Chapter Text
The new boy sticks out like a sore thumb.
Tom doesn’t understand why Dippet wouldn’t sort the newcomer in private, before the ceremony; this way every eye in the Great Hall is drawn to the stranger in their midst and it’s hardly an auspicious beginning.
The boy stands calmly among the first years in standard Hogwarts robes, eyes fastened on the stool with the sorting hat, a crafted inscrutable expression on his face. Almost as if he’s unaware of the stares, the whispers.
But Tom is excellent at reading people. He needs to be.
If one did not make a habit of reading people, one could easily be excused from missing the small tightening around the boy’s shoulders or how he is so clearly gripping his wand, hidden in the folds of his robes.
The boy might be able to fool most of the imbeciles in the Great Hall, but he’s not fooling Tom.
What Tom sees is this: the stranger is uncomfortable with the attention. Hates it, even. And yet, he’s clearly used to it. As if he accepted long ago that he’ll turn people’s heads wherever he goes and learned to deal with it.
Tom doesn’t understand why, though. The boy is nothing special to look at.
Perpetually messy, raven hair, a slim build, barely filling out his robes despite the fact that they’re of excellent quality and tailored to him. Round, wire-framed glasses hide his eyes from view, at least from afar, and despite how he appears to tower over the first years, Tom estimates his height to be average.
Unremarkable. Common. Neither exceptional nor dreadful. Just a boy.
So why would he be used to other people’s undivided attention?
Tom idly mulls it over while the first years are sorted first, leaving the boy for last. Tom cannot say for sure how old the stranger is, which year he’ll study with, or even why on earth he’s arrived at Hogwarts now; there’s no precedent Tom knows of where Hogwarts accepts transfers.
Yet, there he is.
Why?
When the last little first year has skipped down to the Hufflepuff table, Dumbledore clears his throat and rolls up the parchment he’s been reading off of, clearly not in need of it to sort the final student.
“Harry Potter,” Dumbledore calls and the boy – Harry – strides up to the stool, takes a seat with his gaze fastened on his own feet, and Dumbledore lowers the sorting hat onto his head.
A Potter?
Tom glances over at the Gryffindor table on the other end of the Great Hall, where fellow seventh year Fleamont Potter sits smiling in what he probably thinks is an enigmatic way.
Tom frowns and turns his attention back to Harry, where he appears to be… arguing with the hat?
His unremarkable face twitches, his square jaw clenches, his dark brows knit together in a fierce scowl – his thoughts are practically on display for the whole Hall to see.
Yes, he’s clearly disagreeing with whatever the hat is saying. It’s slightly amusing to witness, and Tom cocks his head as he, along with the rest of the student body, awaits the hat’s judgement on Harry Potter.
Another few seconds later, the brim of the hat opens, and it cries, “SLYTHERIN!”
Judging by Harry’s pleased expression, he won the discussion.
Tom raises an eyebrow as Harry saunters down to the Slytherin table, taking a seat at the edge by the first years.
Interesting. Fool or schemer?
Tom is leaning toward fool, though he will reserve judgement for now. Harry did sort into Slytherin, after all; perhaps there is more to him than meets the eye. Perhaps the overt facial expressions are a ploy.
When Tom glances back at the Gryffindor table, Fleamont is giving Harry a surreptitious thumbs up.
…the Potter family has sorted Gryffindor for generations.
Interesting, indeed.
The food appears and Tom turns his attention toward his meal, listening with half an ear to the conversations his dormmates are engaged in while he eats. He ignores the impulse to gorge himself; this summer has been kinder to him than others, but food remained a scarcity.
When dessert is also over and done with, Dippet unsteadily rises to his feet and gets through the usual beginning of the year-announcements, including introducing Tom as Head Boy and the Ravenclaw Niamh Campbell as Head Girl.
Tom flashes his charming, trust-me-smile when the attention turns to him. He lets it bleed away slowly; too quickly and people will realise it’s fake.
When the students are dismissed and begin to leave the Great Hall, Tom and Niamh take up the Heads’ traditional posts by the doors, making sure everyone exits in an orderly fashion and that no one is left behind.
Tom lets his gaze drift over the sea of people, murmuring greetings to the ones who initiate, the corners of his lips tilted slightly upwards in a friendly expression that’s not quite a smile.
“Tom Riddle, right?”
Tom’s gaze sharpens on Harry Potter who’s come to a halt right in front of him.
Tom was correct in his initial assessment; Harry is average height. Certainly shorter than Tom’s 6’2”. He even has to tilt his head slightly backwards to make eye contact with Tom.
But such eyes they are.
Large and expressive – a vivid, electric, intense green.
Like Avada Kedavra given physical form.
Fascinating.
“Yes,” Tom replies smoothly, tearing his gaze away to look around for the Slytherin prefects. He can’t find them, and recalls he’s already seen them troop past, first years expertly corralled into a neat line. “Did the prefects leave without you?”
“It would appear so,” Harry replies cheerfully. “Mind showing me the way to the common room?”
“Not at all. I just need to make sure everyone has left and then we can go.”
Harry nods and steps to the side, leaning against the wall next to Tom as the final stragglers leave the Great Hall.
When the Hall is at last empty, Tom bids Niamh a good night and gestures for Harry follow. Harry easily falls into step beside him as they walk toward the dungeons.
“So, which year are you joining?” Tom asks, keeping his tone one of mild curiosity.
“Seventh. I think that makes us dormmates?”
“Ordinarily, it would. The Heads have separate quarters, though.”
“Oh.” Harry frowns then shrugs. “Ah well. I guess we’ll have some of the same classes, at least.”
Tom looks at him askance, wondering why on earth that matters. “I suppose. Know which classes you’re taking?”
“Defence Against the Dark Arts, Transfiguration, Charms and Potions,” Harry rattles off. “You?”
“The same,” Tom says, and Harry’s ensuing lopsided smile looks… pleased? “I’m also taking Herbology and Alchemy.”
“Oh right, I thought I saw Alchemy as an option! Elective, yeah?”
Tom nods. “New for this year, on a trial period. Professor Dumbledore teaches it – he’s the Transfiguration professor and the Deputy Headmaster.”
“And Head of Gryffindor,” Harry adds. Tom raises a quizzical brow and Harry shrugs unconcernedly.
“Ah. Did Fleamont Potter…?”
“Yep.” He pops the p. It’s obnoxious. Tom makes sure not to let it show, turning his eyes straight ahead.
“So who will I be rooming with?” Harry asks before Tom can come up with a new topic for conversation.
“William Avery, Sebastian Lestrange, Gaspard Rosier and Cantankerous Nott.”
“…great,” Harry mutters, quietly enough that Tom almost doesn’t hear him.
What had he expected? Tom has a hard time believing Fleamont didn’t prepare Harry for who his year mates were going to be, and Harry had obviously been the one to argue with the hat for Slytherin.
“I’m sure you’ll all get along splendidly,” Tom says, ignoring Harry’s clear displeasure, even though it confuses him.
“Oh yes, we’ll be bezzie mates,” Harry drawls.
Tom can’t recall ever hearing that expression before, but he gets the gist of it.
As they near the common room, Tom gestures toward the blank patch of wall where the entrance is. “The password is currently Serpentes. Do you wish for me to show you the dorm as well, or will you manage?”
“I’ve got it,” Harry says confidently and steps forward. “Goodnight, Tom.”
Tom nods, hides his irritation at the familiarity, wishes Harry goodnight in return, and turns to leave –
And then Harry hisses ~open~ at the wall.
Tom whirls back around, wide-eyed, catching Harry throwing a grin over his shoulder before the entrance closes behind him.
…he’s still leaning towards fool, but some scheming has obviously occurred.
Clearly, there is more to Harry Potter than meets the eye.
Tom has a hard time deciding whether he’s excited or alarmed at this.
The next morning, Harry slides into the seat opposite Tom at breakfast.
“Good morning, Tom” he says cheerfully, slathering some butter on toast.
“Good morning, Harry,” Tom replies, eyes narrowing on the sole known Parselmouth outside his own immediate family.
(And that imbecile was conveniently shipped off to Azkaban for the pruning Tom performed on his family tree this summer.)
As their eyes meet, Tom attempts to skim Harry’s surface thoughts, only to be immediately rebuffed by the strongest Occlumency-shields he’s ever encountered in a peer.
Thankfully, Harry seems none the wiser to Tom’s attempted intrusion as he merely raises an eyebrow at the lingering eye-contact. Interestingly, he makes no motion to break it on his own.
Tom casually looks over at the approaching Lestrange and Rosier, greeting them as well.
When he turns back to Harry, he is still watching Tom with a small smile hiding in the corner of his mouth.
Slughorn chooses that moment to toddle over with copies of their schedules, and once breakfast is over, Harry easily falls into step with Tom as they head toward Transfiguration.
“Hope you don’t mind,” Harry says, in that cheerful way of his.
“Not at all,” Tom replies with only a slightly clenched jaw, hitching the strap of his bag higher on his shoulder.
“So, Head Boy, huh? How’d you manage that?” Harry asks as they climb the stairs.
“Impeccable grades and spotless record,” Tom says with a casual shrug. He makes no mention of his award for special services to the school; it would behove him to appear humble, no matter how proud he is about the frame-job that everyone except Dumbledore fell for.
“Impressive.”
Tom looks at him askance, frowning. It is impressive. Yet something in Harry’s voice makes it sound… not.
“How was your first night at Hogwarts?” Tom asks, turning his gaze forward once more.
“Not too shabby. Bit strange having the Lake up close like that.”
Tom hums. “It does take some getting used to.” He hadn’t dared trust the windows for weeks, keeping to the edges of the common room and closing the drapes of his fourposter when he slept.
“Mm. Took me a while to get to sleep, actually – your friends didn’t demonstrate any of your restraint in satisfying their curiosity about my origins.”
Tom had been counting on it. His Knights know full well that he would want to be kept abreast of any new developments in Slytherin. He suspects they’ll fill him in soon enough about everything they manage to uncover about Harry.
“Well, you’re in a rather unique position. I haven’t heard of Hogwarts accepting transfers before, and the fact you’re an unknown Potter at that… I suppose it isn’t odd that they’re curious about you.”
“Are you?” Harry asks in an overly innocent voice.
Tom blinks, the only outwardly sign of his surprise he’ll allow. “I – suppose.”
“But you won’t ask.”
“Do you want me to ask?”
They come to a halt by the Transfiguration classroom. Tom raises a quizzical brow, looking down on Harry who’s smiling up at him, eyes gleaming. Though Harry’s face may be somewhat unremarkable, his eyes are anything but. Although, this close, Tom can see a rather fetching scar as well, peeking through Harry’s messy fringe, in the shape of a lightning bolt.
“Maybe I do.”
“Why?”
Harry’s smile widens into a grin, showing off his mostly straight, white teeth. One of the front incisors is slightly crooked. “Maybe I want to be your friend.”
“Alright,” Tom says slowly. “Here’s a question then; why did you argue with the hat to get put in Slytherin?”
“Caught that, did you?” Harry looks pleased at Tom’s insight, clasping his hands behind his back. Tom doesn’t respond, standing silent and motionless while he waits for Harry to continue. When he eventually does, it takes every ounce of Tom’s self-control not to react. “I asked for Slytherin because you’re in Slytherin. Figured it’d be an easy enough way to get close to you.”
Baffled and trying not to show it, Tom reluctantly asks another question, “Why? I don’t even know you.”
“Not yet,” Harry chirps. “But you will. I’m gonna be the best friend you’ve ever had.”
…great.
The new boy is insane.
Tom stares incredulously at Harry, who just keeps grinning at him.
What kinds of stories has Fleamont been filling Harry’s head with, for him to know without even meeting Tom that he wants to get closer to him? To become his… friend?
And why is Harry so honest? Who just says something like that?
Unless…
Unless it’s part of some sort of plan. Maybe the honesty is dishonesty in disguise, somehow? A way to unsettle Tom, to confound him?
Yes, that has to be it.
…maybe.
Luckily – and it’s the first time Tom’s ever had that thought – Dumbledore arrives and ushers the students inside the classroom.
Unluckily, Harry claims the seat next to Tom, casually leaning back on his chair.
Tom thoroughly ignores Harry for the duration of the lesson, paying more attention than he ever has to Dumbledore. Harry is dutifully taking notes next to him, though he never looks directly at Dumbledore.
At some point during the lecture, Tom glances down on Harry’s parchment and is appalled at the truly atrocious penmanship.
Then he remembers he’s supposed to be ignoring Harry and berates himself as he turns his attention fully on Dumbledore again.
“What have you learned about Potter?” Tom murmurs, hands deep in soil later that morning. He’d managed to pawn Harry off on Lestrange after Transfiguration as neither of them take Herbology.
“Claims he’s only distantly related to the Potters despite the surname and was recently taken in by his relatives after his parents died. Personally, I think Harry is the result of some hushed dalliance of Graham’s, and he’s only just now claiming the boy,” Nott replies calmly, snipping off some dead leaves.
Tom hums, mulling it over.
Harry does look the quintessential Potter, although slightly slimmer in build and with different colour eyes. He could, feasibly, be Fleamont’s sibling.
Graham Potter has quite the unassailable reputation though, and Tom doubts Fleamont would be quite so supportive of an illegitimate brother turning up out of the blue.
“I doubt it,” Tom says, keeping his voice pitched low so that Professor Clare won’t bother them. “If Harry truly is Graham’s get, then I suspect the… honourable Mr Potter would have claimed him sooner, and properly.”
Unlike the filth who sired me.
Nott snorts in amusement and nods. “Fair point.”
“Anything else?”
“Not really. He avoided most of our questions simply by keeping silent. Bit rude, actually, and clearly unwilling to engage.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Tom can see Nott hesitate.
“…and?” he prompts.
Nott winces slightly but obediently adds, “He asked about you.”
Tom’s eyes narrow on his plant as he pads the soil around its roots.
“Did he, now…” he murmurs. “What kind of questions?”
“Just… our general impressions of you.” Nott swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing with the harsh movement.
Tom frowns. Harry becomes stranger and stranger the more Tom learns about him.
“Keep an eye on him. Keep me informed.”
“Of course,” murmurs Nott.
The days of September pass much the same as the first one had.
Harry latches onto Tom whenever he can, chattering about school and various innocuous topics (apparently, he makes Seeker on the Slytherin Quidditch team).
When he occasionally succeeds in taunting Tom into asking a question, he also answers it readily enough in a way Tom could swear is actually genuine.
Not that Tom asks any important questions when he caves. Of course not. It wouldn’t do for Harry to know just how curious Tom really is. And now that Tom knows that Harry wants him to ask, he’s reluctant to give in.
It’s not that he’s scared or anything of Harry, his new insane shadow; he’s just so –
Confounding. Yes, that’s exactly what Harry is. A conundrum, that Tom is having trouble predicting, no matter how easy he is to read.
(Unless his expressiveness truly is a ploy?)
Perhaps most baffling of all, though, is the fact that Harry hasn’t made any sort of play for the title of Heir of Slytherin.
Unlike Tom, Harry could realistically safely claim it, as he hadn’t been at Hogwarts last year when Tom unleashed the basilisk and would therefore be free of suspicion.
He’s clearly a Parselmouth, yet no one but Tom seems aware of this.
How is he a Parselmouth? There are no more Gaunts around, and any other line descended from Salazar Slytherin died out long ago. While Tom wouldn’t put it past Morfin to get someone with child out of wedlock, he sincerely doubts that child would turn out like Harry, looking every inch a Potter.
It just doesn’t make any sense.
Harry doesn’t make sense.
He remains cheerful and friendly, often making a point of proclaiming himself Tom’s friend for reasons Tom can’t fathom. It’s the weirdest ingratiating tactic he’s ever encountered, and he doesn’t get it.
It’s positively… Hufflepuff. Diabolical in its apparent simplicity.
But Harry is a Slytherin, Heir or not. There has to be an ulterior motive to his honesty. A method to the madness.
Tom will figure it out. He will.
“Tom, wait up!”
Tom suppresses a sigh and slows his steps. Soon enough, Harry catches up and grins at him.
“Harry,” Tom says with a nod.
“Tom,” Harry replies, mock-solemnly with a grave nod back before the grin returns in full force.
Tom clenches his jaw at the mockery – as if proper decorum is something to mock – contenting himself with a glare that merely serves to make Harry’s grin widen.
“Going to the library?”
“Yes,” Tom sighs.
“…this is the part where you invite me, your closest and dearest friend in the world, to join you.”
“I hardly know you.”
“And whose fault is that, hm? I’m an open book over here.” He waves a hand over his guileless face, as if to demonstrate just how open he is.
Tom sighs again, lamenting his image that prohibits him from outright cursing Harry to leave him alone, then politely asks, “Would you like to join me, Harry?”
“Why, Tom, I thought you’d never ask! I’d be delighted to.”
“Joy,” Tom mutters.
Tom’s favourite table in library is at the very back, reached through winding stacks, where prying eyes cannot easily reach, where the silence is near oppressive. It’s as isolated a place one can find in public and Tom claimed it years ago.
Silent. Dark. Peaceful.
And then Harry Potter sets up shop after that first time Tom reluctantly allows him to join, livening the place up with his sheer presence. With his smiles, and teasing comments, and vivid green eyes that are fixed on Tom more often than his homework.
Disturbing Tom’s peace.
Tom snaps on a Friday.
“~The Potters aren’t Parselmouths.~”
Harry looks up from his essay, cocking his head. His green, green eyes gleam behind his round glasses. The light from the desk lamp leaves his face half in shadow, playing over his inky hair. His soft, slightly chapped lips tug upward into a smirk.
“~I was wondering when you were going to ask about that.~”
“~I’m asking now. Are we related?~”
Harry snorts. “~I fucking hope not.~”
“~What’s that supposed to mean?~”
Harry just smiles, perching his elbow on the table, resting his chin in his palm.
“~Are you descended from Salazar Slytherin?~” Tom demands.
“~Nope.~” Harry somehow manages to pop the P despite the sibilant sounds of Parseltongue. It’s a little less obnoxious than in English, but not by much.
“~Then how are you a Parselmouth?~”
“~That’s an excellent question, actually. Would you like the short or the long answer?~”
Tom barely restrains the urge to groan and/or curse the smirking boy in front of him.
“~Short one first and I’ll see if I’m interested enough to hear the long one.~”
Harry lets out a chuckle. It’s a warm, pleasant sound that has no business coming from someone as infuriating as Harry.
“~The short answer is that I’m a Parselmouth because of you.~”
Tom bristles. “~If you’re not gonna answer honestly–~”
“~Oi, I resent that. I always answer your questions honestly, Tom. It’s not my fault the truth is utterly fucking bonkers most of the time.~”
“~Oh yes, a paragon of truth you are,~” Tom mocks, leaning forward on his arms on the table. Harry matches the movement, bringing his face (now devoid of smirk) closer, so close that Tom can feel the soft puffs of Harry’s warm breath across his face.
“~You’re one to talk.~”
“~If you’re so truthful,~” Tom hisses, sidestepping Harry’s accusation, “~what’s the truth about your relation to Fleamont?~”
Harry – whose eyes flick back and forth between Tom’s and are even more intense up close – breaks into one of his usual grins. “~He’s my grandfather.~”
Tom forcefully leans back in his seat, absolutely livid with the preposterous lie that Harry has the gall to claim is truth. He gathers his things and is on the cusp of storming off when Harry clicks his tongue, reverting back to English.
“Don’t be like that, Tom.”
“Piss off, Potter,” Tom snarls, thoroughly fed up and unable to keep his true self from peeking through his model student-mask.
“See you at dinner,” Harry calls after him as Tom leaves the library, sounding unconcerned and cheerful as ever.
Tom ignores Harry at dinner, despite Harry’s best efforts to the contrary.
At the end of it, Harry rolls his eyes and says he’ll leave Tom alone until tomorrow, give him a chance to cool down.
The victory feels oddly hollow.