drifting away from. Mister Slytherin is reading — because of course he would, stuck in a feast he likely had no interest in — and Nott attempts to grab his attention. It is around the time that he starts staring back at Dumbledore that Severus realizes how this will go.

(How it always goes, when one of his students is unintentionally in the limelight.)

Slowly, he stands, drawing his wand. It moves in a motion he was all too familiar with, at one point in his life being the only spell he could perform to overcome the crushing grief. Once the silvery doe was formed, he gave it his orders as fast and quietly as possible. 

"Find Lord Lovegood, inform him that his ward is in danger and needs his assistance post haste, then find Arour Kingsley —  let him know that an underage wizard has been forced into the tourney against his will and needs ministry representation."

His Patronus bounds off urgently, while Dumbledore and Slytherin are staring at each other, and Severus tunes back into the conversation to the words;

"No, thank you." Mister Slytherin enunciates slowly, eyes flickering over the whole hall multiple times, seemingly cataloging the angry faces staring back at him, though his gaze ultimately lands at a point on the Ravenclaw table. One does not have to be a Legilimens to know that he is staring at Miss Lovegood.

Severus wastes no more time in swooping down the stairs, towards his Slytherins, standing in-between them and Dumbledore, as he always must. 

(Because there were only so many adults in these students' lives fighting for them, and Severus had made a vow to always be one of them.)

"Headmaster I must protest. Mister Slytherin is barely fourteen. He's shown no interest in participating thus far, and I suspect this is a targeted attack."

It could be nothing but a targeted attack, given the boy in question and his suspected ancestry. The only question was who, of all the numerous probabilities it could be, had deigned to put a minor's name in a Goblet meant to test the mettle of grown wixen. Dumbledore frowns at him, and Severus stalks three long steps closer, suddenly furious. 

"You cannot make a child compete in this moronic display— "

His harshly whispered rant is interrupted by Albus not-unkindly, which perhaps makes what the Headmaster says worse.

"Severus, I cannot change the Goblet's mind. It is a relic."

Shaking his head sharply, Severus tries again. 

"There must be some hidden law, some loophole that will allow him to refuse without consequences. He is a child!"

Dumbledore gives him a sad, knowing look, and turns back to the child in question.

"Mister Slytherin—"

It is with a heavy heart that Severus realizes that Dumbledore will not help. He will not try. 

(That to him, as always, unless one of his precious Gryffindor's is at stake, then whatever a student happens to experience in the halls of Hogwarts must be an experience that the young must go through, to build character.)

He is all too grateful that his house stands together, as it must. That Slytherin (the boy and the students as a whole) stand firm in their conviction. That his Snakes know they are not alone, so long as they stand together. It does not make what follows easier. Does not make it right. But Severus, at least, has the comfort of knowing this his House will take care of their own. That Mister Slytherin, whether he be the illegitimate offspring of a madman or not, would not be facing the following Tournament without resources. 

The Terror Twins

This was. Well. Very not good. Fred and George had been trying for days to get past the age line successfully, primarily because they had been told they couldn't. A little bit because they wanted that reward money, and Bagman had screwed them at the Quidditch World Cup. But they were on the precipice of seventeen, had outstripped their peers in several subjects for several years now, and they knew what they would have been getting into. 

Tom was different. Ickle Tomikins was sharp and withdrawn, blindingly intelligent and unafraid of giving as good as he got. Tom was basically family at this point. Neither of them could say how he got there, only that between one day and the next they realized they had as much fun with Tom as they did with Bill, and really, that was all they needed to adopt someone without permission. 

And now their honorary brother was in danger. Because somehow, his name was in the Goblet. The Goblet that had thrown them in their arses multiple times over the last week. The Goblet that picked the best of the best and slotted them for pain and potential death. 

Before they knew why, they were following Tom up to the teachers and ministry employees, glaring twin glares at Crouch, Bagman, and Dumbledore. Hari was right up there with them, hands shaking where he clenched them behind his back. This wasn't surprising. Harikins was their little brother too.

(Even if Ron had decided to give that up when the little Claw needed him most.) 

Brothers stuck together. 

Which is why, as Tom was led back to the ante-chamber, they rushed to Gryffindor table, where Ron was sitting red-faced and angry-looking. But their focus wasn't Ron. It was Lavender — who'd apparently developed something of a crush on their brother sometime at the end of the previous year that was still going strong. For all that none of them understood what the girl saw in Ron, Lavender was sweet, when she wanted to be. She was also, to Pansy Parkinson's eternal rage, the Gossip Queen of Hogwarts. 

"Tom swore a vow on his magic that he did not himself and more importantly, did not ask his name to be put into the goblet." Fred declared, shoving aside a third-year Gryffindor boy he didn't know. 

Lavender, who'd already been leaning forward with interest, sat up straighter, eyes glittering. 

"He accioed the Headmaster's goblet and filled it with water," she pointed out unnecessarily. 

"Yes, which means someone submitted his name on purpose. Someone is trying to kill a thirteen-year-old boy." George stressed, expression tight. 

Hari said nothing, staring blankly at the table-top. 

"I can't wait to tell Hannah," Lavender gushed, then spun where she sat, located the Puff in question, and then slipped from her seat. 

"Who would be barmy enough to enter Slytherin's name?" Dean asked, leaning closer to them. 

Ron huffed, scoffing. 

"Please. I bet you he did manage to arrange it, and is simply looking for more bloody attention than he already gets!" He burst, cheeks still ruddy. 

Hari tensed between the twins. Most of the table did, likely remembering what had happened the last time Ron accused someone of looking for attention during a dangerous situation. Instead of saying anything, however, Hari did something worse. He sighed, long and deep and so disappointed, then lifted his bright green eyes to Ron, who froze. 

"Tom doesn't want attention," he corrected softly, standing with a heaviness to his shoulders that was palpable, the utter disappointment in his eyes somehow a perfect mix of Molly Weasley and Remus Lupin. And then he walked away. 

Gryffindor table shifted uncomfortably, looking between themselves, and then — 

"We should write our parents or something. This is the fourth year where a student has been placed in direct danger. Shouldn't the Headmaster's age line have accounted for something like this?" 

Mutters and whispers and slowly, with one sentence and one look, Hari Potter-Black had convinced Gryffindor table that something unjust had occurred right under their noses. And if there was anything the den of Lions hated, it was feeling as though they had let something unjust slide past them without trying to achieve something.

Grinning between themselves, Fred and George scurried back to their own table just as Dumbledore appeared again from the Champions chamber. Tom was not with the other Champions, and Snape was nowhere to be seen. Despite the rumors and whispers now stirring through the hall, the uncomfortable truth was that Tom was being made to participate in a death tournament. And no one knew how. 

But the Twins were certainly going to find out.

Crouch Sr.

He felt nothing but all-encompassing rage, when he'd processed what had just happened. When he had to stand back and watch the disgusting little Slytherin lie through his teeth to the Headmaster. Lie through his teeth to everyone. But Crouch knew — had known from the moment that he first heard rumors of the boy's existence that he would be nothing but trouble. Just as he'd told his errant, stupid son that You-Know-Who was nothing but trouble. And still, his foolish boy had thrown himself onto the fires, rebellion and spite a vicious weapon his wife's son wielded with aplomb. He'd brought shame to the Crouch name. 

This Tourney was supposed to bring pride back. Legacy back. And now here it was being sullied all over again by the heinous, odious man.

Crouch wouldn't stand for it. And he most assuredly wouldn't stand for being threatened by some looney fairy-chaser at the bottom of the barrel. Lord Lovegood would regret his idle threats. Of that, he was sure. 

Cedric Diggory

He didn't know much about Thomas Slytherin, but he did know Neville. Their most ferocious Puff, when he felt someone he loved was threatened, had been through his fair share of turmoil, but that often meant that his perceptions of people were rather accurate. And Neville Longbottom was friends with Thomas Slytherin. So when the younger boy stumbled into the room, guided by who could only be Lord Lovegood, and trailed by Professor Snape, Cedric could only feel alarm. Because something had clearly happened. 

Granted, he hadn't expected for that something to include the boy being entered into the Tournament against his will, but given the luck of the friends he'd made since coming to Hogwarts, it seemed — what was that muggle saying? Ah yes —  par for the course. Slytehrin seems dazed, while the various Headmasters and mistresses argue with each other, and Snape of all people hisses vitriol at Karkaroff when he tries to verbally attack the boy. The man who can only be Lord Lovegood stands with one hand clapped on Slytherin's shoulder, the other twitching as if in desire for his wand, and his eyes flicker between the arguing adults until Crouch finally breaks through the arguments, looking hassled and extremely displeased. 

"Regardless of the results of the Auror investigation, I must, unfortunately, announce that Mister Slytherin must compete in the tournament," Crouch announced, and Diggory is incised to see the man's expression so sour-looking, "and that the first task shall take place on November the twenty-fourth. Students, you may not seek help from outside sources . . . Though perhaps, Mister Slytherin should be open to advice given by his head of House or professors, considering his age."

In an unexpected, quick move, Lord Lovegood surged forward, and because he was standing so close, Cedric heard some of what was said. It went a little something like;

"Watch your tone, Crouch. As the man behind the revival of this deplorable exposition, I would think you'd express a little more sympathy to the child your game is endangering."

Lord Lovegood's tone was nothing like the breathless, dotty voice of his daughter, nor what he'd been led to believe of the man from the few issues of The Quibbler that Neville had brought to the commons, trying to encourage others to read it as well. In fact, there was something decidedly dangerous in the man's words. Crouch puffed up, chest swelling, and cheeks going ruddy.

"Are you threatening me?"

To which Lord Lovegood hissed back;

"If I was threatening you, you wouldn't be breathing," and there was a mad glint in his wide, silver-blue eyes. 

Things were quickly escalated, and Cedric lost track of who was hissing what, until the Auror had to physically separate the two. Cedric was impressed, despite the obviously distressing circumstances, because it took guts to stand up to a ministry official. Though perhaps, as Lord, Tom's guardian had a little more wiggle-room than the average ministry grunt. Bagman took over, sweaty and pale, eyes flickering from Lord Lovegood, who was standing behind his ward again and breathing deeply in a meditative exercise, to Slytherin, who was watching them all with a concerningly blank expression. 

"The first task will test the Champions daring, nerve, and fearlessness. Go forth now and try to prepare! Good luck Champions!" 

And then he fled the room, with the Auror ushering Crouch before him. Cedric, along with Krum and Delacour, drew closer to the younger boy despite their perspective Headmasters urging, and asked him an assortment of questions. 

"Are you alright, Slytherin?" was Cedric's question. 

" 'Vou and 'vour friends 'vere not exaggerating the life-threatening danger," Krum growled, a concerned look in his dark eyes.

"I do not understand," Delacour muttered, accent thick but pleasantly elegant, "how did 'zomeone enter you?"

The boy stares at them blankly, and shortly Cedric realizes that he must be in shock, because his expression is also uncomprehending. When he does finally speak, all that comes from him is a short, to the point;

"Bollox."

Which. Well. Cedric supposes, it's not unwarranted.

After the boy is led away by his Head and his guardian, they are ushered back to the hall, where a muted celebration is held, colored by the unexpected happening. Cedric takes the time during it all, through the congratulations (and naturally, questions on if he learned anything about the fourth Champion participating) and cheer, to look for Neville. The younger boy is pale, sitting where he normally does, in easy reach of the few friends he has in Gryffindor, and within sight of Ravenclaw table. His eyes, however, are hard and flinty, trained on — Hari Potter-Black, who's sitting with his head in his hands at Ravenclaw. 

Granger is sitting across from him for once, rubbing the back of the Lovegood girl. 

When Longbottom abruptly turns and looks at him, there is such conviction in his warm hazel-brown eyes that Cedric finds himself wondering, again, how the boy didn't end up a Gryffindor. Because he is sure that whatever happens next, it's going to take a fair amount of courage for Neville to stand against it, and the boy is very obviously willing to do so, for his friends.

And well. Huffflepuffs stick together — through good or ill. Whatever Cedric needed to do to not just compete, but ensure a younger student stayed alive, he would do it.

Hermione Granger

She hasn't been able to breathe right, since that fourth little slip of paper came fluttering out of the Goblet. Since it was Tom's name, not Hari's, read out. Since Luna had started crying quiet, terrified tears, the drops dripping down her cheeks in slow, agonizing motion. When Hari had gone to stand with Tom on the dais, shoulders straight and trembling, Hermione had crawled under the table to curl around Luna, trying to comfort the poor girl. Luna's eyes were firmly on the wood of the table, and they stayed there no matter what Hermione muttered to her. 

Even the girls' bullies (whom Hermione has taken to task more than once, and whom, for reasons she didn't yet know, were terrified of Tom) had nothing to say about the tears dripping down her cheeks. Though no one in the house recognized Luna's creatures as realistic, all of them knew the girl could be deeply emotional at times. It seemed this was simply the one time their Housemates were going to respect that, rather than try to use it. 

(Though thankfully, Luna's bullying issues were restricted to her own year and the seventh years. Everyone else knew better at this point.)

When Hari came back, he looked beyond stressed, eyes sad and wide, shoulders hunched. He sat at his usual seat and dropped his head into his hands, staying like that even when the Champions, minus Tom, came back into the hall, and a much more subdued celebration took place than originally anticipated. Hermione's leg started bouncing the longer Tom remained gone, though thankfully Professor Snape was also gone, and Lord Lovegood hadn't come back, and so perhaps they were just giving him privacy? Nothing was said about the unexpected fourth Champion, and half the school looked ready to riot, and Hermione wasn't sure if that would be for or against her newest friend but she dared them to — 

"You're overthinking, Granger," someone said next to her, and she was startled to realize that Theo sat on her right, and across from her Zaibini and the twins were bracketing Hari, trying to give him something else to focus on and— 

"Someone has to since our safety isn't a priority for anyone else. I need to plan," Hermione announced, carefully quiet, even though she wanted to shout. 

Theo glanced at her from behind his book, and the quiet fury in his eyes told her he knew. Knew what she was feeling and why. 

"Yes. But you can't make adequate plans while stressing. We'll meet tomorrow? With Slytherin. Try to plan a study guide, get a feel of what kind of danger he may be looking at." 

It was — A relief, to have someone else echo her thoughts. So she nodded, tried to breathe in a way that Lord Black had taught her over the summer, when she'd had a research-induced panic attack, and she focused on rubbing soothing circles on Luna's back. 

Tomorrow.  

Bagman

He felt a thrill rush through him, even as he felt fear too. This was just the most unexpected predicament. It was sensational — would most assuredly make them the talk of the Ministry, even if perhaps for the wrong reasons. After all, any publicity was good publicity. And the rumored illegitimate son of You-Know-Who participating in a Tournament against his will? That was publicity. 

(Even if it had been kept quiet, everyone in the ministry knew of the file that the DoCSAW had been putting together, of the new ward that Lord Lovegood had taken on, of the regent seat that now sat in front of the Slytherin Family voting chair. Everyone had been afraid too, until the rumors had started just weeks ago. Of a boy, abused and defiant, who refused to be his father. Seeing the boy though — that had been something.)

And speaking of publicity — Skeeter owed him a favor. He wondered how soon she could get the contract for the Tourney, and if he'd be able to push it along. Smiling joyfully, and trying not to show it, he hurried toward the owlery. He had a letter to write. 

Luna Lovegood 

She was a bubble of anxiety. All day there has been a deep, pounding drum in the back of her awareness. The more she tried to ignore it the worse it got. It spoke of something big coming. Something big changing. Something she couldn't effect. Something she wasn't allowed to look at just yet, like a shadow out the corner of her eye, the shape defined but details blurry. A huge, big something that wanted to be hidden, and her magic was helping it. 

It made Luna terribly nervous. The last time a something like this had hovered around her, it had done so for days and days before Mummy died and Luna had watched. Now, she feared what it could mean. She was older now — the only reason she was seeing this something at all was because it was important now, her control of the Visions not exact, but so much better than years before. 

She still had no way of knowing if this was a something for days from now or today, or how long this had been hovering over her, but given the weight of it. . . 

Given the weight of it, she was very afraid that this something was for the Choosing of the Champions. She has seen visions. Flashes. Knows what some Possibilities are, because she went looking. She'd consulted her rune stones and the morning dew of spiders webs in the forest, had asked her newest friend what he had felt in the castle — all for naught. Luna did not know what was going to happen. She just knew it was going to be the start of something. 

So when she suddenly felt locked to her seat, unable to move, and Cedric Diggory — 

(Living and dying, flying and running, laughing and crying, pale and fading — Kill the Spare! — Cedric!)

— disappeared into the Champions Chamber, Luna felt her breath quicken and her heart stop and suddenly everything became so clear. 

(The Goblet flared a fourth time, stunning the headmaster into silence. The hall watched on. The faces and colors of the ties changed for some, seating arranged differently, some people going somewhere else, others always exactly the same. A fourth slip of paper drifted down and the Headmaster called— )

The Goblet flared. Silence in the hall. A piece of paper fluttered down and the Headmaster read it slowly, eyes wide. 

("Harry Potter!" "Hadrian Black!" "Henry Evans!" "Neville Longbottom!" "Hawthorne Evans-Potter!")

The Headmaster looked up, eyes skipping over tables and students until— 

(A dozen different versions of this played out before her, all of them altered, some of them the same but not, a hundred different familiar strangers in her head all staring back in shock at being called. This was always going to happen. Things may differ, may change. They may never be the same. But this, this was always a Certainty.)

"Thomas Slytherin." 

Luna felt the pressure of all those possibilities falling on her shoulders at once, settling on this realities Certainty, and she could not breathe. Something was constricting her lungs. 

(Something that had the shape of a dragons tail, a mermaids claws, and the grabbing vines of a shrub. Something that had the shape of — )

She came back to herself with a strangled gasp, and found that there was a hand rubbing soothing circles on her back. She isn't sure how long has passed, only that time has, and she is still in this reality, where her best friend is participating in the Triwizard Tournament, and Luna cannot tell him how to keep himself safe. The soft tears dripping down her cheeks turn into a waterfall, and Luna cries into the din of celebration, shoulders shaking and face tucked into Hermione's neck. She can do nothing else. 

Chapter Text

November 1st, 1994

Hari had wanted a quiet year, but not at the expense of someone elses potential safety. Especially a friend he had only just made, started getting somewhere with. Someone that clearly meant a lot to another friend he’d had since he was twelve. Hermione told him he was being paranoid, thinking his bad luck had rubbed off on someone else. Hari was very positive that it could have happened, because magic . Regardless, the fact was that now Tom, not even fourteen yet, barely settled into life at Hogwarts (and without mentioning the no doubt awful home life Hari was sure he’d come from) was being forced to participate in a tournament that had a morbid reputation for killing the full blown adult Wix that participated willingly.

“Hari?” Hermione called softly, tapping his hand.

He blinked away from the page he’d read perhaps three times now, detailing all the ways a group of Kelpie could horribly murder people (no one won that tournament), and stared up at his actual oldest friend.

(A distant pang in his heart, which he’d thought he’d gotten over, Ron’s face flashing through his mind, but — Ron Weasley had made his choice. Hari was, in fact, better off.)

“Hari, I think it’s break time,” Hermione declared.

He wanted to say no. Wanted to drag the book he was reading closer and hiss like a feral beast, but . . . but she was right. If Hermione was telling him they needed to take a break from research, then they needed to take a break. A long break. A quick glance at the other occupants of their table showed that yes, in fact, everyone else needed a break too. The twins had a particular wildness to their eyes, which were flickering rapidly between their own books and Tom. Ginny had notes scattered around her, ink smeared over her nose, and a particularly dangerous look in her brown eyes as she contemplated her own book. Neville had his head in his hands and was breathing in a carefully measured way. Theo and Blaise were bracketing Tom and Luna, Theo with a far away, haunted look in his eyes, Blaise with his eyes glued to the open book in front of him.

A quick glance down showed that it was the book Hari had put down and walked away from after they got to the Library, which detailed all the ways two people had been eaten by a manticore.

(And in all this, he carefully ignored the way Luna was sitting as close as possible to Tom, her shoulder pushed up against his, her eyes wide and glassy as she searched the ceiling above them. She’s been in a particularly absent mood ever since the night before. He’s not even sure she’d eaten breakfast. )

Tom himself was carefully dragging a hand through rumpled hair, staring blankly at his own notes. He’d shoved all his books aside and spread several parchments in front of him, and from what Hari could tell, had not much moved since, except to drag a hand through his hair (a nervous tick? It’s the first time Hari has noticed such a thing) and to occasionally reshuffle his papers.

Definitely time for a break.

“Alright,” he announced loudly, slapping his book shut and then pushing it far away from himself, “we’re going for a walk.”

Everyone glanced at him like he was crazy, but to his surprise, it was Tom himself who stood swiftly, looking almost relieved. And Pale. Well, still pale. He’d been pale at breakfast too. And Hari suspected he’d been going through a continuous loop of panic, but — he was hiding it remarkably well, all things considered. Luna stood as well, one hand reaching out to latch onto the sleeves of Tom’s robe, and everyone very pointedly did not pay this any mind.

(Any time they paid too much attention to Luna being affectionate with Tom, the other boy acted like they were committing a grave transgression and got defensive.)

It’s only after they’ve filed out of the library, pausing in the halls, that Hari realizes that they’re the only ones who have skipped classes today. Other people would notice them walking through the halls talking. So —

There was really only one place they could go that might provide some kind of privacy, and avoid any professors that were looking for them.

“Luna? To the Meeting Spot.” He declared.

Luna blinked slowly at his shoes and nodded, then started walking. Tom followed after her, allowing himself to be tugged along by his sleeves, and they followed Tom. By unspoken agreement, they were all as quiet as possible, only pausing on the seventh floor, where Hari paced in front of a blank stretch of wall, and the others watched, Tom with some confusion, everyone else solemnly.

This really was a thing you needed to see to believe, even with magic.

***

Tom had been . . . well, not fine, but dealing rather well, he thought, until Hari decided that they all needed to ‘go for a walk.’ What followed was perhaps the worst attempt at sneaking he’d ever seen, mostly because they were a large group that more closely resembled a line of ducklings. But things started to get — strange. They would pass a portrait he’d never seen before but somehow knew. A hallway that he recognized but had never been down. A tapestry he’s never come across before, but is terrifyingly, ridiculously familiar. He watched Hari pace in front of the blank stretch of wall with some confusion and a whole lot of trepidation that felt like it came from somewhere . . . other.

A door appeared in front of Hari, inconspicuous looking, almost, and Tom felt himself give pause.

(That something other started pushing fear into him in great big handfuls. He did not understand.)

Hari entered before Tom could go through with the urge to bundle them all up and hurry away, towards the lake side and open air. Luna followed after Hari swiftly, and Tom allowed himself to be pulled along.

(Despite, for reasons he couldn’t place, wanting to run in the opposite direction.)

He’s not sure what he was expecting — but an in-door greenhouse that stretched impossibly far was not it. There were intermittent, semicircle spaces filled with tables and chairs, ringed by protected bookcases stuffed to the brim with books. The chairs looked comfortable and inviting, the faint must-be-manufactured-somehow sunlight breaking through impossible trees and shrubbery. Something in him did start to settle, for whatever reason, and Tom chose to brush it all off. Random emotions weren’t nearly as important as this inexplicable room.

“Welcome to the Come and Go room!” Hari declared, bowing to them all in an exaggerated manner.

“Come and go?” Tom echoed.

Hari shrugged.

“It’s what the house-elves call it, and they’re the ones that helped us find it. We were looking for . . . a place to study, last year. For things.”

Tom felt one of his eyebrows raise slowly, staring back at Hari blankly.

“You mean for the ‘let’s murder the man that helped orphan me,’ things, or the ‘lets hide the man that didn’t actually orphan me while we try to catch the real murderer,’ things?”

The whole group, busy ambling around the plants that littered the room, froze, and then gave him wide-eyed looks. Except Luna. Luna was dreamily turning in a slow circle, seemingly enjoying the light playing over her closed eyelids.

“How — what — who, us?” Hari sputtered, flushed and clearly trying not to twitch.

Tom gave the boy an amused smirk, then strode past him, catching Luna’s arm before she tripped over her own feet. He took no small enjoyment in having guessed correctly, and surprising them all was simply too delicious. Especially considering the — well everything of the last twenty-four-ish hours.

“What gave it away?” Neville asked, following after Tom when he tucked Luna’s hand into the crook of his arm and started leading her through the greenery.

“Idle comments,” Tom responded absently, then motioned to the room.

“So the come-and-go room is some sort of . . . greenhouse for the elves?”

Hermione, who sounded very much like she knew he was changing the subject to toy with them, ended up responding.

“No. It changes depending on what you’re asking for. My guess is Hari asked for somewhere safe that we could walk around and relax?” At the boy’s affirmative squawk, she continued, “The only thing it can’t do is summon food. It can summon a kitchen though.”

Tom let the silence settle, even as a whispered conversation exploded behind him, he and Neville and Luna apparently the only ones trying to actively relax.

“Does it show up on Hari’s map?” Tom asked Neville.

The Hufflepuff shook his head in the negative, a small smile playing over his face as he watched a vine drift down to try and tangle in Luna’s hair.

“Only the hallway in front of it. It’s why the twins ended up helping us last year. They were deeply confused as to why Hari was so often seen with Sirius Black in this hallway. It’s also how we found out the map technically belonged to Hari.”

Tom made a sound of affirmation, pausing to help Neville untangle the vine from Luna’s hair when it attempted to tug her back to where its central mass hung.

“These are all quite passive plants. Really it probably just likes the feel of her magic,” Neville soothed when Tom gave the plant a suspicious look.

“You know them all?”

Neville shook his head, flushing.

“Not all of them, but enough to know they couldn’t thrive with more violent plants in here.”

They all wandered for a few more minutes, in short order finding a series of singing daises, flutterby bushes, and an assortment of giggling tulips. There was even a waterfall, tucked between the vegetation and behind one of the seating areas. This is where they all settled, first with Luna finding a seat and curling up in it, then with Tom and Neville. In short order, Theo walked up to them with a book already in hand, Hermione drug Hari away from some grabbing vines, and Blaise and the Ginger Menaces all came tumbling out from the vegetation across from them, laughing.

Soon enough, Blaise called out a sharp “Dippy!” and a house elf appeared, wearing a tea towel with the Hogwarts crest sewn over its breast, blinking at them all curiously.

“Hello Dippy. Could we have tea?” Hari greeted, smiling.

The elf became flustered.

“Yous is being in bigs trouble. Headymaster bes looking for yous all overs,” the little elf declared, planting her long-fingered hands on thin hips.

Hari laughed, looking incredibly pleased.

“Good! Maybe he’ll learn the value of his student’s lives!”

The elf sighed, then popped away again. Not a second later, a tea tray with small tea cakes and finger sandwiches’ popped into existence, along with a note. The note was written in familiar, spidery handwriting, and addressed to Hari. The other boy sighed, plucking it up, and after a moment, began reading out loud.

“Brat, kindly don’t miss any more lessons tomorrow, and stop dragging my perfectly well-behaved Slytherins into your antics. Please keep an eye on Mister Slytherin, and warn myself or Pomphrey should he appear to need a calming draught. Also inform Mister Slytherin that when he is up to it, he and I have a meeting with the Headmaster. Attend the Great Hall for dinner, or face the consequences. Prof. S. Snape”

Stunned, as he hadn’t expected to appear in the note, nor have his Head of House expressing any kind of concern for him outside of his official duties, Tom accepted the tea cake Luna placed into his hand out of habit.

“What do you suppose the Headmaster wants?” Blaise frowned over his tea, eyes boring into Tom intently.

Theo slowly placed his book down and to the side — and here, Tom finally got the title; A Paranoid Wix Guide to Safety by Penny Forewitt — also observing Tom like he was a particularly odd specimen. Tom barely stopped himself from shrugging, not even finding irritation at the headmaster’s high-handedness. Mostly he was just tired. A hand drifted up to his hair, and he focused on dragging his fingers through the waves, absently tapping at the table.

“Likely for nothing productive,” he grumbled.

Luna hummed next to him, and withdrew several parchments from her satchel, and several quills.

“I’m going to write Daddy.” She announced, tucking one quill behind her ear and placing another to the paper.

Hari made a thoughtful sound, then proceeded to pull out his own parchment.

“That’s not a bad idea. I know I sent some rather . . . frantic things to my . . . guardians last night, but I should probably actually explain.”

Some general assessments from around the room, the only ones that didn’t pull out parchment himself and Theo. The twins and Ginny were all passing a parchment between them, looking determined. Tom was just starting to drag his hands through his hair again, feeling the jitter in his chest that denoted the repressed panic he felt trying to bubble up, when a parchment was suddenly shoved in front of him. Tom stared at the words and breathed deeply, then finished dragging his hands through his hair and accepted the offered paper and the quill from behind Luna’s ear. He ignored the looks the others gave them, and could only be grateful for the absent-minded girl when he carefully scratched out the words, written in Luna’s looping scrawl;

‘Dear Mister Cadbury.’

Tom wrote instead;

Cadbury,

I am not sure if news has yet reached your ears, but I have been quite unwillingly entered into the Triwizard Tournament some dunce of a ministry official decided to start up again. I have no knowledge of why Hogwarts was the chosen victim of this farce of international cooperation, but I do know that things are only going to get messier. From all the research I have managed to do, the press is always heavily involved in such things, even if, when the Tourney was a more widely accepted source of entertainment, the press weren’t quite what they are now. Now they’re worse.

I fear what’s going to happen when they inevitably start digging, Cadbury. I am only just barely settled into this life.

I’m not ready for

Any advice you can give, or legal aid you can provide, I will not turn away.

Regards,

Thomas Slytherin

Ward of Klan Lovegood.

Everyone else was still working on their own letters, but Tom — Tom needed to move. Folding his missive to Cadbury, he let Luna take it from him, instead pushing back his chair to stand and start walking. Blessedly, no one followed him. He had not meant to write —

But it was the truth. It was the truth so he’d left it there, a thought half-finished. Luna had once told him how dangerous it was to erase half-finished thoughts, and even if some of what she said still seemed to him more amusing than serious . . . in this, he felt she was right. It was a truth, and a half-completed one, that he could not let himself dwell on too much because to do so would simply drive him barmy. All he could do was keep moving forward. Find ways through and around all the obstacles being thrown in his path.

(It was, in a way, all he’d ever been doing. He’d just grown startlingly used to the lack of obstacles that came from being Xenophilius Lovegood’s ward. The man had made living remarkably easy, because he’d allowed Tom to simply be. And now — )

Now there was a whole tournament of people that were determined to get in his way.

Unbidden, one of Mrs. Coles’s favorite warnings drifted through his mind.

“No rest for the wicked — for them it is always work.”

He hated to think she might be right.

***

They did eventually make it down to dinner, but unfortunately, Tom was fighting the urge to turn right back around and march into the Forbidden Forest. It felt like most of the school was staring at him. Whispering. Gawking. It made him itch in his special and supremely violent place. The place where the Monster began and ended, and which usually made Tom at least a little afraid of himself. He could hardly bring himself to eat through dinner, despite Blaise’s nudging.

“Slytherin, please, you hardly ate anything, at least shove this tart in your mouth before you go up and see the Headmaster,” the Italian wheedled.

“Oh please. Like skipping one meal will adversely affect me. And please, call me Tom, both of you. It’s not like either of you is unaware of the fact that you successfully connived your way into friendship,” he snipped back, then rose when everyone else did and he saw Snape motion to him subtly.

The Headmaster had been notably absent during the last half of dinner. He left behind two shocked-looking Slytherins, and a whole slew of students, both foreign and domestic that were watching him with calculation. Since Tom could only allow himself to focus on so much at that moment, he chose to ignore this much like he’d been ignoring the poisonous looks from half of Hufflepuff. The walk up to the headmaster’s office was quiet, but not awkwardly so, and his Head of House seemed to take the most winding pathway out of sheer spite.

Tom appreciated that more than he could really articulate, so chose not to articulate it at all.

By the time they reached the gargoyle that guarded the Headmaster’s office, he felt a little more centered and less likely to break something important. Snape glared at the gargoyle for a second, took a deep breath, and growled;

“Cotton Trolls.”

Tom had never heard of that before, but given everything he’d learned of this version of the school’s Headmaster, he assumed it was a candy. They walked up the spiral stairs at a brisk pace rather than waiting for it to bring them up, and Professor Snape opened the door sharply rather than waiting to be summoned in. Tom isn’t sure what exactly the Headmaster has done to warrant so much spite from the Slytherin head of House, but he can guess, so does nothing but act as though his Head is the height of politeness.

Headmaster Dumbledore smiles genially at Snape, though the twinkle in his eyes is absent, and he gestures to the chairs across from his desk. Tom sits, but Professor Snape leans against the wall to Tom’s right.

“Thank you for coming on short notice, Mister . . . Slytherin. Severus. I wanted to ensure you were fully aware of the dangers you now face.”

Tom felt his spine stiffen and his jaw lock, and very purposely kept his eyes on the portrait of Dippet, which hung behind Dumbledore and watched him sadly.

“I assure you, Headmaster, I am fully aware of the danger. I just spent the better part of a day making myself aware of the danger.”

The Headmaster stroked a hand slowly down his long white beard, settling back in his chair in a deliberately calm manner.

“Ah, yes. I must ask that you not skip any more classes, Mister Slytherin. While myself and the staff here understand needing a day to come to terms with your . . . Situation, I’m afraid I cannot allow so many students to be out of class without cause. You understand, I hope, the necessity of seeking your educations?”

Tom only nodded stiffly, rage held in firm check behind Occlumency shields he’d learned for this reason alone.

“Of course, Headmaster.”

Dumbledore hummed, braiding his fingers over his beard.

“On the subject of the Tournament, Mister Slytherin, do you have any supposition on how your name might have ended up within the goblet?”

Tom clenched his hand in his lap and then forced himself to release it.

“No, Headmaster. As previously stated, under oath, I have no inkling as to how my name came from the goblet.”

Dumbledore simply stared at him, while Dippet’s expression got sadder, and after several minutes, Dumbledore hummed again.

“Yes, well. I am most sorry, Tom, for the situation you find yourself in, but I cannot help you with this. It goes against the very nature of the contract between myself and the Goblet, I’m sure you understand. But I will not stop you seeking help from outside forces.”

Tom stared blankly back at the Headmaster, eyes focused on the corner of the man’s mouth.

“Of course Headmaster. I would not expect you to have any interest in risking your magic to assist me in this ridiculous competition.”

He is not sure what tone he says the words in, but it is, as ever, apparently the wrong one because Dumbledore’s frown increases. Behind him he hears the swish of Professor Snape’s robes fluttering, and then the man is standing just to his side, impatience in every line of his body.

“If we’re quite through with this meeting, Headmaster, I have revision to grade and Mister Slytherin has classwork to make up for.”

Dumbledore dismisses them, and Tom is standing to leave even before the old coot has fully given him leave. Professor Snape allows him to stew quietly on the way down to the Dungeons, but stops him at the common room entrance, voice carefully neutral.

“I believe, Mister Slytherin, you have a free period every Thursday two hours before dinner?”

Tom nods his confirmation absently.

“Excellent. For skipping a day of classes without notice and making the whole of the Hogwarts staff worry needlessly, you have remedial detention with myself every Thursday from the beginning of your free period to the beginning of dinner,” he held up a forestalling hand when Tom felt his mouth snap open to protest, the man’s eyes glittering with something, “that is what the Headmaster will know. In reality, I will be providing you with a review of the defensive arts, charms most useful in . . . Dangerous situations, and meditative techniques designed to temporarily expand and stretch your magical core. As one of my brighter students, I hope you can see the . . . Advantage to such tutelage.”

Tom felt his protests die, his anger, which had been simmering since the Headmaster’s office, tapering off to sputter out.

“Of course, I am most honored, Professor Snape, for the remedial lessons. Thank you,” he replied.

Snape gave him a long, searching look, but eventually seemed satisfied.

“Excellent. Now, off to bed. I’ve rounds to complete and utter incompetence to grade.”

Tom did as he was bade, all the while marveling. He had not expected his Head of House to risk helping him, given the Headmaster’s words. He’d assumed that by outside sources, the old coot had meant he’d have to ask Lord Lovegood about tutors. But then — his Head of House was technically an outside source. He was not directly involved in the Tourney. And he was fairly certain that Snape had extended this offer specifically because the Headmaster had not.

Regardless — given the man’s reputation, not just as a potions master, but a duelist, Tom would absorb as much as possible.

(He attributed the warmth in his chest to the idea of more knowledge that could help him in the long run. He did not let himself think of it in relation to an adult caring for his safety. That way lay only danger.)

Blaise and Theo are waiting for him, as is Malfoy and the Quidditch team, all of them looking anxious. Others around the common room are loitering, in less obvious ways, like the Weasley Terrors all scribbling furiously in the corner closest to the black lake windows.

“What did the Headmaster want?” Blaise drawled, once he was noticed.

“To sadly inform me that he could not provide assistance to me, as it would go against his own contract with the Goblet, and request that I not only stop skipping classes, but that I stop dragging other schoolmates with me into delinquency.”

He was perhaps paraphrasing, but he was also infuriated.

To his surprise, the whole Common Room stilled, and then — outrage. Complete chaos, the exclamations reaching new decibels, the fury, he would think unfounded. His confusion must have been evident, because Theo sidled up to him and explained softly, while offering what looked to be a sandwich made of a bread roll, some chicken, and salad. It had been carefully wrapped in thin parchment and had a napkin tucked over it.

“We’ve all been worried. Slytherin House already gets the short end of the stick. And now the Headmaster is directly endangering one of our own. Someone who’s only had Hogwarts formal education for less than three months. No doubt, many parents — among them no shortage of Lords and Ladys — will be receiving letters from their heirs in the next few days.”

Tom stared at the pandemonium, the sandwich now in his hands, which he took a tentative bite of when he realized how hungry he was, and then back at the pandemonium.

“I know perhaps we won’t do much, but we’re your House, Slytherin. In many ways,” Nott said, a wry smile playing over his mouth, his blue eyes hard, “and Slytherins protect their own.”

Tom paused. Nodded. And then he walked wordlessly to his dorm.

He needed to sleep.

He dreamed instead.

November 3rd, 1994

Mister Slytherin,

Rest assured that I am well aware of the goings on, and am already assisting your guardian in building a defense for you. We have found and hired a solicitor of good standing and fearsome reputation, one that will make even the Minister hesitate before he makes any rash decisions. I understand that this whole ordeal will be a trial for you and, given you have likely only just started to get over the aches and pains of the ritual, you may not feel adequate.

Take heart. Even though I am of the personal belief that the goblet never should have been drug out of its storage cupboard, if it did not think you could handle it, it would not have selected you. I have every faith you will perform with aplomb, and more, that you will have help.

Do not fret, my friend. I have already promised to be here for you, and I do not break my promises.

Fond Regards,

J. Cadbury

Tom carefully refolded Cadbury’s response, tucking it into his satchel, and opened the letter written in Lord Lovegoods scrawl, which was substantially thicker. The first page was written frantically, almost erratically.

Tom,

My deepest apologies for not staying on Hogwarts grounds longer. Much needed to be done to ensure that not only does Crouch learn to fear the Lovegood influence, but that Mister Cadbury has all the support necessary to ensure you are not ostracized or hurt by the press. As soon as I have set our solicitors assistant on the Ministry, they and I shall be renting rooms in the Three Broomsticks.

I shall be close at hand if I’m needed, and I expect you to keep me appraised of any changes or developments. In the following days, I shall be forwarding several books it would behoove you to read. Try to keep up with your studies, and don’t allow the stress to overcome you.

Such things only lead to a Wakspurt infestation.

Tread with care, and be open to the advice of your professors, all of whom I have been in contact with. I trust and believe in your capabilities, but I am aware enough of this Tourney’s history to know even the best-laid plans go awry.

The request for preliminary interviews has reached me, but I have denied them, as you are only an unwilling participant and have expressed vehement disinterest in the Tourney. Should any coverage be published before I have given my express permission, legal action will be taken and you will be given the chance to clear the air. I am aware of the precarious line you walk, and have every intention of helping you to balance as best as I can.

With Fondest Regards

Lord Lovegood

Consort of Klan Lovegood

P.S. See attached the agreement between our Klan and the Solicitors, as well as a preliminary list of questions and answers you are allowed to give in a chaperoned interview with any press that should feel the need to reach out. Also be aware that we have already preemptively denied several requests for early interviews, as the set date for the Champion interviews is November the 13th.

Another spear of unexpected warmth, Tom’s fingers absently tracing over the parting written in a hasty, looping scrawl. He rifled through the attached parchments and packets, reading through the attached summaries as his fellows finished breakfast. He had barely managed to eat, and only done so because Luna had insistently kept setting things on a plate in front of him. She even wrapped several biscuits in a napkin and shoved it in his satchel when he refused to do more than peck at his food after the second scone. The day flew by, with him making every attempt to pay attention in class, and those attempts becoming increasingly difficult to manage when the stares, whispers, and absent commentary didn’t stop.

The only balm against it all was Luna’s consistent presence, the clear support of the other Champions, all of whom had made it a point to come and speak with him, and his . . . his friends, all gathering around as much as their own schedules allowed. They took lunch at Ravenclaw, and then invaded Slytherin table rather than risk the wrath of Hufflepuff.

(Not that he felt Neville or Diggory would have let their housemates get away with doing or saying anything, but Smith’s erraticism — grown worse by Tom’s revenge — meant that Tom wasn’t much welcome with some of Hufflepuff, and he’d really rather not deal with anything else at the moment. Even if it would be a relief to break something.)

The rest of the day inched by, until he hit his free period. Luna came with him down to the dungeons, the predesignated meeting place the third-year potions class, and Professor Snape made no comment about her presence as Tom settled at a table in the front. Luna settled instead at a table in the back, pulling out an assortment of texts and a flurry of parchment.

“First and foremost, considering that the first task is a bare three weeks away, I shall be training you in a meditative technique developed by the Champion Duelist Emmeline Devereux. She won four championships from the year 1632 to 1680, and developed this technique specifically as a way to avoid magic burnout between matches. She later went on to form her own Dueling school, where it became a practice, though not many could successfully utilize it. This technique takes not just magical strength, but a self-awareness that most lack,” Snape gave him a calm, searching look, “which I very much doubt will be an issue for you.”

A small bit of pride sparked in that, and he nodded seriously to his professor.

“You already know the bare bones of Occlumency?”

Tom nodded again, and Snape seemed inordinately pleased, even if his expression didn’t change.

“Excellent. Now, Mister Slytherin, clear your mind. Sink into meditation, but remain aware of my voice. When you are centered in your meditation, tap the table twice with your left hand.”

He then launched into what appeared to be a memorized lecture about potions.

Tom did as instructed, letting himself sink into meditation. It had been the hardest step for him to learn, when he’d started trying to cobble together shields after learning of Dumbledore’s abilities, but he had eventually found the correct way to do so. Unsurprisingly, nothing involving the orphanage had ever helped with meditation. Neither had any of the sights in London — not the London he’d seen with Luna, bright and whole and still functioning. The London he’d grown up knowing had been harsh and bitter, covered in a smog of fear and uncertainty. Instead, he pictured the ocean. The waves, lapping against dark stone, crashing over rocks and dark sands.

He pictured his cave, isolated and safe, untouched by the cruelty he was used to in his day-to-day life. In the water dripping from the ceiling, stalactites, and stalagmites, his memories swirled languidly. The professor’s voice was fainter here, but still audible. More a distant echo than the attention-consuming drawl it usually was.

He tapped the potions table with his left hand.

“Excellent,” Snape said, and then began, “Now you are centered, find the core of your magic. It should be accessible to you, no matter what your meditative space should look like. If you are having difficulty finding it, simply walk to the center of whatever space you find yourself in. Once you arrive, tap the table with your right hand.”

Tom turned on his heel and walked further back into the cave, past the area with a red ‘X’ painted over the rocks — that was the space where Amy and Dennis had cornered him, and where his monster had first awoken — and straight to the small lake of water at the back of the cave. In life, it was much shallower and smaller, only fed by the high tides and storms, but in his memories, all the things he wished never to be seen were at the bottom. A boat sat, waiting. He climbed inside and let it drift out, to an island that was little more than a foothold of space.

Tom tapped the table with his right hand.

“Whatever is at the center of your space is the gateway to your core. Pick it up, or interact with it in some manner, until you can feel your magic. Once you can, let it flow from you. Fear not — I have warded this room. None should notice anything should the unwinding of your magical core have an adverse effect.”

On the island sat a single item. A book.

The book.

The only thing he’d ever valued, before Hogwarts. It was gone now, the same day his monster woke, lost to the furious ocean waters beyond the rocks.

(He’d been trying to get it back, when Dennis, taller and older than him, had grabbed him and shoved him into the shallow cave that had been the right size for children. Amy had followed after laughing. Billy had sent them down to prove they were worth his protection by teaching the freak his place. Tom, only seven at the time, had only the barest control of his magic. In the resulting onslaught of physical violence and vocal attack, his monster had woken with a furious scream.)

Murder at the Vicarage sat pristine and perfect, or as perfect as it ever had been, the exact same as it had looked when he’d bought it. One of the few things he’d ever earned. He’d swept floors and run errands for months to scrape up enough to buy his own book. Had gotten it from a second-hand bookshop on the bad side of town. The worn tears and blemishes had been burned into his mind as soon as it was his. Carefully, Tom picked it up and flipped it open.

Glorious, burning warmth spilled out the pages, settling in the space around him like a blanket. Tom opened the pages wider, letting more of it spill out, watching as it sparked lazily in the air, an aurora borealis within his mind, one that seemed only to stop flowing out once there was no space left for it in the cave. Instead, dark smoke languidly drifted up, curling naturally and viscous, moving to drape against his shoulders gently. The monster was not fully out, he knew — this single tendril was far too small for that — but it refused to be ignored.

Tom refused to ignore it. It was a part of him. Always had been, always would be. It was all his fear, all his rage, all his violence, and he would not refuse its right to exist. Especially not here.

A soft exclamation, an echo of an echo, and then Snape’s voice again.

“Yes. Well. Very good, Mister Slytherin. Now you have access to that core, feel the edges of it. See where it is flexible and unyielding. Practice at stretching it where you can, if you can. Once you have a good idea of how far you can stretch it, return it to its proper place and come out of the meditation in your own time.”

Snape’s voice sounded strained, though Tom couldn’t imagine why, so he did as he was bade. He was unsurprised that this was his core, was his magic — he has always been magically strong — but he puzzled over what Snape meant by stretching the edge of his core. Did he mean the mental representation or the actual core? Curious, Tom tried both. The book in his hands, soft-covered and worn, was flexible in many ways, except the spine of it, though that was expected. He tried opening the pages wider and was almost startled when he felt a resulting stretch somewhere in the vicinity of his abdomen. Trying to physically poke at his own magic didn’t yield the same results.

It appeared that the manipulation of the mental image of his core was the only way to ‘stretch’ it. Intrigued, he slowly bent the covers open until it might have laid flat on something before he stopped. It was very uncomfortable, but also felt good, that stretching. Releasing it so the book was barely open, he let the magic start to drift back inside, watching the smoke disperse at the same time.

By the time he was making his way back across the lake and towards the exit, he was tired. He only started to pull away from the image of the ocean and rocks when he was standing on the shore. He blinked open his eyes to see a pale Professor Snape leaning against his desk. He was watching Tom carefully, dark eyes focused.

“How do you feel, Mister Slytherin?”

Tom blinked at him, slowly, registering the exhaustion in his bones.

“Tired, Professor.” He said simply, and then noticed a sort of . . . expanded feeling, in his gut. Like he was more.

“And your . . . magic?” the Professor continued.

“Odd,” Tom hummed, and then he slowly tried to stand. He wobbled for a step, and then a hand was on his elbow, Luna suddenly there.

“Hungry?” she asked.

Nodding, they both looked to Professor Snape. Seeming to realize that Tom wasn’t capable of communication at that point, he nodded, waving them away.

“I shall send you some supplementary texts to read over the next week, and then our next session will involve defense magics. Go to the Great Hall, eat, and then straight to the dorms, Mister Slytherin. Continue to practice the meditative technique I have shown you only in private, after putting up several nullification wards, which I will also be sending you information on.”

Tom only nodded, and followed when Luna tugged him towards the door gently. His head felt foggy, his body tired, and his magic odd. He blinked and they were at the Great Hall, settling down at Slytherin table. He doesn’t remember speaking to anyone, only remembers eating as politely as he can manage and then stumbling after Blaise towards the dorms only after Theo and Malfoy had promised to walk with Luna, Hari and Hermione to the dorms.

He falls into his bed and sleeps.

November 5th, 1994

Barty-as-Moody limped slowly off the grounds, trying to appear casual as the students milled about, enjoying the sunny day. In weeks to come, it would be much colder. Barty had always loved the cold at Hogwarts. It had eased the aches and pains that, even by then faded, sometimes haunted him through the school year.

But that was then. Now — now the cold reminded him of the bitter chill or dementors, of wraith-like bodies which hovered over him and breathed deep any happiness he’d tried to horde. Now the Cold brought nothing but aches and pains of its own, much more nightmarish variety. Reminded him of how he’d spent these long years, since his Lords initial and supposed defeat.

Since Barty had agreed to play lookout for the Lestranges’ on their singular mission of making sure the loose ends were taken care of. Bella, he knows, acted against orders when she chose to go after Alice and Frank Longbottom. She wasn’t even supposed to have known of the prophecy, but she’d spent far too much time hovering around whatever room their Lord was in to have not known.

She had overheard the parts of the prophecy their Lord knew of, and had decided herself to make sure the only other potential threat to Lord Voldemort was taken care of. Barty never should have agreed, when he found out — only after arriving — that their mission had not been approved. As . . . manic as their lord had been in those days, he’d still been trying to limit the amount of magical bloodshed. Had hated any time he found it necessary to extinguish the light and fire of their own kind. But he’d been afraid, even thinking that Divination was hogwash, that there might be some truth to the prophecy. That perhaps that baby in that house could be the one to kill his Lord. So he’d stood by and stood guard and fought with his fellows because he knew how to do nothing else to achieve his ends.

Now he limped his way towards the edge of the grounds, magic eye swiveling, and thought. He had much to inform his Lord of. Not just the Slytherin boys unexpected participation in the tournament — but the unsuccessful entry of the Potter-Black boy. He was unsure where he went wrong there. He’d thought for sure that by placing the boy in under a different school it would have worked. Instead, the impossible Slytherin heir had been chosen.

And besides that – his mark had been burning for days. His Lord was unhappy about something.

This could not bode well for Barty.

***

Rita felt a sharp smile stretch over her lips, her eyes on the castle ahead of her. It had been an age since she’d last been on Hogwarts grounds. She’d missed it, in a way, despite the sour taste that accompanied thoughts of her school days. But still. She was here for the scoop of the century. It had taken much work for her to get agreement from the Headmaster, but she had, in the end, gotten her way. As she knew she would.

(It helped that Crouch wanted coverage. Wanted a story, his name spun in a positive light. Rita would do the bare minimum there, because it wasn’t the story she was interested in.)

Rita might not always get everything she wanted in the time she wanted, but she always won in the end.

(The refusal from Lord Lovegood to interview Mister Slytherin was not going to stop her, after all. Not when Rita had slipped a few pertinent pieces of information to a less-reputable journalist in her department. She was dying to speak to the boy, even as she acknowledged that her usual manner would likely not work well for her, considering who was rumored to have been hired as solicitor for the boy. That was no matter. Rita was actually a very good reporter, only used the cover of sensationalism because that’s what people responded to.)

She lets herself be seen while prancing around with Bagman, let’s the students know she’s here. She does believe in giving warnings, after all. She’s not completely heartless.

After she’s met with Bagman and ascertained the rules again, for being on Grounds early, she found time to slip away and transform. No one liked speaking to a reporter with a reputation for blowing things out of proportion, but no one ever paid mind to beetles. As she often did when on the case, Rita did what she did best. She went looking.

***

Tom frowned at the missive in his hands, which had arrived shortly after lunch. He’d heard news that someone had seen Rita Skeeter on Hogwarts Grounds, though the woman had apparently not stayed long. The news had still made him nervous, as it was hard to tell what was truth or exaggeration in regards to the Hogwarts Rumor Mill — most especially if the rumors were about oneself, since there was also an underlying betting ring involved — so there was an air of mystery to what the reporter was there for. It was the note in his hands that troubled him now.

Tom,

Forgive the breach of formalities and the hasty way this is written. I’ve received notice that someone breached your files at the Ministry. I am currently working with Lord Lovegood and your Solicitor to ensure that the Daily Prophet is fully aware that any breach of your privacy will not be taken lightly. Be on your guard.

Cadbury.

The hasty way it was written and the abruptness of it all made Tom believe that the other man had only paused briefly to write the note and send it on, but he appreciated the efforts made to keep him aware. He had an awful, sinking feeling in his gut. He was trying to banish that feeling, being unaccustomed to it. A soft presence by his side, and then Luna was there. He turns to ask where she’d disappeared to, only to pause. There was a snake draped over her shoulders. One that seemed vaguely familiar.

“What?”

“Why?”

Tom and the snake said at the same time, and for some reason, Tom was pointing at the thing, while the snake was jabbing its snout at him.

“What are you still doing here?” Tom asked.

“Why iss my Mistressss sstill hanging out with the likess of you?” the snake returned sharply.

Tom scowled at it and then looked to Luna. She was smiling at him in that mischievous, sly manner she sometimes took on, eyes bright. The Weasley Terrors were all watching intently from down the table, and he could swear Hari was laughing somewhere at the Ravenclaw table.

“Luna. What is it still doing here?” He asked.

Luna only smiled a little wider.

“You gave him to me, remember? After breakfast, I asked you what we should do with him and you told me I could do whatever I liked with him. So I adopted him. This is the newest member of Klan Lovegood; Lord Noodle Montoya. I call him Noodles for short.”

The snake in question seemed to preen, looking inordinately pleased as he presented both sides of his profile . . . And the tiny little top hat, looking to be made of crochet or knitting, carefully stuck to his head. Tom stared between the hat, the snake, and Luna, unsure how he was supposed to respond, and finally, he decided that it hardly mattered. He’d expected the snake to find its way into the forbidden forest, but if Luna liked it, he wasn’t going to stop her. He would not be calling it Noodles, however.

Shrugging, Tom returned to lunch, managing to eat half a sandwich and some fresh carrots before he grew too agitated to sit still. Luna, thankfully, had eaten a bowl of soup and a warm bread roll, and elected to join him when he rose from the table and started for the Great Hall doors. The snake complained when he realized that they were following Tom, slipping into Luna’s pale-blonde hair and giving Tom what could only be described as an irritated glower.

Whispers start-up as they’re leaving the Great Hall, and Tom elects to ignore them as they head for the Forbidden Forest. Quidditch practice was canceled when Gryffindor requested time alone on the mock pitch to train their potential new seeker for the upcoming match against Hufflepuff, so he thankfully had the day to himself.

“Would you like to feed the Thestrals with me?”

Pausing mid-stride, Tom nodded, and they turned to make their way to the Dungeons instead. The house elves were all too happy to provide them a bucket of flanks, and several cloths, and before he knew it he and Luna were in the Thestral clearing. The herd had shown them where they lived after one of their flying sessions together.

It was peaceful, here amongst the forest, surrounded by creatures that knew only how to sing and fly, content to be invisible to those who hadn’t seen death. Luna had started humming at some point, curled up on the ground with several foals. Montoya — which was a much more dignified name in his opinion — had complained about the cold, but quieted when Luna cast a warming charm on herself. The tune she was humming was familiar, but not to such an extent that he knew it.

“I watched Mummy die,” Luna said suddenly.

Tom froze in the act of offering another flank to the herd leader, who’d come back for seconds when he realized they’d all been given one.

“Oh?” Tom said softly.

Luna was quiet a moment. Then;

“I wanted to warn her, but the dreams sealed my mouth shut.”

Tom patted the herd leader strongly on its leathery neck, then turned to slowly seat himself within reach of her . . . he could only describe it as a cuddle pile. He wasn’t sure what to say, so chose instead not to address — and no doubt fumble — the words. Instead, he shared in turn;

“One of the . . . People, looking after me. She became ill. She wasn’t there as often as the others. I almost didn’t mind her, sometimes, on account of the fact that she rarely had it in her to . . . Teach me a lesson. She became shorter of breath than usual while coming down the stairs one day, and the next thing I knew, she’d tumbled down and broken her neck.”

The nature of the new contract he’d sign made it so that he could only ever be vague about where and who he grew up with, outside several pre-agreed upon names. Elizabeth Trepple hadn’t been on that list. She also hadn’t been the worst matron, though not for lack of trying. Too poor for the tuberculosis treatment at the time, she’d eventually died to it, hacking blood and falling down the stairs.

Tom had felt it a fitting end for the woman that had routinely made him scrub the stairs until his hands were raw and bleeding.

Luna nodded, then shuffled back until they were sitting next to each other. The foals made affronted sounds, then rose to shuffle after her, settling back around them both. That is how they spent their afternoon, and for the first time in days . . . For the first time in days, Tom felt he could breath, surrounded by the representation of death and leaning against Luna’s shoulder, ignoring the hissing reprimands of a serpent that felt he was too close to its mistress.

He knew it couldn’t last, this stolen peace, but for that moment, that day, even with Montoya’s irritable huffing, Tom allowed himself to pretend.

November 6th, 1994

By Sunday the attention had died down some, especially with not one but two respected members of Hufflepuff house vouching for him, though he still received the occasional dirty look. Tom felt they were all welcome to take his place, if they were that upset about it, but kept that to himself. He wasn’t sure what classified as ‘unwillingness to participate,’ according to the Goblet, but he would not be risking his magic. Skeeter was apparently gone, so he’d decided to allow himself to relax again, as much as one could when forced into a deadly competition.

Then of course, a special issue of the Daily Prophet arrived with lunch and Tom could only be happy he hadn’t eaten anything, relying instead on strong tea. As it was, nausea still curled through his stomach, looking at the headline in front of him.

Heir of You-Know-Who Abused by Death Eater Caretakers!

Below was his picture, one he vaguely remembered taking for Cadbury. He sat on a healer examination table, in what was clearly a medical room. His expression was flat, weary, and filled with suspicion. In the photo he was tapping a finger on the edge of the bed, fist gripping it tight, in what was being portrayed as a nervous habit. The Great Hall went so quiet, but the rush of sound in Tom’s head didn’t follow suit.

Dear Readers, the following story will not be easy to bare. While many of you may feel panicked, thinking that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has a child, fear not. It is highly unlikely that Thomas Slytherin is anything like the deceased Dark Lord (see attached mental evaluation, issued by St. Mungos pg.7) and more, that this poor boy has any sympathy for the defunct members of his Lord Fathers organization.

Before I delve any further, let me first explain. Between April and March of 1981, several women of pristine background and class vanished after an altercation in which You-Know-Who was rumored to be personally involved. For all accounts and purposes, all of these women were presumed dead. Unfortunately, that was not the case for one of them. Arbella Selwyn, last of the true Selwyns, apparently lived on — but only long enough to birth Thomas Slytherin, at the end of December of 1981.

From all information gathered, not just by myself, but by dedicated Aurors, Miss Selwyn was a fighter to the last, reportedly killed while trying to escape the old Lestrange property where she had been held, her child in arm. The Death Eaters responsible were Corvin and Maureen Lestrange, from the lesser Lestrange branch, and it is with them whom young Mister Slytherin was trapped for most of his life, in an old, ill-used Lestrange Manor deep in the country. (For full third-hand recount Via. Mister Slytherin, see pg. 12) Her child would live on to be tortured, reared, and heavily abused, all in the attempts of making him his Lord Fathers mirror image. It is to our advantage that these attempts failed.

Instead, during one of many attempts to escape his jailors, Thomas Slytherin, in a bought of accidental magic that is to date unprecedented, apparated outside the bounds of the old Lestrange Manor wards when an impromptu lesson involving Fiendfyre went awry. To his great luck, Lord Xenophilius Lovegood and his daughter were in the area at the time, and went to his aid upon feeling the magical disturbance. The Heir of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named now resides with the Lovegoods as their ward, and is reportedly healing from his no doubt traumatizing childhood. He’s been sorted Slytherin at Hogwarts — hardly surprisingly, as one must have a great deal of cunning to survive such a thing — and very recently has been forcibly entered into the Triwizard Tournament.

For more on Arabella Selwyn, see pg. 9. For more on You-Know-Who, see pg. 10. For more on Mister Slytherin’s available medical records, see pg. 8. For more on the Triwizard Tournament, see pg. 20.

This has been Chadly Dunningham, reporting for the Daily Prophet. More to come

Tom stared at the assortment of pictures, from copied medical reports to more pictures of himself. Somehow there were photos of his visit to Diagon with Luna. Hari, Hermione, and Neville were in the background, all of them appearing to be ambling. The Tom in the photo jumped when a larger male brushed past him suddenly, narrowed eyes turning to sharply track the man on his way into a shop. His hand had slipped out of a pocket and was flung a little in front of Luna. Her friends, in the background, were all watching him with wide eyes. Luna just stared at his hand sadly.

There were pictures of him sitting by the black lake, first alone, then joined by a bouncing Luna, who swiftly crowned him with a flower crown, making his lips quirk up into a soft smile. He and Hari, clearly arguing over a book as they walked down a nondescript Hogwarts Hallway. Him, standing on the crowded Express Platform, looking out at the crowd with a weary expression on his pale face. Pictures of — of everything. He and his friends, studying. Hari’s birthday party, with Tom in the background, watching everyone wearily. There were photos of Arabella Selwyn, surfaces of which seemed aged even in print, but still moving, in various stages of her life.

He couldn’t help but touch one, where she appears to be around his age, sitting by the Black Lake under the same tree he frequented, smiling out over the lake as she laughed. Tom became abruptly aware of the whispers. He couldn’t bring himself to look away from Selwyn’s smiling face. Until he caught the image on the following page.

“Tom?”

Blaise’s voice sounded like it was underwater. Tom couldn’t tear his eyes away from the oddity of staring first at Selwyn’s smiling face, then at the grainy image of a cloaked figure, taken from a distance, who looked gaunt and too-pale in the flickering light. He abruptly felt sick. Moving slowly, unsure why he was doing so, Tom physically tore the grainy images of who could only be Voldemort from his paper, then balled it up and tossed it over his shoulder. His eyes had flickered back to Selwyn.

“Thomas?” Theo then, softer, a hand on his shoulder.

He flinched, then scowled at the paper, then stood abruptly, chest tightening and mind racing and breath frozen in his lungs. He refolded the rest of the prophet as he left the Great Hall, eyes burning. He didn’t know what the feeling in his chest, in his head was. Didn’t know what it meant to feel as though one’s lungs were collapsing, ones eyes were being seared from the inside out, didn’t know why everything felt like it was underwater. Drowning.

He only knew this.

He had been right. He was not ready.

He could not say where he was going, only that every time he blinked he was somewhere new, until he was inside the forest. Tom let his Monster go, sinking to his knees under the onslaught of rage and fear and too-much-feeling beating through his chest.

Because —

Because Tom didn’t know who he was. Not anymore. He’d thought he did, in the beginning of his year. And then he’d been dropped into 1994 and he didn’t know anymore. Didn’t know who he was or what he was feeling or why it was alternatively easier and harder in this world than it had been in his to live. To make friends. To feel safe. Why he had to become someone new to have all the things he’d always wanted. He didn’t know why being Just Tom was too much to ask, in any life. Why a version of himself was now both his own father and a madman who’d ruined all the lives he wanted to make better as a child.

How it was that he felt more for a woman he would never meet, than one he’d never even seen.

Tom wondered at why he could never seem to escape being an orphan.

He had not been ready.

(But the Monster always was, eager to rend and tear at the world around it in a way Tom couldn’t.)

By the time his Monster is gone, sunk back into his skin, Tom is staring blank and bleary-eyed at the wreck around him that used to be a forest and was now simply ground mulch. A semi-circle of ruined Earth fanned around him in a seven meter radius of destruction. He was glad he’d never run into the centaurs, for they’d surely hate him. His vision was fuzzy, and his eyes kept leaking, and he still had no easy answer. Or any answer.

All he knew absolutely was that everyone would know now, the sordid history that was his — even if half of it was a lie — and knowing the Wixen world . . .

Things were about to become more nonsensical than usual, and Tom would bear the brunt of it.

Luna eventually found him, curled up loosely against a tree and staring at the wreckage he’d made, eyes puffy. Montoya was draped over her shoulders, like a living scarf. She took his hand in hers and squeezed, and things weren’t better, but he could bear to think at least.

“You need to eat,” Luna hummed, eyes dancing over the leaves above them. She did not look at the ruined forest.

Tom allowed her to pull him up and lead him out of the forbidden forest, and he made note of the fact that they appeared to be going to great pains to avoid other students. Any time Luna saw a group of them in the distance she would backtrack and lead him somewhere else, until finally, they were slipping into the kitchens rather than the Great Hall. He almost stops short when he sees that they’re not alone.

Hari, Hermione, Neville, the Ginger Menaces, Blaise, Theo, Malfoy, Diggory, Krum and Delacour were all crowding around a table, plates, books, parchments, and quills spread between them, arguing. They stopped when they saw Luna nearly dragging Tom towards them.

Tom has no idea why they’re there, and a part of his wants to resent them for it.

Hari was the first to move, his expression grave, and movements so well telegraphed it was like he was approaching a wild animal. And then he hugged Tom. Tom froze, eyes going wide, breath freezing. He was so far out of his element he didn’t know what he should be doing.

“I’m sorry Tom. It can’t have been easy, having everything put on display like that. And seeing those pictures of your Mum — well, I wouldn’t have been able to hold my composure as well as you did.”

Slowly, Tom relaxed, though he was still hard-pressed to know what he should do. Then before he could blink everyone else was up and moving towards him determinedly. The frantic shake of his head did nothing to deter them all, and then he was absconded into a group hug, with Luna tucked under his right arm, Hermione tucked under his left, and the Ginger Menaces all tucked behind him. Tom struggled only briefly, and then stopped again when the twins cooed softly at him from behind.

“Shhh, shhh,” Probably George voiced,

“The more you struggle,” Fred agreed,

“The longer it lasts,” Ginny Weasley announced mischievously.

Tom elected to stop struggling in the hopes that it would end, but they all waited until he seemed to have slumped in defeat before they moved away and then ushered him towards the table.

“Ve’re trying to figure out if vou can take legal action for ‘ve article,” Krum announced, retaking his place and scowling at a copy of the prophet, which had been spread out along the table and stabbed through with knives.

“Lord Lovegood hired a solicitor for me already, on account of the Tourney. He’ll likely already be handling it.” Tom shrugged, then tentatively rubbed at his eyes, which still felt warm and puffy.

He very pointedly ignored the sympathetic and enraged looks several of them were giving him.

(He didn’t understand. They should be afraid.)

“Good. Then all we need to do is plan our revenge against this Chadly Dunningham.” Hari hissed with relish, looking disproportionately excited by the idea.

“The Daily Prophet is going to seriously regret dragging one of us into their web,” The twins agreed, smiles all teeth as they returned to their own stations, eyes alight with unholy glee. Even Ginny seemed to agree, her eyes furiously black as she scratched out something on one of the open parchments.

“No one messes with a Weasley.”

Tom paused, frowned, then sighed.

“For the last time,” he groaned, ignoring the way Neville thought he was ‘subtly’ filling the plate at Tom’s elbow, “I am not a Weasley.”

They all three elected to ignore him, and Tom was somehow badgered into eating. By the time the odd group seemed satisfied that he was alright, it was late. Professor Snape was waiting for him when he, Blaise, Theo, and Malfoy stepped back into the Common Room. So was most of Slytherin House. Tom might have walked right past them if Snape hadn’t flicked up a letter, sealed in a familiar lavender wax. Tom walked up to collect it, staring at the wax seal instead of his Head of House. The Cauldron, the eye, and the raven, in a familiar trifecta, pressed firmly into Xeno’s favorite hue of purple.

“Mister Slytherin,” Snape said slowly, “I do hope that you remember my door is always open. While here at Hogwarts, in my House, you are safe, and you have my support. Don’t let pride stand in the way of a such ready support system should you have need of it.”

And then he was gone. Tom gave no one else the opportunity to speak to him, marching instead towards the dorms. He did not like the new calculation he found in the eyes of his fellow Slytherin’s. Not one bit. Once safely behind his bed curtains, Tom broke the seal on the letter.

It was written with such precision, he almost thought he felt the burning rage of Xeno through the ink.

Tom,

I’ve filed a suit against the Prophet for unlawfully breaching the privacy of a minor, and for possible endangerment of a person under ministry protection. Until this moment no one had yet realized the relevancy of your existence, so this will indeed bring unwanted attention from multiple sources. Be cautious, and take care.

Do not worry about the Prophet. I am handling that particular issue.

Don’t forget to eat, and above all, remember this:

You are a ward of Klan Lovegood. Lovegoods have ever and will ever stand fiercely loyal to their own, and that will forever include you, whether you choose to stay with us or not.

With us you are loved, and will always find family.

With much love and respect,

Xeno

Tom carefully folded the letter back and tucked it under his pillow, hands shaking with too-many-feelings. He couldn’t think of this. Not on top of everything else. Not on top of the calculated gleams, or the whispers, or the looks. Not on top of the article, the full paper still tucked into one of his robe pockets. Not on top of the soft warmth of more-hugs-than-he’s-ever-been-given-before, which has left him wrong-footed and floundering.

Tom found a dreamless sleep, tucked deep into his trunk, and took the recommended dosage.

He did not want to sleep, and he did not want to dream. He just wanted silence.

November 10th, 1994

Luna watched Tom pick at his food, unable to help a worried frown pulling at her lips. He hadn’t eaten properly in days. Despite the unaffected mask he used, the whispers and looks which followed him around the school deeply bothered him. Well. The looks and the barrage of howlers that had found their way to him the day after the article, and which Hari, Blaise, and Professor Snape had taken great pleasure in burning to crisps before they could unwind themselves. Luna couldn’t blame her friend for his resulting attitude, which was almost a complete regression from all the progress she’d made over the summer and school year thus far.

He was back to being surly, snappish, and suspicious, with all but those immediately within his circle, and still he struggled with not shoving them all away. Luna wishes she could find whoever entered him into the Tourney, thus putting him in the lime light, and drown them in her worst visions.

(As it was, there were too many Possibilities regarding that for her to Know. There would not be any straight answers for her in regards to that.)

Bagman, up at the faculty table, though they had adjusted the table settings and placed all official tourney representatives to the far right of the Hall, stood and cast a Sonourus.

“If I may have your attention please, Champions. It’s my pleasure to inform you that three days hence, Sunday the thirteenth, we will be holding the weighing of the wands ceremony, to ensure each Champions wand is in working order! Dress to impress and come prepared, as a reporter of notable reputation will be here for the Daily Prophet!”

Tom scowled at the croissant he had steadily picked apart until it was little more than crumbs, and Luna gently placed her hand over one of his, leading it to the scones she knew he liked.

“Eat something Tom. Please,” she whispered.

Tom stared blankly at the scones, eyes tracing over their linked hands, and then he sighed. He sighed and it was like he deflated all at once, his shoulders drooping and his face becoming gaunt.

“I’ll try,” he said softly.

Luna gave him an encouraging smile, then took to rubbing his back slowly as he picked at his scone. He’s been fluctuating between utter apathy and clear distress ever since the prophet came out, and all the attention that was placed on him became less about unwilling participation and more about who his ‘father’ was. She couldn’t blame him, and thankfully, none in his house could either.

The Slytherins had closed rank on him swiftly, watching the rest of the school with stoney suspicion — with the exception of Tom’s friends in other houses. The Viper Pit seemed to shift between fearing her Tom, and fussing over him worriedly.

Unsurprisingly for such a proud person, this did not seem to help. That was alright. Luna had no intention of letting Tom’s pride get in the way of his own well-being.

***

Snape was already in the third year potions classroom when Tom opened the door. That was good, because Tom didn’t much have the patience for waiting. Luna sat in the back, and the Professor flicked his wand at the tables, which rose and stacked themselves against the wall not dedicated to potions under stasis. Flitwick came trotting out of the back office, looking determined.

“Severus tells me you’re advanced for your age, and while I agree, neither of us believe it is advanced enough for this Tourney. Not with the way Crouch is running things. That is why our primary goal here will be survival, nothing fancy and nothing impressive.”

Tom nodded, slipping his Slytherin robes off and moving to stand. Flitwick waved him back, shaking his head.

“Observe only for the first five minutes, if you please Mister Slytherin. And Miss Lovegood, if you could be so kind as to move a further table back? I’ve warded that last table for you.”

Luna complied, and Tom settled into a seat to watch, and then Flitwick and Snape were dueling. For the purpose of the exercise, Flitwick was the aggressor and Snape was the defender, though that hardly mattered when they were both vicious bastards. Tom had a new level of rising respect for the kindly, half-goblin professor he had liked but otherwise ignored before that moment.

Now? Now Tom would very much like the man to quit being the Charms teacher and give them a decent DADA teacher who wasn’t going to serve as more of a distraction for Tom than anything.

(He spent more time planning how to throw things at Moody than he did listening to the lectures.)

The duel ended when a timer went off. Neither man looked injured, though they were both decently rumpled, and Flitwick look extremely pleased with the fact that Snape’s hair was now an absolute mess, sticking up every which way. Flitwick himself had shoes much too big for his feet and a conjured bit of rope kept trying to trip him up. Tom felt more awake in that hour of furious defensive training than he had all week. The points system that the Professors graded him on boiled down to this; the more you irritated or otherwise immobilized, distracted, or stalled your opponent, the higher your points. An outright attack lost him points. Purely relying on defense and nothing else lost him points over time, because if there was more than one danger, he was setting himself up for magical exhaustion.

It was the most exhilarating defensive lesson he’s had since he arrived in this timeline.

Eventually they stopped, and had a lengthy discussion about everything he did wrong, and everything he did right, as well as the things he needed to work on over the next week.

“Above all, work on your distraction tactics! I’ve included here a pamphlet of spells that other professors have seen used in duels or fights, and provided more than a few myself, as has your Head of House. Professor McGonagall’s suggestions especially would be useful. Remember, your aim is to survive, Mister Slytherin.”

Tom thanked both professors, and left when they dismissed him, he and Luna heading up to the Great Hall. He actually had an appetite at dinner, and when it came time, he fell into sleep without tossing and turning.

Apparently, he would need to solicit Professor Flitwick to throw magic at him in order to accomplish either of these things routinely.

November 12th, 1994

The morning of their Hogsmede weekend, Tom dearly wished he could stay in bed. Unfortunately, the Weasley terrors had other ideas. They came bursting into his dorm and ushered him out of bed, dismantling the wards he had placed up with an ease that made him irritated rather than murderous. While Probably-Fred shoved him into the loo and threw clothes into a stall, he caught sight of Probably-George re-assembling his wards.

(Which meant he would have to check them for pranks. Probably one-way, two-way, and time-delay pranks, knowing George.)

“Why in the name of Merlin are you two doing this?” he growled while he was shoving the sweater Fred had grabbed over his head.

“We’ve a family meeting to attend in Hogsmede!” Fred announced cheerfully.

“And I’m being drug along because?” he asked dangerously.

Fred poked his head in just as Tom had tugged his muggle jeans all the way up, grinning mischievously.

“Because you’re a Weasely silly goose!”

The ginger pratt was a little too good at dodging the volley of spells Tom sent after him in response. If he’d had shoes on he might have followed the lanky menace out of the shared loo, but as it was — his feet were cold. Returning to the changing room, Tom finished dressing, then brought his night clothes back to his room. Fred and George were fluttering around his dorm terrorizing Tom’s roommates. He let them, putting his used clothing in the dirty hamper, then grabbing a heavy black robe to go over the dark grey corduroy jacket Luna had picked for him at the beginning of the year. His Slytherin scarf was tossed over one shoulder, and then his coin purse went into one of the large robe pockets.

He walked out of his dorm and ignored the startled exclamations when he did not bring the Weasleys with him.

Sadly they caught up to him as he reached the Common Room entrance, and Ginny was waiting there anyway. He never would have been rid of them. They walked up to breakfast together, and since it was a weekend, he sat at Ravenclaw table across from Hari. By the time Luna gently touched his shoulder, seating herself on his left quietly, he’d made his tea and put together a plate for her. The rest of their . . . friends . . . slowly trickled over to the table, most of them dressed for colder weather than what was inside the hall.

Krum ended up sitting with them because the alternative was sitting sandwhiched between Malfoy and a chatty-looking seventh year Slytherin girl.

“I ‘ave never been to ‘Ogsmeede be’vore,” Krum started, curiosity in his eyes as he looked at Hermione.

Hermione shrugged her shoulders, placing a bookmark in her book to stare back at him.

“It’s more a small hamlet than a bustling town, at least compared to modern muggle towns. But it’s fairly interesting! Some of the buildings date back as far as 1578, although most of them have been heavily refurbished over time. My favorite is Scrivenshafts, as they have a small collection of books that hasn’t been the same every time I’ve gone. And I go through a ridiculous amount of parchment.”

Hermione went through so much parchment because she never stopped researching, but Tom wasn’t about to point that out. At present her research skills were directed at trying to help him stay alive, so he would likely be purchasing all of her parchment for her on this trip.

Moody once again followed them. Snape stalked next to him, eyes sharp. Xeno was going to be meeting them in Hogsmede, though Luna promised he wouldn’t hover. As soon they reached the Three Broomsticks, the twins drug Tom up the stairs and into a room, following Ginny, where a taller, lankier ginger was waiting for them. He had long hair collected into a bun on the back of his head, a smattering of freckles, a single pierced ear — it looked like a fang of some kind — and he wore leather. He vaguely resembled Hari’s Lord Black — who also wore black leather jackets, muggle band tees, and heavy boots. He looked at Tom with calculation, and whatever he saw — warmth bloomed in his expression, for some blooming reason.

“So you’re my new baby brother,” He greeted.

Tom sighed the sigh of the beaten and down-trodden. He couldn’t even find it in himself to argue.

“Why are Weasely’s like this?” he asked the room in general.

Ginny grinned at him from where she’d pranced up and looped her arms around the Newest Weasley’s waist. Newest Weasley laughed, and so did the twins.

“Ickle Tommykins, meet Big Brother Bill!” Fred rolled his hands between them, going from Tom to Bill Weasley.

“Big Brother Bill, meet Ickle Tommykins!” George finished rolled his hands between them, going from Bill to Tom.

“Oh, don’t be so formal! Come’ere sprout!” Bill grinned, and opened his arms wide.

Tom tried to backpedal. The Twins pushed him into Bill, and he was being hugged. No amount of scrambling like a cat dropped into a tub of water got him free, and he couldn’t reach his wand. A wide hand patted the back of his head.

“Shh, shh, little brother,” Bill whispered, “Big Brother Bill’s here now. Nothing is going to hurt you.”

Tom growled. He isn’t even sure why. The Twins and Ginny suddenly started hugging them too. Tom growled some more, and he didn’t stop until no amount of wiggling would allow him to elbow the twins. He contemplated using wandless magic to sting or shock them, but ultimately, it wasn’t worth the effort. Tom went limp, playing dead, and after about five minutes, Bill started chuckling and released him.

The Weasley’s as a unit — he was extremely uncomfrotable being outnumbered by them — sat him down, and a stack of papers was placed in front of him.

“This is a list of runes, wards, charms, and spells that I use in my day to day life as a Curse Breaker for Gringotts. I’m going to give you a run down of some of them — the more dangerous ones to self-study — and leave you with recommendations for the rest. This is a very dangerous situation for you to be in, but don’t worry. Weasley’s persevere — and all of us are here if you need help. Except Ginny. As amazing as our sister is she’s not quiet to this level yet.”

Ginny huffed, and Tom opened his mouth to say ‘not a Weasley,’ until his eyes landed on the second page and he chose to shut his mouth. He suddenly very desperately wanted Bill Weasely’s instruction. Bill smiled at him, as if Tom had just fallen right into his trap.

Tom so very, incredibly sick of conniving Weasely’s. Thay’re all lucky they were bloody brilliant or he’d have hexed them silly.

***

An hour later, Tom slipped from the Three Broomsticks with a small headache and a stack of very important papers tucked into the inner pocket of his jacket. Someone he faintly recognized as being a seventh year Slytherin saw his muggle jacket and grimaced in distaste, then saw his face and paled, turning quickly to walk away with their friends. Tom chose to head towards Scrivenshafts. Hermione had said they would be there about that time, and he wanted a new jounral.

When he foudn them, Hermione had three tomes in her basket, and was haggling over the price of three reams of parchment. Tom stepped up to her and said;

“Add a fourth ream and two vials of ink. I’ll cover it.”

Hermione snapped her head to him, opened her mouth to protest.

“You’re helping me research. I’ve seen how much parchment you use. Let me do this.”

Her mouth closed, her shoulders lost their defensiveness, and she nodded after a moment.

“Very well. You may buy the parchment, but nothing else.”

Tom smiled.

“I’m buying the ink too.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him, seemed to weight the options, then huffed.

“Fine.”

She moved away, towards where Luna was flipping through several books, and Tom paid for the archemnt, than pasued, his eyes caught on a display behind the counter.

“How much?”

The man turned, looked, and smiled brightly.

“Like it? You’ve a fine eye mi’lad! That’s the latest model! Only twenty galleons.”

Tom contemplated it.

“You have one in blue?”

The man pasued, glanced behind him, smiled an odd smile, and nodded.

“O’course, O’course! I’ve got blue, purple, burgundy, and green!”

Tom nodded, took his purse back out and smiled.

“I’ll take one in blue and one in purple.”

Once those had been packed for him and slipped into his satchel, he wandered over to Luna.

“Look Tom,” she sighed, stoking a hand over the cover of a pale pink leather book. It was as large as the face of his satchel, and the attached label claimed you could enchant the cover to have a basic image loop around the cover. The example journals had snitches fluttering back and forth, kneezles prancing around the edges, and dragons blowing a stream of fire.

Hermione eventually wandered to the front to buy her books, and Luna and Tom wandered up to pay for their journals. The found the rest of their group waiting for them outside, all carrying a paper bag from Honeydukes. Hari presented Tom with an Acid pop, grinning, and Tom took it slowly, surprised. And then confused, because Hari looked at him with relief in his eyes and a happier grin on his face.

They spent the rest of the Hosmede trip wandering from shop to shop with Luna, avoiding larger crowds and enjoying the blank way the Hogsmede residents looked at him — at least until they looked too long and a spark of recognition lit their eyes. He much preferred it to the schoolmates that all thought they knew him. Finally, they were wandering back to Hogwarts, pockets stuffed and passing about a box of pepper imps and laughing — though Tom refused after he’d tentatively given one a try. He detested the taste of them.

Diner in the Great Hall was a quiet affair, all the students occupied with their Hogsmede day. Tom went to bed hoping for a similarly decent day the following morning.

Instead—

—He found the door. Couldn’t get it open. The walls rippled like melting wax, and the door was jerked away from him. Something was slinking through the darkness —

He ran.

He always ran—

—The serpent rose over him. Tom lifted a wand he didn’t know he had and fired a string of spells. The creature roared and fell back. Tom stared, stunned —

and it cost him

The serpent whipped around too-fast to dodge and opened it’s dripping maw—

—He dreamed.

November 13th, 1994

Creevy ends up interrupting Tom’s History of Magic class for the weighing of the wands. Since Tom wasn’t doing anything of particular importance — he’d been reading up on several of the transfiguration tactics McGonagall had written about — he simply gets up and walks out, after asking Luna to meet him in the library after. Creevy, unlike some Gryffindors in the presence of a Slytherin, is chatty, and in the span of ten minutes, Tom learns far too much about him.

He used to be a huge fan of Harry Potter the Boy-Who-Lived, until he actually met the Claw and realized that the book series that had been written about him was utter tripe. He loved photography, which was why he always had a camera on him — except that he’d lost a bet to Zaibini and he was loaning it to the older Snake until before Christmas, because Creevy didn’t welch on his bets. He had a little brother who was also magical, he initially wanted to bring a lizard to school instead of an owl, and his favorite color was emerald.

Tom was glad when the boy scrambled away after depositing him in front of the interview room, where Xeno was waiting outside the door looking hassled.

“How are you Tom?” the man asked, waving his hands in a fluttering motion over Tom’s head and shoulders.

“Trying.” Tom managed to say, shifting uncomfortably as he glanced at the closed door.

“Skeeter is here. She’s behaving for the most part — and the Prophet has issued a withdrawal of their article. The reporter who wrote it has been suspended. But she’s clearly angling for something. Be careful,” Lord Lovegood pressed quietly, then opened the door.

Well. Bollox.

Tom stepped inside, and took in the occupants of the room. The other Champions were standing with their Headmasters. Diggory was waiting a few steps away from Dumbledore, and motioned Tom over with a welcoming smile. A camera flashed. Tom valiantly ignored the urge to break it and instead stepped up to Diggory’s side. Sitting at a table, where only a few chairs were placed across from her, Skeeter was smiling a wide smile.

“Ah, and there he is,” her look grew purposefully mournful, “Mister Slytherin on behalf of the Daily Prophet allow me to extend my most sincere apologies for the article that was published some weeks ago.”

A man in a dark suit with whisper-thin pinstripes cleared his throat pointedly. Skeeter frowned at him over her shoulder, then huffed.

“Mister Slytherin,” the man said, stepping forward and offering his hand.

“You must be Jack Flamel,” Tom inquired.

Nodding briskly, the man, with a pleasantly coiffed head of auburn hair and sharp blue eyes, glanced at Dumbledore and then away.

“We’ll speak after this ceremony.”

Nodding, Tom settled back to wait, choosing to treat this whole thing like he was an observer rather than a participant. Ollivander came toddling in, wispy hair and with silvery eyes bouncing over everyone present and settling on Tom. They went through the ceremony, with Ollivander having something to say about each wand, until he came to Tom’s. Tom’s he handled with care, looking it over intently.

“Yew and Fir, thirteen and a half inches. Quite solid. A very fine wand, though it was quiet an unexpected match. Never in all my years have I had to make a wand on the spot, Mr. Slytherin. How does it suit you?”

Tom shifted uneasily, his shoulders tensing, and his expression feeling . . . cold.

“It suits me fine.”

Ollivander nodded, then flicked the wand in a tight spiral. A luminous, fluttering buterfly came whipping out the tip, drifted through the room, and then finally disappeared in a splash of light against Tom’s chest. It felt . . . warm. Made some of the cold thaw.

“Very good, Mr. Slytherin. I see you take very good care of it,” Ollivander said, handing the wand back gently.

“Everything is in order,” Ollivander informed Crouch, and then he shuffled aside, taking a seat.

Lord Lovegood gripped Tom’s shoulder, and Tom leaned on him as he stepped back, gripping his wand tight. They took a handful of group photos, though Tom refused outright to be in the front, instead standing behind Diggory — who’d actually wanted to be in the bloody tournament — and from the gleam in Rita’s eye, she was going to make this difficult.

She tried to split them up for interviews, until Mr. Flamel cleared his throat pointedly and she huffily did a group interview, in which Tom very clearly didn’t pay any attention, his eyes focused on the door to the room. He answered only those questions he knew he must, because of Mr. Flamel’s advice and the tournament rules, and otherwise remained silent. She asked the other champions questions like;

‘What do you hope to show the world with your participation, Ms. Delacour?’

‘Can you describe how your Hogwarts education is going to support you in this tournament, Mr. Diggory?’

‘Mr. Krum, your fans are dying to know how you feel, being the champion of your school!’

And probably Tom’s least favorite question, which she asked of all of them;

‘How do you feel about young Mr. Slytherin’s participation in this tourney?’

To this last question, his fellows had much to say, and Tom tried to pretend like he didn’t exist, because it was one thing to know they were on his side about his participation, and another for him to recieve such obvious proof that they believed his participation was unlawful and dangerous, given his age.

“And what is your opinon of the other champions, Mr. Slytherin? How do you feel about your competition?”

Tom couldn’t help the disbelieving stare he directed at her, nor the immediate response he gave.

“They’re the only champions. I never wanted to participate, as each of them has told you repeatedly. I’m barely fourteen — they’re all of age. Each of them is a strong magic user, each of them is brave and very studious. And each of them asked to be here. They aren’t my competition, Ms. Skeeter. I’m their interloper, and if anyone in the committee had been paying proper attention to the rules of the tourney, I wouldn’t be in this situation. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have revision to do, and no more patience for this.”

And then he was walking, leaving the room as casually as he could for all the rage flowing through him. Someone called after him, but he could only focus on the way that Lord Lovegood’s presence hovered by his shoulder. It was centering. Grounding. Allowed him to focus on not blowing a hole in the wall of the castle out of sheer frustration.

Lord Lovegood stayed with him all the way out to he Black Lake, and then he left when he saw that Luna was already under the tree he’d come to frequent, her expression calm and pensive. Tom collapses next to her and breathes, sinking into meditation because he can’t afford to march into the forest and destroy it when Skeeter is on school grounds.

That night, the whispers follow him, renewed. Tom clenches his teeth and tries to keep his head held high. He was just starting to feel more centered, he will not be drug down again. Not now that he had a goal.

November 14th, 1994

The renewal of the Triwizard Tournament!

Or should we say the Quattorwizard Tournament?

The rustle of pages nearly drown out the anxiety pounding through him as he read.

My Dearest Readers,

This reporter has just returned from a most illuminating interview with the newest Champions of the intrepid Triwizard Tournament, where the most surprising thing was not that an underage wizard had been entered against his will, but that his involvement is considered — by some — to be an attempt on Albus Dumbledore’s part to claim the championship for his own school. Having spoken but briefly to young Mister Slytherin, I can assure you all that he is —

Tom had very specifically not engaged in the interview to avoid being the center of attention — Mr. Flamel had told him what the Prophet reporter would try to do, and Tom didn’t want more attention.

The original three champions chosen all had much to say in defense of young Mr. Slytherin.

‘He’s barely fourteen,’ one Cedric Diggory said, face a resolute mask of justice, ‘and he wasn’t even paying attention during the announcement. I saw him reading a book! He looked ready to panic when he was ushered towards the Champions Chamber, and given his past — this is the worst sort of thing for him. Tom only like attention when its directed at his academic achievements.’

Ms. Delacour had a little less to say; ‘I don’t know him well, but he is good friends with some of the Ravenclaws I sit with. Even before the Champion Selection, he kept to himself and his friends, and seemed happy that way. I do not like that he is being forced to compete.’

Surprisingly, Mr. Krum was the most adamant supporter of young Mr. Slytherin, having this to say;

‘Tom is not responsible for his involvement. He has been nothing but disinterested in the Tourney, from the first day of my arrival. I recall he called it a ridiculous display of recklessness. He is one of the few people in this school that has treated me as simply a person, as just Victor rather than a celebrity, and I will do him the courtesy of treating him as just Tom, rather than all this other nonsense. We do not know under circumstance he was entered against his will, but I am sure that the goblet would not have allowed it if he wasn’t capable of surviving. That being said, I personally will be doing my best to look after him.’

Yet here he was, being made the center of the attention. His heart was trembling from cold in his chest.

So then how, you might ask, is that young Thomas Slytherin was entered against his will? As mentioned earlier, some rumors suggest that one Albus Dumbledore allowed his entry to better Hogwarts chances in the Tourney, despite his objections otherwise. These suppositions spring from a time, earlier this year, where rumors persisted on the true standing over the state of Hogwarts education programs, and how ready those students who graduated truly were for life beyond the isolating walls of Hogwarts hearth. Some within the committee for the Triwizard Tournament claim that this secondary champion, while unwilling, was willfully allowed to enter by the staff, despite the boy’s vocal objections. One can only—

No-no-no-no-no —

You might ask yourself; but why that boy? Gentle readers, this reporter supposes that it must be, in some way, related to two things; his magical ability and his ancestry. Either Albus Dumbledore is playing a long game with his former enemies only descendant, or —

Tom set the paper down carefully, took a deep breath, and stood. He felt dizzy. Some of the things insinuated in this paper — they were going to make navigating Dumbledore even more difficult. They were going to make navigating the school more difficult. It was already difficult to overcome the previous articles. He could see —

The faces watching him were suspicious and watchful.

The edges of his vision were growing fuzzy and dark.

Everyone was watching him.

His heart felt cold.

Everyone was —

Tom left the Great Hall, keeping his eyes trained straight ahead, avoiding looking at anyone.

He had to get away.

November 17th, 1994

Hari hadn’t seen Tom, really, since the latest article came out, and it made his gut curl with guilt. He was used to people talking about him — though admittedly, that had died down after Sirius took over as his guardian and started taking people to court — but some of the things being said about Tom were . . .

Vile. Slytherin House as a whole, and in direct response to any wrong looks sent Tom’s way, had become even more nasty. It wasn’t about being clever anymore for them — it was about making what they said hurt. The only people in school who escaped it were Tom’s friend group, and the Professors. Zacharias Smith especially had a renewed level of attack against him, when he wasn’t screaming at thin air and running away from empty corridors, that is.

This is perhaps why, when Tom showed up to lunch with a blank face and gaunt cheeks, Hari sprang into action, interception the younger boy and Luna before they could reach the Ravenclaw table.

“I’m going to borrow this!” Hari chirped and hooked an arm through Tom’s dragging the taller boy away.

Tom didn’t protest, and Luna let him drag Tom away, and that in itself told him how tired they both were. He’s positive that the other boy hadn’t eaten in too long. That he hadn’t been sleeping. And that worrying about him had made Luna spiral. Luna always spiraled when she worried — because it took so much to make her worry, she never seemed to know what to do with the feeling when she had it.

Tom followed him wordlessly all the way to the seventh floor, where he stirred, and looked about with mild suspicion. Hari doesn’t know why, but he does do his pacing in front of the wall, then usheres Tom through the door that forms. The taller but younger boy stops halfway through, then enters slowly.

The room is wide but cozy, a large fireplace taking up most of the far wall. There are large, plush couches scattered in a semi-circle around it, and huge plush pillows scattered over the floor. A single floor to ceiling bookshelf take up one wall. A turntable sits waiting between two of the couches. Hari ushers Tom towards a couch, makes him sit, and then says softly;

“Dippy.”

The elf pops into being and stares at Tom sadly, then pops away again. A tea table appears, with a small crock of soup, a stack of empty bowls, and an assortment of light looking finger foods. Tom stares at the food dispassionately, then leans heavily on the arm of the couch he claimed, and stares at Hari.

“Why am I here?” the words are flat and exhausted.

“Because you need to allow yourself to take breaks from people when they become too much.”

It is, perhaps, the gravity in which he speaks that shows Tom hoe serious he is, because he doesn’t argue — very unlike him — or snip, he just sits back fully and stares at the fire. A pop by Hari’s elbow, at the same time a pot of tea is deposited on the tea tray . . . which rolls silently closer to Tom. Hari flicks through the records that had appeared by him, and selects the newest one.

“Sirius taught me — sometimes, the best way to process what you’re feeling is through music. Not the Wixen worlds music, most of it is very . . . bland. But Muggle music is varied and wild. Just — listen? Alright? From one orphan to another — it might help.”

Tom’s expression does . . . something, but he isn’t Luna, and he can’t read what it might be. Instead he sets the record on, and lets the music blare. It’s a wide mixture of rock, grunge, punk, and soothing, sad ballads. Sirius liked all music, but this was one of his special mixes, made when he was feeling things and needed to process. He’d made a copy for Hari because sometimes Hari felt things too, and Sirius was great like that.

Tom doesn’t make much commentary over the music, just sits there with a hand over his eyes and listens, only making the occasional face at the screaming or blare of drums. Hari has noticed that Tom has very old fashioned taste in music, so this is definitely out of the norm. Slowly, almost twenty minutes before lunch is meant to end, their friends trickle into the room, finding somewhere to sit. They’re all exhausted. Hermione has combed the library from end to end twice over, Theo had compiled a list of every way anyone had ever died in the Tourney and committed it to memory. The twins and Ginny had a look in their eyes that faintly resembled murder. The rest of them were just tired from the excess working and energy put into trying to figure out how to help Tom prepare for the mysterious. When the first record finished, Hari pulled out another one.

“This one is comprised of new songs, ones that came out this year. Sirius loves them—” Hari said, popping the album into the turntable, “He sent me my copy last week, but I’m familiar with them.”

Technically, Sirius had had to do some magic hocus pocus to get several songs from several CD’s recorded onto an empty vinyl. But he’d done so after listening to said CD’s on repeat, so much so that Kreacher had threatened to drown him in his sleep. Hari had been willing to help the Elf.

At some point, a familiar tune started, and Tom slowly lowered his hand, sitting forward the more the lyrics rolled from the turntable.

We chase misprinted lies

We face the path of time

And yet I fight, and yet I fight

This battle all alone

Its the first expression of interest that Hari has seen.

“This one is called Nutshell, by Alice in Chains,” the Slytherin’s expression was . . . transfixed, his attention absolute as he stared at the turn table.

Hari took the opportunity provided to really observe the other boy, worry gnawing through him. He’d liked this song too. It reminded him of how people treated him before Sirius started protecting him. Tom looked worn, ragged, and seen. There was a glassy look to his eyes. Hari has no idea what song played next, he was so focused on the vulnerability in the Slytherins face — and then Tom flinched at the song after that, eyes widening on the record player. The wildness in his eyes made Hari pay attention.

“This one is called . . . Disarm, by Smashing Pumpkins. I suspect they’re wizards, actually, but that’s just my opinion,” Hari said softly, voice wobbling, quite under the lyrics;

I used to be a little boy

So old in my shoes

And what I choose is my voice

What’s a boy supposed to do?

The killer in me is the killer in you

Fat tears started sliding down Tom’s cheeks. Hari felt the first spark of panic. He hadn’t meant to make Tom cry. He’d just wanted him to feel grounded! Tom’s shoulders shook, and Hari let the song play out, then he turned off the record player, shuffling over to sit next to Tom. The words that had broken the dam finally were — by Hecate, they told a story Hari didn’t much like.

Hari hugged Tom, and Tom, in a move that was entirely unexpected, leaned on him, shoulders shaking. Luna got up from where she’d been laying on a fat pillow on the floor, shuffled over to press against Tom’s knees, and rested her head on them.

Everyone else was quiet. The words from the songs echoed in Hari’s head, painting an awful picture of Tom’s potential mindset. From the pensive look on everyone else’s face, it painted the same picture for them.

The killer in me is the killer in you

Send this smile over to you

The killer in me is the killer in you—

We chase misprinted lies

We face the path of time

And yet I fight, and yet I fight

This battle all alone

Disarm you with a smile

And leave you like they left me here

To wither in denial

The bitterness of one who’s left alone—

—My gift of self is raped

My privacy is raked

And yet I find, and yet I find

Repeating in my head

If I can’t be my own

I’d feel better dead—

—cut you like you want me to

Cut that little child

Inside of me and such a part of you

Ooh, the years burn

—The killer in me is the killer in you—

Hari hadn’t expected to be friends with Tom when the year started. But now he was. And if there was one thing that had almost had him tossed arse first into Hufflepuff — it was his capacity for loyalty. Looking around the room, he could see similar determination in the faces of his friends — friends who, like him, had all taken a chance on Luna’s family Ward, taken a chance on someone that seemed so cold and found someone unexpectedly kind and unbelievably awkward under that icy outer shell.

Hermione’s exhaustion slowly melted away, until a Valkyrie sat in her place.

The Twins and Ginny snapped their journal shut and shuffled over, faces grim, crowding around Hari and Tom and Luna. It wasn’t often the twins accepted people into their circle absolutely, but they’d done so with Tom and they clearly didn’t regret it.

Blaise and Theo each took one of Neville’s hands — the soft-hearted, furious badger looked ready to go to war, eyes wet and face set.

Tom Slytherin was drowning in the shadow of his unfortunate parentage. He was doing his best to appear as though he wasn’t, but it was clear now that too much had changed for him in a short amount of time. He’d had no control over the secret of his parentage — for he’d refused to answer questions out rightly prior to that article — being drug into the light. He’d had no control over his participation in the Tourney. He’d had no control over his life at all.

He needed help.

Hari would be putting his parents to shame if he didn’t do anything he could to help a friend in need.

He was not in the habit of shaming their memories.

“It’s alright Tom,” he whispered, “we’re here. We’ve got you.”

Hogwarts had, in some way, saved each of them. It would do the same for Tom now.

***

Tom doesn’t actually know what happened between falling unconscious on the couch in the Come and Go room and waking up, but when he woke up he felt — not weightless, but as though something he’d been carrying had been disposed of while he rested against Hari’s shoulder. And that had been only the first of many embarrassments. The Twins and Ginny had somehow moved him over while he slept and curled into the space around him. Luna had been napping on his knee.

The rest of his —friends had been gathered around a small table, speaking quietly, passing parchments back and forth. The angry, wild buzz that had taken up residence in a corner of Tom’s mind had been blessedly silent for the first time in days.

He didn’t understand.

He didn’t understand the feeling being surrounded by them inspired, or why they were still there. It was one thing to stay with him after the Champion Selection. It was another to so continuously support him after the article revealing his ‘parentage.’ Another to remain, with everything that continued to happen around him.

He hadn’t known what to do with all the feelings swirling through him, and so he chose to do nothing, pretending like they didn’t exist. Instead, he woke Luna gently, reminded them all that lunch was over, and then left the room with Luna skipping next to him. Ginny had eventually caught up with them, a mischievous smile on her face. He’d chosen to ignore that too. Now, it was his free period, and he was standing in front of Snape, waiting. Professor Flitwick was sitting to the side of the room, observing them. A small blackboard stood next to him.

“In a moment, Filius will teach you a series of charms that are of vital importance. I highly recommend that you you find somewhere to cope them down at the end of the lesson today — yes, Miss Lovegood?”

Luna’s airy voice drifted in response.

“I can copy it down as it’s being said, Professor,” she offered.

Professor Flitwick smiled in her direction, pleased.

“That will do very well, Miss Lovegood,” the small man chirped, and then flicked his wand at a piece of chalk.

Tom focused back on Snape.

“I will be teaching you a spell of quickening — this spell allows your body to move fluidly and without mush resistance. When used in combination with Levis Pedibus, it allows you to move near soundlessly over the ground. When you use both spells in combination with a muffling charm and disillusionment, it makes you the perfect operative. If you do it right,” Snape rose a sardonic brow at Tom, as if asking him if he could do it right.

Tom wanted nothing more than to prove he could — this was about survival.

“Repeat after me; Celeritus.”

They went back and forth over the pronunciation for a moment, and then;

“The wand movement is as follows;” Snape’s wand flicked and flowed, almost too fast to follow.

He repeated the motion again. Again.

Tom lifted his wand and tried his hand at it, slow and steady. A movement like a wave, going from left to right, the righter most motion ending in a backwards curl into itself. Snape nodded, only the faint twitch of his brow showing his satisfaction. Trying not to pay attention to the swell of pride in his chest, Tom repeated the motion. Quicker. Just a fraction quicker. It wasn’t as fluid or seamless as Snape’s but he seemed satisifed with it.

“Now;” the man said, and then he snapped into motion, wand flowing before Tom could blink, “Celeritus!”

Snape moved, and his limbs looked like liquid, so fluid they seemed to blur a bit around the edges as he stalked around Tom in a circle. The spell ended. Snape stumbled, only the slightest bit, the toe of one shoe scraping before he caught himself.

“This spell has a drawback, Mister Slytherin. Can you guess what it is?”

Tom thought. Observed his professor, and spoke slowly.

“Since it’s a spell that effects the self, coming out of it will be jarring, likely disorienting. Anything that effects the body in a truly physical way is. Perhaps nausea?”

Snape tilted his head slowly.

“Just so, Mister Slytherin, aside from the most pertinent point. It’s a timed spell — as you said, it is focused on the self. Unfortunately, the quickening spell cannot last indefinitely. It relies on the energy availbe within your physical body. How much you’ve eaten, how often you eat, and your general health will all determine how long it lasts. I may hold it for a total of three minutes — I am generally healthy and do my best not to skip meals outside the labs. I’m also a grown man. I do not recommend you using the spell in your current state. I do recommend you attempt it in the next few days, after regulating your diet.”

Tom frowned, but didn’t argue. He hadn’t exactly been hungry, but he should have been making himself eat something.

I will now turn you over to Filius. After he’s taught you the charms necessary, we will practice with those.”

Tom nodded, then moved his attention to the Ravenclaw head of house. They went through Levis Pedibus, a charm that made you light of foot; silerus, a charm that silenced all your own movements; and the disillusionment charm, which made you nearly blend in with the background. So long as he didn’t move too quickly, he would be able to move about unseen. Once that was done, Filius helped Snape to clear a space, and then cast a series of spells, linked together. Fog filled the space. Tom recognized them, noted them in the back of his mind for later study.

Snape stepped to the edge of the fog, and then said;

“You and I will cast disillusionment, and the charms you’ve been taught. For fifteen minutes, we will attempt to find the other. If you believe you’ve found me, send a stinging hex. For every successful hit against em that you make, it is another minute you’ve survived in the worst possible scenario.”

And then he did cast them all, wordlessly and with a roll of his wand, and Professor Snape was gone, the fog behind where he’d stood parting and rolling around itself. Tom wasted no time in performing his own spells, trying to keep them as wordless as possible, and followed.

Forty minutes later, Tom had come to a single conclusion. Snape was a vicious bastard. He hissed in surprise when a stinging hex caught him in the back of the head.

“Focus, Mister Slytherin,” his Head of House chided.

Tom did his best to focus. The first round had gone badly, but he was doing much better now. Even his breathing carefully modulated to avoid giving himself away. He’d moved a meter away from where he’d last been when the fog to his left rolled, as if breaking against something. Tom didn’t think. He fired a stinging hex. He felt the magic hit and fizzle against something.

“Time!” Professor Flitwick called excitedly from outside the fog.

The fog disappeared a moment later, and Tom released his spells, feeling drained and hungry. Snape appeared a meter to his left, looking proud before his expression became carefully neutral.

“Very well done, Mr. Slytherin, oh! Very well done indeed!”

Tom sighed a breath of relief when Snape nodded at him in agreement.

“Excellent work, Mr. Slytherin. We shall call it a night. Do not forget to eat properly over the next few days, and attempt the Celeritus. Should you wish to do so supervised, my office hours are posted on the Common Room Bulletin. For now — go to diner and eat something.”

Tom nodded, thanked both professors, and moved towards where Luna held out his robes.

He was hungry enough that he couldn’t scrounge up a sense of embarrassment that his Head of House had noticed he wasn’t eating.

“They’re serving roast tonight,” Luan shared.

Tom’s stomach chose that moment to growl. He couldn’t be embarrassed.

“I’m starving,” he nodded.

He didn’t understand the relived, beaming smile Luna gave him, but he accepted it. She had been pestering him about eating more lately. Everything else that had happened . . . he shoved it aside, tired to pretend like it hadn’t happened.

***

Severus waited until he was sure that young Slytherin was out of earshot, and then he sighed.

“You did very well, Severus,” Filius nodded, flicking his wand at the board. It shrunk down to the size of a matchbox, and was tucked into the half-goblins pocket. He hopped down from the table he’d been standing on, and they turned as one to the office. They would the floor there to go to the faculty office, and from there, down to the Great Hall.

“I’m . . . concerned, Filius,” he shared, surprising himself.

Filius nodded.

“You’re always concerned about your Snakes, but I understand the extra concern in this case. Poppy and Pomona have been beside themselves every time the boy pushes his plate aside, barely touched.”

Severus rolled his shoulders, activating the wards on his classroom and then his office door. His internal office door was linked to all the classrooms, by some Hogwarts magic no one quite understood. He made sure it was always warded.

“It’s not simply that. Albus has tried to pressure me into leaving the boy be. I believe he is letting Mr. Slytherin’s parentage color his views.”

Filius scowled, but didn’t argue. They all knew the Headmaster had a tendency to see evil in bloodlines, rather than the individuals.

“Then we will simply have to teach him more.”

Severus could only nod in wordless agreement. He hoped it would be enough.

November 19th, 1994

Tom is distant. Luna cannot see why — his mind has been heavy since the day before, when the music made him feel and process all the Differences in his Time. Hari has been worried. Luna knows it will all come to a head sooner rather than later. She doesn’t know why. Just that it will. The air is heavy with Possibilities she has drug up from a well of Possibilities she usually tried to ignore. She’s been drowning herself in the future Could-Be’s, trying to see, to know, the best way to keep her friend alive.

It’s the most active use of her magic that she’s ever performed, and the Visions scream in delight every time she tries to peer into them.

They go through the motions of breakfast, for once each of them mostly sticking to their own houses, except Tom, who’d taken a seat by Luna and was dutifully picking at his breakfast, at the same rate she was dutifully spooning up her porridge. She’d gotten him to make a promise about eating the night before, and she would make sure he kept his end.

When they were done, Tom stood without a word and left the Great Hall. Luna let him go alone, because he’d wanted to go alone, and when Hari and Hermione sent her confused looks, she pretended she hadn’t seen, instead getting up to drift towards the library. It’s not till hours later that she feels a tug on her navel, and sets down the book she’d been reading about Dragon biology. She follows the tug all the way to the lakeside, where Tom is pacing back and forth, eyes focused on the water beyond.

Hari and Hermione found them shortly after, leading the rest of them down the path with an aged parchment in hand, which was swiftly folded up. Behind her, Tom let out a sound that could have been a growl. Luna settled in, watching his feet tread over the rocky shore of the lake.

“There you are,” Hari called when they were close enough, huffing, “listen Tom, we’ve been talking about the list of spells and we want to add—”

“Why!” Tom snapped, and it was harsh enough that Luna allowed herself to really look at his face.

Fine lines of stress bracketed his mouth. There dark purple smudges under his eyes. He was still sleeping poorly. In his eyes, a wealth of confusion and pain was being icily repressed by shimmering Grey smoke. It’s the first time he’s ever let his Obscurial slip in front of them, and Luna knows he’s not aware of it. He’d worked himself up into a real tizzy. Silly Tom — he still didn’t understand.

Hari hesitated, then said, slowly, while everyone else cautious settled down under the tree.

“Because we think it would be a good one?”

“Not that!” Tom snapped, jerking a hand through his hair.

“It’s been bothering me for weeks. Why are you all so insistent on being — friends — with me! Why have you stayed! Why do you care?”

Tom was still pacing, pale, his eyes gleaming. Next to her, Theo very subtly flicked a ward into being around them. Blaise followed suit. Neville did as well, his solemn, sad expression trained on Tom.

“Why!” Tom burst again, spinning to them with a scowl when there was no answer.

“Why shouldn’t we?” Ginny asked casually, watching him carefully.

“Why would you want to be my — friends! Why are you still here! You’ve read what they wrote, you know who I am! You’ve seen me! You know what I was made to be!”

It’s as much an accusation as a wounded animals defensive growling, the words holding as much fury as they did anguish. Something in Luna snapped, and the fog she hadn’t even realized she’d drifted into that morning lifted. Slowly, she stood, and padded towards him. She wasn’t wearing shoes. She’s not sure where she left them. Tom froze when he spun again and realized she was approaching.

He looked like a cornered animal, unsure if it should lash out or wait.

Luna stepped up to him and slipped her arms around him.

“You were not made to be anyone’s shadow. You are not anyone’s shadow. You are just Tom — and you are not to be held responsible for decisions you never made. You are my friend — you did not need to be kind to me. You chose to. You did not need to listen to me. You chose to. You did not need to make the choice to take the hand I offered in friendship. You. Chose. It. You have friends now because of the choices you made. That is not to say that you were alone before because of the choices you made, but because of the choices other people made.”

Silence. Tom trembled in her hold, as if terrified of moving.

“Luna is right, Tom. You’re awkward, and a bit weird. Violent in very quiet ways — but usually for justified reasons. Sometimes for confusing reasons that later become justified. Straightforward, which I especially appreciate. You’re a Slytherin, and you lie like your life depends on it, but you always let people know where they stand with you. And besides all that —” here Hari paused, and Luna isn’t sure what he must look like, but it must be something, because Tom’s breath hitches, “—you’re kind. You walked the firsties in Slytherins to their classes until they felt comfortable. I’ve seen more than one younger student run up to you for help, and even if they’re from a different house, you help. Perhaps you’re not warm. Hecate knows you have trouble with emotions. But you’re never cruel without reason.”

Tom moved, and when Luna glanced up, she saw he was shaking his head, face hard.

“You don’t believe him?” one of the twins asked, sounding faintly amused.

“Fine then, we’ll go down the list shall we?” the other chirped.

“You’re so bloody intelligent it hurts,”

“You might be willing to throw a hex or three at us for our pranks but you always give back as good as you get,”

“I once watched you bring a blanket to a homesick firstie and tell them a story about the mermaids in the lake,”

“Which was blooming adorable,”

“You play with us anytime we initiate something,”

“You don’t make us feel weird for being Weasley’s in Slytherin,”

“Or twins that play off of each others words,”

“You treat us like individuals,”

“And you care. You care quite a lot, Tom, even if that secretly warm heart of yours is off limits to most people. We’re your friends because you showed us what being your friends would mean, and we like it.” This they said together, and Luna smiled against Tom’s chest, listening to his heart pound and his breathes tremble.

“I’m sorry that you’re experiencing anxiety over everything that’s happened Tom. That cannot be pleasant. But each of us chose, independently, to pursue a friendship with you. Even if you’re not used to such loyalty, I do ask that you respect our decision to be your friends. I can tell you from experience — being friends with us means that no matter how much you struggle, someone will be there to listen, at the very least. Prank someone in your name on average, and walk into the trenches with you are the worst.”

It’s Hermione’s words that seem to catch and hold Tom, the logical, soft way she spoke likely drawing in the often times too analytical part of his mind. Still — a part of her mind whispered, slipping between the cracks of her control — for a boy who had grown up used to the world rejecting him, so many people suddenly accepting him would seem a little like an ambush.

“But why?” he pressed, voice breaking.

“Because we care about you, Tom,” Neville said softly, in that self-assured way he’d grown into.

That seemed to be the nail in the coffin. Tom simply stared, uncomprehending, then deflated all at once, all his nervous energy vanishing. His eyes were gleaming blue, dark and troubled.

“I don’t understand you lot. Not at all!” he croaked.

Luna beamed up at him, squeezed him tighter, and then released him.

“That’s alright Tom. None of us really understand each other. Blaise thinks we take too many risks, and Theo thinks we’re all too loud, and Hermione thinks we’re all very unprepared and Hari—”

Hari slapped a hand over her mouth, voice laughing.

“I think he gets the picture Moondrop.”

Luna got distracted by the water, switching her attention to it. She slipped from Hari’s hold to carefully pad towards it, ignoring the cold. The glint of light on the lake was mesmerizing. Hypnotic. Something moved within it, ghostly and faint.

Something was changing again, somewhere.

Interesting.

“Luna?” Ginny asked, soft, and when Luna manged to tear her gaze away, she found the other girl holding out a pair of shoes.

“Tom transfigured these for you. He wants you to put them on.”

Luna did so, glancing around.

“Blaise and Theo helped the twins hit him with a couple prank spells. He’s hunting them right now,” Ginny gestured further down the shore, where the distant figures of the twins were dashing back and forth frantically, Blaise and Theo were hunkered behind a large stone, and Tom was flinging stinging hexes after the ginger menaces.

Hari was laughing on the ground near them.

“Oh good. I was afraid the Wakspurts would keep him,” Luna muttered.

Ginny took Luna’s arm in hers, eyes going hard.

“We wouldn’t let them. You may have found him fair and square but he belongs to us now, Moon Drop.”

Luna smiled. She was glad that Ginny had found her way back to the way she’d been, before the pages started dripping her name. She’d missed her friend. Together, they walked with Neville and Hermione towards their boys, all misbehaving in the wild, and Luna encouraged every distraction they came across. They were making happy memories here. Tom would need them in the days to come.

November 20th, 1994

Snape stopped him in the common room before he could go to breakfast. He held a long, almost flat box in his hands and was watching Tom with some formality. It seemed like the whole house was there.

“Mr. Slytherin. You will need a set of robes for all tasks in the Tourney. Since Hogwarts only intended champion was seventh year Cedric Diggory, most funds that were meant for such a thing went to him. However, we of Slytherin House were not about to let our Champion be thrust into the public eye without fitting attire.”

He held out the box. Tom stared, then slowly took it, setting it on the nearest side table to open it. The clothing inside was closer to muggle active wear than robes. A pair of sturdy, slightly stretchy trousers in deep black, with a snake in brilliant emerald and silver embroidered along the side. The knees felt padded, and there was a series of runes stitched into the tag that he thought meant general durability.

There were several tops; a plain, long-sleeved black one that felt like the muggle tee shirt Luna had bought for him; one that looked similar to the quidditch jersey’s in style, but was clearly made with dueling in mind —it had padded shoulders and elbows, was primarily in black with two diagonal strips in silver and green across the chest, and had an a-symmetrical closure across the front; a short-sleeved one that was primarily green, with white stripes one the short sleeves, a white stripe along the collar, and the Slytherin crest on the left breast. On the back of the short-sleeved top, the number fourteen was stitched in bold black numbers, a silver snake weaving around the numbers. A pair of shorts in black, with green and silver stripes along the side were at the bottom.

“Slytherin House protects it’s own. We followed all the protocols that were required, and collectively chose the appropriate gear for you. When you wear this, wear it knowing that your house stands behind you, Mr. Slytherin. Not because of who you were born — but because of who you are.”

Tom doesn’t know what to say to that, most especially not when the children of Death Eaters — and you could tell who believed in their parents propaganda and who had had time to make their own decisions — were watching him intently.

“Thank you. Thank you all,” he finally said, quiet and solemn. He took the time to pack it all up again and bring it back to his dorm, where he took several moments to scan the items and then sit and process.

1994 was the strangest time, he decided.

Eventually, he made his way up to breakfast, and sat at the Slytherin table, since Luna was there waiting for him. The mail came at some point, and while Blaise was viciously destroying several howlers that were dropped in front of Tom, he watches Hari read a note that had been delivered by a school owl. It is almost startling when the other boy then turn towards him sharply, looking concerned. The Claw stands and rushes around the table, practically elbowing Blaise out of the way to sit on Tom’s right.

Tom brushes aside some ash and starts filling his plate while they have their spat.

“Hagrid sent me a note. He wants me to bring you to his hut at 11:50 tonight, and be prepared for sneaking. I have the perfect thing for sneaking, luckily, so we’ll just have to do our best to be prepared.”

Tom tilts his head in consideration, slowly using his knife and fork to shred a banger into slices. He still had some trouble eating, but Snape’s watchful eyes and a promise he’d made to Luna — he would eat if she did — had him working through his plate consistently. She was particularly determined to make sure he ate, as she hadn’t missed a meal since.

“Hagrid dislikes me. Why would he want me with you?”

Hari shifted nervously, then said, almost too quietly;

“I may or may not have guilted him into revealing anything he knew about the First Task.”

Tom blinked at the Claw in astonishment, then found himself chuckling quietly, shoulders shaking as he dropped his head. Because that was the most Slytherin tactic Hari had ever employed, and suddenly he could, in fact, see Hari as a Slytherin. Just an uncommonly nice one.

“That is especially good news, Hari, just in time to keep the Fizzwhumpers from overtaking us.” Luna mused, spooning the last bit of her porridge into her mouth and then staring blatantly at Tom’s still half-full plate.

Tom sighed and got to eating in earnest, ignoring the small shoving match that Blaise and Hari got into now that Tom was no longer speaking to the Claw, and once he had finished his food, Luna gave a satisfied nod, eyes drifting over the candles above them in narrowed contemplation. She’d been especially absent minded recently, and Tom wished he knew what she was searching for in the rafters above. Suddenly, she straightened, back going tight and eyes wide. When she turned to him, there was — her eyes — they were —luminous, faint and focused.

“Make sure you don’t leave tonight until I’ve spoken to you,” she whispers, lips trembling, as if she’d had to force the words out.

Confused, he nodded. And then Luna stood and drifted away, with a faint promise of seeing him in class shortly, and no, she didn’t want company. Tom chose to trust her, as she so rarely asked for time alone, and tried not to think about what it was she might be doing. He had plenty of his own trials to worry over at the moment. Somehow the worry still sat with him until she arrived in class, on time, and looking determined.

She wasn’t willing to share what she’d been up to.

***

That night, Tom snuck his way to Ravenclaw, and found Luna waiting for him outside the armor-guarded door. Montoya was draped over her shoulders, wearing a pale purple knitted tube and looking offended with Tom’s presence.

“Why are you here?” The snake grumbled.

“I was invited,” Tom hissed back, scowling.

Luna opened her mouth and a choked sound came out. Tom turned his full attention to her. She looked pale — gaunt and trembling, as if she was unwell. It was alarming. She’d seemed fine, if a little more distracted than usual, at diner.

“Luna?” Tom asked, and the girl started, her stiff-looking jaw un-clenching enough that she could speak, though she did so with great effort.

“Take Noodle. Listen well. More happens in a hiss . . . Than you . . . Can hear.” She rasps, and with trembling hands, reaches up to gently lift the snake from her shoulders. Tom leans down to assist in placing the snake over his head, draping him there.

He catches Luna’s hands in concern. They’re cold, icy and hard. Hari slipped out of Ravenclaw Commons at that time, pausing when he saw Luna standing with Tom, and Montoya draped over Tom’s shoulders.

“What’s going on?” he whispers.

Tom doesn’t take his eyes off of Luna, who is staring at him with wide eyes. Slowly, she breaks her hands away from his own, tucking the trembling appendages against her chest.

" . . . Listen. Promise?” Luna rasps on a breaking voice.

Tom nods, concerned. Montoya hisses in concern at Luna, but Hari is tugging on his sleeves, frowning in concern. Hari ushered the girl back into the Ravenclaw Commons, whispered something that sounded like; ‘go find ‘Mione and rest,’ and then he turns expectantly to Tom. He and Montoya share one last worried glance at the closed door, then slip away. They duck under Hari’s invisibility cloak — Tom desperately wants one — and make with sneaking through the halls.

Tom is grateful for the distraction that Montoya and Hari together provide, as the two argue the whole way about the way Hari’s invisibility cloak smells. If he focuses on that, he doesn’t have to think about the way Luna had looked suddenly beaten and bruised, deep purple smudges growing under her eyes in an instant, the glassy-gleam to them unnatural.

He even let himself puzzle over what his friend might have meant, about listening, rather than how cold she’d been. They reach Hagrid’s hut soon enough, and Hari and Montoya fall into silence, staying under the cloak when they see the man lead Madame Maxine from his hut. He glanced around worriedly, then squared his shoulders and carried on with what was obviously some sort of date, leading the tall woman towards the woods. Tom didn’t care enough to pay attention to the words being said. He was focusing on the distant, almost audible sounds he could just make out. As if conversations are occurring, then cutting out.

Eventually, they emerged from the woods to a clearing. The clearing contained cages.

A plume of fire shoots into the sky, smoke shortly following. Tom remains frozen, staring at the shadowed shapes of dragons screeching their rage beyond what must be silencing wards. A stream of people are walking back and forth between the woods and the clearing, exiting and entering the silencing wards, conversations starting and dying in instants.

Hari tugs Tom forward urgently, and Tom almost yanked the cloak away and to run, but then his friend motions to where Crouch is speaking to several men and women in heavy-looking clothes. They edge forward, and he can mark the exact instant they pass through the silencing wards, because it becomes a screech of sound, echoing around them as Crouch yells to be heard.

“And you’re positive the fourth dragon has taken to the golden egg?”

The bland look the man — who must be a dragon handler — Crouch was shouting at gave was rife with irritation.

“You did see the nest, yes? Trust me, we’re pretty sure she didn’t realize you placed a dud in with her babies. We’d all know if she had.”

They’d placed a fake egg into the nest. There were four dragons. Bollocks.

A red-head came running up then, looking frustrated. The man Crouch had been yelling at looked instantly exhausted.

“You the man in charge of this madness?” The ginger asked.

Crouch puffed up. The ginger didn’t give him time to say anything.

“I hope you’re prepared to face the consequences for your decisions! The Hungarian Horntail is a vicious thing, the most dangerous dragon breed in our reserve, and she shouldn’t be here! Especially not for a bloody task, and most especially not as a nesting mother!”

Crouch’s puffing got worse, and a small spat started that Tom couldn’t focus on anymore. He wobbled back a step, grabbed Hari, and started tugging him away. They ended up dodging Karkaroff as they hurried towards the forest, needing to find somewhere for cover, because they’re both hyperventilating.

Tom collapses in the underbrush to breathe slowly, head bent over his knees. Hari collapses next to him, breathing too-rapid, and voice squeaking as he muttered a litany of curses.

“Dragons,” Hari hisses in parsletongue, his breathing too erratic for continued human words.

“Nesting mothers,” Tom corrects, feeling a fine tremble start in the vicinity of his knees.

“Very hungry oness. Did you hear her talking about eating the Man of Bagsss? Sshe must have been ssssleeping far too long.” Montoya agreed casually.

Tom stared. Hari stared too. They both stared at the snake and the snake stared back, unbothered.

“Can you understand the dragons?” Hari asks, trembling.

“Yess. You cannot becausee two-legss have not the right . . .earss, though sssome Sspeakersss may learn how in time,” Montoya did the equivalent of a snake shrug, which was mostly just a wobbling bob to his head that Tom is positive he picked up from humans.

Tom decided to process all of this later. For right that moment — he was going to panic. Hari, at least, seemed to be in agreement. They panicked all the way from the forbidden forest floor to the castle, where, once he was safely within the confines of his bed, Tom allowed himself to breath poorly and tremble erratically.

Because nesting mothers. Nesting mothers he and the other Champions were going to have to face, at the very least. Fight in the worst case scenario. Tom found his dreamless sleep and took a dose. Addiction be damned, he definitely needed sleep.

He could deal with the rest tomorrow.

November 21st, 1994

Tom woke feeling . . . not refreshed, but suddenly determined. Perhaps it was knowing what he was facing, rather than running about blind and unsure. True, dragons weren’t ideal, but now he knew. There was a purpose to all his studying and planning. His dorm mates watched him curiously as he got dressed. He wasn’t sure what they saw, but it hardly mattered. He was going to need to plan. It was Monday. He really didn’t care what Dumbledore said, he was going to skip classes. He scribbled a quick note, then stuffed it in a pocket, grabbing his satchel and hurrying out the door.

The Ginger Menaces were lounging in the common room when he walked in, and he walked directly towards them. They seemed to see something in his expression, because they stopped lounging and stood, gathering their things quickly.

“What’s happened ickle-Tommykins?” Might-be-Fred asked.

“I’ll tell you when everyone is together. I’m skipping today,” he whispered, urging them towards the door.

They went willingly, and Blaise and Theo, who’d been seated nearby, hurried after them. When they reached the Great Hall, Tom headed straight for Ravenclaw. Neville was already sitting there, thankfully. Luna was as well, but she was slumped over the table, seemingly napping. Given how wide Hermione’s eyes were when she looked at him, Hari may have already told her. Good. That meant she’d had the whole night to think about it.

Tom was brilliant — but Hermione was equally as brilliant, and he trusted her. If there was a way, Hermione would think of it. Or they would bounce ideas off of one another until a way was found. Tom sat quietly next to Luna, and looked directly at Neville, who looked confused. Tom waited until everyone was seated and then flicked up a small privacy ward. Something flickered above them. He glanced up to see a green beetle fluttering around the candlesticks.

“Go tell Diggory that the first task is nesting mother dragons, and if he’d like to brainstorm, he’s free to find us in the library,” Tom said to Neville, eyes still tracking the odd green beetle that fluttering from candlestick to candlestick above them. He looked back down in time to see Neville hesitate briefly in shock, then he was gone, moving quickly.

Whatever he says at Hufflepuff has Diggory staring at him in horror, and then the older boys eyes swing to Tom. Tom nods grimly. Diggory nods back. While Neville is making his way towards them, Tom pulls out the note he’d scribbled, and starts folding it precisely. Malfoy had gotten into origami recently. Tom had been watching in the common room. While his friends hissed ideas back and forth, he charmed the butterfly with the spell Malfoy had spent an hour practicing. The butterfly fluttered away, towards the staff table.

A flicker of green above him. Tom watched the beetle excitedly flutter after the butterfly, and hover over Snape’s shoulder.

Tom filed the oddity away for later contemplation, instead looking to Hari.

“Libary, after breakfast.”

Was all he said.

Everyone around him nodded.

***

“Dragons.”

Diggory says this while planting his hands on the table in a decidedly intentional way, slow and methodical.

“Dragons,” Tom, Krum, Delecour, and Hari all say as one.

Hermione hasn’t moved her head from her arms. Zaibini is looking at Tom like he’s fighting the urge to toss him over his shoulder and run. The twins especially look like they’re fighting that particular urge. Ginny is frantically scribbling something on a parchment and had been for some time. Neville has a scarily calm sort of look on his face that makes Tom . . . especially nervous, for some reason. Everyone else is sort of staring into a nowhere middle distance. Tom has elected to not make things too complicated.

He’s not thinking about it.

“What’s — is there a plan? What’s the objective?” Diggory says, in a voice just nearly too breathless to be anything rational.

“There’s a fake egg. We don’t know what it has to do with the task, but for whatever reason, it’s there.” Hari says softly.

Tom watches in fascination as Diggory’s face goes through a range of expressions. Disbelief, brief fear, panic, and finally, resolve.

“Right. Right. Okay. Are we — are we planning together? I feel like, as long as we each play to our strengths we can all do this. So — let’s plan.”

Krum gives Diggory a considering look, and Delacour straightens her shoulders just subtly.

“I ‘ave an idea of what I could do,” she nodded.

Diggory shrugged and looked to Krum.

“I ‘vought maybe I ‘vly,” Krum said slowly, face thoughtful.

“I’m good at transfiguration . . . " Diggory said slowly, thinking.

Tom stared at the table, watching a green beetle stealthily crawl from one piece of paper to the other.

“I don’t really care about doing well, but as long as I can distract the dragon, I may be able to sneak around. I would have to use . . . many different magics, however.”

Everyone nodded to that. Tom looked to Diggory.

“What kind of transfiguration? I have a packet of useful distractions from McGonagall, and for the low price of helping me with some of them, I’ll share.”

A gleam lit in Diggory’s eyes, and he grinned. It was a boyish, charming sort of grin that had Hari staring at the Puff extra hard, right alongside Blaise and Ginny.

“Deal.”

Krum nodded, looking thoughtful still.

“Perhaps a ‘vay to limit ‘ve dragons view?”

Hermione stirred, staring at him.

“Like what?”

“ ‘ve conjunctivitis curse—”

Neville and Hari both looked at him aghast.

“A dragon without it’s eyesight will rampage!” Neville said.

“What about it’s eggs?” Hari pressed, “what if is destroys them?”

Krum scowled, then sighed.

“I vill ‘sink of som’zing.”

“Runes.”

This from quiet Theo, who effectively captured everyone’s attention. Tom stared at him.

“Across history one thing has been true — you can bring with you only your wand and your robes. If you were to stitch runes into your robes —”

Hermione came to life.

“Theo, you mad, brilliant psychopath,” she hissed, and then she turned and started digging through her bag, piling things in Krum’s arms, who happened to have been sitting next to her. He watched her with wide eyes and a small smile of amusement.

She made a triumphant sound, and then held up something. A deep blue plastic container, littered with glossy-looking stickers.

“Please tell us,” Fred started, watching Hermione carefully.

“That’s not a bomb of some kind.” George finished, edging back slowly.

Hermione scowled at them, and Ginny spoke as well.

“Really, ‘Mione, you don’t need to go to extremes. Everything will get better,” she said soothingly, as if to a spooked animal.

Neville snorted. Hari coughed violently in a way that suspiciously sounded like a laugh. Hermione’s eyes took on a calculating look.

“One day I will mostly definitely control the world, and then you’ll all be sorry,” she said solemnly.

Tom about believed her. But.

“You’d have to beat me to that spot first, Granger,” he sniffed.

Her eyes gleamed with amusement when she looked at him.

“Please Slytherin, you couldn’t keep up with me if you tried.”

And then she opened the box. Tom stared at the contents, and scratched out the small list of ideas he’d written to that point.

“That doesn’t count.”

He felt the need to add.

Hermione smiled like they shared a secret.

“If you say so.”

Finally, Tom had the beginnings of a plan.

November 23rd, 1994

The morning before the task brought another article from the Prophet, a nausea he couldn’t control. The article included a lot of candid photo’s of himself and his friends, hinted at how Tom was being allowed extra time to work on tasks because of his age, and insinuated that the other Champions had discovered what the first task was going to be, and had immediately gathered to try and help him formulate a plan. It didn’t mention what the task was, and was written by someone not Rita Skeeter, for once. Whoever Constance Welting was, Tom hoped that Flamel sued the ever-loving daylights out of her. Tom stared at some of the pictures, at the angles provided, and wondered at them. From the angle of the photo of himself in the library, someone would have had to be standing directly across from them.

No one else had come into that section of the library.

It was a puzzle he chose to set on the back burner of his mind, but one he did not ignore.

Instead, he threw every spare moment he had into the series of charms, spells, and hexes he’d chosen. None of them were sure what exactly they were doing with the dragons, but a fake egg hinted at some sort of challenge, rather than a fight. Tom, Hermione, and Theo were sure that the Champions would have to, at the very least, touch the fake egg. They wouldn’t include it unless it was important. So that was the goal they had built half their plan around — and it was Montoya who gave him the rest of the plan.

During lunch, Luna was napping at the table, Tom was scribbling furiously in Hermione’s notebook, and the rest of his friends were allowing themselves a brief reprieve to eat lunch. The Great Hall doors opened — Tom didn’t look up until a mummer went through the gathered students. When he glanced up, Xenophilius Lovegood was walking towards him, Jack Flamel following behind him. Xeno’s eyes landed on Luna with concern, and flickered over Tom, as if looking for injuries.

“Sorry for interrupting you at lunch, Tom. I just came to check on you both,” the usually erratic Lord said softly.

Tom nodded in greeting, setting the quill and notebook aside to turn to him on the bench.

“I’m as well as can be, Lord Lovegood. Thank you for taking the time to come see me.”

Xeno crouched down by Luna, running a hand over her loose hair.

“Has she been eating, Tom?” he asked quietly.

Tom nodded. Xeno smiled at him softly, then stood and nodded.

“We’re renting rooms in Hogsmede. I’ll be watching the Tourney from the stands tomorrow. I’m near if you need me. Would you like to spend the day on the grounds?”

Tom hesitated. He wanted to say yes, but he needed to practice. Slowly, he shook his head.

“I have much to prepare for, Lord Lovegood, but thank you.”

Xeno nodded, then turned to speak to Flamel quietly, who nodded. They both walked up to the faculty area and a muffliato was cast. For the rest of the day, Xeno would drop in unexpectedly, speak to him or Luna for a few minutes, and then leave again. Tom kept practicing, ignoring even Moody, when he was provided the chance to toss something at the buggers head.

By the time night fell and he had to say goodbye to his friends, he wound up pacing the Common Room. His fellows watched him carefully. No one asked him if he was okay, which was good, because in the mindset he was in, he might have committed violence. He’d been too stressed of late to threaten anyone, but all threats were implied if you stared long enough.

At some point, the twins ambushed him and drug him down to his dorm room, where they made him get ready for bed, made him lay down, and made him take a very basic sleeping potion.

“We’ll wake you in the morning,” George said seriously.

“And we’ll make sure everything it prepared for you, little brother.” Fred added.

Tom managed to fight the drowsiness of the potion enough to say;

“Not a Weasely.”

And then he slept.

Chapter Text

November 24th,1995

Tom stared at his plate, nauseated. He still sliced his banger into strips, still served himself fried tomatoes and hash — but only a little bit of each. Keeping his composure when it felt like the whole table was watching him was a trial of willpower. Luna pressed her shoulder more firmly against him, his Slytherin scarf tucked around her neck. Classes had been canceled for the day, so the student body was in casual, warm gear. Luna wore a very baggy sweater that faintly resembled old-fashioned air-balloons, four different colors going down from her shoulders in vertical quarters — yellow on her front right shoulder, magenta on her back left shoulder, baby blue on her back right shoulder, and pale orange on her front left shoulder.

Her heavy winter robe was draped over her lap. Montoya was curled around her shoulders, wearing a knitted tube of sparkling silver. Tom wore the robes his house had gotten for him, the trousers and battle robes set. He’d been trying to be careful not to draw too much attention to them. The runes that had been stitched into them weren’t overt, but he kept catching a flash of silken thread from the corner of his eyes.

Hermione had been sure the Committee wouldn’t be allowed to take them if they knew, but Tom wouldn’t put it past them to try. As a result, he’d made a very obvious display of frantically researching alone or with someone while his friends quietly seemed to be ‘giving him space,’ all while passing around the robes, trousers, and sturdy boots they were trying to fire-proof, taking turns stitching the runes into them. None of them really thought the runes, elementary and slap-dash, would hold against a full onslaught of flames, but they were all hoping that it would give him at least minor protection.

Fifteen minutes before breakfast was set to end, Professor Snape started towards him, looking grim.

“I trust you have eaten, Mr. Slytherin?”

Tom nodded, shoving his empty plate aside and standing.

“The rest of you stay,” Snape warned, glaring at Theo and Blaise until they sat back down. Luna looked up in their direction with a worried expression, her eyes wide.

“I’ll see you after the task,” Tom found himself promising.

Luna nodded mutely, and he gave the others a simple nod, trying to appear rather more confident than he felt. Snape was silent as they moved through the halls — and there, just ahead of them, he made out Diggory being led by both Sprout and Dumbledore — until they reached the second floor.

“I trust you have been working on your spells, Mr. Slytherin? That you do indeed have some sort of plan?”

Tom nodded gravely.

“As much of one as I can manage, Professor.”

Snape nodded, after pausing to give him a cool eyed, serious look.

“I will be waiting for you near the exit of the first task, Mr. Slytherin. See to it that you make it out in one piece, or I shall be forced to break Hogwarts Contract with the Goblet — and then you shall likely be lorded as a hero, for prying the Dungeon Bat of Hogwarts from his position as most hated Potions Teacher in a Century.”

The grim, darkly humorous words had the unexpected effect of making Tom laugh, startled and abrupt, and he tried to compose himself quickly.

“Lorded by the rest of the school, perhaps, Professor, but Slytherin as a whole would shortly after become increasingly ‘distressed,’ when their Champion mysteriously vanished. They’d cry for the cameras, say they just didn’t know what happened to me, how this is a blow to Hogwarts after so recently loosing their Head of House. Meanwhile, I will likely be growing cold and bloated on the bottom of the lake, feasted on by the Grindylow.”

Snape surprised him by huffing a quiet chuckle, and they both gave pause after stepping out the back doors. Across the bridge connecting the rear of the castle to the mainland, Hagrid’s hut puffed smoke. Beyond that, one could just faintly make out a wooden structure that hadn’t been there before, concealed by the trees. A path into the forbidden forest had been clearly demarcated by poles with colorful banners lining either side. The banners repeated in a pattern. Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, Durmstrang.

“I will endeavour not to need your assistance, Professor. But thank you.”

Tom said quietly, eyes tracking Dumbledore’s bright yellow robes as he hurried across the bridge.

“See that you do, Mr.Slytherin. The first years are so very sensitive to change, and I would hate for their favorite tutor to ‘disappear mysteriously,’ before their final exams.”

Tom allowed himself a small smile, the secret part of him that was all monster snatching up the memories of the interaction and hording them away, deep in his Mind Palace. They weren’t the same burning warmth he got from his friends, but they were the first time one of his Professor’s showed legitimate, real concern over him. For Slughorn, it had all been flowery words and no action. He never would have given Tom lessons. Never would have made sure he received mentorship from other professors. Never would have checked on him.

Tom Riddle wasn’t worth that much attention from Horace Slughorn.

Severus Snape gave that kind of attention to all of his Slytherins, no matter their blood status.

The rest of their walk was silent, Tom mentally going over the most useful spells in his arsenal, contemplating and discarding the use of others. He knew he didn’t want this task to be made offensive — he was too young and too in danger of loosing control of the Monster to even attempt such a thing. That meant he needed to focus on defense.

And subterfuge.

But it would all depend on the type of dragon he was meant to face. Certain dragons were more susceptible to certain things.

When they reached the clearing that — just a few nights before — had been a rough-shod encampment, he found it completely changed. A very large structure had gone up, and there were areas marked for entrances and exits. Several vendors from Hogsmede where lined up there, excitedly preparing to sell butter beers, pumpkin juices, and various snacks. He’s not quite sure why, but the sight of the vendors stalls makes him want to do violence. Flanking the large building on either side, there are two large tents, set closer to the back of the building than the front.

Snape gestures to the pale yellow one and says; “That is where you will wait,” his hand swept over to the lime green tent on the other side, “and that is where you will be administered first aid.”

They headed towards the pale yellow tent. The closer he got the more he realized the buildings design was quite misleading. From the pathway up to it, it looked like a giant rectangle. From the side, you saw that the rectangular portion was mostly a front, as behind it, a crescent shaped series of stands had been constructed. The only way into the stands was through the rectangle — likely internal stairs — and the rest of it was gated by thick, iron bars, along the edges of which a ward flickered.

The yellow tent had a direct connection into the arena — which was wide and filled with rocks, and a series of men were there now, bundling objects into a plush looking nest. Across from the yellow tent, a wide open space had been left out of the bars, and heavier wards flickered there. He could feel them from where he stood, almost twenty yards away. The lime green tent was ten yards away from that opening.

Between the two tents, a third tent stood, bright angry red, the opening of it tall and wide enough that he could easily see a dragon making it’s way through without effort. There was a heavy looking flap concealing the contents within.

Snape deposited him within the tent, where Bagman was waiting with some nameless official or another, looking quite excited. In the back of the room, Rita Skeeter sat still and poised, beaming a smile. Flamel hovered behind her, watching her like a hawk. Tom chose to pretend like she wasn’t there.

“Good morning Champions! And what a morning it will be, for before you all lay a task so daring, so nerve wreaking, it will take a wizard — and witch — of true caliber to succeed. At it’s simplest, your challenge today is to retrieve something hidden beyond these fabric walls, guarded by a fierce foe! Beyond this tent, there be dragons! Yes, you heard me, dragons!”

The man was far too gleeful over the prospect. Tom wanted to break him a little.

“Your task today is to locate and safely acquire a golden egg, hidden in the dragons nest. The point system is as follows; Any damage done to the real dragon eggs looses you points. Performing feats of magic nets you points. Permanently injuring yourself looses you points. Successfully making a daring escape with the egg nets you points. Upon the bang of the canon, each of you will exit this tent and face your foe, and be given twenty minutes to do so. Any time used past that, and you will begin to loose points. The judges — including myself — will also grade you based off of how the audience reacts, and how we personally feel you accomplished your goal. Each of you will face a different dragon, so each of you will have a unique challenge. Now then — everyone ready?”

When they all stared at him, silent and serious, he shifted nervously, smiled wide again though it was strained, and then clapped his hands.

“We shall now have each of you select your dragons!”

A small burlap sack was presented. It was wiggling faintly.

“Each of you will reach into the sack, and blindly withdraw a miniature model of the dragon you will face. Attached to them will be a label with the order in which you will face the dragons, going from one through four. Ms. Delacour? Ladies first.”

Delacour stared at the sack, grit her teeth, and then stepped forward, reaching in. She jerked her arm slightly, briefly looking surprised, then slowly withdrew it. When she opened her palm, a model of a dragon, fully mobile and animated, shook its’ head. It was brilliant green, with deep black eyes, and had a tag attached to it’s tale with a looping number two on it.

“The Common welsh Green! Well done, well done! Ms. Delacour will be going second!”

A camera flashed. Everyone paused to state at Skeeter’s camera man. He gave a nervous smile and shuffled in place. Rita’s smile was far more shark like.

“Ah, yes, well,” Bagman coughed, the reoriented himself.

Next, he held the bag out to Cedric, who stepped forward and reached in. Resting on his gloved hand, a metallic looking pale blue dragon with a short, curving snout sneezed a puff of blue flame that had Cedric flinching, and then relaxing. Attached to it’s tale, a tag with the number one slashed across it.

“The Swedish Short-Snout! Very exciting, very exciting indeed! Mr. Diggory will be going first!”

A camera flash.

Krum stepped forward before Bagman could turn to him, and reached into the bag. Resting on his palm, a long, lithe-bodied model uncurled from it’s tightly rolled position, a square head tilting up to him. It bared tiny fangs. A tag with the number three hung from it’s winding tale.

“The Chinese Fireball! Excellent! Mr. Krum will be third.”

Another camera flash.

The smile that Bagman sent Tom seemed plastic and nervous. Tom stepped forward, reached in and grasped the last model. Something bit at his fingers. When he opened his hand, a tiny, black scaled monster stared back at him, baring it’s fangs in a sharp hiss. It was littered with dangerous looking horns that started as a bronze color, and then shifted into gold-tipped jagged daggers. The tag hanging from it’s tale by a bit of wire looked like it had been gnawed on, and had a seemingly innocent number four on it. Bagman paused, staring.

“The — The Hungarian Horntail! How extraordinary. Yes, very exciting, Mr. Slytherin. Very exciting indeed! You will be the last contestant to face your foe!”

A final flash of the camera. He didn’t have the energy to glare, simply stepped back into line. Tom stopped paying attention after that.

Because the Hungarian Horntail was one of the most notoriously violent dragon breeds. Possessive, territorial, and willing to shed blood if it felt the need. In sixteen-eighteen, a small clutch of them had wreaked havoc over Budapest for twenty years before an army of dragon hunters got involved. The army of dragon hunters had started as a force of three hundred, and ended with just thirteen.

Tom had to adjust all his plans. Immediately.

He and the other champions all settled around the room, waiting, and Tom found a clear area to sit on the ground, cross-legged. He then sank into meditation, after flicking his wand out to set up a nullification ward. His experimentation with the technique Professor Snape had taught him had allowed him to determine the best way to stretch his core before attempting to cast with magic. The only way that allowed him to perform the task without afterwards feeling over-extended was to keep his Monster from joining in the exercise, insuring that his magic and his magic alone was the only thing being temporarily expanded.

The air inside the nullification ward became warm, pleasantly so, and he slowly opened his eyes, his mental self carefully stretching the pages of his internal core. Skeeter was staring at him, while her quill scribbled furiously in the air beside her. Flamel was staring at him too, eyes thoughtful. He chose to turn his attention to the other champions.

Krum was sitting across from him, eyes closed and breathing calm. Delacour was performing a series of stretches, looking serious and determined. Cedric was pacing. That was distracting, but not enough to break Tom’s meditation. The power within him swelled. The air got a tad warmer around him, the feeling of it a bit heavier. The bang of a canon shot through the air, and Cedric turned sharply, face resolute. He marched through he tent flap, and an uproar of sound echoed.

Tom sat, and waited.

He could hear the faint mummer of the crowd, gasps and screams and sounds of awe. Cheering. Terror.

Tom wondered if he would have been among them, had he not been entered. If he would have sat in that crowd and been amazed by the sheer spectacle. He had no way of knowing.

A rush of sound, mostly sounds of concern, and then silence. Tom focused inward and allowed his internal self to place the book back where it belonged, turning to leave the Mind Palace. Nearly twenty minutes later, the bang of a canon had Delacour squaring her shoulders and marching out.

She’d chosen to wear the silver-blue of her school in silky looking battle robes, with thick skirts in the place of trousers. Tom watched the edge of those skirts swish through the flap in the tent and then slowly turned his head to find Krum staring back at him with serene calm.

" ‘vou are collected, Tom.” Krum observed softly, just low enough that Rita, who very obviously desperately wanted to be closer than she was, couldn’t hear.

“What’s the alternative?” Tom asked back, just as soft.

Krum nodded in approval, and they lapsed into silence.

Though they’d done their initial planning together, simply to make sure they didn’t all chose the same thing, Tom had no idea what anyone’s plan was. He knew only that they’d each been sure they could outwit a dragon, at the very least. Krum had been the only one who proposed fighting one directly. Tom wondered at what his plan was.

Beyond them, the crowd roared, and then cut off into screams. A soft female voice cried out, and then silence. Tom breathed deeply, released it slowly. He wasn’t . . . friends with the other champions — though he suspected that he was building something close to that with Krum, but he did respect them. Oddly enough, that respect turned into a concern for their well being. Delacour was kind, if highly inflexible — what she decided was right was right and what was wrong was wrong — and brave. Diggory was a decent bloke.

Krum was a bit like Tom — serious and straightforward, quiet. Preferring to remain out of view unless he chose otherwise. Tom respected that.

Fifteen minutes after the crowd had gone quiet, a small mummer started again, and Krum rose. The canon went off again. Tom released the null ward as soon as Krum stepped through the tent. Skeeter rose, looking determined, and Flamel stepped beside her, smiling. He gestured wordlessly towards the tent flap. She and her camera man were escorted out, and then Tom was alone.

He sank into the silence, not allowing himself to think of any one thing, except what spells he would be using shortly, how he might approach the dragon. If his plan A was even feasible, now he knew he was up against a Hungarian Horntail. The small model — tapped into stillness by Tom’s wand — was sitting just in front of him. He tucked it into a robe pocket. Waited a moment. Saw that the other champions, except Krum, had left theirs in the tent.

Tom summoned them with barely a thought, tucking them away too.

The savage, wanting boy inside him that coveted unique things clapped in glee. If the the other Champions had wanted them, they would have kept them near. Tom would get something out of this bloody tournament. Would keep reminders that he lived — because he would.

He would live. He had to.

He wasn’t ready to die now anymore than he had been ready to die when that explosion was happening right in front of him. Wasn’t anymore willing to die to dragon fire than he had been willing to die to muggle disorganization. The crowed roared, even louder than it had when Diggory went out. Cheers that were sharp and excited and manic.

They cut off two minutes later, stunned, and bursts of sound reached him, faintly muffled through the tent. Tom stood, moved towards the flap with measured steps.

Twenty minutes later, the bang of the canon, a fourth, final bang, resonated through his bones and had him repressing a shiver of fright he just barely caught. Because despite the assurances he’d given to Luna, Hermione, Hari, Neville, the Ginger Menaces, Theo, Blaise, and even the other Champions, Tom was terrified. Who wouldn’t be, facing a nesting mother dragon and expected to steal an egg? And a gold egg at that?

Dragons were already notoriously possessive. Of their lands, dwellings, prey, eggs, hordes – but nesting mothers? Nesting mothers blew all of those expected behaviors out of the bloody waters. Everything about them was amplified. Their instinct to protect, attack, destroy and possess was five times that of a standard dragon, and by putting a treasure shaped like an egg into their nests . . . Tom didn’t rightly know what was going to happen, he just knew it wasn’t going to be good.

It would be utter madness not to be afraid.

So assuring them hadn’t been a lie – he was confident that he could, at the very least, manage. Whether he could do so without using his Monster was less certain. Whole teams of grown wixen had died to dragon fire. Whole armies had died to their fangs and claws and fury. He knows the other champions were injured, or that they at least appeared to have been. He heard it in the muffle of the crowds concern and the distant bark of irritation that came from the lime green tent. No plan was infallible.

(But. He at least had a plan. Hopefully a good enough one to avoid the need for being harmed.)

Breathing deeply, trying to center his mind, Tom strode through the opening in the tent.

The crowd roared, high on spectacle, fear and the assumption that nothing bad could truly happen.

Ignoring it the best he could, Tom sprang into movement. He’d allowed himself only a glance of the crowds waiting beyond the heavily warded fence, beyond the massive, hulking beast of scales and fire crouching above a nest, before he was casting a string of spells. Nebulus combined with Ventus, linked together in a chain, causing a great fog to spill over half the arena.

Thank you Professor Flitwick.

The wand work for Disillusionment was a little harder to manage with shaking hands, but he’d been practicing it so much over the last few days that it did work – and finally, a series of noise-canceling and scent reduction charms that Blaise had insisted on after seeing how many magical animals ended up the death of someone in past Tourneys — and then become tyrannical over when they found out it was dragons.

He cast the spells Snape had painstakingly taught him, except Celeritus. He’d only been able to maintain that one for sixty seconds, but in that sixty seconds, running twenty yards became substantially easier. He was saving it for when he had the egg. Once he was sure he was effectively disappeared, Tom stilled, thinking.

He’d barely gotten to doing so before a plume of fire was shooting past him to his left, through the fog, only a small plume, if he’s remembering the information he’d found on Hungarian Horntails correctly. A small flame for them was still large enough to engulf a man on horseback from nearly twelve yards away. Tom quietly chooses to manifest even more fog, moving through it until he’s walked over the too-warm stone and settled down, only ceasing the string of spells he’d cast once he’d stopped moving again.

He could just barely make out the shape of the dragon, unmoved over her nest. He still felt seen. He would only have one time to get this right. He couldn’t use all his magic right away, even if he’d bolstered it as much as he could using the meditation technique – if he needed to escape he would need to be strong enough to do so – so he fell back on Plan B. Unfortunately, plan B involved being much closer to where Luna sat than he currently was.

So – a distraction then.

Moving slowly, Tom edged away from where he’d been settled, drifting even further to the left, heading towards where he’d seen at least three gingers all waving frantically. He reached the edge of the fog-line and froze. The dragon was staring in his direction, gaze searching and muzzle pulled back in a silent snarl. Smoke plumes puffed from her enlarged nostrils. Maintaining his composure was a challenge in and of itself, but maintain he did, turning his attention to the rocks on the opposite side of him. There were a scattered handful of them around the same size. It would have to do.

Keeping his movements slow, so as not to give himself away more than he may have already, he aimed at the rocks –

And transfigured them into geese.

Tiny little geese, possibly no more than forty of fifty centimeters, which all honked obnoxiously and waddled around in circles, until one of them noticed the dragon looking back. It honked in alarm and hurried away, towards the fog. The others followed. The dragon slowly rose, eyes shifting over the fog again, before she stalked after them, movements ground-shaking. It stirred up a whole new flurry of concerned honks from the opposite side of the arena, and the fog shifted in a appropriately ominous way.

Moving as carefully as he was able, Tom made his way to the stands that were closest to Luna, without approaching the nest. If he wanted this to work, his scent could be nowhere near the eggs. It would only enrage the nesting mother, and that was exactly the opposite of what he wanted.

(Her eggs were fireproof. He was not. Not technically, anyway.)

A quiet spell, barely a whisper past his lips, much as the transfiguration had been.

“Accio Montoya,” and then Luna’s snake – how he wished, distantly the thing did not have the word Noodle in its name – was flying towards him, looking none-too pleased.

He seemed only a little placated by the cushioning charm Tom used to slow his flight, and carefully caught the creature, then set it down gently on the ground.

A floating snake would not be the thing that gave him away. He hoped.

“Why musst I be on the ground?” Montoya demanded, curling up slowly.

He’s grateful he doesn’t have to explain to the thing why he’s in the arena. Luna had said she’d speak to him. Now Tom just needed to convince the snake to care. Conjuring a whole new snake would have been simpler, but it also would have drawn more attention, and taken longer to convince it to help him.

“Because there is a nesting dragon in this cage and I am trying to hide,” Tom hissed back, crouching low and watching the fog where the dragon had disappeared. As if on cue, a series of offended honks echoed through the air, followed shortly by low growls.

“Ah, yessss,” the snake mused, tongue flicking out, “Ssspeaker cannot yet ssspeak flying ssserpent without me.”

Tom frowned at the implication that one day he might be able to, then moved on.

“Can you tell her that I’m here to claim a false egg from her nest? That I don’t wish to harm her eggs or impose? That I would like to negotiate if possible?”

While Montoya appeared to be pondering this, Tom glanced to the other side of the area again. The fog looked to be thinning there, but he saw no large shape drifting through it. He could not hear the geese any longer either, but he’s unsure if that’s because he stopped focusing on the transfiguration, or if the dragon ate them. It made him nervous.

“I will do ssso, and you will give me a frog,” Montoya announced.

“Done,” there was only a small bit of exasperation in Tom’s voice.

Montoya didn’t move for some time, tongue flickering rapidly, some nearly inaudible sound vibrating through his tiny body. It almost sounded like a sort of clicking sound. Confused, Tom was about to ask if the snake was alright – Luna would not be pleased if her friend was somehow hurt – when he felt a huff of warm, sulfuric breath on the back of his neck.

A much deeper, rhythmic clicking sound echoed behind him, but Tom could not make himself turn. Montoya made that same sound again, longer and intercepted by harsh hisses Tom could just barely understand, like hearing a word you knew in a third language but not where you knew it from. A movement behind him, and Tom doesn’t have to look up to know that the fog shrouding them is clearing. The crowd makes startled and confused exclamations around them. More deep, rhythmic clicking. Montoya stirs, tongue flicking again.

“Ssshe-who-burnss-like-ssky-fire demandss you remove whatever magicsss conceal you before sshe will negotiate,” the snake pronounces matter of factly.

Tom takes several deep breaths, then slowly lifts his wand, tapping it over his head. He feels the disillusionment break, the gasps and startled screams of the crowd a pound in his head even as he forces himself to remain calm.

“Does this appease her?” Tom asks, voice a scratch in his throat, even over the parseltongue.

Montoya goes silent again, making that odd sound, and a short, irritated growl echoes before a big, spiked snout starts to bleed into view in his peripherals.

“Yesss,” Montoya says at length, seeming pleased, and then he is drifting up Tom’s arm, making that sound again.

The crowd is muttering urgently, beyond them.

“Wonderful,” Tom rasps in English, and lets the snake speak to the dragon, whose tail is now sliding in front of Tom.

Blocking any escape. Repressing his fear is becoming a more and more difficult task.

“Ssshe-who-burnss-like-ssky-fire asks what you gain from removing the falssse egg,” Montoya prompted.

Tom considered how best to answer that, then settled on a simplified version of the truth.

“I need the false egg to complete a challenge.”

Montoya turned his attention back to the dragon, and Tom focused very heavily on not moving. He had the most moronic sense that if he made a sudden movement the dragon would decide to snap him up and crunch him down. The crowd was stirred up around them, he could see that much, some were on their feet, watching with wide eyes, others were clutching whoever they could get their hands on, knuckles white. He made the mistake of looking to the left and down the stands – and Luna was staring back at him, clutching the Slytherin scarf she’d stolen that weekend, eyes wide and face pale.

Tom looked away quickly.

“Ssshe-who-burnss-like-ssky-fire will allow you to take the falssse egg only after ssshe hass tesssted it, and a deal iss made.” Montoya announced.

Tom nodded, then stood on shaky knees as the dragon rose above him, stepping over him purposefully with her great lizard-like body. He was not so unaware of the ways of serpents that he couldn’t see a clear display of dominance when it was presented. She was a magnificent beast.

A small sound started in the crowd, and spread. The pounding in his head made him unable to focus on what it was.

Easily twice as tall as him while hunched over her nest, likely close to eight yards from ground to crown when standing, and twice as long as that from her snout to the tip of her tail. Her wings had been half-furled the whole time, but he could imagine that they were a minimum of ten yards from tip to tip. Her shimmering black scales looked like obsidian chips, the great, thorny horns protruding from her body a gleaming bronze. Her tail was spiked, and judging by the yard-long gouge marks in the ground, would crush him like an ant rather gruesomely. He did not move until her entire length was curled around the nest, head cocked towards him with a barely-there snarl.

Cautiously, Tom approached, pausing just before the nest to bow slowly, and then ascend. He wished it wasn’t perched quite so oddly atop a pile of rocks, but then he also wished he wasn’t taking part in the Tourney to begin with. When he reached the top, Tom cautiously raised his wand, watching the way the dragon’s great yellow eyes tracked it, her teeth becoming more pronounced. Sudden smoke billowed from her nostrils, and really, that was an unnecessary amount of warning, considering the size of her.

“Please tell She-who-burns-like-sky-fire that I am going to make my steps lighter, so as not to disturb her fine eggs.”

He waited until the message had been relayed, until the many many many teeth were gone again, and then cast a feather-light on his boots. When the dragon seemed to accept that nothing nefarious had happened, Tom walked carefully around the edge of the nest and stopped in front of the gleaming golden egg. The dragon leaned down slowly, snuffling at it, a long, black tongue flicking out and tasting it. Finally, she drew back, snorting, and her triangular head slowly turned away, so she was only observing him with one yellow eye.

(He wondered, very distantly, how they had convinced her the egg was one of her own. Had they placed a glamour? Cast a temporary notice-me-not? For she was looking at the egg with some surprise, eye flickering over its shiny curves curiously.)

“Do I have permission to remove the false egg?” Tom asked Montoya, trying to keep perfectly still.

He would love nothing more than to pick the egg up and run, but that would be like slicing his belly in front of a hungry shark. The snake translated his question, and after a frankly nerve wrecking back and forth of too-deep clicks and lighter, barely-there snaps, Montoya bumped against Tom’s cheek pointedly.

“Ssshe-who-burnss-like-ssky-fire givesss you leave to take falsse egg. Bidsss you bring her a fat pig and a replacement treasure in turn.”

Relief shoots through him, and Tom shudders through his next breath, but nods, bowing deeply.

“Please inform her I will make all arrangements for a fat pig to be brought to her, along with a new treasure.”

Another brief exchange, and then Tom is carefully plucking up the egg, and backing away. The horntail watches him go, single yellow eye tracking his movements with narrow precision. He’s just starting to climb back over the edge of the nest when probably the most unfortunate series of events occurs.

The dragon moves, drawing closer suddenly, likely to settle back over her nest and track his progress, to make sure he really leaves all her real eggs. The crowd screams. Out the corner of his left eye someone in the stand flinches, and a wand is drawn, a spell is cast. Tom isn’t aware of letting go of the edge abruptly until it’s happening, startled by the sudden light.

He’s all too glad he did when a loud bang startles the dragon into a roar of flames, which shootout straight over where he’d just been. He flings Montoya away from himself, glad when the snake goes flying through the air towards the stands, and then he is running, casting the same series of spells as when he first arrived because he can think of nothing else.

The dragon roars in fury again, heat builds, and Tom is frozen behind a large stone where he’d thrown himself, watching the arena with wide eyes. There are flames everywhere. The heat is oppressive — it sears his skin and makes it itch. He can hear the smash and scrape of protesting stone as she rips the area around her nest asunder, looking for him. He is eight yards from the exit point, and it is all blocky, uneven terrain. He cannot stay here, because eventually she will find him, and when she does, he’s not sure the dragon handlers will be in time to save him.

He can see them, gathering around the edges of the exits ward lines, nervously looking between the dragon and the arena. Among them is a ginger. In the light of day, he wonders how he missed the similarities. The blue eyes raking over the arena desperately are all too familiar. But. Tom knows for a fact that the Tournament officials have their own archaic laws to follow. They cannot assist him in getting out – only in distracting and calming the dragon should he make it past the exit-line wards. Madame Pomfrey is standing at them with a fierce scowl and her wand at the ready, as if she was just waiting to march over the lines herself and collect him.

Beside her, Professor Snape is a pale, motionless statue. Pacing behind them both, looking wilder than he’s ever seen, Xenophilius Lovegood has his hands clutched in his hair and his eyes trained on the arena. There are two Aurors with their wands trained on him already. Not making it out of this arena is out of the question. He suddenly has too much left undone that cannot be ignored, even in the face of death.

(Like finding the one responsible for entering him in the first place, when he was minding his own damned business, and making them suffer.)

Making it out of this arena is the hardest thing he has to do today.

He’s still going to do it.

The dragon settled, but there was still the sound of scraping stone, and a low, angry rumble in the air that could only be the dragon preparing to be mad. The crowds in the arena where he knows Luna is sitting are stirring, some getting up out of their seats and slowly back up towards the exit. Others flat out running. Sudden dragon fire hits that side of the arena wards, and Tom feels a calm come over him, super imposed by the realization that if the dragon cannot find him, she will attack the wards until she feels she has eliminated whatever threat was made to her eggs.

Given the ways the wards are flaring and the dragon handlers are scrambling, she may succeed in breaking them. Luna was in those stands now, along with all the idiots he was suddenly friends with. His only true anchor to this time period was sitting there, hair lit aglow by dragon fire, eyes not on the dragon but in his direction.

Paradoxically, time slows down and speeds up. He sees Luna, staring in his direction, Montoya curled around her shoulders again, fangs bared at the flames. Sees the spiderwebs of warning flares that echo through the wards. Knows – there is no way that the dragon handlers placed only one set of wards. Luna is safe. He could run now and likely make it before the dragon realized that he was escaping. She was entirely focused on breaking through the barrier and eliminating a threat. A barrier that Luna sat behind, looking entirely uninterested in moving. Luna should be safe. He didn’t have to do something reckless.

The wards flare again.

Hari grabs Luna’s arm and tries to tug.

Luna does not move.

The wards are flaring, the dragon is determined, and though Tom could run, slow and easy and be much safer than drawing attention would make him . . .

A conviction he didn’t realize he had stole through him.

Because Luna was not moving, despite the twins speaking fast next to her, trying to urge her up. He can see, even from this distance, the stubborn set to her jaw. She will not move until she knows he is safe.

That’s alright.

Tom has never been afraid of hard work.

“Celeritus,” he breathes, then flicks his wand.

(Only potential death.)

Tom moves away from his cover, firing as many transfiguration spells as he knows, all over the damned arena. Geese, cats, dogs, ducks, a flock of birds – anything he has studied over the last three weeks, even an assortment of beetles, suddenly clogs the arena. The dragon focuses on the flashiest – the vibrant peacocks running around frantically, giving their distinct calls on the opposite side of the arena – and Tom hurries as much as he can under the disillusionment.

Five yards.

Dragon fire behind him, and the scream of dying dogs and birds that swiftly cut off, Tom cutting the magic that kept them transfigured.

Four yards.

More fire. He can feel the heat. A quick glance shows that the dragon has finished off anything too-close to her nest and her head is craning back towards Luna’s side of the area stadium. Luna has not moved. Tom will be damned if he ignores even the possibility of his first ever friend being in danger because he placed his safety above hers.

He stops being careful, and runs, flicking his wand to send a sharp bang echoing from the end of it. The disillusionment breaks. Two yards, scrambling over a small boulder, his skin scraping against unpolished stone.

Fire behind him.

Madame Pomfrey has her hands over her mouth, Professor Snape looks bloodless.

Tom rolls over the exit wards to flames licking at his heels, burning through the runes that Hermione and Theo had stitched into his boots. A pulse of magic fighting magic, his legs still moving, the rest of him frozen in a moment of time. Something breaks as the flames start to sputter out, the ground red-hot.

It is nothing but pain and devastation to the bone, traveling from his heels up to his knees, but Tom rolls to a stop and the flames do not consume him and frankly, he would rather be in pain than dead. Even if that pain was so agonizing that his eyes slam shut and he focuses as much as possible on not screaming. He tosses aside the dammed golden egg and smashes a closed fist into the ground, breathing ragged against the dirt and rubble.

(His Monster always comes out against his will if he screams. He cannot let it come out here.)

Madame Pomfrey is there, descending on him, barking orders at who can only be Snape, and Tom is in pain until quite suddenly . . . he isn’t.

Darkness.

Pain. Excruciating, bone crushing, far reaching pain. He feels as though his flesh is peeling itself off his body, as though lava has taken place of bone, as though there is something too-hot being held to flesh not meant for heat, just grazing over the skin, and Tom’s breathing turns ragged. The pain extends from ankle to knee at the front of his legs, is glaringly absent from his heels, though if he had to pick which leg was more painful . . . it would be his right one.

“Drink this, Mister Slytherin, quickly!” Someone urges.

He recognizes the taste of their magic well enough to do as he’s told, is grateful when the familiar and disgusting taste of a pain relief potion washes down his throat. Following that is an assortment of potions he doesn’t let himself focus on. He knows someone is doing something to his legs, but he can’t bring himself to open his eyes just yet. He’s far too emotionally unstable for that.

“Alright then, Mister Slytherin, I’m about to cast a stretcher – we’re going to the infirmary, where the rest of them should be.”

There is something to her voice that he might have caught and known, if he wasn’t so bloody distracted by the tingle-burn spreading through his legs.

He doesn’t even bother nodding, just grunts, gripping the edges of the stretcher he can suddenly feel beneath him. Someone tries to waylay the Madame, and the verbal lashing she doles out makes him sad he can’t really process anything she’s said. He’ll have to see if he can get someone else to relay it word for word later. He’s positive that it’s cutting in all the right ways. He almost laughs at that, then realizes with a start that someone must have slipped a calming draught of some kind into the potions provided, because he was very abruptly too good humored.

Ultimately though, it didn’t matter, because before he knows it, darkness takes him again.

(It is far preferable to the pain.)

???????, 1994

When he wakes, there is a familiar stone ceiling above him. The magic of Hogwarts is a soothing hum in the back of his mind. The faint smell of medical tinctures and sterile soaps drifts over the room. He’s in the infirmary. Tom takes a deep, focused breath, and tries to move his legs.

Pain. Blinding and knife sharp. He sucks in a breath, slams his eyes shut, and breathed shakily.

“Mr. Slytherin,” Pomfrey’s soothing voice, a cool, damp something brushing his forehead.

Tom waits until his breathing has evened out and he’s managed to force the Monster down down down. He opens his eyes and finds the elderly woman standing over him, frowning in worry.

“How bad?” he croaks, then swallows. His throat feels like sandpaper and rocks reside there.

Pomfrey reaches for something on the side table, tilts his head forward to carefully drip water down his throat. It’s icy cold and blessedly refreshing. Tom is careful to sip at it, rather than chug. He feels nauseous.

“You’re legs are . . . very badly burned, Mr. Slytherin. You are very lucky regardless. A second later, and this would be a very different conversation.”

Tom knew exactly who he had to thank for that precious second of time. He didn’t say as much though, shuddering.

“I can’t feel my heels.”

He whispers. Pomfrey’s face goes hard and furious, on his behalf, he thinks.

“You won’t for some time. At least a week, as long as you follow all of my instructions exactly. I’m not a miracle worker, however. But I digress — I shall go over that with you once Lord Lovegood is present. He was quite insistent that he be here for that discussion.”

Tom blinked, glanced at the nearest window. The matron of the healing ward must have seen the question on his face, because her expression went terribly sad.

“It’s Sunday the 27th, Mr. Slytherin. You’ve been out of commission for three days. It’s nearing lunch time. Lord Lovegood drug young Miss Lovegood to the Great Hall for lunch, as she has been rather insistently guarding your bedside.”

Tom relaxed, nodding. At least someone was making Luna take care of herself. Tom settled back against his pillows, blinking at the matron slowly.

“May I sit up?”

Pomfrey looking oddly touched by the question, as if her patients never had the decency to ask, and she helped him sit. His legs ached for the movement, but the matron did something that made them feel blessedly numb, and he was able to focus on the room. He was the only patient at present, as evidenced by the rows of empty beds.

At his bedside table, there was an assortment of sweets in a basket, a vase of flowers, and a stack of books.

“Those were all left for you by your friends. Some of the rest of the school tried to send sentimentals as well, but Mr. Zaibini started moving them to your dorm, as the get-well wishes were becoming excessive.”

Tom felt a faint, weary smile twitch his lips, then reached for a book. The topmost one was an encyclopedia of enchantments, and different ways they could be applied to objects. Tom found it just interesting enough to attempt reading, dozing in and out between paragraphs. It isn’t until he’s halfway through the first chapter that he becomes aware of being watched.

When he glances up —

Dumbledore is standing at the end of his bed, watching him.