Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

This story begins with a boy.

Well, not exactly. This story actually begins with a parrot. Sort of. It begins with parrots in general... sort of.

Okay, so here’s the thing about parrots. It’s not just their pretty feathers that make parrots such beloved pets to so many people. Everybody admits that these little guys are brighter than any bird’s got the right to be, with their puzzle solving skills and their ‘Polly want a cracker’s.

But see, that’s the thing. 

A parrot will only say ‘Polly want a cracker’ if ‘Polly want a cracker’ was repeated in front of them over and over and over again. Ad nauseam. Only then will the parrot think ‘Oh I guess they want me to do that’ and then repeat it in their high pitched, twittering voice that only a bird can have. While imitation through repetition is something seen in other members of the animal kingdom, the parrot’s wordplay isn’t just gained from treats and classical conditioning. It’s something that they pick up on their own, and it is entirely up to the parrot on whether or not they want to mimic the repetition.

There was once a joke about a group of friends. One of them bought a parrot as a pet and they all began to argue about what they would teach the parrot to say first. One of their friends, Larry, kept offering up suggestions about what it should say, only to be shot down with a vehement ‘No, Larry!’ every time. This kept going on for quite a while until they were interrupted by a new voice. The parrot’s, actually. Can you guess what it said?

“No, Larry!”

Of course. 

Through repetition of the friends’ cries, the parrot chose to pick up what they had been shouting near it. Even if that wasn’t the intended purpose of their words, it certainly was the product. And parrots could be such cheeky little bastards in what they choose to pick up, aren’t they? Then they’ll in turn twitter and croak out whatever it was their little birdy minds decided would be a good thing to replicate. This ranges from the “Polly want a cracker” to “Hello” to profuse swear words that are only spoken by the damn thing in front of the esteemed guests and your stuffy Aunt Bernadette.

Let’s label this phenomenon The Parrot Effect, just for this story. Now, you’re probably wondering why I’ve just told you this little thing about parrots, or why this is even relevant to a story that’s obviously not going to be about a parrot whatsoever. So let me start back to the beginning.

This story begins with a boy. 

This boy’s life began much like the much famed Oliver Twist. His mother had stumbled into the orphanage late at night on the evening cusping the new year, heavy with her burden of new life. The drunken nurses cared for her as she delivered her cursed son into the world, and the nameless woman cradled the newborn in her arms. She had smiled, whispered the name of her progeny (which the nurses actually had enough sobriety to write down) and died just a few hours later, living just long enough to watch her son open his eyes (her eyes, he had her eyes in perfect condition, she hoped it was the only thing he would inherit from her).

It was the first moment that Tom Marvolo Riddle remembered, and one that he would cherish all the days of his life. The love his mother gave him in those precious few hours, the warmth of her body, her shaking and hoarse voice, her smiling face and exotropic dark eyes (his eyes too, he would look into his eyes in the mirror and pretend they were her eyes looking back at him, though he hadn’t yet managed to make them look in opposite directions like she could) fueled him enough to survive the loveless nature of the poverty-stricken Wool’s orphanage. 

You’re probably still wondering why I mentioned the parrot either. Just a little longer, okay?

Little Tom was much like most other very young children, full of youthful innocence and curious to a fault. In a loving family his curiosity and intelligence would have been nurtured, his budding genius praised and rewarded. But such was the unfortunate fact of life that not only was he an Oliver Twist and thus cursed to Dicken’s level of bad luck, but he also inherited his mother’s magic and abilities. Specifically, the one that let him talk to snakes.

Innocent little Tom didn’t understand why talking to snakes was such a bad thing. They weren’t always the best conversationalists but they always paid their rent for sharing his room and bed by eating the rats in the relative vicinity. They also allowed him to teach them little tricks and slither-dance routines to the sound of the street piano, making the child giggle as they weaves around his body in tune to the music. The other inhabitants of the orphanage, however, thought quite differently on the subject of Tommy and his snake-talking, freakish ways. 

Devil’s Spawn, they would call him, Trouble-maker. Terror. Ne’er do well. Cretin. Hooligan. Freak. Outcast. Over and over and over. 

If it wasn’t the children it was the caretakers and Mrs. Cole. If it wasn’t them it was the overly religious prospective parents that happened upon him convincing a snake to jive to the chipped gramophone in the common playroom. If it wasn’t the grownups that came and went from the orphanage, it was Father Hale and his clergy. Every day, Tom Riddle heard himself called that, though he hadn’t really done anything wrong and had always been polite, respectful, and friendly (just like all the children were taught by Mrs. Cole). 

Sound familiar?

Remember the parrot? 

One night while little Tommy was laying in his threadbare bed, crying over the recent death of another one of his snake-friends which was crushed underfoot by one of the grown ups that refused to adopt him after finding him playing with the serpent using a ripped cat-toy, he had an epiphany. What if everyone called him those things because they wanted him to behave like that? Why else would they say such things about him? 

Besides, some of the things he was called and the feats could perform could allow him to join a circus. His mother had worked in the circus. Mrs. Cole had told him so (and she wasn’t lying, because he was really, really good at knowing when people lied). She was probably a wonderful acrobat that could flip in midair and ride upside-down on elephant trunks like some of the ones that came to London before the war threats. They were always very pretty and called him a sweet little boy and that made Tom very happy. 

It’s why he tried very very very hard to be just like her so that maybe one day he could run away and join the circus and have amazing adventures with all of his snake friends. Maybe he would even find his grandfather, Marvolo (another circus person, Mrs. Cole had said so). The bumps and bruises and scratches were all worth it if he could be an acrobat one day. Tom the Flying Snake Charmer, he’d be called. They might even love him.

(A tiny part of his sanity had probably cracked under sheer pressure of what he had to endure at the orphanage, but that’s not important yet.)

Circus freaks didn’t have to worry about being called freaks, because that’s where they belonged - and that’s what so many people spat at him. And if everyone kept calling Tom things that he wasn’t, perhaps they wanted him to follow that route. If he behaved in the way that they said he did... why then he would be doing exactly as they asked!

So Tom Riddle decided to test out this theory by snapping the neck of Billy Stubbs’ rabbit. It wasn’t white and it wasn’t wearing a waistcoat or a pocket watch so he wasn’t worried about it being the kind of rabbit that actually talked like his snakes did or wanting to lead him into a hole in the ground that could be the entrance to Wonderland. That and Billy had been the one to kill Alice the grass snake in the first place. 

Still, he had shook the rodent’s panicked form and listened closely just to be sure there wasn’t any squeaking of “You’re late! You’re late!”. One could never know until they tried, after all, and on the off chance that Billy did have the White Rabbit, Tom wasn’t going to risk the chance of killing his chance to meet the Cheshire Cat and the Mad Hatter. Once he figured that it was just a regular old rabbit, the snake talking orphan put the writhing thing out of its misery, leaving it hanging from the rafters for Stubbs to see. 

They (that is, Billy, Mrs. Cole and the other caretakers of the orphanage) had screamed at him and punished him despite there being no evidence of Tom actually doing the deed but as always he was blamed anyway. It was an interesting sensation, being punished for something he actually did (not that anyone else knew for sure), a kind of satisfaction. Like he finally earned the names they called him.

So Tom Riddle decided to do it more. A lot more.

The little orphan boy wrought terror and chaos upon the grey orphanage that had done him so much wrong, and it was exhilarating. Cabinets closed behind on unsuspecting victims, apples grew moldy within seconds of picking them up, and tableware mysteriously started to move on their own when no one was looking. Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop had chased Tom down into a cave, not knowing that it was a set-up to begin with. Animating those old fake skeletons had been easy, as had convincing his snakes to writhe and slither around the empty skulls. All it took otherwise was a menacing voice, which was simple to fabricate with his skills as a mimic. Their screams alerted the police, but by the time the adults got there, the scene appeared to be children having some mindless fun. Tom had cackled manically, even after he was locked in his small room without dinner as punishment.

Who knew that stealing, pranking, and being an overall creepy, insane menace was this fun?

Surely not Tom until he had done so himself. The empty stomach was worth it, because he was filled with adrenaline. Though such things were even better when he got away with it, when he managed to convince the matrons without a doubt that it wasn’t him (even when it was). Getting a deserving punishment was better than when it was unwarranted, but by far the best option was not getting punished at all. 

On a cold morning that was too early to have many people up yet, the children at Wool’s Orphanage could be seen playing outside. Some of them, anyway. Most of the younger children stayed in their beds, but the older children had been woken up for chores. With his hands deep in his pockets little Tom Riddle, at the prime age of seven, strolled through the orphanage and smiled creepily at anyone getting too close. He stayed near the front courtyard, sitting on one of the two rickety swings that Wool’s sparse playground had until he knew that the caretakers weren’t looking. Hopping off and snorting as a brave child scuttled to the vacated spot, the young menace casually strolled off of orphanage grounds. In the hustle and bustle of the London streets, it was easy for one shabbily dressed child to disappear into the crowd. Ducking into an abandoned alley, Tom picked up a lone grass snake that appeared to be waiting for him. Oscar hissed the news he managed to pick up (complained about the goings on), which comprised of the foot traffic and sounds and smells that the boy translated somewhat into meaningful information. 

Oscar, named after the famed charlatan of the Emerald City because of his similarly colored scales, was by far one of the crankiest serpents Tom has ever come across. He complained about most everything and could give an elephant a run for its money (or peanuts, he supposed) with the amount that he remembered, especially the things that ticked him off. Apparently dealing with him was difficult, even for the neighborhood snakes. They couldn’t stand (figuratively, considering none of them had legs) the grousing serpent, and dealing with Oscar was something of a feat. 

Tom didn’t mind much though. Oscar was one of the few snakes that taught him (unwittingly, mind you) an arsenal of swear words that almost outweighed the small orphan’s English inventory - and coming from the dingy streets and dirty alleyways of London, that was saying quite a lot. Not that Tom used any of those words, mind you, unless he really felt the need to, but there was no harm in knowing them.

Having gotten what he needed, Tom bade the grumbling serpent farewell, watching as the green scaled snake slithered back into the shadows of the alleyway. Once the creature was safely out of sight, little Tom Riddle weaved his way through the crowd. The country had truly fallen on hard times, and from within the cries of hunger and poverty of the Great Depression came the quiet whispers of war. The London streets showed this well, especially on this cold autumn morning. Such things made rag-dressed children such as Tom a common sight, indistinguishable from the children that had families that no one questioned his presence. He kept his eyes to the ground, dark, shrewd eyes searching in the grimy ground for anything of value. Coins, torn notes, small objects that can be repurposed. All these things were snapped up by deft fingers by the tiny orphan as he made his way to his destination. 

The bell above the door jingled as he entered one of his favorite places in the world. Or, well, favorite place in London, but seeing as he never left the city such a statement meant the same thing. Delicious scents wafted into his nose as Tom relished in the warmth and brightness of the bakery. Wide, dark brown eyes took in the sights and smells of the mouthwatering array of pies, cakes, tarts, donuts, and pastries. 

Behind the counter, the kindly woman (aptly named Mrs. Rosewood) that ran the shop smiled down at him. Tom could easily see the pity in her eyes as she took in his thin form and worn clothes. Deciding to use that to his advantage (as he always did), he gave Mrs. Rosewood his best ‘poor hungry orphan’ look as he held up the amount for a single pastry. The lady simply tutted at him as she took the coins from his hand. Moments later had a happy dark haired child sitting on a chair munching down on a wonderfully hot jelly donut with a second one warming his side in a paper bag in his pocket. 

Thankfully this bakery was on Charing Cross, quite a ways away from Wool’s Orphanage. Because of this his reputation of being a menace didn’t reach this place. All the bakery and Mrs. Rosewood ever saw was Tommy the hungry beggar child. Sometimes they would give him extra morsels like today in exchange for him helping around the back. They mostly paid him in failed batches (the items that turned out too wrong to be sold) or pastries baked the day before, but Tom didn’t mind. It allowed him time away from the orphanage as well as gave him a warm place to eat his spoils. 

Despite the fact that he was paid in rejections for a day’s hard work, Tom had learned that he quite liked working at the bakery. There was something rather fascinating about how the dough rose in the ovens, though dusting, filling, and decorating the pastries had become his favorite job. His skills hands were something that Mrs. Rosewood made good use of, giving him the tedious work so that she could take a breather once in a while. And Tom, being such a good child, only made mistakes on one or two (of the more misshapen one’s so he couldn’t be blamed) and those mistakes would be his to take as payment for the day. 

Today he had been rewarded with an extra ‘good’ pastry, seeing as he had paid for the first. It looks like Mrs. Rosewood was getting good business then. Which was odd, considering that she seemed to always get good business despite there being a lack of money to but such things. 

But that’s not here nor there. After all, what does a part time barely paid job a small boy has at a bakery have anything to do with the bigger picture of the story?

It probably doesn’t. 

...definitely not. 

Living in the repurposed storage cupboard at the end of the hall had its perks. For one it was a large cupboard, big enough to house a bed, a desk, and a wardrobe. For another, he didn’t need to share a room with anyone. This was good for a number of reasons, but the main one was that no roommates meant that there was no one to snitch on him any time he used his abilities or talked to snakes, which he did most of the time when he was holed up in there. When he wasn’t, however, Tom Riddle read the battered books he managed to nick from the bins. Sometimes he would even walk all the way to the local library if he couldn’t find something he hadn’t already read (and if the other kids made too much of a fuss about him hogging all the books). 

Funnily enough the library was also on Charing Cross, and it never seemed to have many people inside. It was also dark and smelled of leather, ink, and something that wasn’t paper. The place didn’t even use lightbulbs, instead using white wax candles that Tom though wasn’t very practical considering that books were flammable. They had the most interesting books, though, bound together in old leather covers and the paper-that-was-not-paper was slightly frayed at the edges. 

The librarian was an odd man that seemed to be at least a century old, his beady eyes almost buried in the wrinkles of his face. He was initially shocked and gruff with Tom when the orphan had first entered, muttering about him being muddled and something about the wards of the library. This Tom had found especially odd, considering he had seen no children or really anyone that looked to be a ward of the library (if that was even a thing...), but had ignored the muttering because it was the polite thing to do. Plus the man had mentioned that the wards were nocturnal (right?), so perhaps the kids only came out at night for some odd reason. Maybe they were light sensitive? That would explain the low brightness of the candles, at least. 

Tom had felt the sneering glare of the man as he looked through the selection of books until he had found an interesting one buried beneath some other tomes (including one that he swore was crawling in the corner of his eye, but it was always stationary when he looked at it) that had a metal snake on the cover. Now, as someone who deeply loved snakes (as he could speak with them and they provided some lovely company), it was obvious that little Tom Riddle would choose this book to read, settling in a back corner (shouldn’t a library have more...chairs? He hadn’t seen any around...) to read to his heart’s content until his small, battered pocket watch (which he found on the street and fixed with his interesting abilities) had told him that if he wanted to get back before curfew he should begin to leave. Looking sorrowfully at the book, Tom had walked up to the gruff man and held up the book, asking to check it out. 

Initially the librarian had laughed in his face, and for some reason asked what the name of the book was. Tom had blinked once, bewildered. Did a librarian not know the name of his own book? Still he dutifully read the title of the book, which was written in a loopy silver script that read ‘Serpentatum Incantio’ and had been a marvelous story about a man named Salazar that traveled across the United Kingdom with a couple of friends (both human and serpent), casting magic spells and learning how to create spells using the language of serpents (it was surprisingly well written and oddly realistic for a fairy tail book, but Tom wasn’t complaining). Immediately the librarian had lost all color in his face, and in a strange bout of kindness, had told Tom he could keep the book. 

Tom’s smile had been so wide he was punished for being ‘up to something’ when he returned to Wool’s. 

After that the librarian (who was named Mr. Burke and admitted that the place was not in fact a library, but a book store) was oddly cordial to him, even if he asked odd questions and had the young orphan read aloud strange pieces of writing. In return Tom could ‘check out’ books (and even keep some) to his heart’s desire. After a few days of perusing the selection, Tom was convinced that the reason why there was never any people (other than the odd shifty patron that initially looked at the little boy almost hungrily before Mr. Burke shouted at them) was because this was an occult bookstore. It only made Tom love the place more because the occult was for the strange and unusual, and those things were also the things one needed to be to join the circus. 

And Tom still dreamed of acrobats flipping through the air, of giant elephants and large crowds cheering. He dreamed of an old man that had dark wayward eyes named Marvolo who coaxed snakes perform feats alongside a young boy, relishing in the memory of a woman that linked them together. 

Even so, perhaps this odd library doesn’t have anything to do with the larger workings of the story. After all, we all know a shady place or two that we may or may not frequent on an infrequent basis. That’s just life. Maybe it’s not an odd bookstore/library. Maybe it’s that nice Italian joint that might be a front for the Mafia, but you still go there because their calzones are to die for. You would valiantly ignore the firearms under their shirts and aprons because really, the prices are dirt cheap and the guns might just be for show for all you know, and no I don’t know anything Mr. Officer, I had no idea there was a dead body in the dumpster, I was only here for the pizza!

Still, maybe there is something relevant about this not-library to the grand scheme of this story. 

Like the door at the back of the bookstore.

Tom almost didn’t see it if it wasn’t for the draft that made the pages of not-paper flutter slightly. It was painted black and was designed in such a way that it blended in with the rest of the wall. Even so, now that he had noticed it, it was impossible to miss. Curiosity, ever prevalent in young boys no matter how genius (actually scratch that, especially if they’re a young genius with a wayward understanding of the world), washed over Tom as he neared the ridiculously ornate silver handle. A kind of invisible electricity tingled at his finger tips, welcoming, beckoning...

“Squawk!” came a loud noise on his right.

The orphan quickly retracted his hand away, his head snapping to the source of the sound. It was a parrot sitting in a rusted cage, flapping its wings fervently at the young boy in agitation. Tom’s eyes were wide as the rather large bird squawked at him again, this time speaking words.

“No Mudbloods! No Mudbloods!”

Now, up until this point Tom had no idea that birds could talk, so he couldn’t be faulted for focusing more on the fact that the parrot was speaking rather than the words themselves. Even so the repetition of the phrase was oddly echoing in his mind, even when Mr. Burke shouted at his bird which seemed to flap its wings harder, shouting its phrase louder. 

Admittedly spooked, Tom backed away from the door and its feathered guardian. Once he stepped away the bird quieted down and tucked its head back into its body in a resting pose. The small child put a bookcase worth of distance between him and the parrot, peering in alarm at the now silent thing that had shouted the odd phrase at him. Another patron sneered at Tom as he walked past, the bird silent as he opened and closed the door, the other side appearing to be another section of the shop.

A little put out by the fact that he had been snubbed by a bird and deciding to leave that mystery for another day, he bade the apologizing shop owner a farewell and began his long trek back to the orphanage. Within his head, the odd word that the parrot used rang out at him.

Mudblood. Mudblood. Mudblood.

Confusion lined the pale face of the young boy, dark eyes searching for something unseen from within. It was definitely a derogatory phrase, that he could pick out immediately. Saying that someone had mud in their blood was not a nice thing to do the last time he checked, but what did such a name mean? As far as he knew, Tom bled the same crimson red as the next bloke. No brown to dictate any mud running through his veins. Was this ‘mudblood’ name the reason why Mr. Burke used to sneer at him so? Why he still did when his back was turned and thought Tom didn’t notice? 

At first Tom had though it was because of his ragged appearance, but then again the entire shop, including the owner and its infrequent patrons, were all shabby as well. Then he thought it was his age, but if the store had nocturnal wards, then obviously age was not the issue. That left whatever this ‘mudblood’ thing was. If the other shabby dressed patrons could pass through the door, but not him, then the issue laid with Tom and Tom alone and whatever this ‘mudblood’ thing was. And this ‘mudblood’ thing, something important enough to Mr. Burke and the patrons to repeat to the point where the damn avian picked it up, was one of those attributes that Tom had. It felt almost reminiscent of the rest of the names he had been called. 

Obviously the bird had a rather limited intelligence and had picked up enough to put words to certain people or attributes, and had used that knowledge to speak up whenever a ‘mudblood’ approached. It couldn’t have generated the word on its own, so it had to have heard the phrase from its owner over and over again until something clicked.

Because that’s the thing about parrots. They like to repeat what they hear.

Chapter Text

Ah, you have returned, I see! Are you here to see what our little protagonist is up to? Well, you shall! But first I’d like to discuss something with you. It may or may not pertain to the story, but I find myself wondering about such things. Yes, I have been pondering the nature of riddles.

So here’s the thing about riddles. And I do mean the puzzle type conundrum and not the small child with magical powers. Riddles are curious things. Some people love them, some despise them. They have that annoying nature of being confusing (and at times, nonsensical), and they can be infuriating if they can't be solved after long periods of time. And yet, it is that very nature of being unsolvable that also is what makes riddles so attractive, because once they are solved there is this great feeling of accomplishment. After all mystery, the idea of the unknown just waiting to be found, plays a large part in every story. Without things like riddles and mystery, life would be rather ordinary.

Equally so, many people would say the same thing about Riddles. And yes, this time I mean the rather interesting young lad we saw in the last chapter. Now, being that this is fanfiction and therefore know very well what the future held for this fascinating child initially. Grow up an angry child, gather followers, become a Dark Lord only to be beaten by a one year old baby. Dreadful, isn't it?

But that's also the wonders of fanfiction. You can take a Riddle and answer a 'what if' question and see what happens if you tweak a few things. No matter how nonsensical or insane, the 'what if' stories tend to generally be rather enjoyable to write and read. Perhaps Tom Riddle regains all of his horcruxes and tries to make up for his past misdeeds. Wouldn't that be interesting? Or perchance he found love with Bellatrix Lestrange and somehow managed to sire a daughter that attempts to go back in time to meet her father. How wild of an idea is that? Maybe he even joins the army one time around, becoming a hero instead of a villain. But who would want to read a story like that?

I digress, however. I'm sure nothing of the above has anything to do with this little tale of Tom Marvolo Riddle, despite already being a little different from his initial outlook and childhood. So let us now return to see what's happening with our little orphan now, yes?

As the boy grew, so did his abilities. At the strapping age of ten, bordering on that sweet double-one, he was pretty decent at acrobatics (and had honed his other, stranger skills) and had started planning his escape from the prison that was Wool’s so that he could start his new life at the circus. Tom had added ‘Psychic’ to his growing title of what he might be called and it was getting a little lengthy (currently he was up to Tom the Flying Snake Charming Animal Wrangling Telekinetic Psychic Ventriloquist Illusionist). He would have to come up with a better title or calling him up would be a nightmare. 

However, as the days passed, Tom began to have some second thoughts. Wool’s was all he ever knew. He was born here, raised here. Despite some of the things Mrs. Cole would call him in fits of frustration or behind his back, she did take care of him well. She wasn’t a mother, but she was as close to one as he had ever gotten. Billy Stubbs and some of the other orphans could go hang, but the newer ones weren’t so bad until they were turned against him. 

He’d actually gotten to have a ‘friend’ for a week before the child denounced him as a freak. Said child’s yo-yo now sat in a small cardboard box along with some other spoils of war (He would give them back...eventually. Once they stopped antagonizing him so much. Honestly the nerve of some people!).

But the fact still stayed that while physically and intellectually ready to run away, Tom Riddle wasn’t quite sure how well the big, wide world would treat a skinny, unnatural eight year old orphan such as himself. In the end he stayed at Wool’s, honing his odd abilities and exacting revenge on any fellow orphan that hurt him. 

Speaking of his strange and unexplainable abilities, Tom had long ago given up trying to rationalize it. The world was already weird and unexplainable and insane. A large, unexplainable riddle. His life as an orphan in a country on the brink of war was difficult enough, trying to explain why he could talk to snakes, control small animals, move things with a dedicated thought, and read other people’s minds got exhausting. Maybe he really was Devil Spawn for all he knew. Or maybe something completely different. Whatever he was, the question of why he could do some of the things he did only cropped up when he was confined alone to his room, which was getting more often these days. 

That changed when the visitor came.

It had just been after his eleventh birthday, which meant that there was still snow blanketing the ground when Mrs. Cole brought the most peculiar visitor (which wasn’t saying much, he didn’t get many) up to his room.

In another universe, perhaps Tom had become jaded and outright cruel. His penchant for stealing and harassing others stemmed from anger instead of a misguided epiphany. That Tom Riddle had forgotten his mother’s face and voice and had grown up alone and unloved and despised everything about her. But this Tom, while questionably sane, was not the same as that Tom.

“How do you do, Tom?” asked the man with the auburn hair and beard.

Wearing a ridiculously plum colored suit.

Tom stared up at the man with wide dark eyes, trying very hard not to gape. Those eyes then fell to the outstretched hand that stemmed from the man with the plum suit, which he hesitantly took. Was this man from the circus? He certainly looked like it. Did he know his mother? His grandfather? Was he here to take him away? Tom shifted from his place on the bed, allowing the man a seat on the softer mattress rathe than the hard stool. He was taught to be polite to guests, and this strangely dressed man was a guest to his small room.

“I am Professor Dumbledore.”

The boy cocked his head to the side as he tried to think of what a ‘Professor’ was. His first answer was ‘doctor’ but doctors wore white coats and not plum suits, so that was out. In the end Tom voiced his second conclusion. 

“Are you from the circus, Professor?” was his quiet question, causing Dumbledore to smile and chuckle.

“No, no.” was the amused reply, but Tom pressed on.

“Mrs. Cole said my mother was in the circus, so was my grandfather. Are you really not from the circus?”

This time the amusement was tinged with something akin to sadness. 

“I’m afraid not. I’m a professor at at a school called Hogwarts. I have come to offer you a place at my school - your new school, if you would like to come.”

Tom deflated at his words. 

“That’s a school for kooks isn’t it?” the boy asked in a defeated manner, “Mrs. Cole’s gone and sent me off to a loony bin school. I don’t want to go to an asylum! I’m not mad, I swear!” the last part was said almost desperately.

“I know that you are not mad.” replied Dumbledore, “Hogwarts is not a school for mad people. It is a school of magic.”

Well, that was most unexpected. Tom blinked owlishly up at Dumbledore. 

“...Magic?” he asked, as if trying the word out. 

“That’s right Tom, magic.” Dumbledore answered with a beaming smile.

“So that’s why I can do the things I do...” the boy whispered more to himself than anyone else.

“What is it that you can do, Tom?” 

There was a practiced manner in which Dumbledore asked those words, but Tom also heard genuine curiosity as well. A wide grin spread on his face. Turning to the wardrobe, he fixated on a thought and concentrated. The doors burst open and many of the items began to float around the room in a synchronized manner before placing themselves back into the wardrobe as if none of it ever happened. Tom swiveled his head head to regard Dumbledore as he raised his hands and said a ‘Ta-da!’ filled with childish glee. The Professor in the plum suit looked decidedly awed and impressed, though Tom didn’t know how much of it was real and how much was just the man humoring the boy. 

“I can make animals do what I want without training them!” Tom added, trying to gauge the Professor’s reaction, “And read minds, I think. Oh! And talk to snakes. They’re pretty decent when they’re not complaining about everything. Is that magic too?”

This time Dumbledore’s gaze became more piercing, and Tom wondered if he stepped over some invisible line. Maybe the man really was a loony bin doctor and had been testing him. The thought sent chills down Tom’s back, but then Dumbledore smiled again.

“That’s right. Those are all magical abilities. It marks you as a wizard.” the man in the plum suit.

“Wizard...” Tom repeated with wide eyes. 

It definitely beat being a circus performer with a ridiculously long title. If he was a wizard, he was going to be the best damn wizard anyone had ever seen. People always loved the best.

“Does that make you a wizard as well, Professor?” was the boy’s next wide-eyed question.

“Yes, I am.” was Dumbledore’s amused reply.

“Could...could you show me? Please?” Tom asked, with eyes filled with hope that there was someone out there like him.

A freak like him.

Professor Dumbledore drew out a carved stick from the inside of his plum suit and pointed it at Tom’s wardrobe and flicked the tip upwards. The wardrobe promptly burst into flames. A saner person probably would have gotten angry. After all, the entirety of his possessions were in that wardrobe. But Tom was already mildly unhinged, so the only thing he could do was cackle hysterically at the burning piece of furniture. All that from a flick of a stick! Then, as soon as the flames had appeared, they vanished, leaving behind an untouched wardrobe in its absence.

“Wicked!” Tom breathed as he went to inspect the battered old wardrobe, “Were the flames real or an illusion? I’ve never seen one so realistic!” his attention then turned to the stick in Dumbledore’s hand, “Where do you get one of those?”

“All in good time,” answered Dumbledore calmly, “I think there is something trying to get out of your wardrobe.”

And sure enough, a faint rattling could be heard from inside it. Tom’s curiosity overrode any reservations as he opened the wardrobe door. It was his box of trophies, shaking like made as if a swarm of bees were trying to escape. Did Professor Dumbledore turn the contents into bees?

“Take it out.” was Dumbledore’s quiet order.

Tom complied, hands shaking as he relieved the box from its shelf and placed it on his bed. The notion of bees being inside the box prevented him from opening it. 

“Is there anything in that box that you ought not to have?” asked the man in the plum colored suit.

He motioned for Tom to open the box. The muffled sound of small items hitting the bed soon followed as the boy followed the man’s unspoken order. 

“Err...” was Tom’s eloquent reply as he tilted his head to regard the items which had now stopped shaking, “That depends on the point of view, sir. What if I wanted it more than the person I took it from?”

At this, Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. 

“So you admit to stealing these things from the other children?”

“Only because they’re mean to me.” Tom answered sheepishly, “Hurting them didn’t seem to stop them so I hoped this would work.”

At this, Dumbledore blinked a few times as the wizard (wizard!) regarded Tom’s words.

“Have you tried... being kind to them instead?” 

“That only works until the others turn them against me.” was the sour reply, “Then nothing I do can make them stop calling me bad names. So I just... follow their name calling. If they say freak, I’m a freak. If they want to call me devil spawn, then I’ll be devil spawn. At least then I deserve it.”

This time Dumbledore looked at him with an expression akin to pity, but with more understanding. Tom simply shrugged at him. A moment of silence stretched between them.

“I’m sure you will have a better time fitting in at Hogwarts, Tom.” the man in the plum suit finally spoke, his voice soft.

“I’ll take your word for it, Professor.” was Tom’s quiet reply. 

Dumbledore then procured an envelope from within a plum-colored pocket, and handed it to Tom. It was a neat thing, but the paper didn’t look quite right. It was browner, thicker. A crest stood out proudly at the center, the whole thing sealed with red wax. Wide dark eyes regarded the envelope as Tom turned it over in his hands a few times.

“This envelope contains your acceptance letter and the list of the items that must be acquired before the start of the school term.” Dumbledore explained, a small smile on his face as he watched the expression of sheer wonder and curiosity that Tom had on him, his eyes scanning the contents of both letters.

This expression, however, quickly dropped at the mention of getting schoolthings.

“I haven’t got any money, how am I supposed to buy any of this stuff?” Tom cried, in his dismay forgoing the polite and collected image that he had been trying to convey (with varied results).

Dumbledore’s smile only got wider as he reached into the same plum pocket (its size couldn’t carry anything more than a pocket watch, how had a letter fit in there?) and drew out a brown sack that jingled as it moved. Tom’s brows furrowed. The sound of metal against metal told Tom that there was a sizable amount of coins in there, but surely not enough to cover his entire school list. Unless wizards had a separate money system, which would make sense, he supposed. The professor handed the sack to Tom, who nodded his head in thanks before carefully loosening the purse-strings. 

“There is a fund at Hogwarts for those who require assistance to buy books and robes.” Dumbledore began, his eyes twinkling as he watched wide eyes take in the sight of Tom inspecting a large gold Galleon, “I will be taking you to Diagon Alley. It’s the best place to get all your things for the school year.”

At this, Tom’s head tilted up to stare at the plum suited wizard, all focus on the coin forgotten.

“We’ll be going now?” the orphan asked, excitement making his words quick as he bounced a little on the bed, “How do we get there? Is there a secret entrance like a rabbit hole or a mirror? How is it that nobody’s ever found out about it? Something like magic is bound to make the news. Maybe-”

Dumbledore raised his palm toward the boy in a calming manner, immediately halting Tom’s flurry of questions. His bright blue eyes twinkled in amusement. This was intelligent as well as excitable. A Ravenclaw if he ever saw one. 

“Yes.” came Dumbledore’s reply, “We shall leave whenever you are ready.”

“I’m ready now, sir!” came the childish answer from the wide eyed orphan. 

“Then let us be on our way.” came Dumbledore’s cheerful answer. 

After a bit of shuffling and getting things into order, a small hand found its way into a much larger one, and together the two wizards (wizards!) made their way out of the grey building that was Wool’s. As they walked to their destination (and Tom commuting every turn to memory so that he could visit the place on his own if he wanted to), people would stare at the odd pair that the two made. Dumbledore’s plum suit seemed to be just as distasteful in their eyes as Tom’s own rags. The auburn haired wizard ignored this, instead strolling along as if he truly belonged there. In a way it was rather inspiring, and wide dark eyes drank in the confidence of the professor, how he was completely unfazed by the sneers and stares and whispers directed toward them. 

Soon the duo found themselves at a place that Tom found quite familiar. Charing Cross. They passed the occult bookstore that, as always, seemed dark an empty. The sign that proclaimed the place as Borgin and Burke’s was practically faded from the metal plate it hung on. However, as they reached Tom’s self-proclaimed best place in the world, Dumbledore slowed down. 

“Are you hungry, Tom?” the plum suited wizard asked kindly, “There’s a rather nice bakery run by squib on this street. They make the most delicious pastries.”

Nodding his answer (as he hadn’t had breakfast yet when Dumbledore had visited), the young boy asked a question in return. 

“Sir, what is a squib?”

“A squib, Tom, is someone from a magical family that was born without magic.” Dumbledore explained genially, “We wizards are rather old folk that enjoy putting names to things we find important. A muggle, for example, is what we call the general non-magical population. A muggleborn, then, is the opposite of a squib. A magical child born to non-magical parents. If one parent is magical and the other is not, then they are half-bloods.”

The small child looked rather thoughtful as they entered the very bakery that Tom frequented, the orphan’s eyes widening as they did so. 

“Hullo Albus!” came the cheerful voice of Mrs. Rosewood, “What brings you here- Tom?”

Needless to say the exchange had become slightly awkward at that point. Professor Dumbledore once again did most of the explaining, though he seemed to be rather tickled by the fact that Tom spent so much time so close to the magical world but never realizing it was there. Equally so, Mrs. Rosewood was quite surprised by the fact that the little boy that so often helped out in the back was actually magical. 

After a few more minutes passed, both Dumbledore and Tom were munching on some lemon meringue pie as the older wizard continued where they had left off. 

“So I’m a...muggleborn then?” asked Tom curiously, filing away the fact that lemon was slightly too sour for his tastes. 

“It would be the most likely answer, yes.” Dumbledore answered, obviously enjoying the treat, “Unless you know something about your birth parents that state otherwise, of course.”

“My mum was a circus performer.” the orphan began, shrugging, “She had eyes that went in opposite directions but she died a few hours after I was born, so that’s all I remember about her. I never knew my dad, but apparently I was named after him. So somewhere in the world there’s another Tom Riddle running around if he isn’t six feet under already. I mean, he may or may not know I exist, so maybe the reason he never came to take me home is because he doesn’t know, or he’s dead. Why else would I be left in an orphanage?”

Dumbledore was silent. He had taught children long enough to know when they were covering a deep emotional wound by playing it off flippantly. He would have to keep an eye on this one. Tom Riddle seemed to be a true example of his name. An enigma, a puzzle that he had an odd desire to solve despite not having all the pieces yet. The boy was far to intelligent to have such potential go to waste because of such a sorrowful past. Perhaps when he gets friends and mentors some of these wounds will begin to heal. Hogwarts was a family to all who dwelled in her walls, and he was sure Tom would find solace there. But for now it was up to Albus to take the first step, to reach his hand out and say ‘I am here, you are not alone’. 

“I don’t think Riddle sounds very... magical either.” Tom had continued, though it was really to break his guide to the Wizarding world out of silence. 

It seemed to do the trick, though, because Dumbledore smiled and dipped his head. 

“I don’t recall teaching a boy named Tom Riddle either, I’m afraid.” was the man’s admission. 

“What about Merope? That was my mother’s name, though I don’t know her maiden name I think it’s odd enough to be memorable.” Tom asked hastily, but backtracked when he realized his outburst and added, “Sir.”

This time Dumbledore tilted his head in consideration, but then shook his head.

“I’m afraid I don’t recognize that name either.” Dumbledore answered, “I’m sorry, Tom. But there’s no shame in being muggleborn. No matter what anyone might tell you.”

Well, that settled it. His father wasn’t a wizard, and his mother probably wasn’t either. That wasn’t something that he could control. Dumbledore’s words bothered him slightly, however. No matter what anyone told him? That sounded like he was gearing Tom up for being ostracized, like the magical folk put a kind of emphasis on being born into magical families. More specifically, they seemed to have something against those without magic. Names like ‘squib’ and ‘Muggle’ didn’t sound very inspiring. In fact, they felt downright derogatory. 

“Does that mean wizards won’t like people like me?” Tom asked quietly, deciding to address the words unsaid, “Because I don’t have any magical parents?”

They had left the warmth of the bakery, stomachs full of pie. The dark haired child had once again took a hold of the older man’s hand lest he be lost in the full crowd. Still, it appeared that no one paid much attention, taking for face value that anyone wearing a plum suit seriously must be completely of their rocker anyway. Talk about wizards and magic was probably expected, and promptly disregarded. 

“Some, I suppose.” Dumbledore admitted, “But there are many who don’t care much about where one comes from. Only for what one can become. And you, Tom, I see that in you there is a potential for you to become a brilliant wizard indeed.”

The plum suited man put his hand on Tom’s shoulder and squeezed it lightly. Looking up, warmed by the man’s words, the orphan smiled. He wasn’t just going to forget the offhand warning, however. Wording like that, said almost without thinking, meant that the notion was something ingrained in this hidden society. Those thoughts were pushed to the side when Dumbledore stopped at the corner of Charing Cross. 

“Sir,” Tom began, his voice laced in confusion, “That’s a pub.”

“Indeed, Tom.” Dumbledore answered jovially, “The Leaky Cauldron can only be seen by wizards and witches. Anyone else would see an abandoned lot instead. This is how we can hide the entrance to Diagon Alley from prying eyes.”

“But Sir,” Tom interjected (he did not whine, he did not whine), “Mrs. Cole said pubs are only for grown-ups and that the adults inside would throw out any child that wandered inside!”

A chuckle came from the older wizard.

“And you would normally be correct.” the plum suited Professor placated with his eyes twinkling, “But the Leaky Cauldron is not just an ordinary pub. It is also a gateway to our world, and the one of the only places in England to do one’s magical shopping if you’re going to Hogwarts. Also, I am here to chaperone, so it isn’t as if you are making this journey alone.”

At this Tom shrugged. The man had a point. Still, the pub didn’t seem very inviting eve to those who could see it. But perhaps that was its fascinating nature. A rabbit hole and a mirror weren’t what one would assume to be gateways to magical worlds, and yet Alice in Wonderland spoke of those very things. A pub wasn’t that far out of his range of possibilities. 

The bell above the door jingled as the duo entered the pub, and the orphan noted that the inside was just about as dingy as the outside. However, this was not what Tom was most focused on. No, the oddest thing about the pub was that all the patrons were dressed in robes similar to the ones Father Hale and his clergy wore, except they were far more colorful and varied in style. Even stranger were the pointed hats some of them had atop their heads, some of which were floppy and others that looked like those dunce caps that Ms. Fenwick made stupid children wear during class time out. The derision must have shone on his face, because Dumbledore chuckled.

“A bit odd for you, I’m sure.” said the man in the plum suit (which had become far less strange when compared to what normal wizards and witches seemed to wear, bloody hell), “But Come Tom, off we trot. We have things to do before the day is done.”

“Hullo Albus!” greeted the barman happily, making Tom wonder just how many magical-knowing people knew this man (or how small the magical community was if everyone knew everyone by name), “The usual?”

“Perhaps another time, Tom.” Dumbledore began, another chuckle coming from the man as the young boy’s head snapped to attention in confusion, “And I do mean the Tom that runs the bar here. Tom, meet Tom. He will be starting Hogwarts this September.”

Right. He had almost forgotten how common his name was. The young orphan used to despise its mundanity before he realized it helped him blend in with the crowd. With an ordinary name, one could disappear amongst the ordinary people. Even amongst a world that had names like Albus, there also were names like Tom. Perhaps he would still fit in this world after all, and maybe this time he wouldn’t have to blend in to survive. 

Dumbledore led Tom (the protagonist and not the barman, because that would just be plain weird) into the back of the pub, where they were met with a dead end brick wall. There was a pile of trash that desperately cried out to be picked up, the metal container already full to the brim. The young boy wrinkled his nose at the sight and smell. While he assumed that this was another ploy to keep the magical world from being discovered, if the pub was already nonexistent in the eyes of those who had no magic, why hide the entrance with something so disgusting? Unless, of course, this was just an excuse to be lazy when it came to garbage disposal. In that case, wizards were starting to seem worse in Tom’s mind than some of his fellow orphans, and that was saying something. 

With a knowing twinkle in his eye, Dumbledore took out his wand and tapped the worn bricks of the wall in a particular pattern. Was this a magical version of a combination lock? How fascinating! This soon became the least of the fascinating things about the wall when the bricks began to move, individually and yet like a wave, apart to create an archway. Dark brown eyes widened in wonder as he took in the sight before him. 

People in robes and pointed hats strolled cobblestone streets, which were lined by buildings that appeared to be straight from the Middle Ages. Some structures were warped and bent in an odd way that defied the very laws of physics. Owls flew to and fro in the sky, and if he squinted Tom swore he could see packages clutched in their talons. On the streets there were people haggling the oddest of items. Dragon livers, manticore hide, hippogriff talons. 

Next to the gawking child, Albus Dumbledore smiled. Ah, muggleborns were such a joy to introduce into their world. So many wizards took their magic for granted, and it was quite grounding to see their world through a young muggleborn’s eyes, to see the wonder and awe that shone on their little faces. It also had the bonus of making his job as teacher, the guide for these children in this new world, much more fulfilling.

“You might want to open your letter and get your supply list out now.” the auburn haired professor offered, prompting the young boy out of his awed trance as he handed the child the envelope.

Written on the front in beautiful black ink were the words Mr. T Riddle, The Cupboard at the End of the Hall, Wool’s Orphanage, Clerkenwell, London. Bloody hell, that was highly specific for a letter. Tom flipped the envelope over to see the wax seal of the school’s emblem, breaking it to get to the contents inside, which happened to be two folded pieces of not-paper. The first pace was his acceptance letter, which read:

HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY

Headmaster: ARMANDO DIPPET

Dear Mr. Riddle,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. Term begins 1 September.

Yours sincerely,

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore 

Deputy Headmaster

Quite straightforward, though now Tom knew that the most likely reason why everyone knew Dumbledore was because he was Deputy Head of the school. Filing that tidbit away for later, Tom shuffled the not-paper to see what was his list of school supplies. It read as follows:

HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY

UNIFORM

First-year students will require:

1.Three sets of plain work robes (black)

2.One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear

3.One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)

4.One winter cloak (black, with silver fastenings)

COURSE BOOKS

All students should have a copy of each of the following:

The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) by Miranda Goshawk

A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot

Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling

A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration by Emeric Switch

One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida Spore

Magical Drafts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger

Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt Scamander

The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection by Quentin Trimble

OTHER EQUIPMENT

1 wand

1 cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)

1 set glass or crystal phials

1 telescope

1 set brass scales

Students may also bring an owl OR a cat OR a toad.

Needless to say Tom had a great many questions about the contents in the list, but he was sure that many of them would be answered as he completed his shopping. Instead he tilted his head up to Dumbledore’s expecting smile and voiced the first of the many, many questions that he would ask on the trip.

“Sir, do we have to get the pointed hat? They just look plain silly.”

Dumbledore regraded the young boy in amusement, though he also had seen the calculating expression on the child’s face as he read through each letter carefully. Certainly a thirst to know things, yes, but there was also cunning in those dark eyes, a kind of piercing perception. Somehow the child had immediately picked up on the Wizarding world’s outlook on muggles just by an offhand comment that he hasn’t even realized he had said. There was more to what the boy was thinking that he didn’t voice, despite his plethora of questions. They had been vague and rather offhand. Innocent even. And yet each answer that Dumbledore had given seemed to say more than what had been said. 

Little Tom Riddle certainly lived up to his surname, oh yes he did. There was much more than what the naked eye could perceive about the child. What was it that ticked behind those dark eyes? Dumbledore felt inclined to find out. 

Because that was the thing about riddles. They were meant to be solved. 

Chapter Text

Is anyone still out there? Oh! Hello, hello! It seems you have decided to continue this story for a third time! Huzzah, huzzah! Now that you have arrived, we can continue on this train wreck of a story. 

Speaking of which, I have been thinking about trains recently. Well, really anything that rides on rails. They really are such nifty inventions, don’t you think? Even the magical folk think so, what with their Goblin mine carts and their scarlet steam trains, and you know how difficult it is to get wizards on board with anything Muggle. Sure, machines are all well and good but paper isn’t? Honestly!

Anyways, back to trains. Depending on the kind of train, though, it might be hard to get them moving. The more that is on the metal can with wheels, the harder it is to make it budge. Even if you have the power of gravity on your side, you’d still need to exert enough force to get your locomotive over the edge first (unless it’s already teetering on the side of descent, then all you would require is a little nudge in that direction to make it fall, but I highly doubt that’s important right now). 

However, once you do get the damn thing moving the heavier train becomes far more difficult to stop. They just keep chugging along, gaining speed and momentum until suddenly it would take loads more force to slow down its movement than it took to get it moving in the first place even once the train’s run out of steam. By then it’s too late, and the train is far too fast and powerful to truly halt. Fascinating, don’t you think? 

Ah, but you didn’t come here to listen to me prattle on about trains, did you? Especially since it probably has nothing to do with this story whatsoever. No, you’re here to read about little Tom Riddle and his shopping spree in a magical marketplace. Well I’ve kept you long enough then. Let us see what that rascal is up to. 

The first stop on their trip turned out to be a place called Gringotts. As they neared the large marble building in the distance, Dumbledore taught Tom the nuances of the Wizarding currency. That is, the three coin system of Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts. 

Then Dumbledore told him who was in charge of keeping them. 

Now, Tom was prepared to see wizards and witches perform magic, as it was already established that he himself was a wizard and therefore the strange things he did was rather run of the mill here. He was even expecting the broomsticks that were displayed on shop window, because most stories with witches in them had flying broomsticks. 

He was not prepared for the Goblins. 

Honestly they were all angles. Sharp and pointy ears. Sharp and pointy chins. Sharp and pointy eyes. Sharp and pointy teeth. They bowed to the duo as they walked past the giant double doors, their presence only making that rhyming warning carved on the marble wall much more menacing. All the fairy tale stories told Tom that goblins weren’t to be trusted, or at least trifled with. If those axes that were strapped to their diminutive forms were as sharp as they looked, then he wanted to make sure he was always on their good side. 

Thankfully Dumbledore seemed to know what he was doing, so the young boy decided just to emulate him instead. The goblins didn’t seem to care either way when they finally got up to the teller to open up a vault for him, so Tom decided to change tactics. Considering that goblins ran the only Wizarding bank and were portrayed as money loving creatures anyway, it would be better to talk their language. And by language he meant money, not Gobbledegook. 

“What kind of investments are there in the magical world?” the boy had asked with a tilt of his head.

“None that a scholarship student with barely a Knut to his name could afford.” the goblin sneered down at the boy, but Tom was unfazed.

Well, mostly unfazed. There was something more terrifying about Goblin sneering than regular human sneering. Must be the teeth. But he didn’t want to show this obvious predator any weakness, so instead he put on a brave face and promptly shrugged.

“Have to start somewhere. Money may not grow on trees, but money grows. Besides, if there really is going to be a war, then the factories in London are going to be booming very soon.”

The goblin stared at the young lad for a solid minute without even blinking, his beady eyes shifting up to glare at the twinkling blue eyes of Albus Dumbledore. So, the man already knew of the boy’s intellect, and had given the boy free reign of setting up his account. Most muggborns had their parents do it or simply exchanged pounds for Galleons and Sickles, and no eleven year old that wasn’t egged on by their pureblood parents (and usually ended up sounded like idiots instead of intellectual because they had no idea what they were spouting) asked about investments on the first visit. This boy was ambitious, that he could tell. 

Half an hour later provided Tom with a vault and a few galleons invested in various companies in London. This time the Goblins’ sharp sneers were almost...friendly. Huh, go figure, talk their language and suddenly you’re loved. Tom was starting to like this world already!

Their next stop was a shop that sold trunks. Now, usually this was a quick venture unless you were an excited muggleborn that wanted to know everything about the trunks (we’re looking at you Hermione Granger) or a stuck up pureblood who wanted the best quality everything in their life (and you Draco Malfoy). The trunk shop, however, had never had anyone like Tom Riddle to deal with before.

“Why trunks?” 

Initially the salesperson had looked rather affronted. The child had just insulted the market that he banked his career on. Before he could defend his livelihood, however, the child had continued.

“I mean, these trunks have extension charms on them, which means that the space inside is way bigger than it is on the outside. These charms work by having a set extended space inside so that the trunk can carry far more than a regular old trunk.”

Silently the salesperson nodded, confused. 

“Then if that’s the case, why not use duffle bags or backpacks, which are more portable than a heavy trunk and more durable and have larger openings than a regular extended pouch.” Tom had continued, “And don’t say levitate the trunk, because you said that before and that’s moot point because a backpack could just be slung over the shoulder and requires no spells because if you haven’t noticed sir, I don’t have my wand yet and won’t be able to levitate anything with it until I learn it in school. How am I supposed to lug this thing around in the meantime?”

The child had ended up getting a trunk anyway, grumbling about common sense as the trunk shop owner had an existential crisis about how a child had somehow given him a better marketable product than the one his family had been using for generations. Dumbledore was starting to wish he had gotten some sweets to snack on as he enjoyed. So far Tom was already making waves with his words alone, and they haven’t even gotten their books yet. 

This line of almost exasperated questioning extended to the stationary shop, which got a rundown on how pens and pencils and paper worked. Still, he begrudgingly purchased the quills and inkwells and the ridiculously expensive rolls of not-paper (which was now identified as parchment. Parchment! These hooligans were still using animal skins! Those poor goats!). Once again the young orphan had left the shop owners with a kind of business epiphany, if their scrambled attempts to contact the Muggle companies that produced such things that the child had name dropped in his tirade had anything to say about it. 

The apothecary and second supply store came out a little worse for wear as even Dumbledore’s eyebrows shot up when Tom started mildly panicking about safety regulations. Sure, he could understand cauldrons and phials and scales (and telescopes, but that was a different subject with less of a chance of getting burned by hot reactive liquids). It was basically the same as the beakers and test tubes that the orphans got to use in science class. But where were the goggles? The gloves? The safety coats that the teachers never let the children enter the classroom without when they were working with chemicals?

“So what happens when a potion goes wrong and the stuff splashes on other people?” asked the wide eyed and incredibly worried boy to the blankly staring adults.

“They go to the Hospital Wing.” Dumbledore supplied helpfully.

There was a loud groan of frustration from Tom, who was very close to pulling his hair out. He’d have to see if he could filch some supplies from the cabinet in the orphanage if this was how Potions was going to be taught. He very well didn’t want to die or be permanently disfigured just because there were no safety protocols or equipment. 

Surprisingly the most ‘normal’ reaction had been in Flourish and Blotts, where Tom had behaved as any excited intelligent muggleborn would have, flitting from shelf to shelf excitedly looking at all the various books for sale. There was, however, an interesting flicker of understanding when Tom perused some of the covers that the child put back on the shelf. Still, as expected, there were used copies of all of his required schoolbooks as well as a copy of Hogwarts: A History, The Muggleborn’s Guide to the Wizarding World, and surprisingly The Founders: Hogwarts Four. Everything was still within the supply budget, so Dumbledore had allowed the purchase. Seeing the bright and happy smile of the young boy made it worth it as well.

However, Dumbledore decided to test Tom again when he saw a familiar head of white hair from within Madame Malkin’s. Making an excuse to check for some robes for himself, the older wizard allowed for the boy to be measured on his own. This would be his first gauge as to how Tom would behave with others. Tom, who had no idea how defining this moment would be, simply hopped onto the stool that Madame Malkin motioned to and did his best to hold still as he was fitted for his robes. As he waited he wondered if he could somehow prank Father Hale now that he had a robe that looked similar enough to the dark clergy uniforms. This train of thought was derailed by a haughty voice.

“Hogwarts, too?”

Tom turned to the source of the voice, which appeared to be a boy around the same age as him with the whitest hair he’d ever seen on a young person. 

“Yes.” Tom replied, “First year.”

“My father's next door buying my books and mother's up the street looking at wands." stated the boy with the impossibly white hair in a bored, drawling voice, "Then I'm going to drag them off to look at racing brooms.”

“But I thought you had to be there to get your own wand.” Tom replied curiously.

The posh blonde boy blinked at the statement, but nodded his head in a shrugging manner so that he didn’t get poked by the pins. 

“True, but there’s no harm in looking.” he finally conceded, “After all, style is very important.”

“Wouldn’t use be more important?” questioned Tom curiously, “Say you had the ugliest wand in the world, but it let you produce the strongest magic. Would you still use a prettier wand for aesthetic alone?”

For a moment so the white haired boy did not answer, his face blank. Even so, Tom could tell that he was thinking the idea over.

“Yes.” he finally replied pompously, “I wouldn’t be caught dead with a hideous wand.”

Lie. Tom noted, as he was very good at telling these kinds of things, but he didn’t call the child out on it. He did, however, add it to the mental picture this boy was painting. Outwardly Tom shrugged in a similar manner to the other boy as to avoid the wrath of the pins. 

“Then I suppose we should agree to disagree.”

Silence passed between them for a few moments before the blonde boy spoke again.

“Know what House you’ll be in yet?” 

“I don’t believe that’s up to the student.” Tom voiced, his mind going back to the book he procured all those years ago with such familiar names and a bittersweet friendship between four friends that built a legacy together and thought of the poetic protagonist (and author), “I think I’d like it if I got into Slytherin though.”

The boy with the snow-white blond hair gave him a wide grin. That was apparently the correct answer in something that Tom had already vaguely realized as a test. In fact, their entire conversation thus far had been an odd sort of social test. Was this how people scouted for friends in the Wizarding world? 

“Quite.” The snow blond said simply, his air of superiority slightly lowered enough for Tom to see the excited child that he was supposed to be (seriously, why act like an adult when you’re still young? Adults are boring!), “No one really knows until they get there, do they? But I know I'll be in Slytherin, all our family have been.”

“I didn’t realize that genetics was a factor in house placement.” Tom replied slowly, trying to think back to where that smidgen of information was and found no proof of the boy’s statement. 

But he wasn’t lying. Because Tom could tell that he wasn’t and that was confusing. Thankfully the yet unnamed boy next to him decided to reword his statement to something that made more sense.

“Oh it doesn’t really.” the posh boy admitted, “But most families end up going in the same house. Say, how did you not know that? What house were your parents in?”

Now, Tom could lie to this kid and say something like ‘Oh my parents? They’re Ravenclaws. It’s where I get my brains from’, and it probably would work if it weren’t for the fact that the Wizarding world appeared to be a small tight knit community. Even though he knew that the truth of his parentage would initially be a disadvantage, he’d rather not lie about something that could easily be debunked and therefore label him as a lying cheat before he really even got to know this world. So he didn’t.

“They didn’t have one.” Tom replied softly before tilting his head to the side, “At least I don’t think so. They’re no really in my life anyway, considering they’re dead.”

Well, he was pretty sure his dad was dead. Or at least dead to Tom if the bloke just didn’t even have the decency to take him away from Wool’s. Either way, most likely not a wizard. 

“But they were our kind, weren’t they?” asked the white haired boy, his tone with a slight tings of desperation. 

“No.” Tom answered with a slight shake of his head, “As far as I know neither of them were magical.”

The change in the blond boy’s demeanor was obvious. Not only did the posh attitude return with full force, but now there was an air of disgust emanating from him. Proverbial hackles had been raised as if the boy had been personally insulted. 

“You’re a mudblood.” he whispered, as if asserting it more to himself than Tom. 

Mudblood. Mudblood. Mudblood.

The words of the parrot echoed in Tom’s mind. Now he understood what kind of name it was. It was derogatory title for those without magical lineage. Mud, because mud is the opposite of Magic’s immaculate bloodlines. At least in their eyes. So maybe this particular child will write him off as a nobody. Maybe he won’t find a friend in his boy, but that was alright. He was sure that there were more people like him and like Tom. But for now, the dark haired boy knew that he had at least one person in his corner, an adult no less. An adult in an authoritative position. 

“That’s you done, my dear.” said Madame Malkin to Tom, who took his cue to leave with grace, saying a polite goodbye to the sputtering blond boy and a thank you to the nice robe-making witch who had patted him on the head and told him he was wonderfully well-mannered. 

Professor Dumbledore was waiting for him near the register with a robe folded in his arms. Tom completely missed the bright twinkle of the man’s eyes behind half moon glasses in favor of staring incredulously at the purple llamas hopping on the bright green fabric. So the plum suit was just the tip of the iceberg of the wizard’s particular fashion sense. When he finally did look up at the man, Dumbledore seemed rather proud, most likely of this...find. Well, Tom supposed when you were a Deputy Head for a boarding school for magical children it gave you one step ahead of the power-wielding children if they were too weirded out by your fashion sense to cause much trouble. 

Once the robes (both the ‘sensible’ Hogwarts uniform ones and the dancing llama one) were purchased, the Professor guided the child out of the store. Only then did he voice his thoughts on the conversation that he had witnessed. 

“You did well holding your own, Tom.” Dumbledore began simply, his eyesore of a robe safely covered to prevent staining, “Mr. Malfoy is one of those wizards that have been raised with a particular opinion on the placement of muggleborns in our society.”

The boy shrugged helplessly, his own robes stored in his shrunken trunk along with his other things. Dumbledore had kindly conjured a chain so that he could hang the small wooden chest around his neck, smiling when the child continued to grumble about practicality and portability. Honestly if wizards held themselves in such high regarded that they refused to look at ‘muggle’ technology because it was too ‘lowly’, then Tom would just have to change their minds little by little. They might even get a clue one of these days. 

“Yes,” Tom muttered sourly, “I believe the name ‘mudblood’ states their opinion pretty clearly.”

But then why had Mr. Burke accept him the way he had if his outlook was similar? Yes, it would explain his initial distaste of the obviously ‘muggle’ child that most likely was magical enough to notice the bookstore in the first place, but not magical enough to have at first known its true nature. It would also explain the dress of the patrons, who were all labeled as ‘wizards’ in Tom’s mind. However, it didn’t explain the owner’s sudden... fondness for him. This was most perplexing. 

“But you stood your ground rather well, and provided some intelligent replies to his questions.” Dumbledore added, “Though I’m rather curious, why choose Slytherin?”

Tom’s mind looked back to the book that he still had tucked safely under a floorboard under his bed. The one about a serpent talking boy who went on a quest to find friends and make something of himself. The one would found friends and built a legacy with them. He thought of all these things and shrugged again.

“It feels right, sir.” was his answer before grinning cheekily up at the professor, “Plus it is the house of snakes, and I can talk to snakes. I thought I’d fit in there, but from what Malfoy said now I’m not so sure.”

Malfoy’s comment about families had worried him. It wouldn’t be far-fetched to assume that most of those in the Slytherin House were people like the blond haired boy and looks down on those not of continuous magical blood. What a shame. Salazar Slytherin had been so very relatable to Tom, being a muggleborn who was shunned by his village and was exiled. Did people like Malfoy know about that? It was rather doubtful. Being proud of their Slytherin alumni while simultaneously sneering down at muggleborns was bloody hypocritical if it was the case, so Tom suspected that they didn’t know that particular tidbit. 

Whilst in his musings the duo of Professor and uninitiated student had reached their final shopping destination of the day. Ollivander’s, the sign above the shop proudly displayed in golden lettering. The young wizard-to-be stared in awe at the beautifully carved stick resting in a velvet box that was displayed in the large glass window. Once he walked through those doors, he would officially be a wizard. Dumbledore smiled down at him.

“I always leave this place for last.” the professor explained, “Getting one’s wand is a rite of passage of sorts.”

The bell tickled above him and Tom could feel the buzzing of magical potential around him. It was an odd (but not bad, just... different) feeling. Pillars of boxes rose all the way up to the ceiling, and perhaps it was the sheer amount of wands that had enamored the child enough to not realize that there was a third person in the room. 

“Good afternoon,” came a soft voice that still reverberated on the walls of the small shop room.

It made Tom jump nearly a foot in the air as he quickly snatched his hand away from on of the boxes he had been inspecting and turned to meet the owner of the voice with a sheepish expression. Wide pale eyes stared into wide dark eyes, the man in his late thirties having an air that could only be described as vague-yet-piercing. This eyes then shifted to Dumbledore.

“Ah, Albus.” The wandshop owner greeted, “Yes, Unicorn Hair and Apple, twelve inches, quite stiff, correct? It seems you’ve brought another student. You are looking to buy a wand?”

“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.” Tom replied softly, still quite shaken from the sudden appearance and rather creepy disposition of the man, “No offense, sir.”

“None taken.” was the flippant reply from Mr. Ollivander before staring once again at the professor. 

“Mr. Riddle here has had a rather interesting day, Garrick.” Dumbledore answered with a smile and apparently unfazed by the wandmaker’s behavior, “But he is indeed here to find a wand to call his own.”

Ollivander simply nodded and turned back to Tom, who did not like being under his scrutiny for long. His pale eyes felt piercing and for some reason he felt...exposed. 

“Now on to business.” Ollivander began, “Which is your wand arm?”

“I’m ambidextrous, sir.” Tom answered, to which the wandmaker’s eyebrows shot up at. 

“I see.” the man muttered, “Please hold out both your arms then.”

Once Tom obliged, the wizard took out his own wand and gave a flick and a tape measure that had been previously sitting innocently on the floor rose up and began to measure every part of him. Ollivander himself had gone deeper into his shop, though his voice could still be easily heard. 

“Every Ollivander wand has a core of a powerful magical substance, Mr. Riddle.” the wandmaker’s voice echoed from a group of pillars of boxes that appeared to be getting shorter, “We use unicorn hairs, phoenix tail feathers, and the heartstrings of dragons. No two Ollivander wands are the same, just as no two unicorns, dragons, or phoenixes are quite the same. And of course, you will never get such good results with another wizard's wand."

When Ollivander returned, Tom couldn’t even see his head as the pile of boxes he carried piled higher. He was afraid the man was going to bump into him and send the boxes flying but the wandmaker set down his burden near the child’s feet instead. A cream white wand with a spiral handle was shoved into his right hand.

“Try this one.” was the excited demand-request, “Beechwood and dragon heartstring. Nine inches. Nice and flexible. Give it a wave if you please.”

Crash.

A vase at the far end corner of the shop shattered into smithereens. Tom went to apologize but was immediately waved off as if this sort of this happened often. The wand was snatched from his hand to be replaced with another one that was distinctly more brown, but the handle was carved with rather pretty leaf designs. 

“Heartstring’s to temperamental, hm? Holly and Unicorn hair. Give it a try.”

Clink.

A crack in one of the windows appeared. But once again Ollivander shook his head and replaced it with another. This one was completely black and had a vinelike pattern on the handle. Were all wands simply ornate? Why was Malfoy complaining about the designs?

“Unicorn hair’s too docile. Ebony and Phoenix feather. Try-”

Fwoosh.

The remainder of the flower in the vase set on fire. Ollivander shook his head, but appeared gleeful for the challenge. More wands were attempted and discarded. Both adult wizards were putting out fires left and right, though everyone highly doubted the vase could be salvaged at that point. It had been broken, put together, set on fire, turned into a newt, set on fire, grew legs and tried to escape, set on fire, shattered, and set on fire again. Ollivander behaved as if on a sugar high.

“Tricky customer, eh? Not to worry, we'll find the perfect match here somewhere...”

Before he could choose another wand, however, Dumbledore put a hand on the man’s shoulder and gave him an earnest look.

“Why don’t we try one of the two?” the Professor asked, and Ollivander’s eyes winded as he dashed to the back, leaving Tom incredibly confused. 

When the wandmaker emerged again, he was carrying two boxes, an excited grin plastered on his face. He opened one, revealing a wand that appeared to be made out of sun-bleached bone. The handle, unlike the others, was wild, appearing uncarved and untamed, bent bone with a claw on one end. 

“Yew and Phoenix feather.” Ollivander stated almost reverently, “Thirteen and a half inches. Rigid. Take it and give it a wave, Mr. Riddle.”

As soon as his thin fingers wrapped around the wicked looking handle, there was a sudden rush of warm energy that flowed through him. Dark eyes widened. That hadn’t happened before. This time when he waved the wand, brightly colored sparks fired off the tip, showering the group in green and silver light. Dumbledore clapped good-naturedly with Ollivander, who in turn shouted:

“Oh bravo, Mr. Riddle! Though Albus, how did you suspect...?”

Both the boy and the wandmaker turned to the professor, who smiled in a pleased and mysterious manner. 

“I didn’t.” was the admittance, “But it seems that Fate has brought us together, Tom. The wand proves this.”

“Sir.” Tom said seriously with blank dark eyes as Dumbledore paid for the wand, “I think I got lost somewhere around five minutes ago when you started talking about ‘the two’.”

The bell tinkled above them and Ollivander waved the duo goodbye before muttering to himself  as he shuffled back into his shop. Overall it was a very odd experience and Tom felt like he was missing something rather important.

“Garrick collects his wand cores personally,” the twinkling eyed professor explained as they passed the barrier of Diagon Alley and back into the Leaky Cauldron, “But sometimes he gets cores donated to him. The Phoenix that donated his feathers that reside inside your wand and that other wand is none other than my familiar, Fawkes. Hence why I wanted to try them.”

Tom however was hung up on only one subject. He didn’t understand much in the ways of Fate, not yet, so he filed those words away later. All he could focus on then was-

“Sir you have a pet Phoenix?” he asked the amused wizard in the plum suit excitedly, “What’s it like having one? Is he always on fire? What does he eat? Has he ever accidentally burned one of your things? Can I meet him? Can he sense if I have his feather? What-”

This line of questions continued until they finally reached Wool’s once more. Happy with his answers and high on the euphoria of discovering a world of magic, Tom Riddle settled into his threadbare bed with a wide grin on his face.

It never really left him for the remainder of the summer. 

By the time September first had rolled around, Tom had already read through all of his textbooks. Twice. Then he went back to Borgin and Burke’s to practice. He had found out from a couple of books in the not-library that he could get away with casting spells if the area was counted as ‘magical’. Mr. Burke seemed to respect his drive to attempt most of his spells before the school year, and had allowed Tom to practice in the back. 

Tom rose bright and early on the first day of September, packing away his remaining things, including his personal books and what few belongings he owned. Everything he had went into that trunk, grumbling slightly of how he had to lug the damn thing all the way to King’s Cross. 

The walk to the station was shorter than that of Charing Cross, though it took longer with the added weight. Still, he was right on time as Tom surveyed his ticket. Platform Nine and Three Quarters had been described to him already, so the lone orphan easily found the brick wall that separated to two platforms. With only a tiny bit of trepidation, Tom wheeled his trunk to face the wall and ran straight into it. 

Though his entire body braced for impact, none came. Instead, he went right past it as if the wall wasn’t there in the first place, and the child stood gaping for a second at the brilliant scarlet steam train that sat at the newly revealed platform, which already had a few people milling around. Getting out of the way just in case more people came barreling through the entrance (and then holding back a yelp when that very thing happened), the small rags-wearing boy wheeled his trunk down the platform in search of an empty compartment. Considering that he was still relatively early, he found one rather quickly. 

Hauling his trunk (ah, the perks of training for the circus for most of his life - muscles!) into the car and then into the compartment, Tom Riddle sighed and rested his head on the back of the seat. The nervousness of going so far from everything he’d ever known returned to him with full force, but he wasn’t going to stop now. He was a wizard now and he intended on being the best wizard he could be. 

Still, Malfoy’s tentative olive branch of friendship and subsequent recoil of disgust worried Tom. In a world that looked down on muggleborns, and Tom in his patched clothing obviously being one, would he even find friends?

“Um, excuse me? May I come in?” came a squeaky voice from the now opened compartment door. 

Tom looked up, then slightly down. Now, he was no expert on the growth of children, but that was short for even regular standards. But this child had already taken in his ‘muggleness’ and had asked to join him. How could he say no?

“Sure.” Tom told the diminutive boy with a shrug, “Take a seat.”

The ridiculously short boy had done just that, taking the seat opposite to Tom’s own after stowing his trunk away with a strength that was admirable for one of his stature. They awkwardly stared at each other before the orphan realized that he was supposed to introduce himself. 

“I’m Tom Riddle.” The boy said with only a hint of nervousness, holding his hand out to his new acquaintance.

“Filius Flitwick.” The shorter child squeaked, taking the hand with vigor. 

“Have you read any of the books yet?” Tom questioned, not really sure how to make conversation. 

However, it appeared that he had struck gold, because Filius’ smile widened. For some odd reason it reminded Tom of the sharp toothy grins of the Gringotts goblins, though this one was warm and full of energy.

“Oh yes!” came Filius’ answer with a couple of rapid nods, “Twice over!”

This time it was Tom that smiled. They talked for quite some time about lessons and magical theory, going over certain spells that they would most likely be learning over the course of their education. In was during this time that it was revealed that Tom was muggleborn and Filius was half goblin, each happy with the fact that the other didn’t care much about such things, replacing disgust and condescension with interest and curiosity. As a whistle blew from outside and the train started its journey toward Hogwarts, school for magic, the orphan boy grinned at what he hoped would soon be a good friend.

“I think I’m going to like you, Filius.”

“I think I’m going to like you too, Tom.”

The chugging of the train gradually sped up, and soon enough the grey skies of London was replaced with rolling green hills. Inside one of these compartments, a boy known as Tom Riddle was learning how to make friends. The locomotive flew past the landscape, a red blur to those who had to be looking, unstoppable now that it had gotten going. 

Because that’s the thing about trains. Once they’ve started chugging away they’re very hard to stop.

Chapter Text

So we return to the story! And behold! Tom Riddle had indeed made a friend! A magical one at that. Perhaps this time he’ll be able to keep that friend, unlike his previous attempts. But enough of that. Today I wished to talk about Fate. Yes, Fate, the very basis of the world that this story resides in. Other than magic, of course. 

Fate, despite people’s best attempts, has always been a rather fickle thing. Much like magic, Fate chooses favorites, and unlike magic, her favorites aren’t always better off with such favoritism. In fact, most of Fate’s favorites tend to get the short end of the stick in most cases. Tragic backstories, enemies constantly trying to kill them over a relative interval... just ask Harry Potter. As one of Fate’s favorites, he’ll give you a full rundown on what happens if one is so chosen by the fickle abstract concept. 

Such is the life of being a Chosen One. But hey, the takeaway is that the plot armor is generally amazing. No matter how insane the circumstance, you just won’t bloody die. You could be stabbed with a cursed sword, or a Basilisk Fang, possessed by a manic Dark Lord, or even flat out Avada Kedavra’d and you’ll still be running off unscathed enough to fight again in an obscenely short amount of time. It doesn’t make up for losing your godfather, your owl, or your favorite house elf, but sometimes you have to look on the bright side of being Fate’s plaything. 

Of course, such things also apply to the other end of Fate’d chosen Ones. Sometimes they’re just not the good guys. Sometimes it’s the bad guys that don’t ruddy die when they should. Only the heroic Chosen One has the capability to kill the immensely powerful and knowledgeable villain, despite that Chosen One usually being a child on the cusp of adulthood and there being enough mentors to have defeated the evil git’s at least twice over. But of course that would ruin any bloody plot Fate had planned so the Dark Lord can’t die until the hero kills them. 

You could theoretically throw a monkey wrench into the system by making a prospective Dark Lord into a not-so-evil individual and supposedly that would still allow for their insane survivability to be intact. Though why anyone would want to attempt that route is beyond me. One must have a fanatic dedication to making the villain a relatively good person and a love for crackish works of fiction to make that work. 

But again, I digressed. What do you need to hear my ramblings for? So let us return to see what our resident not-a-Dark-Lord child is doing now, shall we?

“Oi when did the toad get here?”

Filius looked at Tom, who was holding onto the struggling amphibian with a comically raised eyebrow. They didn’t need to question the odd arrival of the slimy creature, though, as the door to their compartment opened to reveal a girl with her brunette hair in a tight braid.

“Has any of yeh seen a toad?” the girl asked in what was undoubtedly a thick Scottish accent, “Pomona’s lost... ah there! Pom! Aye think we found yehr toad!”

A rounder, dimpled girl quickly bustled in, taking the squirming toad gratefully from Tom’s hands, cooing something soothing to it (though it didn’t seem to be working in the slightest) and kissing the top of its head. Tom, who did that quite a bit with his serpents, did not find this as disgusting as the braided girl (who scrunched up her nose) and Filius (who just stared) did. The girl that was reunited with her toad then looked to the boy’s sheepishly, and turned to leave with the Scottish lass until her friend spoke up for her. 

“Mind if we join yeh?”

This was how Tom and Filius were first introduced to Minerva Mcgonagall and Pomona Sprout. The four children quickly swapped stories and experiences, and Tom learned that both girls were halfblood, though Minerva herself grew up on a farm while Pomona resided in magical Wales instead. Neither were bothered by Tom and Filius’ heritage, and soon the worry that had been growing since his encounter with Malfoy all but melted away. 

A trolley filled with sweets came along, and each of them pitched in to buy a couple of snacks for the trip. Minerva, Filius, and Pomona, all who have been raised with the Wizarding World delicacies, explained to the rather curious Tom each magical sweet. Licorice wands soon became a close favorite, while chocolate frogs were a close second. There’s just something exhilarating about catching and eating what appears to be a live animal with no moral repercussions. When he said this to the others, they stared at him for a good minute before bursting into giggles. 

Conversation soon turned to one that Tom was actually familiar with. 

“So,” began Pomona, her brown eyes glittering in curiosity, “What house do you think you’ll get into?”

“Ravenclaw.” answered Minerva immediately before tilting her head in consideration, “Or Gryffindor. Me mam was a Ravenclaw, but I’ve always been more rowdy than her.”

“I feel similarly!” squeaked Filius with a large smile, “I’m one for adventure, but you have to admit that everything we’re learning is very exciting!”

“I’m a shoo-in for Hufflepuff!” Pomona stated proudly, “Everyone in my family’s been there.”

The three children then looked imploringly to Tom, who sighed a little. He had read Hogwarts: A History enough times to know that Slytherin didn’t have the best reputation. But then again, neither did muggleborns.

“I think I’d probably get into Slytherin.” Tom mumbled, “Or Ravenclaw. Mostly Slytherin though.”

Instead of being upset by this fact, though, Filius, Pomona, and Minerva all got a glint in their eyes. Each of them began whispering excitedly to one another (they became close friends fast... Tom felt a tad left out, but a least they were all still friends) before grinning at the confused orphan. 

“Mind cluing me in?” asked Tom, only half joking.

“If each of us gets into a different house,” Filius explained, “We’d essentially be the next Hogwarts Four. Like the Founders!” 

“Are friendships between houses really that rare?” the dark eyed child questioned, his head tilted to the side. 

“They don’t really mix much around all houses.” Pomona admitted, “My parents tended to stay friends with only Gryffindors and Ravenclaws, but not Slytherins. Slytherins only like to befriend people of their own house, or Ravenclaw, or anyone that they think can get them a leg up in life.”

“Not that all of them are like that!” Filius placated when he saw the distraught expression Tom had, “But it is a common occurrence.”

He didn’t have much time to answer, as a disembodied voice informed them that they would be arriving soon, so Tom decided to reserve his opinion for when he was sorted. However that process worked. As he changed into his new wizard robes, which decidedly felt odd, the boy wondered just how well he would fit into this seemingly cookie cutter society. Still, at least he had some new friends to work with, so that’s a perk that he didn’t have at Wool’s. He’d just have to wait and see. 

The orphan child decided that he despised rickety boats that looked like it could capsize at any accidental sway. Even when the groundskeeper had told them ‘no more than four to a boat’, every child had looked at the wooden death traps like they were about to fall apart as soon as a foot stepped in them. Thankfully nothing of the sort happened, and the bonded quartet finally settled into a boat that seemed rather sturdy (though the amount of goo and other fungi most likely growing in the wood left much to be desired). 

Despite the questionably unsafe ride, the view of the Hogwarts castle from the base of the lake was positively breathtaking, the light of the moon illuminating the large structure that looked before them. It made Tom feel small, looking up at something so large. The others shared his sentiment, as they had all gone quiet (as opposed to their loud and excited banter on the train) at the sight of the towering structure that was going to be their home for most of the year in awe.

Boat ride complete, they were met on the steps by none other than Professor Dumbledore (he was wearing the llama robes he bought during the trip with Tom and making all the kids stare at him in alarm and incredulity), who smiled at all of the children that had gathered and gave a knowing nod to Tom when the boy had waved at him. After a brief rundown on what was expected of them as students of Hogwarts, they were led into a chamber right off the Great Hall (because what other place would be so noisy at this time of the night?) before being left to their own devices. It was rather silly of Dumbledore to do so, as excited and nervous children stuck in a room together was never a good combination. Yes, very unsafe indeed, Tom thought to himself. 

And whatever his three tentative friends said, he did not come to this conclusion because he jumped a foot in the air when ghosts started phasing through the walls arguing about things that they were peeved about. No, no he didn’t now stop laughing dammit Filius!

With a twinkle in his eye, Dumbledore returned and the gaggle of students, who were effectively cowed into behaving by the arrival of the translucent dead people, walked into the Great Hall, lining up as the auburn haired professor fetched a stool and placed it before the crowd of seated students. Dark eyes widened when the man then brought out the most ragged hat that Tom had ever seen, and his mouth opened slightly when the bloody thing opened something akin to a mouth and began to sing. 

“Many, many years ago

When Persia came ashore...

Oh sorry, wrong song.

Ahem. 

Many, many years ago.

When I was clean and new.

Four friends gathered to build a school

Which now houses me and you.

The first was Clever Salazar

A lad then, young and green.

He proclaimed they’d build the greatest school

The UK’s ever seen.

The second was Brave Godric.

His temper fiery like his hair.

Alongside his dearest friend he fought

For the dream they all would bear.

The third was Kind Helga.

Excitable lass was she

Who led them North to Scotland

Her smile light and free

The fourth was Wise Rowena

Though she certainly wasn’t the least

It is her castle of which resides

The place of this Great Feast

But this is a tale of olden times

And you all are here today 

So let’s see which house you belong in

And make up your own mind, okay?”

By the time Tom got over the fact that the Hat was not only animated, but sentient, the Sorting has already begun. 

“Flitwick, Filius!” Dumbledore called, and Tom, Minerva, and Pomona all gave the diminutive boy a wide smile and a thumbs up.

His legs dangled from the rather short stool, causing a couple of chuckles to emanate from the crowd of students, young and old. Filius’ face was red and bowed before it was covered by the brim of the hat. The trio still waiting gave the giggling students glares (though it worked only on their fellow firsties, as glares from young children just look darn cute). 

A minute or so passed, which was longer than the usual hat decision time so far, before the piece of headwear shouted out:

“RAVENCLAW!”

The table with the blue robed students clapped politely as the half-goblin joined their ranks, giving the remaining trio a happy smile. More students were sorted, though Tom didn’t really pay much attention until...

“Malfoy, Abraxas!”

The snow white blond boy that had liked then hated him strolled up to the stool, looking as haughty as an eleven year old could, though Tom could see the signs of nervousness in his gait, his posture. Regally Malfoy sat down on the stool, and the hat barely touched his slicked back hair when it bellowed:

“SLYTHERIN!”

Tom didn’t really have much time to ponder the boy’s placement as the next name called our was:

“Mcgonagall, Minerva!”

Straightening her back, the Scottish lass marched up to the stool, Tom and Pomona flashing her encouraging grins and Filius giving her a thumbs up from the Ravenclaw table. Like Filius, the hat took his time with her, and Tom could see her face scrunched up in thought before she relaxed as the tattered fabric mouth yelled out:

“GRYFFINDOR!”

Clapping, Tom watched as Minerva joined the lions at the red table. Two friends in two different houses. He thought back to their idea of being the next Hogwarts Four. If they were sitting so far apart at mealtimes, how would they do it? Sure, they’d have classes together, but if they bunk apart, eat apart, the only thing they’d have in common was schoolwork and study time. Unless you counted weekends, which was good, but still the weekdays didn’t offer must in the ways of mingling...

“Riddle, Tom!”

Pomona patted him lightly on the back and smiled brightly as the dark haired child approached the stool. Dumbledore, too, smiled at him as his eyes twinkled behind half moon glasses. Dark eyes surveyed the crowd that payed no attention to a no name muggleborn child such as he until his line of sight was blocked by something being dropped over his head.

“Well, well.” a voice emanated from his mind, “What do we have here?”

“Hello.” Tom greeted politely, because the voice seemed rather intelligent and if it belonged to the hat, should probably be treated like a person with the human level sentiency it displayed, “I’m Tom.”

“Hello Tom.” The hat replied, amused, “Let’s see where to put you... Ah, you have quite the thirst for knowledge I see, and your courage to speak the truth shines from your heart. It appears that you have already established a deep trust within your new friends as well. But... your ambition. Your cunning. Goodness! Aren’t you a little manipulative for a child?”

“Had to learn how to survive, sir.” was Tom’s shrugging answer, “And I don’t think those traits are bad. They’ve helped get this far, after all.”

“It appears you will need it then.” The hat told Tom solemnly, “Because the best fit for you can only be SLYTHERIN!”

The final part was said aloud, but the emerald table did not clap initially, only doing so when a round-bodied teacher started to. Most stared at him, disgusted and confused, as the insolent muggleborn that Abraxas had been ranting about on the train joined their table, sitting down at the end where the students scooted over (not that most could notice, the movement seemed like natural position shifting that it was barely noticed) so they wouldn’t have to touch the mudblood. It was Filius, who was the closest and therefore saw the behavior even as the sorting continued on, gave Tom an apologetic look. The newly christened Slytherin tried not to be affected by the treatment his fellow housemates were bestowing on him. Abraxas himself seemed to be sneering at him with such distaste that one would think Tom was a leper or something. Thankfully a distraction came in the form of:

“Sprout, Pomona!”

In which the dimpled girl hurried up to the stool and excitedly sat down, her form practically vibrating as the hat was dropped on her head. Seconds later, a grin spread on her face as she was sorted into:

“HUFFLEPUFF!”

So. That meant all of them were in different houses. Hogwarts Four indeed. Each friend gave a wave at the other, but soon the other three children were pulled into conversation by their new housemates. Tom’s head swiveled to the other first year Slytherins, all of which appeared to congregate around Abraxas Malfoy (who was still sneering at him... which was odd because usually if you dislike something you ignore it, not glare at it). None wished to speak to him, and the older Slytherins pretended that he didn’t exist. 

Someone cleared their throat, drawing Tom’s attention to where the podium near the Head Table sat. There, standing behind it, was Headmaster Armando Dippet (who Tom recognized from Hogwarts: A History) smiling down at them. He greeted them all with a mixture of seriousness and cheer before waving his hand in the air. The reason for the gesture soon became known as food appeared on their plates, steaming and warm. Tom, who had only had the sweets on the train, felt his stomach rumble at the sight. Screw the inner house problems he’d probably be facing - Hogwarts was great! 

Honestly, he’d never seen this much food in his life, and to think that the kids at the orphanage had to live off of rations soon due to the fear of war on the horizon made Tom very glad that he decided to attend. Spooning some mashed potatoes and gravy (along with steak, because such luxuries were never afforded to poor orphans like him) onto his plate, the boy began his favorite activity to do at dinner - eat. Still, he had the decency of table manners and savored every delicious morsel even if it got weird looks from those around him. Whispers of being so poor that Hogwarts fare was exquisite filtered through his ears as the other Slytherins talked down about him (the lowly mudblood) in low voices, but honestly he couldn’t care. Food was life. Another miracle happened after the savory meals disappeared from their plates, only to be replaced by desserts. This time Tom was a little more critical, if only because he worked at a bakery, but the food was heavenly nonetheless. 

Though, it was after the meal had ended, after the welcoming speeches were said and the school song sung (as best as it could be with the lack of a proper tune) that the problems that Tom had noticed would get worse. 

It was almost as if Fate hated him. 

It was official. Bunking with his fellow Slytherins sucked. Crabbe and Goyle, two hulking boys with a brain cell each to rub together, and Lestrange, a haughty, sneering bloke who seemed to think Tom was some sort of bog toad, apparently thought that Tom’s muggleborn status (which Malfoy rubbed in his face) meant that he was easy prey. 

They learned the hard way that the orphan was currently at his most dangerous without a wand. Hiyah! London street smarts to the rescue! 

Malfoy had started looking at him strangely after the first time he watched Crabbe and Goyle got their arses handed to them, and Lestrange nearly complemented Tom before he realized that he was the enemy again. At least it allowed him to get a good night’s sleep. Once he had shown them that he was not as weak as they assumed they backed off, the post-Feast drowsiness making sure that they were too tired to try anything else. 

In the morning, Tom woke up in the unholy hour of four am (his usual rising time). Luckily it seemed that none of his fellow dorm-mates shared this inner body clock schedule and all were fast asleep. Now, while Tom could pull some revenge prank on the slumbering children, such an act would most likely made them hate them more. A cycle of revenge wasn’t something he was looking forward to this early in the school year... but maybe down the line it would be fun. 

The early hour allowed Tom to explore his surroundings without the foot traffic that would no doubt arrive once the sun came up. Not that anyone could see the sun down here in the dungeon, mind you. Everything was lit by torches anyway. The Common Room was... well it was spooky in a snobby way, though the servant speaking child did love the plethora of snake artwork (be it statue, stitched in tapestry, in a mosaic stained glass window, or doodled on the desk nest to a crude drawing of a blokes...anyway) that littered the place. Tom waved at the dark tentacle snaking by the aquarium style window that showed the happenings of the Black Lake, and the tentacle waved back cheerily. Fantastic! His first friend in Slytherin was the Giant Squid!

He wandered the place for a good couple of hours, committing the confusing twists and turns (and stairway and door patterns because navigating this castle was going to be a bloody nightmare he just knew it) to memory as best he could. It was a good thing he had a near perfect memory (well, good in this case, as having such a good memory made grudges hard to let go of). 

Eventually he somehow managed to steer himself back to the Great Hall which, alas, had people. Specifically, Filius was sitting at the Ravenclaw table having his breakfast. Tom smiled wide and made his way over to where the half-goblin was and took the seat next to him.

“Morning, Filius.” he greeted cheerily.

“Morning, Tom!” Filius replied with equal joy.

The two were already in deep discussion over common rooms (and which feature was cooler - a private library and a tower view as opposed to the aquarium layout of the dungeon abode) when Pomona arrived, dragging a half asleep Minerva in tow. They too sat at the blue table, gathering their breakfast as they joined the ongoing conversation (well Pomona did, Minerva sort of just sat there and stared blankly at the far wall sipping what suspiciously appeared to be black coffee). 

At this point it the sun had already crossed the horizon and the noise level of the Great Hall had risen a good ten decibels. Looking around, Tom notes that most of the students were mingling with members of other houses, other than Slytherin. However this was only regarding the table, as Tom saw a good few green clad students sitting outside their own table, himself included. The heads of each house passed along the class schedules, seemingly used to this sort of seating arrangement. Dumbledore had even paused to chat with the group when he went to hand Minerva her schedule and Tom had thought it nice to know the man was still trying to make sure he didn’t feel left out as Professor Slughorn (who was head of Slytherin And was the round bodied teacher that had started the awkward clapping at his sorting) just sort of threw the schedule at him before happily greeting Malfoy and the rest of Tom’s bunkmates. He supposed being a muggleborn nobody meant that he wasn't destined to get very far, but he’ll prove that notion wrong. 

They’ll see that his fate could be changed. 

Classes, Tom decided, could be organized into two categories. ‘Yes’ and ‘No’. The reason being because it wasn’t a matter of difficulty or interest, but in the general feel of the lessons. 

For example, most classes (and by that he meant Charms, Transfiguration, and Defense) fell into the ‘Yes’ category because they were ‘Safe’ and ‘Interesting’ and ‘Easy’, but there was also Herbology which just felt like Gardening Magical Style: This Time The Plants Can Strangle You If You Forget To Water Them even if it was relatively simple and vaguely interesting. Then there was Potions which only sucked because Malfoy kept trying to sabotage his work and Slughorn just didn’t seem to care and there were no safety regulations dammit, but despite that was still a ‘Yes’ class because the subject itself was fascinating even if it was difficult and unsafe.

There were three ‘No’ classes, all of which were placed there for relatively individual reasons. Astronomy was held at a ridiculous time of the night and was all about charting the stars. This was interesting and safe, but bloody hell it was late and Tom could barely concentrate on remembering all the little pinpricks of light above him and mapping them on parchment because he was about to keel over and sleep right there. History of Magic was a definite ‘No’ due to the fact that Professor Binns’ lessons were duller than those rubber knives that the Wool’s toy box had. The man just walked into the class at the exact same time, read from the textbook (which did not appear to have been updated since the early 1800s) in a flat monotone, and gave out homework before shuffling out again. It was easy stuff to memorize, just boring. 

The last of the ‘No’ classes was Flying. Yes. Flying. Because there was nothing about sticking a hard wooden rod in between your legs and allowing that horizontally positioned rod to go up that was appealing on the slightest. Minerva was understanding of Tom’s reservations, but her housemate and friend Rolanda was not, and the yellow eyed girl had taken it upon herself to make sure the muggleborn Slytherin made it up into the air. Unfortunately, the first few lessons didn’t go so well, as brooms (like horses) could somehow sense fear and enjoyed shooting the poor boy up into the air at a speed that tested the cushioning charms on the damn repurposed cleaning implements. His Slytherin housemates laughed at him once they were back in the Common Room, gaining quite a few hexes to the face as Tom added more spells to his repertoire.

Although, once he got the hang of it, Flying quickly became a rather exciting ‘Yes’ class, but that didn’t happen until Minerva made the connection between broom flying and aerial acrobatics. Once she pointed that out, Tom had switched his method of flying and actually became rather proficient. Rolanda was very confused about this. 

Other than that the school year ran rather smoothly for Tom Riddle’s first year. Sure, he had to avoid his fellow housemates who decided that Terrorizing Tom was a hilariously fun pastime while all of his friends seemed to be spending more time with their own housemate friends, but at least they still partnered with him during classes. One must be thankful for small things like that. 

Still, it was obvious that the muggleborn Slytherin was becoming an outcast. Even Filius (who had been worried about others’ opinions of his half-goblin nature) was more easily accepted by his (admittedly eccentric) housemates, while Tom was shunned in-house for being muggleborn and by the other houses for being a Slytherin. While Filius, Pomona, and Minerva grew closer together (with Tom dubbing them as The Three Musketeers), despite them attempting to include the Slytherin in gatherings, it was obvious that the boy was drifting away from the trio of rapidly social-climbing friends (even if they denied it and made a point to include him in their inter house gatherings). 

While a gathering as such sounds like a good idea on the surface, the truth is that most of the Musketeers’ fellow housemates balked at the idea of a Slytherin joining in on their down time. This may or may not be because this was their ‘down time’ where they could talk smack about the true Hogwarts buttmonkey house (made worse by the behavior of the likes of Lestrange, who enjoyed hexing people alone in hallways). Mealtimes were fine, and Tom was almost indispensable as a study partner (ah, the perks of being a genius), but God forbid the evil Slytherin join in on their downtime. Minerva, Pomona, and Filius were apologetic about the awkwardness, but eventually Tom stopped going to those gatherings. 

As Christmas break came around Tom found himself rather alone. His drifting friends had all gone home for the holidays (as did his tormentors) while the dark haired child decided to stay at the castle instead. Hogwarts was quiet without the many children stomping around the halls, but Tom didn’t feel like it was a bad kind of quiet. Professor Dumbledore took this opportunity to spend time with the young wizard, though he seemed rather disheartened to find out that Tom was drifting from his initial friends due to house divide. However Tom assured the man that they were still friends despite not hanging around each other as much. 

Speaking of which, Tom had to get them Christmas presents. It wasn’t easy considering that Tom never really had friends to give presents to before. He ended up ordering things via owl mail (after Dumbledore showed him how) and used the money he was getting from his growing investments (which was becoming rather sizable, he was quite proud). Minerva got a book on Animagus transformation (because she had talked on about her fascination on the subject) that he procured from Mr. Burke (who assured him that the tome was rather rare and therefore unlikely that someone else got her the same present). Pomona got a pot that had a Bubotuber plant in it, and Filius got a clockwork canary that acted as an alarm clock for both study, sleep, and waking (which was something Tom had a hand in tweaking, initially it was just charmed to sing). After an interesting conversation with Dumbledore about the nature of magical sweets, he opted to buy the man a pack of muggle sweets that he thought the professor might like.

On the morning of Christmas, the dark eyed boy awoke alone in his dorm to a small pile of presents at the foot of his bed. Tears welled up and spilled from his pale face, though thankfully no one was there to witness it. The boy carefully unwrapped each present, saving the colorful paper for spell practice later. From Minerva he got a copy of How To Train Your Broom: For Those Who Want To Fly Dangerously while Pomona got him a large packet of licorice wands. From Filius he got what appeared to be the same clockwork canary but upon closer inspection the spellwork had been tweaked to chirp whenever it was near something cursed. Interesting how they used the same base present, but he supposed it was to be expected. Out of the three of them, Tom was still closest to Filius.

Dumbledore had thanked Tom for the lemon drops when the boy sat next to him at breakfast, stating that he believed that he had found his new favorite sweet. The dark haired boy smiled. So he might not spend as much time with his friends as he liked. They still thought about him, and he them. Despite his fellow Slytherins thinking that he was dirt and easy pickings, his time at Hogwarts was still loads better than Wool’s. 

This sentiment was put to the test when classes resumed. 

During his winter break Tom had explored the castle as much as he could, finding and memorizing all the hidden passageways that he could use to escape Lestrange and Malfoy (and also cut time on getting to class). He didn’t tell his friends about these routes, as they were nearly always surrounded by others who would turn around to prank him when the Musketeers weren’t there, especially that Fudge lad and a nasty Ravenclaw by the name of Olive Hornby. 

It was Hornby that had shoved Tom into the second floor girl’s bathroom while on his way from Professor Merrythought’s office (she had given him extra assignments as he was breezing through the material) and had locked the door before running away giggling. As the Slytherin soon found out, she had also put some sort of enchantment that made sure the ruddy thing stayed shut no matter what he did. 

Obviously today Fate hated him. 

Thankfully the bathroom was empty, but there was something wrong with a lad being in a girl’s lavatory. Deciding that the best way out (besides waiting around for someone to find him here... wouldn’t that be mortifying) was to find some hidden passageway out of there so Tom began to inspect the nooks and crannies of the bathroom. 

The stalls have him nothing but a weird look into the lives of girls by the scrawls on the stall walls (some which had odd things like “M+T” and other such things with hearts surrounding it, or “Jacinta is cheating on Brian”. One stall had a bunch of tally marks under a mysterious scrawl that read “I Hate Monthlys, Tick If You Agree”). However, it was the sinks that finally bore some fruit in the oddest of ways. 

There was a little metal snake almost hidden on one of the faucets. When Tom approached, he swore the tiny thing winked at him. Deciding that this was most likely his only way out of certain embarrassment, Tom began to wave his wand at the metal serpent to no avail. In his frustration, he hissed “Open!” (along with a few other choice swears that he had learned from Oscar) at the snake, and the sink began to move downwards.

Revealed to him was a large tunnel made by the sink’s descent. Dark eyes widened, as he hadn’t expected the key to opening the passage to be something as simple as saying ‘open’ in snake speak. Whoever put this in must have assumed that the skill was rare (or said person was an idiot, honestly it could go either way). Staring down at the tunnel that went somewhere dark, Tom shrugged and jumped in, his ears picking up the fact that the castle just sealed him in this place as he rapidly slid into the unknown, hoping that Fate wasn’t screwing him over.

Because that was the thing about Fate. It is a fickle, fickle thing. 

Chapter Text

We left the last chapter off on a bit of a cliffhanger, didn’t we? Then again, almost all of you who are reading this know full well where Tom’s going. Honestly hiding the Chamber of Secrets in a girl’s bathroom is just plain wrong, no matter how coincidental. Not to mention that anyone discovering it later would just think Slytherin was a Class A Prevert. Disgusting. 

Incidentally, the topic of this chapter is also rather disgusting. By that, I mean bathrooms. One tries their best to make sure everything in those places is sanitary but no matter how many lavender scented air fresheners you put in won’t completely get rid of the smell of excrement, especially after a lunch of spicy bean burritos. Ugh. 

Public bathrooms are even worse in that respect. No amount of deodorizing is going to fix that perpetual stink. But bathrooms are a necessary part of our society, far better than merely flinging our excrement our the window from a bucket. In comparison the invention of the toilet is then ingenious, though no less disgusting when faced with one. 

They also are places where people gather to perform a task created by nature. It’s the opposite of a watering hole, but is still used almost as a social gathering nonetheless. Friends can be made in public bathrooms too. Hell, even the Golden Trio found their friendship after defeating that troll in the girl’s bathroom! A smelly beginning to a bond that lasted seven books and eight movies. 

I’m probably putting you off your lunch though, aren’t I? No, no, go ahead and eat that bean burrito. Such things were meant to be enjoyed despite the nasty consequences that only you. the toilet, and that little porcelain figurine that your grandmother gave will know about. The figurine might be scarred for life, but that’s not something you can help. 

In the meantime, we shall return to around the place we left off before - our darling Tom discovering his ancestor’s legacy for the first time.

The area that Tom found himself in was dark and musty. Surprisingly though, it lacked the sewerage that he had been expecting. Sure there was mold and mildew and a suspicious amount of faintly glowing green mushrooms, but the lack of fecal matter allowed the small child to keep his dinner in his stomach. Hitting himself with a quick cleaning charm (which he became proficient at quickly due to the amount of goo and other various slime based concoctions that his tormenters liked to pour on him... who knew Gryffindor and Ravenclaws could be so ruddy gross) and then lighting his wand with a quick Lumos, the twelve year old Slytherin began to take in his surroundings. 

His footsteps echoed in the darkness, telling Tom that what little he could see was in reality part of a vast space. After the sound of something hard being crushed under his shoe, the child directed his light downwards to see the sheer amount of animal skeletons littering the floor. Blinking rapidly for a couple of seconds before taking it in stride, Tom pressed on forward into the large tunnel, which wound and turned. He got the distinct impression that this was deliberate for aesthetic reasons and not just because whoever created this area wanted to make the floor plan complicated. 

Eventually he came upon solid wall on which two entwined serpents were carved, their eyes set with great glinting emeralds that told Tom that whatever this place was, a Slytherin had created it. If there was one thing that the boy had learned about Hogwarts inhabitants and alumni, it was that house pride was so huge it was legitimately ridiculous. Now that he thought about it, maybe the snake talking thing he and Salazar Slytherin could do was hereditary?

Nah, neither of his parents were magical as far as he knew, unless the connection was very, very far down the line. 

The snakes seemed to glare at Tom for standing there and gaping up at them, and the dark haired child got the distinct feeling that he was being judged. Blinking slowly in an attempt to process the sentiency of stone guardians, Tom hissed out the word ‘open’ in snake. Lo and behold, the emerald eyed (literally) serpents parted, dramatically revealing the area within...

Okay, so Tom loved snakes, he really did. But this? This was ridiculous. Towering stone pillars that were entwined with more carved serpents rose to support a ceiling lost in the darkness, casting long, black shadows through the odd greenish gloom that filled the vast chamber. Fountains on either side poured in water that came from the pipes of Hogwarts plumbing, but by the smell the water at least appeared clean (in fact the water was rather crisp an cool, whoever did the filtering for this was brilliant). On the back end of the room was a gargantuan statue of an old man that was probably the creator of this place. 

After a bit of wandering and exploring, the eleven year old Slytherin deduced that this was the legendary Chamber of Secrets that Hogwarts: A History talked about (though he used that term loosely, considering that the entire section about the fabled Chamber that Salazar Slytherin used to hide his ‘monster’ was less than a page). Tom began to vibrate in excitement. He bet none of the other students had a place like this to call their own, and if he could enter and exit the place, then why shouldn’t he claim a safe haven, a sanctuary away from the students that teased and scorned him? 

But first, he needed to find a different exit, preferably one that didn’t lead to the girls’ bathroom on the second floor. A couple of cleaning charms were applied as he searched the area (because if he was going to come back to his new and very own Chamber then he’s going to make sure it was clean and sanitary), which aided in marking the places he had already been to. In his quest to find an exit Tom found no less than thirteen hidden chambers, four bedrooms, three bathrooms, two libraries, a room that appeared to be used for dueling, a Potions room with gasp some kind of protection robes in the cabinets, and a garden with a multitude of plant in stasis. The last hidden area was behind the giant statue, located behind the stone codger’s left foot. Hoping that this was a exit, Tom had slinked inside.

Only to stare up in horror and awe at the largest snake he’d ever seen, which was now waking up due to his arrival.

If Tom was a lesser lad, he would have lost control of his facilities.

So the snake was something called a ‘Basilisk’ (which made sense in hindsight, considering that basilisks were the ‘king of serpents’) and her name was Esmeralda. Tom thought that was a beautiful name, and told her as much, earning the snake equivalent of a happy coo. Apparently this was the same Esmeralda that Salazar Slytherin has as a familiar, and this was indeed the Chamber that he made and that his descendants added to. Generations of family putting in something more. No wonder it was going overkill on the green and silver snake motif. 

Esmeralda turned out to be incredibly helpful with directions and the layout of the Chamber. Apparently there were a number of entrances and exits, but most came and went with the ever changing layout of the castle. The only fixed entrance point was the one in the girls’ bathroom (which during the Chamber’s creation was a closet that was then expanded and repurposed when modern plumbing was implemented) and the only fixed exit point led into the Forbidden Forest. Not wanting to tango with whatever lurked in the woods right now (despite being in the presence of a basilisk that could kill him with a glance but instead had allowed herself to be temporarily blindfolded), he instead crawled through a pipe that Esmeralda had directed him to after saying goodbye to the nice snake and promised to return to visit. 

The exit point of the tunnel was the Slytherin boys’ bathroom, and Tom didn’t think he’d ever been so ecstatic over the presence of a urinal before. But alas, context. The boy exited the bathroom, changed into his pajamas, and fell straight to sleep with his dorm-mates none the wiser about where he had been.

He would later find out that Hornby had gotten a teacher under the false claim that Tom had locked himself in the bathroom only to find it empty. The dark eyed child managed to hide the smug expression he wanted to wear when the girl confronted him in public about it. 

“Hornby,” he had begun slowly, “Why would I willingly go into a girls’ lavatory? And on that vein, how did you assume that I was in there if you hadn’t been there yourself? That sounds suspiciously like you were there, but since I was on my way to my Common Room, what did you see that made you think I locked myself in the toilets?”

Ah, the murderous look on her face was so worth the blue skin that she hexed him with. He almost forgot how great it felt messing with others and getting away with it... once he knew enough not to get caught. Then again, he now had a secret Chamber filled with hidden knowledge and a very helpful Basilisk. That should be enough to ensure that the next year would be more interesting than the last. 

Time passed quickly for Tom, whose schedule now consisted of classes, mealtimes, study sessions, running away from bullies, and now spending copious amounts of time in the Chamber with Esmeralda. For obvious reasons he avoided the entrance that was in the girls’ bathroom and became proficient in learning the times and locations of the other entrances and exits to avoid being caught. Not that he would get in trouble per say, but Tom didn’t really want anyone else to know about his Sanctuary. 

The Three Musketeers noticed his distance and his increased disappearances and had voiced their concern. Tom felt rather touched that they were paying such close attention to him and offhandedly revealed that he had found a private place to study when the others were out with their fellow housemates, away from the hustle and bustle (and bullies and such) of the castle. This seemed to mollify them enough not to pry. Well, it worked for Pomona. The other two needed more proof that he was alright before realizing that Tom was going to keep his mouth shut about whatever it was and correctly assumed that it was because any information shared with them somehow got back to Tom’s tormentors despite their attempts to prevent such things. Feeling rather guilty about his predicament, both Filius and Minerva promised not to pry as long as he stayed safe and healthy. He couldn’t ask for better friends.

Exams came and went. Tom felt like they were all ridiculously simple. His housemates didn’t exactly share his sentiment, nor did most of the other first years. When they got their results, even Slughorn had to admit that the lowly mudblood was at the top of the class, beating the second highest Slytherin (which was Malfoy) by a large amount. Needless to say that the blond was both livid and shocked, surprised by the rest at the skill and control over his magic that not even pureblood children could achieve and angry that such power and potential laid in such a filthy blooded child. 

The house cup went to Ravenclaw that year. Filius was very proud. He chatted animatedly with Minerva, Pomona, and Tom on the train ride home. In that moment, the four of them were as close as they had been in the beginning of the year, except now they were defined by house and friend. 

Returning to Wool’s that summer was like a dose of reality. Even with the madness of bullies in the castle, it was nothing compared to the hopelessness one felt at the sight of the dreary building full of sorrowful children in a world on the brink of war. 

Mrs. Rosewood and Mr. Burke were both happy to see him again, which was good. Form time to time the young lad would still help out in the bakery, his skills rising as the squib taught him new skills. Now that he understood the magical world better, Tom was aware that the store the man ran was situated on the less savory Knockturn Alley and housed quite a few things that were considered ‘Dark’. Of course, the dark objects were kept on the magical side, past the door that the parrot guarded so faithfully. Tom was allowed to explore this new side of the store, the black parrot silent at the sight of Tom’s school robes. Browsing through the wares the young wizard inquired about nearly every object in rapt fascination. This pleased Mr. Burke immensely. 

And so the summer passed by with little fanfare. Tom baked pastries, read his new books, browsed the savory and unsavory sides of his favorite store, and finished his homework. All too soon he found himself standing before the scarlet steam train once more. This time, however, he had a destination in mind as he looked for a good compartment that he and his friends could share. Filius was the first to arrive, and the two boys began discussing their summers (with the half goblin regaling tales from his family clan gatherings) with animated body language and hand gestures. When Minerva arrived to see this behavior, she rolled her eyes and shook her head. 

Boys.

Pomona was the last to arrive, having had to chase after her escaping toad that once again had made the leap for freedom. The Hufflepuff girl shot Tom a pout while Filius laughed and Minerva pressed her lips thin in an attempt to stave off a giggle when the boy voiced this to them. The toad seemed to look abashed at being caught, but Tom got the same reactions when he attempted to point this out. Some people just didn’t see what he saw. Everyone was in tears when the dark haired child sighed dramatically.

The train blew its whistle and began to chug away to its destination in the Scottish highlands, carrying its burden of children far from its London station. It was rather odd now that Tom thought about it. The only train to Hogwarts was in England despite the school being in Scotland. Even stranger, Platform Nine And Three Quarters was the entry point, despite the school accepting students from all over the UK. Now, Tom knee for a fact that Minerva still resides in Scotland, so technically she would have to travel all the way to Charing Cross and hop on a train that took her...back to Scotland. 

“Hey Minnie.” Tom began, and the Gryffindor girl quickly swiveled her head towards one of the two boys who could call her that without getting hexed in the nads, “Why is it that you travel down to London if you live closer to Hogwarts anyway? Wouldn’t it be easier if you just flew there from your house?”

“Well the train is an important part of the Hogwarts experience.” Minerva answered with a prim nod, “Plus it gives me time to talk to you all without everyone else crowding around. Besides, Tom, you seem to slink away if there are too many people.” she finished with narrowed eyes, but the dark haired boy was prepared.

“Those same people are almost always trying to talk down or prank me.” he pointed out, “And it’s jus not fair on you lot if you have to look after me because of some house and blood purity grudges. Besides, I’ve got Esmeralda to keep company now.”

Filius nodded sagely while Pomona and Minerva pinked slightly. They always did this at the mention of Esmeralda, though they appeared to be under the impression that it was a code name for a girl in Slytherin. Well, technically that’s true but the kicker was that they thought she was human. Seeing as one wouldn’t advertise the fact that they had a Basilisk in a secret chamber under the school, Tom allowed this misconception to continue... even if Filius kept giving him ‘knowing’ grins and the girls started acting strange at the mere mention of her. 

What was up with that?

“Poppy thinks you’re just too accident prone,” Pomona retorted brightly, “But that’s something we all think anyway.”

“Rolanda seems alright with you.” Minerva added, though her tone conveyed that she wasn’t quite sure, “At least she stopped ranting about your sudden flying turnaround.” her eyes then gained a twinkle of curiosity, “Though speaking of flying, are any of you going to try out for Quidditch?”

“Not it!” answered Pomona almost immediately, “Professor Beery wants he helping out in the greenhouses. He said I have a knack for keeping the plants in check!l

“Not it!” squeaked Filius, “I’m thinking of joining Professor Merrythought’s Dueling Club.”

“You could do both!” Minerva huffed, “Besides, it’s just trying out. It doesn’t guarantee you a position. What about you, Tom?”

Minerva turned to the Slytherin that had just been grinning at his friend’s antics with hope glittering behind her black spectacles. Considering that he had been privately practicing with the unconventional method of broom taming (and applying that with circus acrobatics), his flying skills had skyrocketed. 

“I might as well give it a go.” Tom replied and was rewarded with Minerva’s rare beaming smile, “Not that it’s likely I’ll get in. I’m pretty sure they’ll make up some excuse even if I was qualified. Though I also want to check out the Dueling Club. It certainly sounds interesting enough.”

This time Filius gave a cheer as well, and the two boys high-fived with cheeky grins on their faces. As was beginning to become their own tradition, they all pitched in for sweets from the trolley lady, snacking on cauldron cakes and licorice wands as they swapped jokes and stories. By the time the train rolled into Hogsmeade Station, they were once again the tight knit group that they had been before they had drifted. 

The quartet made their way to where the non-first year students got their ride to Hogwarts - the carriages. When Tom caught sight of them, however, he paused. Pulling the carriages were the oddest horses he’d ever seen, if they could be called horses at all. They resembled more dragon-horses with a dash of spooky deadness that he couldn’t help but be fascinated by. One of the not-horses turned to look at him and nickered when he patted the flank, smiling before he joined his friends in the carriage. With the last passenger inside, the calvary of carriages set off toward the castle.  

“I wonder what kind of spell they use to charm the carriages to move.” Pomona wondered aloud.

Tom, however, was looking intently at the boats that carried the first years, little shadows against the shimmering Black Lake. How different it was to see the experience from another angle. It was too dark to truly make out, but Tom swore he could pinpoint the moment that the students saw the castle, imagined the awe that was on their faces like his was just a year before. 

“Probably an animation charm of some sort.” Minerva answered speculatively, “I think that’s how the boats get across the lake.”

A child that was in one of the boats fell over into the water, only to be picked up a second later by a giant tentacle. Oddly enough, the boat stopped moving until the tentacle was once more under the surface. Could it be that the Squid was pulling the boats along instead?

“Or perhaps a charm that directs the object to a particular place, pulling it along as the wheels make sure it moves.” Filius added helpfully, “What do you think Tom?”

“Hm?” The boy in question asked, his attention back on his three friends, “Sorry, what was the question?”

“We were wondering what magic is used to pull the carriages and the boats.” Filius reiterated helpfully, “We were thinking of some sort of animation charm or a charm that pulled an object towards a given destination.”

Dark eyes blinked in confusion.

“...You can’t see the dragon-horses pulling the carriage?” Tom asked slowly, “They’re all thin and winged and wrapped in scales. Hard to miss, I would think.”

“Tom.” Pomona said slowly, “There’s nothing pulling the carriages. All I see is thin air.”

Minerva and Filius were looking at Tom in akin to horror before sharing a look of worry between the two of them.

“Did you ever see someone die?” Filius asked slowly.

“Of course.” the still-confused child answered, “I watched a bloke fall off an elephant once in a circus. Then the elephant fell too... right on top of him. After that I realized that balance was the most important thing about circus performing.”

The giggle that came out of Minerva was slightly hysterical as both Pomona and Filius stared at him as if to say ‘we should have known’. 

His friends were odd sometimes.

Sitting at his place at the end of the Slytherin table, Tom watched the sorting of each student with feigned interest. Dutifully he clapped harder when a student joined the ranks of the green and silver house, but the new initiates appeared to already know his status as a ‘mudblood’ and therefore gave him a wide berth. Near the end of the sorting was when it got interesting.

“Warren, Myrtle!”

It was easy to spot the poor sod that had fallen in the lake. Her hair and robes were still damp (though not dripping, someone must have cast a drying charm) and her face was one of the most miserable he’d ever seen. She appeared to be holding back tears, though her red eyes also told Tom that she had been crying previously. From the other table over, he heard Hornby guffaw at her sorry sight. This cruel grin turned into a sneer when the girl got sorted into Ravenclaw. 

Since Warren was the last one to be sorted (which probably added to the mortification and nervousness), the feast began shortly after. The delicious scents wafted through his nose as Tom began to pile the food up, ever grateful to be back at Hogwarts. There was nothing like a summer of poverty and fear to remind him of how much he missed going to this school despite its own problems. 

Surprisingly, Malfoy and his crew were not the worst perpetrators when it came to bullying Tom. Perhaps it was because the Slytherins could only attack him in their Common Room, where Filius’ present warned him of any funny business, or because Tom himself had gained notoriety due to his skills in both hexes, curses, jinxes, and good old street fighting. He proved to not be above kicking a bloke in his family jewels and had already learned (through sheer self preservation) how to cast silently. It was this that most likely endeared him to Professor Slughorn, who began to go out of his way to make sure the other Slytherins didn’t bother Tom, even if the man still offhandedly disparaged his lack of magical ancestry. 

Cornelius Fudge and Olive Hornby (the former being mostly a yes-man mook for the latter) quickly took the prize of Tom’s Top Tormenters. Their demeaning comments didn’t quite affect him as much as it would have on another student (as Tom already had a small novel’s worth of names and verbal jabs from Wool’s alone), but their pranks and hexes solely targeted towards him were annoying and humiliating. 

Like the one that made horns sprout upon his head and was so heavy that Pomona, Minerva, and Pomona’s Hufflepuff friend Poppy dragged him to the Hospital Wing after he fell down a flight of stairs (and he was doing so well with balancing the horns, but he could only do so much once Fudge pushes him over). Or when he was hit with a jinx from across the mandrakes they were repotting, forcing him to spent the rest of Herbology vomiting giant slugs. Filius did his best to get rid of the slimy creatures, but the laughter from the other students just made things worse. 

Professor Dumbledore managed to slow the amount of slugs coming out in the next class, but the damage had already been done for the most part. Still, at least he was able to complete his beetle-to-button transfiguration alongside Minerva, who had been staring at him in worry mixed with something he couldn’t quite pinpoint. After both Gryffindor and Slytherin got points for being the first to complete the task (Slytherin for doing so despite vomiting slugs at random intervals), the Scottish girl at Tom for powering through.

Thankfully by lunchtime the spell had worn off, though Tom spent quite some time in the bathroom rinsing out the rest of the slime that was still sitting in his mouth. 

With the increased amount of spells that he’d been hit with already (with no sign of letting up), perhaps it was time to fight back. 

Tom’s face was blank when both Hornby and her friends came down to the Great Hall the next morning with boils that could only be removed if they were popped. Filius, Minerva, and Pomona all glanced at him and knew, giving him wry smiles in the beauty of vengeance. Filius drilled him on how he tweaked that curse once he got Tom alone, excitedly picking apart the things they could do to make it worse (for science, of course). 

Sometimes Tom’s timing sucked. By that, he meant that the Chamber had decided that today the only entrance and exit point would be the second floor girl’s bathroom. Checking the one-way window that was disguised as a mirror from the other side again, the boy took a deep breath and let it out slowly. There didn’t appear to be any movement, so he decided it was now or never to get out of the place lest he miss dinner. 

It was the sobs that seemed to bounce off the walls that immediately told him that his assumption was once again wrong. There was definitely someone in the bathroom. Specifically, there was a girl wailing in one of the stalls at the end of the room, her voice drowning out the sound of moving stone. 

For a second Tom stood there, conflicted. On one hand, the noises the crying girl was making perfectly covered his arrival and would allow him to slip away unnoticed to dinner. On the other hand, there was a girl crying and nobody had come to check on her and if she stayed here any longer she would be skipping a meal (a horrible thing in his opinion). With a sigh, Tom made his choice.

“Hullo.” 

He cringed slightly as his voice echoed, but it served its purpose as the wailing stopped. The sound of sniffling could be heard accompanied by the sound of the stall door opening. 

“You’re a boy.” the mystery girl’s voice stated, her head barely peeking from behind the door, “Boy’s aren’t allowed in here.”

“I heard you crying and wanted to make sure that you were alright.” Tom answered, which was admittedly the truth (even if large parts were omitted), “I’m Tom Riddle.”

The stall door opened completely now, revealing the girl to be nine other than the first yet that had fallen in the lake. Her pigtails hung at the sides of her head like limp plant, but that could be because they were covered in some sort of slimy substance. His memory immediately went to the slug incident and he felt a twinge of empathy. 

“M-Myrtle. Myrtle Warren.” the girl stammered out, her face rapidly turning red, “What a horrid sight I must be... red and puffy and covered in gunk... in front of a boy no less...”

It became apparent that she was talking more to herself than him, most likely to stave off embarrassment or push him away, but Tom was having none of it. 

“Who did this to you?”

Another sniffle.

“Olive Hornby.” was the reply, tinged with anger and resentment, “She got me just outside the door and made a bucket of slime dump itself on me. I think she had help from Peeves too. I heard him laughing with her and her friends as she left .”

“Ah, Hornby.” Tom muttered to himself this time, “Makes sense. She’s a nasty bint. Hexed me to vomit slugs a week ago.”

His comment made Warren look up at him with hope in her eyes. Tom could read her thoughts like an open book. ‘You’re like me.’ Her expression then became shy as she wiped away the various liquids on her face. 

“D-do you think you could fix me up before dinner?” Warren asked shyly, “It would be horrid for me to show up to dinner like this, but I guess that’s what Hornby wanted.”

Tom gave her a beaming smile, which oddly enough only made her redden more. He began to mentally list the cleaning spells needed for this job. 

“I’d be happy to.”

Pomona, Tom, and Filius sat together in the stands as they watched Minerva go through hoops, caught quaffles, and flung the red balls into the tiny hoops suspended nearly fifty feet in the air. Ever since the first time on the train the girl had dreamed of one day becoming a Chaser. Now her wish was coming true as she displayed her skill for the team to see. From the expressions of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, who desperately needed to fill the void that one of their Chashers had left when she gradated, it looked to be a certain shoo-in for Minerva. His suspicions were confirmed when she ran to them, breathing hard, to give them the good news. 

Tom’s own tryouts were... interesting. 

To be honest, he was convinced that no one would even watch him when he came (and by that he mean the Slytherin Quidditch team, because the Three Musketeers and oddly enough Myrtle came to see him fly) to try out for the now-available Seeker position. Then again, it appeared that everyone who was watching started to get the attention of those who weren’t the moment Tom leapt off his broom in order the catch a Snitch five feet below him before his broom zoomed up beneath him and he spun on it as if it were a horizontal gymnastic bar. When he flew down to present the Snitch to the Captain (after being in the air for less than two minutes), the young boy blinked at the whooping crowd as the older Slytherin mechanically took the golden ball with the fluttering wings from his hands. 

A couple of other tryouts later and Tom was mystified when he did, in fact, make it on the team as Seeker. When he asked his friends what all the commotion was about, Minerva giggled as she explained the reactions. Apparently Tom had forgotten how to fly properly and was pulling increasingly insane and death-defying moves that he usually did when he practiced alone, which translated to amazing-ridiculous-flying skills now that he was applying those moves to regular Quidditch. 

The next day Rolanda Hooch marched up to Tom and demanded that he not play for Slytherin. When he told her ‘no’ she nearly had a nervous breakdown. 

Dueling tryouts were much easier, as Professor Merrythought just smiled at them before signing him and Filius up. Both boys proceeded to rise in the ranks fairly quickly with their skill and speed,

On another note, Tom had been spending more time with Myrtle, who had taken to following him around after she caught him wandering the castle aimlessly (due to his friends’ friends housemates not wanting the Slytherin around) and decided to tag along. She was rather bright underneath her self conscious exterior, and the dark haired child was happy that he was chipping away at her shell (and she had warmed up to him considerably after they both told the other that they were muggleborns). In fact, Myrtle was rapidly becoming Tom’s partner in crime in their revenge plots, the girl’s ability to find anything in the library became highly valuable. It was not unusual to see Tom sitting with her at the Ravenclaw table, pouring over books and making references that only those raised in the Muggle world could understand. 

Unfortunately, being as bright as she was, at some point Myrtle became brave enough to question certain things about her green clad friend. Specifically, things about the day we met.

“Hey Tom.” The younger Ravenclaw asked one day, the nervousness in her voice betraying the nonchalant attitude she was trying to portray, “What were you doing when you found me in the toilets?”

Blinking a few times, the boy in question looked up from his book to regard her. 

“I was on my way to dinner when I heard you crying.” he answered, a little confused by the sudden change in topic from the breeding habits of boggarts, “Why do you ask?”

“Because before Hornby closed the door I heard her cast a silencing charm on it.” Myrtle answered, her eyes narrowed behind her round glasses, “The only way you could have heard me crying is if you were already in the bathroom. What were you doing in the bathroom, Tom?”

When Tom didn’t answer right away, Myrtle’s eyes narrowed even further.

“You weren’t perving were you?” she asked suspiciously.

“W-what?” Tom sputtered, “No!”

“Were you trying to get a peek at the girls going to the toilet?”

“No! Ew!”

“Pervert!”

“Myrtle!”

“Well then what were you doing?” Myrtle questioned with a raised eyebrow.

“If I show you,” Tom groaned out, “Will you promise not the tell anyone else?” 

“...Now I’m worried.” the Ravenclaw girl said after a few seconds, her eyes wide. 

“So let me get this straight.” Myrtle began as she stared down at the tunnel hidden behind the sink that never worked, “You’re not a pervert, but your ancestor was?”

Tom shrugged, not really sure himself. 

“More or less.” he admitted, “As far as I know anyway. Why else put one of the permanent entrances and exits in a girl’s lavatory?”

The boy then turned to the stunned girl and held out his hand to her smiling.

“Do you want to see what’s down the rabbit hole, Alice?” Tom asked her with a teasing edge.

Myrtle stared at Tom for a good minute before slowly taking his hand, curiosity burning in her eyes. Together, the two of the slid down the large pipe (which was now devoid of gunk since Tom had been obsessively cleaning the place since he found the Chamber) as the sink rose up back to its proper place, making it look like nothing had transpired.

Because that was the thing about bathrooms. They were helpful in the oddest of ways. 

Chapter Text

So the last chapter was something rather strange, but then again, strangeness is what makes things interesting. Don’t you agree? Unpredictability is what drives a crackfic such as this. Every out-of-the-blue idea thrown at the reader can make you laugh at the sheer obscurity, the ridiculousness, the randomness. But not all randomness is good, and sometimes it’s hard to find the perfect morsel of insanity that doesn’t seem too random lest it errs in the side of stupid. 

Sometimes though, you just have to pick and hope that people like it. 

On that subject, this chapter’s rant is on Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans. I know, weird right? But there’s a few things that have always irked me about the magical treat. First of all, what is it that constitutes as ‘Every Flavor’? Is it just what the taster would consider a flavor or is it anything that has a taste? In that case, there are a lot of ‘flavors’ that would be just plain disgusting. Think about it, if there is ‘Every Flavor’, the amount of relatively palatable flavors is greatly outweighed by ones that are just plain gross. It’s like Taste Russian Roulette except there’s four bullets in the six round chamber instead of just one.

There will be at least a few people who consecutively and constantly get bad beans through sheer probability. 

Secondly, how does the taster even know the flavors of the grosser ones? When Dumbledore answers ‘Alas, Earwax’ does that mean he inherently knew the taste of earwax or had he eaten earwax before? Is there magic imbued within the bean that tells the person eating it what flavor it is? Perhaps this is why wizards can relate so many different flavors without ever having eaten the real thing - they’ve just had the bloody bean. So if someone gets really specific on what something tastes like, chances are they’ve had the famous candy to give them a sensory library large enough to encompass things that should never be ingested. 

But I suppose that the thrill of the vast amount of flavors is what keeps people coming back to the sweet. You just take a bean and hope you get a good one. Maybe this one won’t be Sand or Pre-Treated Leather or the dreaded Unwashed Dingy Motel Carpet. 

Eeeeeeugh. 

Hah, but what do you care about such fictional sweets? It’s not like the Muggle world has anything remotely close, not even the promotional ones that Jelly Belly and Universal Studios has. Not to the extent of every flavor. Perhaps the Muggle world simply isn’t ready for that kind of thing yet. Besides, it’s not like anyone would want disgusting flavors mass-produced. That’s just bad for business unless it’s a prank shop. Maybe the Weasley Twins would have made it big on the other side if they hid some of their more obviously magical wares. 

This FSA (Fanfiction Service Announcement) is now over, so let’s continue to our regularly scheduled story.

After her initial freak out, Myrtle warmed up to Esmeralda considerably. And by considerably Tom meant unusually quickly for the ten minutes that the two had known each other for. This worried Tom slightly, if only because he had to be a translator between the two (though thankfully Esmeralda understood English well enough for him to only have to interpret one way)  and the subjects they were talking about quickly turned to him and his apparent lack of social skills (which he had!). Translating a conversation between two people (well, a girl and a snake) when they spoke about embarrassing things about you was mortifying to say the least, but neither conversationalist seemed to care about that. 

The good thing that came out of this experience was that Myrtle no longer thought of Tom as a pervert and had agreed to keep Esmeralda’s existence (or at least her location and the fact that she was a gigantic Basilisk) a secret. This did not stop her from talking about her in a roundabout way, mostly to tease Tom about the basilisk’s grandmotherly personally. 

“She’s like your Fairy Snake Mom.” The Ravenclaw girl giggled out as he led her to her next class to make sure she wasn’t hexed.

It was nearly Christmas holidays (and by almost, he meant the cusp of November and December), and everyone was excited to get a break from all the schoolwork (mainly essays or exam studies for the O.W.L and N.E.W.T students).

“That’s just horrible.” was all Tom replied as he disabled a jinx that was set to make whoever passed the threshold grow their teeth indefinitely.

Tom had already signed up to stay at the castle and Myrtle had looked a little despondent that she wouldn’t be able to meet him in London until the summer and had nearly decided to stay as well to be with her friend until the boy explained the importance of family (and how he would have loved to be in her shoes...alright so maybe he had played the orphan card a little harshly but it was a sore subject for him in his defense).

“Es-mom-ralda.” Myrtle added, bumping into his arm playfully, her cheeks tinged pink from laughing.

There was also that little tidbit of Britain declaring war almost as soon as the school year had started (and hadn’t he dodged a bullet with that?). While Myrtle and her family might not feel the effects, and orphanage like Wool’s most certainly will. He didn’t want to be around for that, no sirree.

“That’s even worse.” Tom shot back almost automatically, his own jinx hitting Fudge in the face before the bumbling idiot could cast his own.

With this shared secret, the younger girl had begun to behave at ease with him. She reminded him of a rabbit most days, hopping to and fro madly at the slightest movement, but flopping over as soon as safety was assured. Her floppy pigtails only solidified the image, as did the bounce in her step whenever she walked (well, skipped he supposed) beside him. 

Hop, hop, hop. 

“Oh like you could come up with any better.” was Myrtle’s chuckled retort before turning to face him (was it just him, or were her cheeks slightly pinker?) and mumbling, “Thank you for walking me to class again.”

At this, Tom shrugged nonchalantly. 

“I’m only a couple doors away anyway.” he told her with a tilted head, “Besides, if I could stop at least on prank pulled on you, it’s worth it, innit?”

Oh yeah, definitely pinking. 

“T-true...” she squeaked out in a close imitation of Filius before bustling into class and leaving Tom confused on why she was acting like this. 

Strolling into the Transfiguration classroom, he sat next to Minerva as usual. What wasn’t usual was the expression his friend wore on her face, which looked as if she had tasted something particularly sour. Slightly worried, eyes turned to regard her. 

“Minnie are you alright?”

“Fine.” was the curt reply.

Tom didn’t need to use his ability to know that was a lie, so he waited a couple of seconds for her to speak again. 

“You’re spending a lot of time with Myrtle recently, Tom.”

“Really?” Tom asked genuinely as Professor Dumbledore arrived, “I hadn’t noticed. Does that bother you?”

“N-no!” She squeaked out, and the Slytherin wondered if today was Talk-Like-Filius Day (with added stuttering and pinking cheeks!), “But I had hoped you would have joined us near the Lake today. It’s not right for us just to catch up during class and study groups.”

“Rolanda always gives me the death glare every time we see each other since I joined the Quidditch Team and the rest of the others bar you, Filius, and Pomona don’t seem to like me very much.” Tom pointed out for the millionth time, his dark eyes staring at the white rabbits that were deposited on their desk, “Besides, we take meals together as well.”

Minerva seemed to sigh at that, knowing full well they’d just go around in circles. Silence stretched between them as the two star pupils dutifully focused on the lesson until it was time to practice turning the rabbits into a pair of slippers. The Scottish lass rolled up her sleeves, but before she could even attempt the incantation she was stopped by Tom, who picked up each rabbit individually and held it to his ear. 

“What are you doing?” she asked incredulously as Tom did the same for her rabbits.

“I’m making sure none of them are the White Rabbit.” he replied in full seriousness.

“But they’re all white rabbits.” Minerva answered confusedly.

“Not just white rabbits,” Tom stressed as he lifted the last wriggling bunny to his ear and listened closely, “The White Rabbit. The one that knows the way to Wonderland. It would be a shame if something were to happen to him, you know?”

“Oh...” Minerva answered with a quirk of her lips, “Well what do you think?”

“They’re just regular rabbits.” was his conclusion, “But you’re more than welcome to check.”

“And how do I do that?” she asked in half amusement and half curiosity.

“Hold each one up to your ear and listen to see if any of them start talking.”

From his place at the teacher’s desk, Albus Dumbledore smiled at the antics of the two brightest students in his class as he watched his lion cub lift the fluffy creature to her ear and tried very hard to listen for something akin to speech. It was an interesting lesson. 

Despite this delay, the two of them were still the first to correctly complete the transfiguration. 

“So you’re staying over the hols then, Mona?”

“Ah, y-yes!” Pomona answered to the only person outside the Musketeers allowed to call her that, her usual rosy face moreso today, “I recently found out that wild Moly is best harvested at around Christmastime for the best effects, so I’ve decided to stay and scour the forest to see if I can find some.”

In the background, Professor Binns droned on about the second goblin war. Crabbe and Goyle were both out cold, snoring loudly from their desks and making everyone sitting around them scoot a couple of inches away from their sheer stench. Malfoy was making disgusted faces as he and Lestrange played hangwizard (the drawing animates itself and the man forming always has a look of panic if he’s nearing his inevitable end). As for the other Hufflepuffs, they were sitting around chatting. Everyone knew Binns’ lectures were easier read than listened to. 

Pomona fidgeted a little as her cheeks reddened more.

“Hey Tom...” the Hufflepuff girl began, “W-would you mind helping me look for the flowers over the holidays?”

Finishing his drawing of a snake twisting inside a skull (which also moved because magical ink was amazing), the dark haired boy turned to smile at her friend. They’d have to go to the Forbidden Forest to get the flowers anyway, and any excuse to go exploring there was a great one to Tom. Besides, if anyone knew plants, it would be Pomona.

“Sure!” he answered brightly, and the Hufflepuff girl looked as if he had just told her that it was her birthday (well, it was her unbirthday, so maybe that was it?).

It appeared like Pomona was the only one of the Musketeers that was staying, as seen by Filius’ excited meet-you-later wave that required him to flail his arm up above his head in a manner that would be weird for someone of regular size but fit the half-goblin well. Minerva herself was returning to her magical farm in the countryside, and had cast an odd look at a rather smug Pomona. The exchange was rather confusing, but it seemed to be an inside reference that he wasn’t privy to so he let it drop. Myrtle cried before hugging him goodbye (but she did that usually, though she had been getting better) and Tom told her to stay safe while on holidays.

Unlike the holidays prior, Tom now had a friend to spend his time with. One that didn’t like leaving him to his own devices. Granted, it was nice to spend time with someone around his age over the break, but it meant that he couldn’t visit Esmeralda unless he revealed to her the Basilisk’s true nature (which was something that Tom wanted to show them as a group.. hopefully soon because Myrtle already knew). He managed to sneak in some visits at night though, which the serpent both appreciated and admonished him for, claiming that he should be spending more time with his human friends. 

As promised, he accompanied Pomona into the Forest to search for Moly flowers on the morning of Christmas Eve. It had been a rather fun experience, picking the black stemmed blue flowers that reminded him of Forget-Me-Nots alongside a happier-than-usual Pomona Sprout. He needed to brush up on his plant-based humor, but the Hufflepuff seemed to take it all in stride and laughed hard at every single one (she didn’t even look like she was faking, but honestly his jokes were so bad she had to be). With satchels full of flowers Tom and Pomona returned to the castle, unaware that a pair of twinkling blue eyes were watching from the window. 

The next day contained an abundance of joy as everyone rushed down the stairs with their presents. Admittedly Tom had been a little more creative with his gifts, tweaking the items with a bit of fancy wandwork. It seemed his friends had similar ideas as well. 

To each of his friends Tom had given a mechanical animal. Filius got another canary to add to the first, Minerva was given a tabby cat, Pomona got a chipmunk, and Myrtle got a white rabbit in a waistcoat with a pocket watch. Tom himself had a snake that strongly resembled Oscar. Each animal was linked to one another, and were created to be used as communication devices similar to telephone, though only Tom had the ability to contact the rest, having the ‘master’ phone. The others could only reach the snake and not each other, though Tom had attempted it to be the latter, he simply didn’t have the knowledge to do so as the only reason the snake could connect to the other ones was because he nitpicked the snake-speech activations that the entrance to the Chamber used and reverse engineered the effects. 

Dumbledore got a packet of cola gummies, to which his favorite Professor took to though the man admitted to liking the lemon drops more (with a wink). 

On the flip side, Filius decided to go with something with a sense of humor because his present was a model bluebird that exploded into feathers when chucked at something before reforming on the perch. Minerva had gotten him a pocket watch that transfigured itself into a white rabbit that would start shouting ‘You’re late! You’re late!’ if he was behind schedule. Pomona had decided to give him his present in person, which comprised of a glass phial with a potion that she had brewed with the Molys they had picked the day before, intended to protect one from Dark Arts (which included not only curses but jinxes and hexes as well). 

Myrtle had gone for something more subdued, choosing instead to give him a black leather bound journal (“So that you can remember all those ideas you prattle on about”, she had written) with his full name embossed in gold lettering. How her parents even allowed her to get such a present to someone who was clearly a male friend, he wasn’t sure. That is, until he flipped open the cover and a neatly folded piece of paper fell out. The message it conveyed was also rather straightforward.

TOUCH HER WITH MORE THAN A HUG AND YOU DIE.

That was probably from her father.

P.S. We’d love to see a picture of you!

Aaaaand that was probably her mother. 

The rest of the day was spent on snowball fights and Christmas crackers, and sitting by the fires in the Slytherin Common Room (which Tom had sneaked her into, being the only one in his house that had stayed behind). While the dungeons rather drafty, Tom didn’t really feel all that cold, but Pomona insisted on sitting close to him for warmth. Odd, but who was he to judge? He always did have a knack for strange things. 

Soon enough the holidays were over and the rest of the student population returned. Minerva, Filius, and Myrtle all seemed rather excited at the prospect of what Tom’s gifts could do and were looking forward to using them. The AniPhones turned out to be incredibly useful, even if they could only contact Tom through it. Oddly enough, the girls seemed rather elated with the prospect, though outside the convenience factor the orphan couldn’t fathom as to why. 

When classes started up again, Pomona’s potion was put to good use as Hornby and Fudge retuned full force with their cruel pranking, nullifying some dangerous spells that could have cost Tom some serious class time (like a hex to make one’s feet turn into gerbils). It was also funny to look at the faces of those idiots once they noticed that their spells didn’t work, and even funnier to watch their reactions when they got revenge pranked. Malfoy and Lestrange, who had been watching Tom get more... creative... with his pranks seemed to avoid contact with him as much as possible, and that suited him just fine. 

His worry was a little more closer to home. 

Specifically the odd behavior of some of his close friends. While he had noticed the oddities before, now they were so obvious they couldn’t be ignored. Being closer to exams, Minerva, Pomona, and Myrtle had each asked to study with him. Deciding to make good use of his time, he invited all three to a group study session alongside Filius. The resulting meeting had a tense undertone, though for what reason he couldn’t pinpoint, though he did notice it was between the girls. Filius appeared unaffected by... whatever this was, although he did seem to give an almost exasperated look to Pomona and Minerva whenever one of them asked a question that they already knew the answer to. Myrtle had then smiled sweetly and started talking about Esmeralda (omitting any indication of her snakeyness). Things went downhill from there and after an hour of this passive aggressive standoff the girls left in a huff, leaving a bewildered Tom and an amused Filius to study alone. 

Why did he end up with the weird drama?

Spells flew in wild abandon as the two top duelists in the club duked it out, Professor Merrythought watching the stage as a judge. Exams over, and this was the final meet of the Dueling Club before everyone went home for the summer. 

“Hey Filius.” Tom spoke up as he cast a freezing charm at the half-goblin’s feet.

“What is it, Tom?” Filius answered as he side stepped the spell and threw a deep purple hex in the muggleborn’s direction.

“Minnie, Myrtle, and ‘Mona have been acting strangely recently.” the dark eyed boy replied, sidestepping the spell (and its intended rebound) easily and made lighting strike at his opponent’s heels “And by recent I mean before, during, and after Christmas. I know I haven’t known Myrtle for all that long but still... they’ve been, er, out of character recently.”

“You’re growing, Tom.” Filius said cryptically as he danced around the crackling lightning and snapped off a body bind hex, “Soon you will have more like that to deal with, and who knows? Maybe one day you’ll know why.”

“...What?” was all Tom could come up with. 

He narrowly missed the petrification spell, flinging a bright pink spell that caused the short Ravenclaw to dance the flamingo in his incredulity as the boy had been distracted by laughing at the look on the muggleborn’s face. The duel ended with Tom casting Expelliarmus and catching the still-cackling boy’s wand. Professor Merrythought blew her whistle and proclaimed Tom the winner, the other members of the club congratulating both duelists on their performance. As the two made their way to the Great Hall, Filius slowed in his laughter enough to answer.

“You know, for someone who’s usually so perceptive of the world around him, you really are blind to this aren’t you?” he spoke between sporadic bouts of chuckles.

“Blind to what?” Tom asked confused.

“One day, Tom.” Filius answered with a shake of his head, “One day you’ll know. I want to be there to see it when it happens, though. I’m sure it’ll be priceless.”

With that unhelpful snippet being the only thing he got from the boy, Tom shrugged helplessly. He’ll find a way to figure out whatever was going on and make sure the girls were alright. It wasn’t good to see them so tense. They were his friends after all, and friends looked after one another even if they were acting odd and accosting you at random times in the halls asking to study with you and clamming up as soon as you smile or compliment them. 

Summer was interesting, and by interesting Tom meant horrid. The muggle side of the world was in full blown war mode, which meant rationed food and the constant threat of being attacked by the enemy. It was a good thing he had made those animal-phones after all, as a regular post owl would not have fared well in skies that were being watched for strange happenings. 

For most of the summer the orphan spend his time in his room reading his books, training his snakes, talking to his friends, or doing homework. Sometimes he would venture out to the bakery to get something to eat - Mrs. Rosewood apparently catered more to magical folk hence why she wasn’t affected by the food rationing, or visit Mr. Burke who had no idea wha5 was happening in the Muggle world (not that he wanted to, the man was incredibly dismissive of those without magic or magical blood, how he liked Tom at all was beyond the boy’s understanding of the shady shop owner). 

He did manage to find a rather pretty locket with an S on it that on the other part of the store, the part with all the cursed knick-knacks. It was something that the boy would have initially overlooked if it weren’t for the fact that the magic surrounding it was very... familiar. When he had picked it up, it felt like he was holding something very dear. Mr. Burke was initially rather hard pressed to give it to Tom, explaining how the necklace (Slytherin’s Locket) was priceless until the boy explained the odd feeling attached to it. Paling, Mr. Burke allowed him to purchase it (thank goodness his investments were doing so well that he could afford such things...) and Tom happily left the store with the locket (which felt...happy) dangling from his neck beneath his shirt. 

That night he dreamt of wayward eyes and a woman’s scratchy voice singing a lullaby.

On another note, his female friends had gone back to their casual behavior, probably because each conversation was one on one instead of a group. With the Musketeers he discussed the upcoming elective classes, and which ones each would take. Minerva had wanted to attempt every single class (which was something not even Filius had decided to try), but the others seemed to focus more on arthimancy, care of magical creatures, and runes. 

Soon enough (though not as soon as he had hoped) Tom was once again boarding the scarlet steam train back home. Having come early again, the boy scoured the compartments in the back (which were larger than the ones at the front) for something that might fit the growing number of people riding with him. 

Opening up a compartment, Tom found himself faced with a large black wall. A wall that was breathing and made of cloth and oh that’s not a wall at all wide dark eyes looked up, way up, and realized that the wall was in fact a person. A very, very large person. 

“Um...” Tom began, “Hello.”

From somewhere near the ceiling the head moved to look down, and the boy could make out the beady eyes that seemed miles away. How did anyone grow that tall anyhow, and how did he not notice such a person before? Unless...

“‘Ello.” the not-wall replied, his booming voice coming off nervous, “Didn’ see yeh there... sorry.”

“Nonsense.” Tom waved off the apology, “You didn’t do anything wrong and no one was hurt or maimed or traumatized for life. Are you a first year?” 

“Er... yeah...” the giant first year replied hesitantly, “Know I don’ look like it. ‘Ad to move to the back ‘cause all the ones in the front were too small.”

Tom nodded in understanding. The giant boy (at least, he thought it was a boy, for all he knew it could be a girl with an oddly deep voice like the bearded ladies at the circus) had his head nearly touching the low ceiling of the train as is, at least he could spread out a little more here. Curiosity piqued about the nature of the new student (and besides, Filius would find this hilarious), Tom settled in one of the compartment seats next to the boy after putting his trunk away. 

“Yeh...yeh’re sayin here?” the giant boy asked, a bit of hope tinging his voice. 

“You’re interesting.” Tom replied with a nod of his head before holding his arm out, “I’m Tom Riddle, third year.”

His hand was nearly crushed by the sheer size of the other boy’s hand.

“Rubeus Hagrid!” he boomed with a smile before noticing Tom’s wince and let go, “Whoops...sorry.”

The mildly throbbing hand was worth it when Filius came through the door moments later, the diminutive Ravenclaw’s jaw practically hitting the floor upon seeing the giant Hagrid. Filius took the seat next to Tom so that all the boys were on one side, his eyes twinkling in awe and curiosity. In the time it took for the girls to arrive, Tom learned that Hagrid was a half-giant, which boggled his mind a little. He had read about giants (and their size and strength) and was also well aware of how people procreate (the joys of living in an orphanage...). Which led him to the most pressing question.

“How?”

Filius, who had immediately caught on to Tom’s train of thought, snickered at the orphan’s bewildered expression. Meanwhile, Hagrid looked at the smaller boys in confusion.

“Well, my da’ met my mum when she was still with her clan...”

“Wait wait wait.” Tom interrupted with wide, dark eyes, “Your mother was the giant?” 

“Huh?” Hagrid started at the sudden outburst before beaming, “Yeah, me da’s a wizard. Great chap, me da. Raised me on his own when mum left when I was three.”

A shuffle from his pockets, and moments later Hagrid was holding up a photo of him at around six or seven (he assumed) with a comparatively tiny man sitting on his shoulders. Which meant that Hagrid’s mother was a giantess. But...how would that work?! If Tom Riddle had been a computer, you would be seeing the blue screen of death. Distantly he could hear Filius cackling uncontrollably and the sound of the compartment door opening. As Tom’s mental systems rebooted from its untimely crash, his ears picked up the distinct voices of Minerva, Pomona, and Myrtle. 

By the time his proverbial programs were running once more, Tom realized that everyone in the compartment was staring at him in worry (the girls), confusion (Hagrid), and mirth (Filius). Blinking a couple of times, the dark haired child mechanically turned to the half-giant boy and stared at him blankly.

“I am going to ignore everything about your mother until I meet your father.” Tom told the first year resolutely, “And when I meet him I’m going to get answers, whether I like it or not.”

“Um, Tom?” Myrtle asked with a raised eyebrow, “Isn’t the saying ‘whether you like it or not’?”

“No.” was the flat answer, eyes not striating from Hagrid, “I meant what I said.”

Looking at each other (was it just him, or did the girls form a truce while he was out of it?), each of his friends turned to each other and shrugged. Hagrid, wide eyed in bewilderment, simply nodded. 

The awkward moment was broken by the trolley lady, who smiled up at the rag tag group of friends who descended upon her load of sweets like a pack of seagulls (and a very large mountain dog). Eyes glinting, Minerva bought a couple of boxes of the infamous Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor beans. Tom groaned as the Three Musketeers burst out laughing. At Myrtle and Hagrid’s confused looks, Pomona elaborated.

“Every year during our ride to Hogwarts,” the Hufflepuff began with a smile as she opened up a box and began to pass it around, “We take a box of Bertie Bott’s and each of us gets a bean. Whoever gets the strangest flavor wins the round. By the time the train ride is over, the one with the most wins gets to take the rest of the sweets home.” 

“That’s... interesting.” Myrtle answered slowly, as she put her hand into the box and plucked out a grey bean with black specks.

“So who won the last few years?” Hagrid asked curiously as he accepted his own bean.

Each Musketeer answered at the same time with wide, knowing smirks. 

“Tom.”

The aforementioned teen groaned before putting his head in his hands. 

“The game actually started because of him, too.” Minerva snickered, “He always got the oddest beans, right Tom?”

“Unfortunately.” was the grumbled reply, lifting up his bean like a grizzled detective would lift a shot of whiskey, “Cheers.”

Each of them copied his movements before eating their bean. Taking out a piece of parchment and adding Hagrid and Myrtle’s names, Minerva looked around the compartment. 

“I got cheese, what about you lot?”

“Cactus.” Pomona answered cheerily.

“Soot.” Myrtle said with an odd look, “I don’t know how I knew that.”

“Sand.” Filius piped up, “There’s a spell in the bean that tells you what the flavor it is.”

“Cinnamon.” Hagrid grunted happily. 

They turned to the last one of their number, who was chewing the bean with a scrunched up face.

“Paper soaked in Basilisk venom.”

“See?” Minerva crowed, “He gets the strangest things!”

“It’s... not terrible.” Tom felt he needed to add, “It’s a little bitter though.”

This time Hagrid, Myrtle, and the Musketeers stared at him. The boy shrugged as he took another bean. Quill poised, Minerva sat ready to write down the next round.

“Pickles.” the Scottish girl grumbled out.

“Mayonnaise.” Pomona stated.

“Toad warts!” Filius squeaked our with a disgusted expression. 

“Myrrh.” Myrtle put her own two cents in, “Which isn’t half bad.”

“Gunpowder.” Hagrid muttered, “Pretty dry...”

Tom practically spat out his bean, coughing hard. As the other members of the compartment stared at him, the Slytherin purified his tongue by burning it away using an acid pop. A few moments passed as his tongue grew back, the magic of the candy returning it to its former state.

“What did you get?” Filius asked in half horror.

“Mama June after hot yoga.” Tom mumbled out.

“Who’s Mama June?” Pomona asked confused.

“I don’t know.’ the boy answered, “But why is it that I get all the crazy flavors?”

“Because you’re the one that can handle it!” Minerva told him with a smirk, “After all, you gambled on all of us, do you regret that?”

Tom rolled his eyes and smiled.

“Not one bit.”

Because that’s the thing about Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans. You never know what you’re gonna get.

(Yes, the same can be applied to boxes of chocolates.)

Chapter Text

Welcome back all ye scallywags and sing along with me! Oh wait, I got distracted by a purple cape. Welcome back, dear readers. It appears that Rubeus Hagrid had joined Tom Riddle on his adventures as a party member! Tom really has such a knack for making friends with the most interesting people, doesn’t he? It must be his natural charisma, the same kind that allowed him to rise through the ranks and become a Dark Lord in another life. 

On what is probably a completely unrelated note, today’s topic is on bees! BEES! BEES EVERYWHERE! 

...Okay, I’m getting a little overexcited about this. But they’re just the cutest little things! With their little legs and fuzzy bodies and their tiny wings that are far too small to keep them zipping in the air but they do it anyway because they believe that they can and that’s all that matters. The most interesting thing, however, about bees to me isn’t their stingers or their ability to fly or make honey. It’s their swarming. 

You see, if you swat or attack or hurt or kill a bee while amongst other bees, a distress signal is released. When that happens, the other bees will swarm to attack the one doing the offense. Despite the fact that they’re attacks are basically suicide at their end and do little to no damage (unless you’re allegeric... then I suppose they’re stings are quite effective in their goal), all of the bees will still swarm to protect or defend their slighted member with everything that they have. 

God forbid the Queen was attacked, eh?

But seriously, you have to admire the dedication bees have to each other. Loyalty to the hive that, in a sense, they are each a part of in mind, body, and soul. And you can’t deny that each little bee does their part and works hard to make sure the hive survives. It makes you think about whether or not the badger is the reason why Hufflepuffs don the yellow and black. 

And no, I’m not a bee. Why would you even think that? Who told you that? I deny everything! You can’t prove it! I’m definitely a human! I have two arms and two legs and two eyes and a nose and a long tail and... oh that’s not part of a human, is it? Well it’s not like you’d believe me if I told you I wasn’t a bee anywho.

I digress though. While bees are adorable and fuzzy and make delicious honey, it doesn’t have anything to do with the story whatsoever (unless you are of mind in calling Dumbledore ‘Bumblebee’, then I guess there is a connection to the tale after all). I have stalled you here long enough, so let us continue onwards and see what’s going on with our wonderful protagonist, shall we?

Tom was once again reminded how lucky he was to be a Hogwarts student. Not even a week into classes and apparently the Germans had decided to bomb London. By air. Continuously. The orphan was already shaken just reading about it in the papers that Myrtle got sent by her parents, who had come running to him in tears as the only one in their friend group who would understand the devastation the explosive Muggle weapons caused. Seeing as how Myrtle had curbed her crying habit, seeing her in such a state was nearly heartbreaking as she worried about her parents’ safety. They had promised to send a message every day, but both students knew full well that such a vow was unrealistic in a war zone that the city had apparently become. 

Instead, Tom charmed another figurine (this one of a little girl with long blond hair and a light blue dress which the boy named Alice) and connected it to Myrtle’s White Rabbit. Using a school owl he sent it over to her parents, ordering the bird to be discreet. 

Two days later and Tom was knocked to the floor when the sobbing girl ran full force into him in the Great Hall, blubbering her thanks through her tears. A few students around them giggled, but he paid them no heed. He simply picked himself up, hoisted the younger Ravenclaw up, and returned the hug that she immediately initiated once she was standing. The Three Musketeers and Rubeus (who were well aware of the situation and therefore relieved at the outburst) all stood a little ways away, making sure the two of them weren’t hexed in their moment of weakness. 

After that things generally went back to normal. Rubeus had almost seamlessly joined Tom, Myrtle, and the Musketeers once he was sorted into the house of the Lions, which apparently was a point against the Slytherin for now associating with a half-breed Gryffindor. Not that Tom cared, of course, especially when some of the weaker willed Slytherins backed off insulting him once they got a close look at the sheer size of the first year. Rubeus had become oddly protective of their little friend group, and took any slight against them as a personal insult. During one of their office chats, Professor Dumbledore appeared to be rather happy with this, explaining that he sadly doubted most others would treat Rubeus as kindly as they did and was probably not used to having any friends, hence the protectiveness of the ones he now had to show that he was useful and worthy of keeping around. Since that conversation Tom had made it a point to prove that Rubeus didn’t need to prove anything and that he would be his friend no matter what... which only made the protectiveness even worse.

He was still keeping his grades up, though now Runes, Arithmancy, and Care of Magical Creatures were added to his list of classes. Arithmancy, while useful, was rather dull and annoying when it came to the meat of it, something shared by both Minerva and Filius to some extent. Despite this, he still managed to keep himself at the top of the class alongside them (though his impatience at doing such mind-numbing calculations had him ranked lower than his friends). 

Runes was far more exciting, as the risk and reward system was surprisingly relevant for something he initially though was written spellcasting. The more complex the rune, the worse the price (mainly manifesting as an explosion or summoning or turning the runemaker into a newt for some reason) if something went wrong. Which made everything all the more fun, even if everyone was afraid of him working on such things in his free time (think of the things you can put spells on that regular charms won’t work on, there’s even arrays to make spells permanent and hey why is that one considered illegal?). Myrtle had gone so far as to memorize his hissing pattern to enter the Chamber every time an explosion rocked the castle (which wasn’t much but still...okay, maybe it’s been a little more often than people hoped), dragging him away from his experiments so that he would remember to eat and sleep.

It was nearly universally accepted that Tom Riddle should not be allowed near any magical creatures that are remotely dangerous. This was not because of Tom himself being afraid of any of the creatures. Quite the opposite, really. The Slytherin had nearly burned himself on the fire crab that he was studying because he wanted to see if he could cook marshmallows (the answer is yes, yes you can), and almost got himself mauled teaching a bunch of porlocks to do a jig (which they totally did after a week of training). It didn’t help that Rubeus was egging Tom on the more dangerous creatures, discussing the beings as if they’re potentially dangerous attributes were simply harmless quirks. 

Even worse, the Slytherin had gotten it into his head that he needed a permit to care for creatures on his own (to others’ bewilderment, though Myrtle knew full well this was because of Esmeralda), his reason being that he wanted to train his own creatures to do tricks. With some forms filled and fees paid to the Ministry, the boy actually managed to get a permit all the way up to Class XXXXX. Although, unbeknownst to Tom, it was only supposed to be a permit up to Class XX but there had been a mysterious mix-up between Tom’s forms and a pureblood bureaucrat that had attempted to bribe his way to getting a permit to owning a Nundu like his ancestor. His file of complaint raised enough questions to launch an inquiry into why he was trying to keep a Nundu and had discovered a myriad of stolen goods in his basement along with a disturbing amount of adult material on pygmy elves. But Tom had no idea of such happenings, and was merely surprised with the full permit. Everyone else was both shocked and horrified of what that permit insinuated.

After all, Tom had the oddest ability to make creatures rather protective of him. The aforementioned fire crab had begun following him around offering to toast marshmallows in exchange to having some s’mores and the porlocks had started to create their own jigs to get a pleased compliment from the boy. While Tom did not find this odd in any way, most others did, and had started rumors that he had somehow cursed them to behave (Fudge) or had apparently seduced them (Hornby... for some reason). One was debunked by Professor Bovino, who demonstrated that there was not a spell on the creatures to influence such behavior, but the other one had become a rather popular explanation. Even his friends, laughing, had agreed to his annoyance (though he knew it was all in fun). 

The crowd roared in wild abandon, the ones clad in green and red most of all. Tom weaved around the goal posts, searching for that elusive fluttering golden ball. Waving cheerily from the top of his personal Moontrimmer at Minerva, who had the quaffle under her arm (and her waving back with a roll of her eyes), and Rolanda, who was shouting quidditch-fueled obscenities at him from her place as Keeper, he certainly would have gained the ire of his housemates if it weren’t for his skills on the field. Skills that had won Slytherin the Quidditch cup two years in a row. 

Maybe that’s why his house had virtually left him alone. At some point he’d proven that mudblood or not, he was too bloody valuable to antagonize. Even Malfoy and Lestrange had backed off, and the two of them had recently engaged him in a relatively enjoyable conversation in their dorm room (then again, it had been after they saw Tom wandlessly beat up a seventh year that accused him of stealing his magic to get as powerful as he was London-style). 

His team captain shouted at him to search for the Snitch instead of daydreaming about his inventions and figuring out how to better them (which was wrong, Tom was actually thinking about convincing the house elves in the Kitchens to make jelly donuts, but he wasn’t going to antagonize the already incensed Beater). Looking around, the mop of wavy dark hair got ruffled in the wind as it shifted to and fro, searching for the ball that almost seemed to enjoy forcing him to do circus-level tricks in order to catch it. 

A flash of reflected light coupled with the whirring sound of clockwork wings told Tom that the Snitch was near. Circling around the area to pinpoint where the bloody hummingbird-like ball was, Tom kept an ear out for the commentator’s voice for any tidbits of information. From the corner of his eye, the Slytherin Seeker saw the Gryffindor Seeker fly towards him, his hand outstretched as if preparing to catch the Snitch. Which was odd, because Tom couldn’t see damn thing in front of him...

...Unless it was behind him.

Turning his head back, he saw that indeed, the Gryffindor Seeker was closing in on the Snitch that appeared to be following Tom. There was no way he would be able to turn his broom fast enough to reach the Snitch in time. The other Seeker would have caught it already. Sighing to himself, Tom clutched the front of the broom handle and planted his feet on the shaft, tucking them under his chest before launching himself backwards off of his broom. His entire body arched in a graceful, practiced moment from years of acrobat training. 

Though the view was upside-down, the expression of sheer shock and fury on the other Seeker’s face was unmistakable as Tom closed his fist around the escaping Snitch, landing on his broom, which was trained to fly in his fall path. The screeches of complete rage from the scarlet and gold clad (and some of the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws) was almost drowned out by the cheers of the Serpent house, and both completely overtook the shrill sound of the whistle ending the game, Slytherin leading two-fifty to one hundred eighty. Slughorn himself looked as if he’d... well... like Chirstmas came early, he supposed. 

Other than shaking hands with an exhausted Minerva (who rolled her eyes at his death-defying stunt...again), Tom kept his distance from the Gryffindor team, especially Rolanda and the Seeker (what was his name again? Patil?) who appeared to be out for his blood. Luckily all blood superiority was cast aside in the face of a quidditch win, as he was quickly carried to the safety of their Common Room to celebrate their win over their main house rival. 

The next day Myrtle cackled as she admitted to snapping shots during his jump with the camera her parents had gotten her for her birthday, promising to give him a copy of the photo once it was treated with the special solution that would make it move. When asked why it was only a copy, the young Ravenclaw got a glint in her eyes as she told him that photos of him were in high demand lately. Asking her why only got him an odd look and a huff and Tom had to drop the subject before the silence got too awkward. 

Rubeus and Minerva (despite being on the losing team) congratulated him on the win, though Minerva seemed to be chatting animatedly with Myrtle along with Pomona and a couple of other girls (including Poppy and oddly enough, Rolanda). They wouldn’t tell him what they were taking about. Tom had asked Filius, but the half-goblin had just given him a mysterious knowing smile and patted him on the head (standing on the bench in the Great Hall to do so), and Rubeus hadn’t a clue either. 

The next Quidditch match against Ravenclaw wasn’t as fun though. It started out normal enough, but quickly turned to disaster when the Bludgers started acting strange, veering straight towards Tom no matter where they were hit. The crowd began to murmur, and Tom could see out of the corner of his eye that Dumbledore taking his wand out. He did his best to dodge the vicious balls, but even a skilled flyer such as himself could only weave so much before the first impact, a sickening crunch telling him his arm was broken. With only one arm working, it wasn’t long before the next Bludger hit him in the chest, knocking the wind out of him and sent him flying off of his broom. 

Time seemed to slow as he fell, his broom veering to meet him but with a broken arm and a bad angle it only made things worse as his back impacted on the handle, the sudden jarring collision knocking him out as he descended again, the screams of the crowd growing louder...

He awoke in the Hospital Wing, his entire body sore. The sound of sniffling made him turn his head (wincing a little as he did so) to see Myrtle crying in a chair to his right, a floral handkerchief in her hands as she dabbed away at her puffy eyes. 

“Please tell me you didn’t skip class to visit me.” he groaned out, alerting her to his awakened state, choking back a sob as she shook her head.

“You nearly die and all you can think about is if I’m missing classes?” she mumbled, shaking her head, “You really are something else, Tom. A real Mad Hatter.”

“You didn’t answer the question.” Tom replied, smiling as he watched the girl collect herself a little, “And this isn’t so bad. Madam Anise is very good at fixing injuries that are usually life-threatening.”

“I have a free period right now.” Myrtle told him grumpily, wiping away the tears that were still falling down her cheeks, “But you should really take your life a little more seriously, Tom. We were all so worried for you! Me, Minnie, Mona, and Fil nearly hexed Hornby within an inch of her life when we found out she was the one that had cursed the Bludgers.”

“Should’ve known Hornby would try to rig the game in Ravenclaws’ favor.” Tom muttered, ignoring her comment about him taking his life seriously (he was alive and well now, wasn’t he?) and going straight to the most important part of her statement, “Wait. Since when is he ‘Fil’?”

“Since we bonded over your unconscious stupid arse.” the girl grumbled, and Tom noted that she barely restrained herself from slapping him on the arm (which, on her side, was injured), “Broken arm, broken ribs, punctured lungs, slipped disc... Poppy had to help Madam Anise fix you up before you died from having your lungs drown in blood or you spine collapsing.”

Tom shrugged, hiding the wince as the movement sent a wave of pain through his body. True, this was the worst injury he sustained thus far, but years of living in a loveless orphanage had trained him in how to take (and hide) pain. So instead he smiled at the crying girl, patting the hands that clutched his like a lifeline. 

“Sounds about right. At least I was in good hands. So don’t fret, I’ll be back to terrorize you all soon enough.”

“Why don’t you care that you almost died, Tom?” the young Ravenclaw accused as she shot Tom a withering glare and sniffling, “What if you didn’t make it? What would we do if you died because Hornby has a vendetta against you?”

“Keep calm and carry on.” Tom replied, remembering the posters he saw during the summer, “And I’m terrified of dying, Myrtle. It’s one of my greatest fears aside from accidentally killing the White Rabbit and finding out that my entire life was a dream segment and that one day I’ll wake up and be old, bald, and noseless before getting my arse kicked by a kid with a lighting bolt scar.”

“That’s... highly specific.” Myrtle muttered before getting back on topic, “But if you’re so scared of dying, then why don’t you ever show it?”

“Because any weakness I show can be exploited by others.” he explained softly, “Hornby, Fudge, anyone really. If they see a weakness they’ll poke at it until I break. Besides, if I died, then I suppose Fil would have to make sure that you got to your classes safely.”

This was apparently not the best thing to say, because the tears that had just started to abate had returned with full force as Myrtle sobbed her eyes out. And by sob he meant harder than when she had thanked him for giving her parents the Alice figurine so they could talk to her. He let her (not that he really had any other choice) waiting for her to either finish or for his other friends to come along. The latter happened first, and he was treated to the sight of the righteously angry Musketeers and a sniffling Rubeus. Judging by the tear tracks on their faces, Myrtle had not been the only one crying. 

“I’m fine, guys.” he tried to placate to the furious crowd of friends, “Though I’m pretty sure Hornby isn’t at the moment...is she?”

Moments later proved him right as Madam Anise carted in a howling Olive Hornby covered head to toe in hair. Her nails had all grown to nearly half her height and there appeared to be at least on chipmunk in the jungle that was he overgrown tresses. Each of his friends were unabashed by their crimes, instead wearing triumphant expressions as they watched the floating Ravenclaw receive the news that she would have to wait for the spells to wear off. Tom wondered idly if he had been a bad influence on his friends, especially since they had been rather straight-laced until he had hung around them more. From behind her soaked pigtails the Slytherin boy noted that Myrtle had a wicked grin on her face as Hornby screamed at them.

...Nah, it cant be.

Apparently that one heavy cry was all she needed, because after that incident her weeping habit decreased to almost zero. Instead, she now squared her shoulders as she walked the halls alongside him in between classes after he had been released from the Hospital Wing. Initially this change in demeanor worried Tom, but eventually he noted that in compensation Myrtle had become more clingy (which he tried to convince himself that this was a good thing). By this he meant that she sat nearer to him when they planned out their projects (aka revenge pranks), practically rubbed arms when they walked beside each other in the halls.

Actually, his other friends had adopted a similar form of behavior, as if to keep a closer eye on him. In fact, he was rarely left alone. There was always at least one person accompanying him to class or meals or to his dorm, as if he were some sort of priceless thing. It was overall a very curious experience, though for some reason it made him feel warm and fuzzy on the inside knowing that they were probably doing this because they cared. 

When Christmas holidays came along, Tom noted that many muggleborn and those who lived in Muggle neighborhoods were staying at the castle, making Hogwarts slightly fuller than usual during the holiday season. Not that he minded much. It meant Myrtle was staying over, as well as the Musketeers, even though they all had family at home. Rubeus had gone home to his father, who was elated to hear that his son had so many friends at school. Still, it was a warm Christmas for Tom Riddle. The war raging outside the castle walls were briefly forgotten (at least, as much as they could be with Myrtle’s parents still in London) as they celebrated the winter solstice together. 

They had snowball fights with the frost charmed into animate beings, and the simple child’s game had turned into somewhat of a Snow War with warring sides and chess piece-like snow beings. In the end, Filius claimed victory over the shivering and laughing opponents that he had conquered. Most of their down-time was spent in the Hufflepuff Common Room (because it was the coziest) sipping hot chocolate that the house elves lovingly made for them. It sparked a search for the Kitchens to thank them and ended up with Tom teaching them the recipe for the best jelly donuts he had ever tasted (courtesy of Mrs. Rosewood). More steaming hot chocolate and warm pastries were passed around as the group laughed and joked and relaxed. 

With the exception of Rubeus, this year the presents were delivered in person. This year it was a mixed bag of things, some being more about practicality than anything, like how Filius and Tom had gotten each other wand holsters and Minerva had given him a book on different media for rune carving (he had given her broom-care kit after noting that her old one broke),  some were about sentimentality like Myrtle and Tom exchanging copies of their childhood books (he had gotten The Adventures of Pinocchio and she had gotten Alice in Wonderland) and Pomona making a good luck bracelet (of sorts) made of Moly stems. Although he had given her a jar of chizpurfles (crab-like parasites that devour magic and electricity that are a damn bloody nightmare to round up) to feed her venomous tentacula with. Still, at least she seemed overjoyed with the gift. 

As it had become a bit of a tradition, Tom had sent Rubeus an Aniphone (as Minnie had started calling it after Myrtle had coined it) that used the figurine of a dark brown boarhound. The Aniphone has been tweaked to shrink to a wearable size so that the bloody things could be portable. Tom had spent a whole day ‘updating’ the previously made ones with the new rune-based array he had been working on for a good few months. Most of his friends had turned theirs into necklaces, while Tom had placed his own serpent inside of his locket, which had hummed in appreciation. In return he got a whittled flute alongside a letter that was smeared slightly giving his thanks and informing him that the figurine was now named ‘Fang’. 

After the holidays his friends resumed their guard-like behavior, having not forgiven Hornby for the stunt that had nearly cost Tom his life (to them). Fudge was far too terrified to pull anything with Rubeus lumbering around and just looking in his general direction (the young half-giant didn’t have a mean bone in his body, but that didn’t stop him from appearing menacing to those who didn’t really know him). Hornby and her Slytherin friend (Umbra? Umbridge? The one who always wore that stupid pink cardigan that she thought made her look cute) had attempted a couple of things, but with the added spells on the AniPhones that allowed Tom’s friends to communicate with each other the pranks were always deactivated (or ‘accidentally’ tripped by the perpetrator) before Tom ever got there.

Even Malfoy seemed to be shaken by Tom’s long bout in the Hospital Wing. The snow blond wizard had even begun asking him strange questions after the holidays like ‘how are you’ and ‘are you feeling well’ and ‘why are you holding a venomous snake?’. The last one had prompted an explanation that he had picked it up half frozen near the Forest, nursed it back to health, and named it Pinocchio because he was a compulsive liar. 

This sparked an explanation to Tom’s ability to converse with those of a serpentine nature. Malfoy did an oddly familiar rendition of Mr. Burke’s reaction when the orphan had first read the cover of Salazar’s journal all those years ago. Whatever he derived from the conversation, the other Slytherins started behaving strangely around him. First they just avoided him and gave him a calculating look from afar, then they just straight up stalked him (and Myrtle and the Musketeers ended up hexing a few for getting too close which Tom found completely hilarious). Eventually they accosted him with an irate serpent in hand and told him to prove that he could talk to snakes. Deciding to oblige them (what with the wild looks in their eyes, crazy that lot was), Tom ended up befriending Geppetto the asp and teaching him how to slither in tandem in Pinocchio to his rhythmic snapping (because the Common Room was sadly lacking a gramophone). 

Whatever it was the Slytherins were looking for, they appeared to be in denial about it. For the rest of the school year either treated him like a plague or a god depending on the time of day, the weather, and the amount of ducks in the Black Lake. Or at least, that’s as much as Tom could tell. At least they weren’t being outright antagonistic to him anymore (though the worshipping thing was a little weird, he had to admit). 

Abraxas wouldn’t tell him what was up, but if the chain of events leading up to it was any indication, it had to do with his ability to talk and control snakes. Actually, that was the only part he was positive about, but that still didn’t answer why. Unless... no...

Slytherins weren’t that thick, were they?

“Hey Abraxas?” Tom began on the night before they departed home, stretching his arms behind his head as he relished in the Hogwarts bed one last time, “You’re not dense enough to think I’m the Heir of Slytherin, are you?”

The coughing fit that followed confirmed his fears. It was also evident that Lestrange was only pretending to be asleep by the fact he had joined the sudden bout of hacking. 

“But I’m a ‘mudblood’, as you had first pointed out on the day we met.” he continued through the sounds of coughing.

“What’s your mother’s maiden name?” Abraxas finally asked after he got enough air back into his lungs.

“I don’t know.” Tom admitted, “But I know that she was from the circus like my grandfather.”

“Wizards have circuses too, you know.” Lestrange argued, “Maybe she was from one of those.”

It was food for thought, certainly, and they left the conversation there so they could get some sleep before the train ride home. The next morning Abraxas gave him directions on how to get a blood test from Gringotts. It cost a pretty Knut but Tom hadn’t worried about money since his investments and percentage earnings from his ideas back during his first trip to Diagon Alley allowed him to sit comfortably on the small hill of wealth. 

On the train, Filius had informed him that the goblins respected him a good deal for his eye for money and growth (or at least, from what his goblin relatives told him, right next to an interest in the fact that the same boy befriended the only half-goblin at Hogwarts without any ulterior motives). Tom just rolled his eyes (as goblins were notorious in hating wizards so such a statement was laughable), but didn’t argue with the wizard who had trounced him in their final Dueling Club meet. 

“What’s with them?” Minerva asked as she raised her eyebrow at the second year Slytherins trying and failing to be inconspicuous as they passed their compartment. 

“They found out I could speak to snakes and now they think I’m the Heir of Slytherin.” Tom answered, making the girl stop short.

“You can talk to snakes?!” Pomona shrieked out, only now noticing the two serpents coilin around his wrist under his robe sleeve. 

Apparently this was news to his friends. Well.. some of them at least. Myrtle obviously knew because of Esmeralda, and Filius always seemed to know everything that went around the castle. And people assumed the girls were the gossips. Ha. Rubeus hadn’t known, but also wasn’t very surprised at the fact.

“I swear I told you people that I could...” Tom mumbled as he shrunk a little at Minerva’s severe look, “Who did you think Pinocchio and Geppetto were?” 

“Not snakes.” Minerva deadpanned, “Maybe that fire crab or some of the porlocks.”

“So what did you think Esmeralda was, then?” Filius asked with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

The two girls paled and blushed in rapid succession, but stayed silent. Tom leaned over and whispered in his shorter friend’s slightly pointed ear.

“When did you find out?”

“When I noticed the way you talked about her as if she was much older than you despite residing in Hogwarts.” Filius answered with a mirthful smile, “There’s not much that fits the description until I took non-humans into account.”

“...Ah.”

“Though I am curious.” Filius spoke aloud, “What kind of snake is Esmeralda? I’ve never seen another snake around you other than those two. Why haven’t you introduced her to us? You do know we wouldn’t have judged you for your ability.”

“That’s because the part I’m worried about has nothing to do with Esmeralda herself but how to get to her.” Tom grumbled. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Minerva asked incredulously, having found her voice again.

“Esmeralda is a Basilisk who lives in a giant underground chamber underneath the school.” Tom admitted, beginning to blush in embarrassment, “And the main way to get in and out of it is via a sink in the second floor girl’s lavatory.” 

“It’s how we met!” Myrtle added happily now that the can of worms was opened, “The only reason I found out about Esme was because I called him a pervert.”

The stares from his peers made him cover his face in his hands, his face matching shades with Rubeus’ scarf. 

“I didn’t build the bloody thing!” the Slytherin squawked, “And I found out about it when Hornby locked me in that one time!”

“So Hornby wasn’t lying when she was telling everyone that you were stuck in there...” Pomona muttered at the same time that Filius sputtered:

“There’s a Basilisk in a Chamber under the school?! Are you sure you’re not the Heir? Because everything you just said points to you being the Heir of Slytherin and a Basilisk as the monster in the Chamber of Secrets makes sense.”

Tom and Myrtle (and Rubeus, despite having never met her) opened their mouths to defend Esmeralda at the same time that the door to their compartment slid open to reveal Hornby, Umbridge, and Fudge all smiling at the group of friends nastily.

“Do mine ears deceive me?” Hornby crowed, “Or do I hear the sound of filth crawling around in the mud?”

“You used that one three weeks ago, Hornby.” Filius piped up.

“Shut up, you disgusting half-breed!” Umbridge’s shrill voice whined, “Let us show you what true magical folk are capable of!”

Most of the inhabitants in the compartment’s faces twisted in anger, but was stopped from drawing their wands by a calmer Tom. Instead, the Slytherin leaned back and crossed his arms. 

“By all means, try.” he told them with a knowing smile, “I don’t think you lot could hit a sick flobberworm with the amount of aim you collectively have.”

It was like he had hit a rhinoceros with a firecracker. Hornby took out her wand in a violent motion and took a step forward. As soon as her foot crossed the threshold, something large and solid descended upon the trio, knocking them backwards. Quickly Tom got up and shut the door closed and locked it with a smug face.

“Tom...” Pomona started slowly, “Was that what I think it was?”

The sound of screams coming from the other side of the door only made him smile something that bordered on cruel as the buzzing noise of a thousand angry bees attacking the hapless trio. 

“Nothing would have happened if they sat still and did nothing.” was all he told his friends as he sat down with a smug grin, “But I don’t think they would have thought of that.”

Because that’s the thing about bees. Once you attack one, they all came after you. 

Chapter Text

Get back! Get back you fiends! Get back or I’ll- oh hello there! Is it that time already? I was sitting here, minding my own business when I was suddenly attacked by the dreaded Plot Bunny Horde! I do believe some of them were white, a couple were wearing adorable little waistcoats, and a few (like the our tale here) had pocket watches. Bloody little creatures need to learn that time and place is important! ...I should probably learn this as well 

Well then, let’s see...ah yes. Tom Riddle’s adventures now take him back to the beginning, to Wool’s and beyond as he goes to prove his fellow Slytherins wrong. But we all know what he’s about to find out, don’t we? Oh, the irony. 

Irony, ironically, is what I wanted to talk about today. It is humor in our darkest (and lightest) hours, it is a form of art that the universe has defined to keep things from getting too boring. Most importantly, however, it is the humor from which this story itself derives. 

From the original story to the bottomless depth that is Fanfiction, irony has given us many a laugh, especially when the story is retold and you sit and giggle and go ‘ah, I see what you did there!’. It has already rooted itself deeply in this story, fueling most of the metahumor and now imbuing itself into my pre-story rants. 

Why am I talking about this, you ask? Why do I talk about any of this at all? Why must I do these preludes? Why does this story even require such narration? 

The answer, my dear readers, is blowing in the wind. 

Seeing the pictures in the papers was one thing. Seeing it with his own eyes was another thing altogether. The ‘Blitz’, as the papers had called it, had lasted until May, which meant that while the city wasn’t under attack anymore the place was practically in ruins. Wool’s wasn’t in the best shape, as the south side of the building had collapsed and the kids had all been shuffled into the basement during the attacks and only know were returning to the surface (though some now had to share bedrooms). 

Tom’s own room had been part of the ones destroyed (thankfully nothing but furniture had been in there, though he mourned the loss of his snake friends that had perished) so Tom told Mrs. Cole that he would attempt to find lodging elsewhere to free up space. She had been more than happy to oblige, nodding to him (was that a tear in his eye? Nah, couldn’t be) as he made his way towards his regular route.

Surprisingly (or unsurprisingly, he thought to himself) Oscar was still alive and kicking (metaphorically speaking) and complaining as much as ever. It appeared that aside from the obvious destruction of everything, things had settled into a tentative rhythm. It wasn’t as peaceful anymore, but at least the bombs had stopped falling. 

The feel of the city was different now, so much so that before Tom could turn to leave Oscar asked in an uncharacteristically small voice whether he could come along to wherever the ‘two legs’ was going. Tom had shrugged before depositing the emerald snake into his extendable backpack, the same one the trunkshop owners in Diagon Alley had begun selling (the backpacks flew off the shelves according to them, and on top of a small percentage in sales Tom had also been given one pack of his choice to use himself). The surprised hisses from Pinocchio and Geppetto made him chuckle slightly as he walked out of the alleyway. 

Mrs. Rosewood had ended up taking him in and putting him in a cleaned out storage closet (oh wasn’t this familiar?), telling him that he could pay her back by helping her out with the bakery. He had offered to pay her instead, but the elder squib waved it off, claiming that not giving him a wage was enough. So Tom spent most of his time making pastries and goodies for the mother henning woman.

When he wasn’t, though, he could be found at Borgin and Burke’s where, he scoured for interesting books and items that might be useful to him. Nothing came close to his locket, which stayed hidden under his shirt most days (in the streets of London having something like that in the open was like asking to get mugged), but the jar of Death’s Head hawkmoth chrysalises was a glorious find nonetheless. 

Eventually Tom managed to gather enough nerve to go to Gringott’s for his bloodline test. Some purebloods sneered at his obviously Muggle attire as the teen waited for a teller. Oddly enough, Filius’ words seemed to have some merit because the goblin had recognized him on sight (though Tom was positive this was not the same one he met on his first visit to the Alley) and gave him the goblin equivalent of the friendly smile (which looked more like a snarl to most people that screamed ‘I will disembowel you as soon as you turn your back you festering dungmite’) when he asked for the test. 

After being ushered into a large room, Tom was told to bleed into a cup with pre-mixed potion and watched in morbid curiosity as the red overtook the clear liquid as it swirled, his finger stuck in his mouth to stop the blood flow. A roll of parchment was them dipped into the bowl and the teen’s dark eyes widened as writing began to appear on the previously blank surface and the truth of his lineage was revealed to him. 

“So things I have learned about myself.” Tom began, unrolling the now familiar scroll of parchment and setting it on the compartment table, “I am in fact the Heir of Slytherin, my mother’s maiden name was Gaunt, none of my maternal line was from the circus, and my father is alive and out there somewhere.”

His friends all crowded around to get a good look at the incriminating evidence of Tom’s true origins with eager curiosity. Tom had been given a family tree and whatever holdings he now had access to. There was apparently a shack in the town called Little Hangleton that was under his uncle Morfin’s name (he had an uncle, fancy that, but why hadn’t the man ever come to get his own nephew?) since his grandfather was dead (and hadn’t that been hard to swallow, other than the fact that neither were from the circus). 

“Bloody hell!” Myrtle exclaimed as she wrinkled her nose, “Look at that family tree! I’ve never seen anything so inbred in my life! Your grandfather and grandmother were mother and son! Eeeew!”

Ew indeed. The Gaunts had inbred themselves into extinction. According to the papers none of the later generations even attended Hogwarts despite having barely enough magic to do so. It would explain why Professor Dumbledore hadn’t recognized his mother’s name - she had been holed up in that shack for all her life before she met Tom’s father. 

“The Gaunts had squandered the Slytherin fortune years ago by the looks of it.” Filius muttered, looking over Tom’s monetary inheritance, “If you were banking on something from your family, you’d be sorely disappointed. You don’t have any family heirlooms left, other than a ring from the Peverells and a locket from the Slytherin line, and there’s nothing here about their whereabouts. Bad luck, Tom.”

It would explain why he remembered his mother having wayward eyes. The reused genetics in the woman would have made her severely deformed. Maybe that was why she had passed away when she did. Her magic could barely hold herself together as it was, having a child must have tipped her over the edge. It was saddening to think that Tom was the cause of her death, but also heartwarming to know that she had wanted to have him anyway. His hand went to rub the locket (his mother’s locket, he now knew, the traces of what little magic she had still clung to it and sang to him) as he had found himself doing lately, taking it out to show the half-goblin.

“I have the locket.” Tom admitted, “And I also inherited something even bigger, quite literally. Watch this.”

With that, Tom pointed his wand at the parchment and hissed out ‘reveal’ in parseltongue (s he now knew to call it, and bloody hell did these people not know anything about passwords?) and more writing appeared with an extra set of things under the inheritance section. His friends’ eyes widened at what they saw.

“You do realize what this means, don’t you?” Minerva asked slowly, staring at Tom.

“It means that I technically never have to leave the castle?” The teen tried, smiling sheepishly as the Scottish Gryffindor rolled her eyes. 

“Yes, that.” Minerva sighed, “But you also have a trove of ancient books and artifacts and the last surviving Basilisk in the world that not even the Ministry can take away from you because it’s so deep that it’s not considered to be on school grounds! 

“Plus think of the seat that you’ll hold at the Wizengamot once you’re an adult.” Filius added, “It’s no wonder your ancestors hid this away until someone with a brain could figure it the rest of it, with the way the Gaunts were they would have run the Slytherin name into the mud. Since the seat’s been virtually untouched for the past century, your arrival will spark something big in the ring of powerful wizards.”

“Can someone please explain what that means for the plebs in the back?” Myrtle asked, though her entire form was vibrating as she sucked in the information like a sponge (and it wasn’t even about her, there was a reason she was a Ravenclaw, after all). 

“If anyone finds out about this, everyone in the Wizarding world will want to be your friend just to get even a tiny bit of the power and prestige you could get with this.” Pomona translated with a vague shake of her head. 

At this Tom shrugged.

“Then let them try.” he said resolutely, “I’ve got my real friends right here. If they want to try to get a piece of me I’m pretty sure they’d be hexed into oblivion.”

Everyone began coughing. But it wasn’t a real kind of cough. It was suspiciously like the kind of cough one would do to cover up laughter when you didn’t want the other person to know you were laughing. There was that undertone that sounded too much like giggling, but not enough to make your Uncle Roger think that you found humor in him getting his head dunked in a whipped cream topped steaming cranberry pie. Especially since you couldn’t tell if the red was from anger or pie filling. 

“Wrong choice of words, Tom.” The small Ravenclaw chuckled out, “On another note, I’ve seen you’ve gotten... taller... over the holidays.”

“What has that got to do with anything?” Tom asked in confusion, tilting his head to the side. 

The girls’ faces were all bright red as they tried to both stare at him and look away from him at the same time, but Filius and Rubeus (him too? What?!) were both nodding knowingly. It was infuriating when even the normally oblivious half-giant got something before him (especially when no one would tell him what they were noticing like now). 

“One day, Tom.” Filius said mysteriously (which felt rather familiar), “On day you’ll know. Though I do hope to have a pensive so I can relive your reaction when that day comes.”

“I knew it!” Abraxas crowed as he and Lestrange scoured the parchment, “There wasn’t any other explanation as to why you could do the things you do!”

“You’re oddly chipper for the guys that got their arses kicked by a bloke who didn’t even use magic to do it.” Tom muttered, “I still reserve the right to do so if you piss me off again, too. I’m sure your bodyguards wouldn’t mind the tussle...”

Crabbe and Goyle quickly shook their heads and covered their soft spots. Apparently they were traumatized from the last time Tom engaged in fisticuffs. Wizards didn’t have much in the ways of physical self-defense, after all. Take away their wands and they’ll start begging for mercy.

“You do realize what this means, right?” Lestrange said slowly, handing the parchment back to Tom, “Everyone and their owl is going to want to associate with you if people catch wind of this.”

“So I’ve heard.” grumbled the muggleborn (well, technically half blood, but who’s counting?).

“Who else knows about this?” Abraxas asked curiously, going into his ‘business mode’ (because when you find out your sort-of-rival-turned-obligatory-acquaintance-turned-friend is the descendent of the Founder of the House that Merlin himself was in, you immediately roll with it and become his press secretary to make sure he doesn’t dump you), “This is big news. We have to find a way to spin this, but it will take some time. My family owns quite a bit of the Daily Prophet so it won’t be hard to get them to write a positive article that downplays this...”

“Rubeus knows.” Tom interrupted.

The other two Slytherins collectively groaned.

“Then everyone will know by morning.” Abraxas moaned. 

“Come on guys, it’s not that bad!” Tom argued with a roll of his eyes, “I mean, I’m already at the top of my class in most cases and Quidditch Star Seeker. It’s not like this kind of this is that big of a deal. I’m pretty sure you all are overreacting.”

They were not overreacting. By morning every inhabitant in the castle was talking about the ‘Founder’s Heir’ and the new ‘Prince of Slytherin’ and the ‘Keeper of the Chamber of Secrets’. It was odd, having the entire Hogwarts population stare at you for something you can’t control, though at least they weren’t nasty or accusing like he was used to. Although... the almost hungry look in their eyes wasn’t all that fun either. 

Even less fun was the way his friends’ protectiveness (including his Slytherin dormmates) went into overdrive. Granted they seemed to have a good reason seeing as how the Prophet got ahold of the information somehow and had printed a headline story (don’t these people have anything important to talk about?) about not only his inheritance and lineage, but also his grades, his Quidditch maneuvers, his looks, his wand, his height, and the fact that he could bake a mean apple strudel (and those weren’t even his favorite!). 

“Bloody hell!” the teen in question swore as his eyes scanned the article, “They went into a disturbing amount of detail about my so-called ‘luscious dark locks’, ‘sculpted build’, and ‘perfectly firm behind’. What is this, a trashy romance novel?!”

“Well I mean, all of it’s true.” Myrtle muttered under her breath before replying to him out loud, “I think they got on of the writers for Witch Weekly to do the front page. It would explain the overall tone of the article. But I disagree with one thing though. Your jelly donuts knock any other pastry out of the running.”

“Exactly!” came Tom’s almost maniacal exclamation, not seeing how his friends shook their heads fondly at him. 

The actual Witch Weekly article on him (which came out a month or so later... thankfully) was far, far worse than the Prophet one. This one had pictures of him alongside an explanation of why he was currently ‘The Most Eligible Bachelor’ with details such as ‘type of shampoo used’, ‘what kind of singing voice he had’, and the infamous ‘what type of undergarments he wore’. There was the picture of his (admittedly awesome) broom leap from the Gryffindor-Slytherin match the year before, a picture of him doing schoolwork with his friends (which he remembered Myrtle taking with her camera not too long before the end of the year prior), and even a picture of him during Quidditch warm-up practice (judging by the fact that he was shirtless... Myrtle refused to discard that one despite Tom’s best attempts at getting her to). 

It was an overall horrible, glittery, sultry, scandalous rag that everyone else seemed to enjoy immensely. Especially the part about his ‘love life’.

“This is ridiculous!” Tom complained, chucking the offending magazine at the far end of the Great Hall (where a bunch of people began to fight over it... ugh), “Everyone is blowing everything out of proportion! Now they think you girls are either in a harem with me or fighting each other for my affection! Honestly!”

He didn’t quite realize then that the giggles from the girls were nervous ones as he continued to rant. Abraxas sighed and gave a smug Filius another five galleons. 

“How long has this been going on?” asked the platinum blonde Slytherin.

“Since second year.” the ten-galleon (once you counted the bets from Lestrange and Rubeus) richer teen happily supplied, “Thats when it became obvious. Minnie and Mona had noticed him on the train on the first day.”

“For someone who’s so perceptive about everything else around him, he’s really clueless to what’s happening right in front of him.” Abraxas muttered.

“My thoughts exactly!” 

“So this is what the girl’s loo looks like...”

Minerva gave Filius a sharp glare, but it was softened by her trying not to laugh at the uncomfortable expressions on the boys’ faces (which looked as if they were constipated, worried, and/or about to throw up). They had to cause quite the large distraction in order for the lot of them to gather here without rousing much suspicion (considering the sheer size of Rubeus, this was often the problem in any stealth mission they planned). 

Tom had argued that while said distraction was big, there was no good reason for them to let a mountain troll loose into the dungeons (no matter how sedated), especially since this was the Christmas holidays. Pomona had pointed out that any first year with an imagination could knock the damn thing out, and the Slytherin used the fact that very few people at Hogwarts had an imagination as a firm rebuttal. He still lost the argument. 

So here they were in the second floor girl’s lavatory while teachers dealt with the troll downstairs and the rest of the student body panicked. Picking out the familiar tap with the snake on it, Tom hissed for the entrance to open. Slowly the sink sunk down to the ground, and the tunnel (which was no longer grimy and moldy due to its upkeep) was revealed to them. 

“Alright everyone!” called the Heir of Slytherin’s chipper voice, “Down the rabbit hole we go!”

With that, he jumped in. Myrtle soon followed (having been the only other one down there) and it didn’t take long for everyone to make the trip down, though everyone scrambled out of the way when the tunnel gave a loud rumbling sound and Rubeus thundered out (and most likely would have flattened anyone still in his way like a pancake). Once everyone was accounted for (and only slightly dizzy), Tom led the way deeper into the Chamber. 

“Wow.” Filius mumbled as he looked around, “Slytherin was either full of himself or his descendants were.”

“According to Esmeralda, the Chamber initially was just a big, underground cave for her to stay in while Slytherin taught at Hogwarts above. The name of Chamber of Secrets and the decor didn’t come until generations later.”

“Well I suppose that makes sense, what with how the Gaunts- GRINGOTTS’ RUSTY TOENAILS!”

You could actually pinpoint the moment they caught sight of Esmeralda. Hearing about her was one thing, but he supposed seeing he was another. Minerva and Pomona screamed, and Rubeus made a cooing sound as if he was looking at a baby animal. Then again, this was Rubeus we’re taking about. 

“Aren’t yeh the mos’ beau’iful thing?” the half-giant sighed out, his accent coming out stronger as he immediately went over to pet her crest scales to her enjoyment. 

This seemed to snap the others out of their stupor, and soon they were all introduced to the gargantuan serpent, who was pleased to finally meet the rest of her young master’s friends. Unfortunately Tom still had to translate what she was saying to his non-snake-speaking associates, but it was a small price to pay for what turned out to be a day well spent. Rubeus especially was overjoyed to meet ‘such a beautiful beast’ (and if snakes could blush, Esmeralda would be a tomato).

“Hey Tom?” Minerva asked as they all sat on the top of Esmeralda’s scales.

“Yes, Minnie?”

“I thought the gaze of a Basilisk was supposed to kill you. I’ve been staring at her eyes and trying to compare it to Rolanda’s that I completely forgot about that snippet until now.”

At this, Filius began laughing.

“Oh please, if Rolanda had Basilisk eyes Tom would have been dead the moment he got on the Slytherin team!”

At this same time, Myrtle piped up proudly:

“We designed some contact lenses that acts as a filter to prevent her deadly gaze from killing us. I for one don’t want to be washing my face in the sink, look up and die just because I saw her eyes.”

“Wouldn’t that just be embarrassing?” Pomona chuckled, “Dying in a bathroom like that?”

“I would come back as a ghost and haunt the loos!” Myrtle giggled out, wiggling her fingers that were covered in jam, “Beware of Moaning Myrtle! Oooooooh! She’ll flood the toilets and drag you down into your doom!”

This elicited a round up uproarious laughter as Myrtle surveyed her good work and treated herself to another jelly donut (which was on a platter floating around with tea that the house elves had helpfully provided), smirking as she actually got Tom to laugh hysterically. It was little victories like this that made her see how much had changed since the day he found her crying in the toilets those years ago. Before she could very much so see herself in such a situation, and yet now here she was surrounded by friends that actually cared and protected her (and her them in return) all because a boy had been trying to inconspicuously escape the girls’ lavatory. Funny how life worked like that. 

Also, without Tom, she wouldn’t have had such good pictures to sell to Witch Weekly and her own collection. That boy was making her rich, even if he had complained about it a little. Still, he got a cut every time his picture was used (not that he knew that as she had the money directly sent into his vault after Filius showed her how). 

Of course, at that moment the person in her thoughts just had to turn and smile at her like that. And this was the same teen who didn’t grasp the fact that every girl (and even some boys) at Hogwarts had at this point fallen for him. But she won’t let them touch him, oh no. They can look, but if they so much as pinch his bum their body will be found in the Thames River with no evidence of how they got there. 

A little ways away, Minerva and Pomona had similar sentiments. Rubeus looked at them, then at Tom who was poking a blushing Myrtle in the arm, and sighed. Another galleon went into Filius’ waiting hand. 

Tom wasn’t quite sure what to make of the second year Slytherin standing in front of him with her arms crossed defiantly in front of her, but it was a testament to the madness he had been exposed to since his revelation of his not-circus-Heir-of-Slytherin heritage that his first thought was ‘she doesn’t appear to be hero-worshipping me so this is good’. 

“I hear you have a Basilisk.” the small girl began, her dark eyes boring into his own, her sallow face displaying nothing but interested curiosity.

“I might, I might not. Why are you asking?” Tom retorted, leaning back on his chair near the fireplace as Pinocchio, Geppetto, and Oscar warmed themselves while wrapped around his arms and neck.

“I’m what some people call a ‘Potions prodigy’, Mr. Riddle.” the younger Slytherin answered, “As such, I’m constantly on the lookout for rare ingredients, one of which is Basilisk venom. If you so happen to have the last Basilisk and therefore the only source of fresh venom, then obviously you would have to be the one that I go to in order to procure it. In return for the venom, I am willing to brew any potion that may or may not be highly difficult, dangerous, illegal, embarrassing, or all of the above. Think on it, Mr. Riddle.”

And with that, she was gone. Tom ended up asking around about her. He got his answers from both his Slytherin friends and, surprisingly, Rubeus. 

“Miss Prince comes from a long line of potion brewers,” Abraxas supplied as they gathered for their usual study session (well, usual as of this year when the two other Slytherins joined the group, though oddly enough no one protested), “I’m not surprised that she sought you out, though I am curious why she kept her distance until now.”

“Probably because she didn’t want to look like a fangirl.” Lestrange offered, sneaking an apple under the table without the librarian noticing, “Prince is as pragmatic as she is shrewd. I’m guessing she was after the Basilisk venom.”

“She’s a nice girl.” Rubeus stated, squinting at the Transfiguration essay as if it were going to yell at him, “She’s my partner in Potions and Defense. Really good at her Potions, Eileen.”

“Slughorn’s got her pinned for his Slug Club, apparently.” Minerva sighed out softly as she aided the pitiable half-giant with the subject she could do in her sleep, crossing out the incantation he had put down (which would have transformed the beetle into a ragtime dancing alien instead of a button) and writing the correct one instead, “He had gone on asking me to go to one of his Slug Club Parties... again.”

“He’s asked all of us to his parties at least once, Minnie.” Pomona pointed out with a roll of her eyes as she stole Lestrange’s apple without him noticing, “He’s scouted Tom out five times already this past afternoon.”

“Wish he’d stop stalking me...” the boy in question muttered lowly as he wrote the most scathing Potions essay he could, “Ruddy House Head and his obsession in collecting people... popped out of nowhere... completely deserved that stew in his face... bloody waited outside of the loo I swear...”

“Back to our original discussion.” Filius said after he realized his green clad best friend wasn’t going to contribute much to the conversation, eyeing the increasingly frenzied essay with a raised eyebrow, “What should we do about Prince? Is she trustworthy?”

“She sometimes helps around the Hospital Wing by keeping the Potions well stocked.” Poppy, who was sitting at the next table, commented as she moved to theirs to get a look at what was making Filus’ face go ashen like that, “I’d say on Puffs honor that she’s good.”

“Plus we could really use her on that pet project, Minnie.” Pomona notes as she places the apple back next to Lestrange with him being none the wiser, “Since neither of us would be able to match her prowess in Potions and we do have almost all the ingredients since You-Know-Who gave us the You-Know-What.”

“What’s that?” Lestrange asked, taking a bite out of the apple before stopping and staring at the fruit that had less flesh than he remembered and wondered if Divination was screwing with his mind again.

“Tom gave us a jar of Death’s Head Hawk Moth Chrysalises.” Filius supplied, averting his gaze from the now literally smoking piece of parchment and deciding that today he was very glad he was always on Tom’s good side (and not Professor Slughorn), “I don’t know why you two feel the need to refer to him as You-Know-Who. He’s right here.”

“And currently on a warpath against his Head of House by the looks of it.” Myrtle pointed out and one could hear Poppy mutter ‘Merlin help his soul’ if you listened close enough, “And besides, it feels natural to call him that when you don’t want him knowing that you’re taking about him in front of him.”

“Why do you need a jar of Death’ Head Hawk Moth Chrysalises?” Abraxas ventured nervously, scooting away from the parchment that was not burning despite being on fire (he wondered, briefly, how that was possible before disregarding it as a ‘Tom Thing’).

At this Filius, Minerva, Pomona, and Myrtle turned to the other hapless members of the study group, which consisted of Poppy, Rolanda, Abraxas, and Lestrange (as Rubeus was in the know But was working diligently on his essay and Tom was... Tom was doing the written version of murder), who were regretting questioning the group’s more questionable projects.

Why were they even friends with these madmen (and women) again? 

Smiling gleefully, Tom Riddle raises up his Potions essay on the Girding Potion (Slug Roast edition), a wild look in his dark eyes.

As expected, Prince was quick to get on board with their little ‘pet project’, as she herself was the one to offer to brew in exchange for Esmeralda’s venom in the first place. Interestingly enough, it was disturbingly easy to acquire the silver phials needed for the potion as Slughorn had locked himself in his office for the rest of the week. If one pressed the ear to the door, they might even be able to hear the man muttering to himself about ‘not being a pedophile’ and ‘it was only a little light stalking’. Headmaster Dippet tried and failed to coax him out, and classes were instead substituted by Dumbledore’s Alchemist friend Nicholas Flamel. 

Nobody liked the look of eager interest on Tom’s face at the mention of Flamel’s infamous Philosopher’s Stone, but everybody was smart enough not to say anything. After all, if someone could find a way to make another one, it was Tom Marvolo Riddle, Master of the Strange and Uncanny (secretly he thought this would be an excellent stage name in a circus and decided to use it privately whenever he was pulling off something dramatic, usually in Quidditch). 

The other parts of the pet project preparation took a smidge longer. It took one month to gather enough silver teaspoons full of dew that had not seen sunlight nor been touched by human feet in seven days, which was discovered on some moss down in the deeper parts of the Chamber courtesy of Esmeralda (who was neither human nor had feet) and procured by Tom as he was the only person with an acrobat’s flexibility to get where the moss was without resorting to magic (which would have tainted the moss altogether). Myrtle had discreetly taken a photo of him in such a position and promised the other girls to pass them around once they were developed. 

Another month and an emotionally traumatized mandrake later and the second half of their project was complete, though everyone physically participating in it decided that having a mandrake leaf in one’s mouth for an entire bloody month was worth the end result. They had planned and practiced for this for far too long to stop now. 

Prince conducted the creation of the potion, her onyx eyes critically watching and barking out orders as the participants spat the leaves into their own phials (labeled to prevent sure disaster) and quickly adding the other ingredients (eliciting an ‘ow’ from each person after yanking a hair out) before capping the phials and whisking them away, telling them that she will keep them safe and undisturbed until the next lighting storm. 

So now here they all were... in the second floor girl’s lavatory with their phials in their hands. Exams had come and gone (which had made everyone afraid that they would’ve had to restart the entire process) and everyone was in position. 

At the center was Prince, who was handing out the phials to their proper drinker, all six of whom stood in a circle around her. Those who were only here to witness the completion of the project (or get help if something went horribly, horribly wrong) were scattered around waiting nervously. 

A flash of lightning, and the potions turned red. 

Setting her lips in a determined line, Minerva swallowed the potion in one gulp. Moments later, a silver tabby cat with spectacle markings sat in her place. She walked around a little curiously before changing back, pleased at her form. 

Excitedly Pomona drank hers down, turning into a round little chipmunk that climbed and chittered on an amused Tom before turning back with a large blush on her face.

Filius rolled his eyes and chugged his down with only a second’s hesitation, the small yellow canary he transformed into flying a lap around the bathroom before perching and returning to his human form with a giddy grin.

Rubeus, summoning up all of his Gryffindor courage, went next. An English Mastiff with a dark brown Head was soon bounding around until he changed back, a goofy grin on the half-giant’s face. 

Emboldened by her friends’ successes, Myrtle chugged hers down and squeaked before she became a brown haired floppy eared bunny. After doing a few experimental hops she changed back, claiming that it had been the oddest experience to date. 

With that, everyone turned to the final drinker, whose shoulders shrunk a little under their gaze. Abraxas jokingly urged that he was sure that if Tom ended up as the venomous sort they’re more than equipped to handle it. Deciding that he had stalled long enough (why was he so nervous? It worked for everyone else!) the Slytherin Heir chugged the potion down and watched as everyone started to get bigger and bigger...

And they were vibrating. As if they were laughing. Why were they laughing? As if taking a personal insult to their mirth, Tom decided to let out his animal’s trademark cry. 

“Squawk!”

This only made the others laugh harder at the African Grey Parrot angrily glaring at them from the floor.

Because that’s the thing about irony. It gets you in the best of ways. 

Chapter Text

Greetings again! So now we see Tom Riddle’s fame skyrocket to nearly the heights of Harry Potter, as well as the probably expected animagus form of his. Alas, he really is quite the popular fellow right now, isn’t he? If you watched the second movie (or just read his physical description during his teenage years) you will have probably seen that Tom is quite the so-called Chick Magnet. And no, no I am NOT biased! Why do people keep saying that?! 

However, I did wish to briefly talk about magnets. The physical metal attracting ones and not the people attracting ones that have flesh and blood and usually clothes. You know, the ones you played with in science class (and might still play with, don’t worry I won’t judge) to lift up steel object of various sizes. Sometimes it doesn’t matter how big or small a magnet is. In fact, they could probably look like innocuous little metal discs until you accidentally put it near some metal and suddenly your phone or watch nearly flies to meet it and all the intricate clockwork mechanisms inside are completely buggered because each little bit is fighting to get closer to the disc that had been previously innocently laying on the table. 

Scary cool, huh?

In an MRI (Magnetic Resonance Imaging) machine you’re not allowed to bring any metal into the room because once the magnets activate you’ll find these metal objects (from that necklace from Aunt Bertha to the horribly heavy oxygen tank) flying straight toward you (or around you in the case of the necklace) as if the machine Accioed them. 

But such is the way of magnets, they can’t help but pull in things that get caught in their field. Especially the ridiculously strong ones. They don’t even know how powerful they are, how their attraction can help and harm, and tool or a weapon. 

I wonder which one he’ll choose to be?

Marmot Drool Devil.

“I can’t believe we all get to be prefects this year! Isn’t that exciting?”

From his bed that was transfigured from a flour sack, Tom Riddle glared at the piece of notebook paper in front of him as if his eyes alone could set it on fire. It did not. By ways of the snake inside the locket, his friends’ voices filtered through.

“I’m a little worried about who else we’d be working with, Mona.”

Vim Troll, Dad Romeo.

His pen (because he sure as hell wasn't going to use a quill when he didn’t bloody need to) slowly scratched another phrase out, only to be immediately crossed out again. No, not that one.

“Oh come on, Fil, what are you worried about?”

Mild Doormat Lover.  

Nope. That was bad too. 

“Getting Hornby, I think. She’s still got good grades and our Head of House still likes her.”

Add More Vomit Roll.

Uuuuuuuuugh. That’s just... no. 

“Myrtle’s right. But at least there will be four of us! And hopefully not four against us.”

Lord Earldom Vomit.

Hmmm. ‘Lord’ And ‘Earldom’ seems decent but ‘vomit’ doesn’t change to anything appealing. Scratch. 

“I don’t think Fudge made the cut, Minnie, so there’s one in our favor.”

I Am Loved Old Mr. Ort.

Also no, because that doesn’t make any bloody sense. Although...

“I’m just worried how I’m going to do this AND Quidditch!”

I Am Lord Dolt Mover.

“Well You-Know-Who’s got to do Quidditch, Dueling Club, AND Quidditch, so I think you’ll manage.”  

I Am Lord Loved Mort.

Doesn’t ‘Mort’ mean ‘Death’ in French? That sound pretty cool...

“Well why don’t we ask him? He’s right here... I think. Hey Tom!”

I Am Lord Dove L’Mort.

‘Dove the Death’ sounds badass, but he’s not a dove so that wouldn’t make sense. But ‘Vol’ meant ‘Flight’ in French, right?

“Tom?”

I Am Lord Vol De Mort.  

...

“Tom!”

I Am Lord Voldemort.  

“TOOOOOM!!!”

“AH-HA!” the teen in question shouted, lifting up his page in victory and only realizing now that his friends were screaming for his attention, “Oh, sorry guys, what were you saying?”

A collective sigh emanated from the snake-inside-the-locket. Part of it sounded like relief but there was also the ever-present tinge of exasperation as well. Let it not be said that their snake-whispering friend wasn’t... eccentric. 

“Tom,” Filius’ curiously amused voice asked, “what were you doing while we were talking?”

“Remember that anagram thing that we were talking about in Magical Theory, and how the letters of the original name give power despite being all jumbled up as long as the outcome also has meaning?”

“You’ve been trying to make up anagrams of your name this entire time?” Minerva muttered incredulously.

“Only since this morning!” Tom defended, circling the name with a pleased flourish, “And I think I’ve finally got one.”

“Does it have the word ‘dildo’ in it?” Myrtle snickered slyly, “Because there are a surprising number of anagrams that spell that for your name.”

Tom opened his mouth to reply, but stopped when he heard the sound of footsteps coming up to his repurposed cupboard (mark two). Quickly he hid the paper in his backpack and transformed into his parrot form (on reflex, which he’d bee doing quite a bit lately embarrassingly enough) right before Mrs. Rosewood walked in the door. 

The baker woman smiled and scratched his feathers like she done for the past few weeks since his return (he had told her that he had procured a pet parrot in Hogsmeade as an excuse... which she completely bought) and looked around the room, squinting. It was actually rather interesting, seeing what people did behind your back, and Mrs. Rosewood did a surprising amount of snooping. Thankfully he had a parseltongue-based password system (with an actual password instead of, you know, an order) on his bag so that she wasn’t able to get into it, and all she could see was the pen and the blank notebook. With a sigh she left, and Tom waited until the footsteps traveled a good ways away before changing back and resuming the conversation which quickly devolved into how stupid a French name was for a British boy that just barely knew the language. With a pout he decided to scrap it to search for a better name at a later date. 

With a sigh, he packed the rest of his things away and went around the back to look as if he had been returning from a trip to Diagon Alley. He felt a little bad about lying to her (since she let him stay with her and all), but he also didn’t want to tell her the truth either. Tom didn’t know why he was getting so jumpy around the baker woman lately (Filius just made knowing hums like he always did when he spoke of it and said that it was natural to try to hide the fact that he had performed what was essentially a dangerous and borderline illegal act), but if there was something he learned to trust (other than his friends, Professor Dumbledore, and his mother’s locket) was his gut feeling, and his gut said that telling anyone other than those already in the know was a bad idea.

As it was, the bell in the front rang and he was greeted to the friendly sight of Mrs. Rosewood restocking the jelly donuts and apple strudels (which were flying off the shelves unusually fast this year...). 

“Hello, dear.” the baker woman says, handing him a donut with a smile, “Did you find what you were looking for in the Alley?”

“More or less.” was his answer with a small shrug, intent on returning to his ‘room’ and resuming the name project he’d been working on. 

“By the way, I ran into your bird again.” Mrs. Rosewood called out, “Sweet thing. I don’t recall catching a name though. What did you call him again?”

Right. The one problem with this sort of thing. He didn’t have a name for his parrot form yet. But surely he could think of something that wasn’t overly terrible, right?

“Erm...” the teen floundered a little before blurting out the first name on his mind, “Lord Voldemort.”

“Lord Voldemort?” The woman tested, “Fitting for such a noble little bird! I suppose you don’t mind me shortening it to Voldy, do you?”

“N-not at all.”

Aaaand he blew it. He completely mucked it up. Now he was stuck with that name forever. Why was he like this?

“Riddle.”

“Hornby, Umbridge, fancy seeing you two hags in the prefects’ car.”

Tom and Filius sat together, both glaring at their female prefect counterparts with annoyance (Filius) and utter disgust (Tom). Umbridge was giving the other Slytherin prefect a simpering smile that made her look even more like a toad than usual (it was almost like the girl was attracted to him, which was too horrible to think about), and Hornby was staring down at the half-goblin from her raised nose. 

“This year’s going to be interesting.” Septimus Weasley muttered to Minerva, who nodded with rolled eyes, “But at least it won’t be boring. Nothing is boring when you lot are together.”

“Are you kidding?” Ambrose Macmillan grumbled from where he was next to his fellow ‘Puff prefect Pomona, sneaking looks at where the three prefects were still glaring at each other (as Filius ditched the standoff to sit with them), “We’re a powder keg waiting to explode! I wouldn’t be surprised if the castle’s up in flames by the end of the year because the faculty decided it was a good idea to make Riddle a prefect of all things!”

“I think they’re hoping that he’d be too busy to pull anything insane.” Pomona offered, passing around the Bertie Bott’s beans with a smirk, “Plus you have to admit that he’s perfect for the job, everyone listens to him. He’s just got this pull that makes you want to do what he says.”

Minerva immediately agreed with her friend, taking a few beans and passing the box along and recording the flavors. Weasley nodded sagely with Filius, having caught the unspoken admission while Smith just stared at Pomona and Minerva incredulously. 

Eventually Filius managed to pull Tom away from the staring match (which he totally won) in order to begin their new duties as prefects - making rounds. Minerva went with Weasley and Pomona with Macmillan (as it should be), however it took a bit of coaxing and veiled threats before Filius and Tom teamed up with their own house counterparts. Macmillan mouthed the word ‘powder keg’ at his compatriots but otherwise said nothing else. They all knew this was a disaster waiting to happen. 

In another car near the back, Abraxas, Eileen, and Lestrange sit with Myrtle and Rubeus, wondering how the bloody hell their life became so strange as to sit with what their parents would call ‘mudbloods and half breeds’. Myrtle passed around the Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans box and allowed them only one, telling tell not to eat it yet until everyone had one. Eileen seemed to be the only one of the three Slytherins that knew what was going on, but refused to explain. It was only after Myrtle took out a pen and paper that she then said, with a completely straight face:

“Let the Bean Roulette begin.”

It was by far the oddest experience in Abraxas’ life. They would eat a bean and tell Myrtle the flavor, to which the girl would write it down, giving no indication as to why of whether the answer was good or bad. This was interspersed with normal conversation, which made the situation all the more bizarre. Lestrange appeared to be enjoying himself with gorging in sweets, and Eileen didn’t even bat an eyelash as she discussed Tom’s apparent ‘attraction blindness’ with Myrtle. 

Then their prefect friends came along, two by two. Filius opened the door first, Hornby sneering at them from behind, and greeted them cheerfully. The Malfoy scion was about to ask him (as the most level-headed/sane of the four prefect friends) what the bloody hell the ‘Bean Roulette’ was before Myrtle beat him to the punch and asked for ‘his flavor’. Hornby’s sneer turned into confusion. 

“Oh I’m lime pie this time.” was what he replied cheerily, “Show me the results when you’re done! I’m rather curious who wins!”

He left without an explanation and with a confused Hornby chasing after him and demanding what the bloody hell she just witnessed. His laughter bounced through the corridor. Neither Minerva nor Pomona were any help either, each just saying a flavor and leaving with their fellow prefect (both of whom were smart enough not to question whatever had just transpired). Then Tom had opened the door, scowling at Umbridge, who was prattling on about something behind him (“...and I do think you’d be a shoo-in for the Ministry with your grades...”) before smiling at the lot of them. Myrtle immediately pinked but asked the question just as she had done with the Musketeers. The scowl returned as if remembering something terrible as the Slytherin prefect muttered out:

“Unwashed shady motel carpet.”

Everyone made a face at the rather descriptive flavor as Myrtle gleefully wrote the answer down. Abraxas was absolutely mystified with the entire exchange, even when Tom bade them a good day with his easy smile that could make ones’ heartbeat and breathing stop for a second...

And he was gone, the sound of Umbridge’s continuously tittering voice the only indication of his retreating form. 

When he turned around back to his compartment-mates, Abraxas was greeted to the sight of Eileen raising her eyebrows at him. The snow blond teen buried his face in his hands as he tried to deal with this new sort of emotion that should not relate to Tom in the slightest.

Lestrange just patted him on the back in understanding and Rubeus nods in assurance that whatever just happened was completely normal.

“It happens to everyone at least once.” the half-giant rumbled, “You get used to it and eventually it passes.”

“Not for all of us.” Myrtle grumbled, her face still pink as she shook her head, “Sometimes it just eats at you.”

Lestrange patted her on the back as well, as if she were a younger sister and not a ‘mudblood’. Ever since they both had become friends with Tom they had also been adopted his other friends as well. It never bothered them despite the fact that it should, because Tom had this ability to make everything seem okay (even when they weren’t) once you were on his good side. Great, now he was thinking about that easy smile that had been briefly aimed at him. Something must have shown on his face because Myrtle just muttered:

“Join the club. We hope you don’t stay for your sake.”

When did his life become like this?

The first night being a prefect was quite fun. It was obvious that between him and Umbridge, Tom was the immediate favorite of the first-years (especially when he started cursing out Peeves in Parseltongue, that had been great) and they all followed him like little imprinted ducklings to their dorms, their eyes wide and taking everything in with a sense of wonder and awe. The teen felt rather proud of this. If he had been looking at Umbridge’s direction (unlikely, but alas), he would have seen her scheming eyes narrow at his back as he gave the first years the welcome pep talk he had written during the summer. 

With his added duties as prefect, time began to pass by as if he were flying through it on a broom. Somehow he managed to balance his social life, his classes, Quidditch, and the Dueling Club alongside his own personal projects. The professors weren’t making this easy, with it being their O.W.L year, but Tom wasn’t a genius for nothing and being surrounded by fellow bright minds (in specific subjects now) helped immensely. Minerva took to Transfiguration like a fish to water, Filius was a master at Charms, Pomona’s green thumb was the envy of all Hufflepuffs, Eileen’s Potions expertise was already widely known, Rubeus was turning out to be a natural at Care of Magical Creatures (though he was too far behind to help the older students with the material, the basic concept was mostly the same), and Myrtle was acing Divination (though Lestrange was the only other person taking it). 

On the other hand, Professor Merrythought had placed Tom on her list of potential future replacements for her position (she was hoping to retire in a decade or so) with all the skill he showed in Defense. He was the first to be able to spot, discern, pick apart, and unravel cursed objects, some of which he had been asleep in doing (no one was quite sure how though, not even Tom himself). His repertoire of dark curses that he knew had also grown to far more than the average adult wizard (due to his time studying the books in the Chamber and in Borgin and Burke’s), and his answers were usually more in depth to the point where he ended up lecturing the class more often than not. 

Weasley had joined their study group in an attempt to understand why they were doing so well (and to see if he could psyche Tom out before the Gryffindor-Slytherin Quidditch matches). Macmillan had made himself scarce, convinced that they were all mad and about the explode at any point in time. Hornby and Fudge were still being their annoying selves, and Umbridge was doing... something. She kept giving him these glances that screamed ‘I’m up to something and it has to do with you’. He decided to steadfastly ignore her.

When Halloween neared, Tom approached Headmaster Dippet and Professor Dumbledore to pitch an idea he had been knocking around - a new kind of activity for the holiday. After outlining the idea for the day and listing all the safeguards he had in place, he actually managed to get it greenlit by the Headmaster (who seemed tired lately), the Deputy Head (whose blue eyes were twinkling and who was also wearing an orange robe with purple skeletons doing the tango), the Care of Magical Creatures Professor (who was vibrating in excitement), and his Head of House (who wouldn’t look him in the eye anymore due to shame). 

On the actual night of Halloween, students were treated to a gruesome sight. On the wall near the dungeons was a message scrawled in what looked like blood (but was revealed to be strawberry jam upon licking the wall as a Gryffindor on a dare soon found out).

The Chamber of Secrets has been opened. Enemies of the Heir beware!

Tom had finally managed to find the dratted spell that allowed him to control the entrances and exits, and used one of the less publicly humiliating ones which was instead hidden behind a tapestry depicting two snakes in an ouroboros pose (sigh, his ancestors weren’t very imaginative in the slightest). The tapestry was set with a password (“I come bearing gifts of fun and trickery!”) and rolled up to reveal the tunnel that led deeper into the Chamber. After classes the students were urged by more writing to find and enter this tunnel. 

With most of the Chamber hidden away behind stone doors (oh he loved the spell that taught him how to do that!) the students could only roam the main chamber (the one with the fountain and the snake figures and the giant gaudy statue of an old man that was a descendant’s interpretation on what Salazar looked like) and gazed up in awe and alarm (after a couple of screams) at the Basilisk coiled up to greet them. Hung around her neck was a giant blackboard, which dictated words in English whenever the behemoth of a snake hissed something out. On top of the Basilisk’s head sat none other than Tom Riddle himself, who waved at the gathered crowd.

“‘Lo everyone!” he called out with a grin, “Thank you for coming! This is Esmeralda, Queen of Serpents. Her eyes have contacts to make sure her gaze doesn’t kill you. She also has been recently milked for her venom so there’s less chance of any dripping on you. As you’ve probably noticed by now, nothing here is really going to hurt you. I’ve been given permission by Dippet to hold this game today to see how it goes.”

“It should help to work up an appetite before dinner!” the blackboard stated in neat, elegant  handwriting (Tom’s) as the Basilisk hissed.

“Over near those snake statues you will see a bunch of robes in various colors.” Tom continued, gesturing over to where several brightly colored piles laid, “Each color represents a single team that you will be a part of for the duration of the game. You will notice that no House colors were used. Please try to mingle people, we’re all in the same school, after all.”

There was a murmur of unease from the crowd, but the teen wasn’t done yet.

“The general premise of the game is simple.” the Slytherin Heir stated, once again gaining the crowd’s attention, “Around the Chamber are various rooms with simple puzzles that you have to solve in order to continue. At the end of the puzzle room in an artifact, one for each color, that your team must retrieve and bring back to this central chamber and place it in front of dear Esmeralda here. Whichever team gets their artifact here first is the winner and gets this prize treasure box of Honeydukes’ Candy.”

This time the murmurs were of appreciation and delight.

“But there is a catch!” Tom interrupted before they could disperse, “I, along with my own Team, will attempt to delay you from getting your prize.”

At this, a group of students came from behind the Basilisk’s vast form. Each wore a mostly black ensemble with other colored highlights and each individual costume was different in some way, matching the personality of the wearer. Despite the ornate skull-like masks they wore, it was obvious who was who. The Musketeers especially now appeared to live up to that nickname, sporting feathered hats with a house feather and ornate gold rapiers.

“You may hit us with jinxes, but no worse.” the teen continued, leaping down to reveal his own black knight-like ensemble, spreading his arms wide “This is supposed to be an exercise of fun, people. So if I haven’t scared you off and you want to participate, please choose your teams now so we can get started. Teachers and faculty are welcome to join in!”

With that, the first annual Basilisk Run began. 

After the success that was the Halloween Basilisk Run, students seemed to be more at ease with each other. Those that participated had a lot of fun, and team Purple Llama (which included Dumbledore) had won the prize box fair and square, the Transfiguration Professor leading the defense against Tom and his Knights of Walpurgis and hitting them with leg-lockers and jelly-leg jinxes faster that they could dodge. It was an overall enjoyable experience.

However, it brought along another wave of invitations courtesy of Professor Slughorn. This time, however, it was Dumbledore who decided to deliver it to the group personally. Apparently the Potions Professor was still scarred from that last essay. And drat! He was smart enough to use Dumbledore! 

“Now Tom,” The man in the periwinkle blue robes covered in prancing rainbow unicorns admonished, “Would it truly hurt to go to one party? I know Horace has a tendency to ‘collect’ students, but it does provide opportunities that seldom others get, and he is sorry.”

Under the imploring twinkle behind half-moon glasses, what was he supposed to say? No?

“Fine!” he grumbled out, but with no malice as despite his obvious manipulation Dumbledore was still the one to bring him into the magical world (and thus, was still the adult he was the closest to), “I guess I can survive one party.”

As it turned out, the entire group of his friends (which had been dubbed by the rest of the school as his ‘entourage’) had also been invited to the ‘exclusive dinner’ party. Which turned out to just include Slughorn himself amongst Tom and his friends in a fancy dress dinner (though he wasn’t complaining about the food, though he had mixed feelings when he saw that the Slytherin Head of House had made Umbridge serve it to them with that sneaky, simpering smile of hers). Slughorn led the party, asking how their day was, their favorite subjects, how they liked the food, until he got to the true reason behind such gatherings in the Slug Club. 

“So Tom,” The rotund Professor began jovially, “I hear that you’re having some difficulty deciding what to do after you leave Hogwarts - and not for lack of options!”

“I’ve got two years to figure it out, sir.” was all he said, unsure of what the man saw him doing in the future, “Though I do hear the circus might still be hiring. If that doesn’t work out I might open up my own bakery, I suppose.”

Slughorn’s smile faltered only slightly, before chuckling as if Tom had just said a funny joke.

“And what about Quidditch? It’s no secret that you and Minerva have great talent in the sport, and I’ve heard that some teams are already scouting you out!”

As the dinner progressed and more about each person’s talents were probed by Slughorn, Tom wondered truthfully what he wanted to do once he left Hogwarts. Sure, there was the circus, but would it really be that fun? He could do acrobatics on a broom and those were even more death-defying than a trapeze. Dark eyes roamed over the gathered students, all of whom were in their best robes and dresses. Tom himself sat between Rubeus (who was attempting to navigate the fragile-looking dishes) and Abraxas (who still wasn’t looking at him directly... what was that about). Where would they all go after school was over and done with? 

Minerva would most likely go into Quidditch with Rolanda, Filius into Professional Dueling, Pomona would start her own nursery and ingredients dispensary, Lestrange and Abraxas were probably going to follow their fathers’ footsteps and get high ranking Ministry jobs, and Poppy would go to Saint Mungo’s. And that was only those that were in his year! Myrtle wanted to try to reform the way wizards looked at Muggle technology (already aided by Tom’s own efforts to do the same) so she would most likely end up in the Ministry, Rubeus would be off traveling as a Magizoologist, and Eileen would probably open her own Apothecary. With all of them going different ways, where was he to go? 

Tom left the dinner feeling slightly more troubled than when he arrived (though he did promise Slughorn to attend another one... this was going to become a habit, wasn’t it?) and he was brought out of his thoughts by a worried Myrtle. 

“What wrong?” she asked, bumping into his arm like she usually did, lingering there in support, “You look as if Dippet told you that she’s banning jelly donuts unless you get an O in Divination.”

She had gone with a dark blue dress that sparkled at the bottom like stars and had worn her hair down. Far from her usual practical sense of fashion, the Ravenclaw looked far more mature than the girl he found crying in the bathroom three years ago. It felt strange seeing her like that somehow.

“Slughorn just had me thinking about the future, that’s all.” he replied with a smile that made her pink slightly, offering his arm to her as they bade the happy Professor a good night, “I realized that once school ends, we’ll all go separate ways because you have such a clear picture of what you want to do and you have the talent to attain your goals, and here I am wondering what the bloody hell I want to do with my life.”

“You’re a Slytherin, Tom.” Myrtle shrugged as she took to arm (with her face slowly reddening), “You got in Because you were cunning and ambitious. So what were your ambitions?”

“To be the best wizard this world’s ever seen.” Tom answered immediately before tilting his head to the side as they made their way out of the dungeons with the rest of the group (a few of which were staring wide eyed at the duo), “Ministry work sounds too boring, Quidditch is fun but I can’t see myself doing it as a career. I suppose I could be an Auror or a Hit-Wizard, that might be fun...”

“Then try that.” Myrtle interrupted before he could ramble too far (high-fiving Filius as he passed...), “You won’t know that you like it until you try. And who knows? Maybe the lot of us will end up back at Hogwarts as faculty anyway. It’s possible.”

“True...” the Slytherin prefect mumbled before smiling widely at his companion, “Thank you, Myrtle.”

“No problem, Tom.” Myrtle replied with a tomato-red face which looked at Tom in confusion as he separated the two of them to check out why Abraxas looked as if he was about to faint.

“By the way,” Tom threw back with a cheeky grin, “You look wonderful with your hair down like that!l

As Myrtle felt her knees buckle beneath her and Minerva and Pomona rush to help her up, she wondered why someone like him could remain unaware of how he affected people for so long. It’s as if he didn’t understand the nature of romantic love at all. 

This required further research, she thought before brushing herself off and heading to the Ravenclaw Tower with Filius, who nodded to her as if he understood her train of thought.

From where she hid around the corner, Dolores Umbridge seethed.

Time passed quickly, and soon enough Christmas break came and went, and O.W.L.s were hot on their heels. In the meantime, Slytherin trounced the other houses in Quidditch due to their Seeker being a total maniac on a broom and Witch Weekly did an article on him every few months (as Myrtle was still selling pictures to them for some good coin) which made sure that everyone was still crazy about him and his supposed ‘inhumanly gorgeous looks’ (to his eternal chagrin). To get away from it all, Tom would often take naps as a parrot in the Owlry or on the shoulders of his amused friends. Keeping up with the lie he had told Mrs. Rosewood, everyone just knew the African Grey as ‘Tom’s Pet Parrot, Lord Voldemort’. 

Those in the know found this hilarious, though they soon followed his lead when the studying became too rough and they wanted to relax without worrying about social interaction. For some reason the girls’ favorite person to go to in animagus form was Tom himself, though he didn’t complain. The tabby cat, rabbit, and chipmunk were just too darn cute to deny them the much-needed respite. Soon the canary and the large dog joined them, and everyone just assumed it was Tom who had a ridiculous amount of pets that came and went wherever they bloody well pleased.

The O.W.L.s proved to be defeated by the combined might of their genius minds, study, friendship, and the disturbingly high amount of caffeine their coffee. Since the scores would be mailed to them during the summer, the only thing they could do now was unwind before catching the train back home. 

As he read a book on the crimes of Emeric the Evil (and his supposed plan of immortality that was so horrible that the merely knowing what it was and how to do it was practically banned and penalized in the continent), pausing only to let the purring tabby cat on his lap, Tom wondered if he was once again being a bad influence. Or at least, a stronger influence than he had initially thought. His friends had followed him and his (sometimes admittedly insane) ideas without much question, some of which had the lot of them end up in the Hospital Wing for the day when a project went wrong. When he had pitched the idea of the Basilisk Run, they had immediately jumped on it and they all had enthusiastically designed and made the Knight costumes without much overseeing. When he had gone to Rubeus with concerns about his rapidly growing pet Aromantula Aragog (as he couldn’t be hidden in the Chamber due to spiders being naturally terrified of Basilisks), the half-giant had immediately released the arachnid into the Forest (though both he and Tom still checked up on him) despite his tendency to hold on to his dangerous creatures. 

But now it wasn’t just on his friends anymore, but on the younger years that looked to him as if he was their shining authority. This applied to the Ducklings... err, the first years... in particular, as they seemed to do whatever Tom wanted them to do without him specifically asking for it. They had immediately gone down into the Chamber at Halloween, and seemed to have taken his speech about mingling with the other houses to heart as he saw that the tables were more mixed than they had been when he was a first year. 

Perhaps this was why Slughorn had joked about Tom becoming Minister during their Potions classes (to Fudge’s obvious annoyance) all throughout the year. When he asked his friends about his influence on the train back home, they had all laughed and asked him in turn why it took him so long to notice it. With a shrug, he sat back and listened as his friends excitedly discussed their plans for the summer, suddenly very aware of the map folded neatly in his bag. A map that would hopefully lead him to the Gaunt Shack and his Uncle Morfin (and most importantly, lead him towards some answers about why he was abandoned in an orphanage).

Shunk.

The inhabitants of the compartment stopped and stared as Tom’s locket flew and stuck to a small horseshoe shaped object that Filius was holding in his hand.

“What the bloody hell was that for?” the Slytherin questioned as the object also managed to get Pomona’s brooch and Minerva’s glasses as well.

“Sorry!” Filius squeaked, “Dumbledore had asked me to transfigure a mink into a magnet. I guess it turned out a little stronger than I thought!”

The other three prefects grumbled as they (along with the ever-helpful Weasley) attempted to regain their items, but the magnet wouldn’t release its hold on the objects until eventually Minerva just huffed and changed the magnet into an actual horseshoe.

Because that’s the thing about magnets. It’s hard to get out once you’ve been caught in their field. 

Chapter Text

Gah! I’m drowning, I’m drowning! I’m- oh hello there! I’ve been underwater for a good while, much like dear Reggie in that lonely inferi infested cave. Shame, that. He wouldn’t have died so horribly if his parents hadn’t pushed him into being a Death Eater. But that’s family for you. It’s a good thing Sirius got out while he could, finding a new family in the Potters and all that and most likely saving himself from a similar fate.  

Speaking of families, there are a number of different kinds. There’s the families that are close and related by blood, like the wonderful Weasley family. You have your families that are close and not blood related, like the Marauders. Then you have the not so close blood families that are dangerous to their children’s mental and physical health, like the Blacks. You could up it a notch like in some fanfictions and bog poor Harry down with a traumatic childhood under a family of Dursleys that are way more abusive than in canon. Or have him raised by the Potters but in a world where neither of them died and his twin brother was hailed the Chosen One and he was knocked to the wayside. Or raised by the Malfoys, Weasleys, Grangers, Lord Voldemort himself, Sirius, Remus, Snape, McGonagall, Dobby, Mr. What’s His Face From Down The Road, some random self insert original character, or a character from a different story altogether. 

But Harry’s usually still abused by the Durselys. Unless we’re talking about good!Dursleys, it’s practically assumed. 

In that vein, you could also save Harry from the Fanfiction-standard-magnified Dursley abuse if you were an ex-surgeon who went off to learn the magical arts from a centuries old bald woman who looks disturbingly like Tilda Swindon and raised him up in a hidden sanctuary in Kathmandu. That sounds like an interesting take!

I digress, however. 

Family, in all its shapes, sizes, forms, spread, and insanity, tend to shape a person into who they are. Sometimes it cripples them, sometimes it makes them stronger. Sometimes it blinds, sometimes it gives wisdom. For good or for bad, a family is integral to an individual’s personal growth. Friends, too, are a kind of family. The kind you choose for yourself and have various ranges of how long they stick around. And even that impacts a person. 

Games, meals, even punishments, all create someone with a unique set of life experiences, and through those experiences we shape not only ourselves but the world around us as we interact with it. In honor and rebellion, in love and hatred, spite and devotion. Do you love baseball because your father took you to a game? What about baking cookies with your mother? Fighting with siblings? Laughing with cousins? None at all? We are a mosaic of emotions and experiences gathered from those around us. From the ones that made you happy and the ones that made you sad. They could even be from the same people. 

That’s family for you.

But hey, you’re here to read about the shenanigans and exploits of this particular version of Tom Marvolo Riddle, not to read this pish posh about my philosophy on families! 

Speaking of which, what is he doing right now?

Little Hangleton was... quaint. Tom wasn’t sure if he could find many other unique ways of possibly describing the otherwise ordinary small town that he now found himself in. However, this was indeed the place that the map he procured pointed to, and so here he was in the outskirts of the town with nothing but a backpack and the simple, mildly raggedy clothes he wore. It had taken him a while to find Little Hangleton. Not only was it not on most maps due to its size and apparent ongoing feud with the main Map of the United Kingdom publishers, it was also hidden between two hills like some sort of setting out of a children’s fairytale. Except he didn’t think there’d be too many fairies but he could be wrong as Tom himself was a wizard and to the average bloke on the street wizards and witches didn’t exist. 

And really out of the many places he’d thought his maternal family settled in, some backwater town in the middle of the British countryside was something that seemed rather uncharacteristic of the way a ‘Slytherin’ family would do. After seeing the decor in the Common Room, the Chamber of Secrets, and every item the average Slytherin owned, Tom honestly assumed they’d live in a place called Serpens Castle or Emerald Basilisk Manor in the middle of Snake Ridge or on their own island called Isle of the Serpents where you had to speak in parseltongue or do a spell using parseltongue to enter it. He’d assume the goblins had it on lockdown if it weren’t for him asking if such practices were a thing. Apparently they were not. 

Then again, the Gaunts had squandered their wealth, so it was entirely possible that they did have something like that but now it was owned by someone else. Though how they’d get in the Snake Island of Green, Glory and Doom was a fascinating idea for Tom, although he’d yet to find such a place for sale yet. Who knows, maybe in the future he’ll find it and turn it into a sanctuary for magical creatures or something. Or better yet, make a safe place for him to practice some riskier experiments without people telling him he’s committing crimes against the Laws of the Universe. Or open a bakery! Or a circus! 

But that was all speculation. For now he was following his only lead to his family in previously-stated backwater village. 

He’d taken a train from King’s Cross Station as far as it would go until just before it veered off from the part of the countryside he wanted to reach. Then he’d met a friendly traveler in a fez and bow tie near an oddly positioned police box who pointed him in the right direction before walking the rest of the way. As much as he appreciated the exercise, by the time Tom had actually reached the outskirts of Little Hangleton he’d vowed to get himself a motorcycle. Well, once he learned how to ride one. But really it shouldn’t be too hard. He’d learned how to ride on Esmeralda—a difficult feat that very few had apparently mastered including his own ancestors (Ah, the joys of self-taught acrobatics), as well as on most rideable (and some ‘unrideable’) Magical beasts of various kinds. And of course who could forget his skills on a broom? Apparently the other houses were waiting for him to graduate so that they had a chance of winning the Quidditch Cup again. So a motorcycle should be easy enough to procure and ride.

Back in a plane factory in the midlands of England, a young muggle mechanic working in the line shivered. Must be nippier than he thought today.

As Tom made his way through the rather dark village (since it was nighttime now and there were thunderclouds everywhere and wait did he just hear a dramatic organ tune when that lightning hit?) he found himself staring up at the large mansion that stood on the top of one of the hills. From its height, the backdrop of the dark and stormy night, and the now very obvious dramatic organ playing Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D Minor in his head, it almost appeared to be leering at him like a dragon would at its wide eyed estranged cousin, the gecko.

The young teen shook himself out of his wandering thoughts by checking the map again. Getting a map of Little Hangleton, an otherwise muggle small village, was easy. All it took was a trip to the library. Getting the location where his apparent extended family lived when no Gaunt had stepped outside of their home in generations? It took him scouring the Hogwarts Library, sneaking into the Ravenclaw library with the help of Myrtle (who was eager to accept his request of help. She must really love that library), and eventually checking out the Chamber of Secrets before he realized that the Goblins should have the property location on file. They did, so now he had a map of Little Hangleton with a tiny dot made by a quill, right next to the jelly donut stain that dropped when he was snacking while working. 

Oddly enough, the strawberry flavored stain was right where the large Byron-and-Shelly worthy manor was located. How odd. The organ cord struck again in C minor with a lightning strike as he glanced at the building. He was surprised that wasn't the place his family was considering the whole gloom and doom aesthetic they had going on. 

He decided to bother the probably moody broody manor people later and focus on meeting his family now—since that was the entire point of him traveling here to the now mildly creepy backwater town in the first place. There was bound to be a road or path somewhere…

One cobbled road, one dirt road, and one vaguely trampled path through the forest led him to a rather dilapidated shack that was definitely not hiding some kind of malicious spirit or serial killer in any way. From what appeared to be some kind of feral wisteria had begun a turf war with the overgrown hydrangeas, and it seemed like currently the wisteria had the upper hand. Soon they would be able to conquer the entire west end as long as their descendants didn’t ruin it for them. 

Deciding to leave the flora to their battle, Tom made his way to what he could only assume was the front door, pushing away some crawling ivy. There he was put face-to-face with not only a door of rotting wood, but also a snake of rotting flesh. After silently disparaging why anyone would do anything to that to a poor snake, it raised its half-decomposed head.

“No mugglesss allowed.” It hissed in a very odd dialect of snake (parseltongue, though he’d never heard it like this before) and then went limp right after as if the message was charmed into it.

Tom was quite confused on what would be the most polite way to go about this after something like that. After a few seconds he decided to knock on the door, the wood soft and damp under his knuckles. A few pieces of wood flew off from the top, making him cringe a bit. Property damage was not his intent but this place looked like it was about to crumble in upon itself at any moment. There was a loud clatter from within, telling the young man that this shack did in fact have an inhabitant present. 

His hand rested on the door handle as he pondered whether to try again, but the handle instead decided that with the sudden light pressure of the young handsome man that its life was finally complete and could now depart for the afterlife and promptly fell off and without its constant vigil the door creaked open. Tom certainly hoped the resident of the abode didn’t think he was being rude, since the house itself apparently was inviting him inside and really it seemed in sore need of some TLC. It was quite dark inside, so he held the metal lamp he acquired from Mrs. Rosewood (he had told her he would be doing a bit of traveling over the summer to trace down his family and she had been more than happy to lend him one) a little higher. 

If Tom thought the gardens outside were a war zone between strains of Call-Of-The-Wild feral flora, the interior of the house made the exterior resemble more of a mild scuffle. The cobwebs of the Spider Empire had taken over the entirety of the ceiling and were on a current crusade to establish their reign over the walls, but were encountering resistance from the Black Mold, which had joined forces with the menagerie of grime and gunk that raised their armies from the rotting dishes and bottles. 

Indeed the engagement between these two forces of decrepitness and muck took so much of Tom’s attention that it was only when he heard a loud shout that he remembered that there was someone who actually lived here. 

“YOU!” Came a rather hoarse voice bellowing in the darkness, “YOOOOU!”

A sentient mop was hurling at him holding a wand and a knife. Despite the amount of damage a wand could do, it was the knife that clued the young wizard in on the mop’s killing intent. 

“Son of a toad sitter!” 

He had only swore out of surprise, but the mop stopped at his cry. And by stop he meant that it hit the brakes so fast that the leftover momentum propelled it forward into a haphazard stack of pots and pans. The loss of forces would do well for the Spiders’ cause. Now that there was no longer any immediate danger, Tom now noticed that the sentient mop was, in fact, actually a man with a ridiculously overgrown beard and hair. 

“You speak it?” the mop-man asked in the same old dialect of parseltongue as the rotted snake—same voice, too. 

“Yeah, been able to speak it me whole life.” Tom answered, bobbing his head a bit, going to help the poor man off the ground, surreptitiously footing the rather rusted pocket knife out of reach, “Are you… Morfin?”

Tom had come to terms with the fact that his family wasn’t a part of the circus, but this version of the truth was… depressing. Like, this wasn’t some kind of front like the Leaky Cauldron or the entrance to the Chamber. This was… crushing reality. The Gaunts not only squandered their wealth, no, this was beyond just ‘squandering’. What have they been doing all this time to bring a tiny shack to such a state?

“'s my name, ain’t it?” Was the grunted response, not even nodding in thanks, pushing the young man a bit as he instead chose to lean on a table that had been so covered in grime that simply putting his weight on it made it creak dangerously. 

“Morfin Gaunt?” came the curious prod.

“'s what I'm called, ain't it…” came the sneering response.

He allowed the feeling of excitement to bubble up within him once more. A lopsided smile, nervous (since this was the only family member he knew of, that he finally got to meet) in the face of this grimy man. Morfin pushed the hair out of his face and Tom could finally see his beady eyes. Dark, wayward, just like his mother’s and in a way just like his own. 

“I thought you was that Muggle,” whispered Morfin, and Tom wondered if the man knew proper English or if they were going to carry this conversation entirely in parseltongue, You look mighty like that Muggle.”

Now this piqued his interest greatly. There was someone he looked like? Was this another clue? “A Muggle?” He asked, hope seeping into his voice.

“That Muggle that my sister took a fancy to, that Muggle that lives in the big house over the way,” spat Morfin, quite literally, the spittle hitting the space between them like a line drawn in the sand. 

Tom barely noticed this as he recalled the Tocatta-and-Fugue mansion, the fact that ‘his sister’ was probably his mother, thinking that this must be fate and now he could meet more of his family.

“You look right like him. Riddle. But he’s older now, in ’e? He’s older’n you, now I think on it…” mumbled Morfin, swaying in what could only be intoxication, “He come back, see…”

“He came back? Riddle? He’s here now? Where? In the mansion up the way?” Tom asked excitedly, for once ignoring all the warning signs, all the dangers of pressing forward on this particular mission, the hate in Morfin’s eyes whenever he talked about the ‘Muggle’. 

“Ar, he left her, and serve her right, marrying filth!” Morfin spat out once more, though the glob seemed to be a bit closer to Tom’s feet this time, “Robbed us, mind, before she ran off! Where’s the locket, eh, where’s Slytherin’s locket?”

So the locket had been his mother’s then? It would explain why it felt like her when he found it. Hey! Maybe this was his chance to reconcile with his uncle! To show him that he had the locket and that they could be a family (even though his mother ran off, but seeing the state of the house he didn’t blame her).

“Dishonored us, she did, that little slut!” 

The outburst was like running through a ghost. A shock of icy cold washed over Tom at how his uncle talked about his mother. His own sister. Tom’s mother . How could he do that to his own sister? He had to take a step back as Morfin waved his wand around, clutched tightly in his clammy hands. Whatever energy his uncle had in his rage, however, was soon lost as the mop of a wizard slumped back on the table with a wobble, glaring at Tom.

“And who’re you, coming here and asking questions about all that?! It’s over, innit… It’s over...”

Carefully Tom stepped forward. “I’m your nephew. My name’s Tom. Tom Riddle. Merope is my mother. She’s your sister, right? I go to Hogwarts, a-and I’m in Slytherin! And I’ve met Esmeralda and-”

Whatever desperate hope he clung to about how Morfin might change his mind at the news was dashed as dark eyes met—one with kindness and the other hatred. 

“Freak!” Came the scream that tore out of Morfin, barreling towards the young man again, “Filthy blood! Spawn of a slut and a muggle! Get outta here! Mudblood filth!”

Despite the fact that the man had a fully functional wand (or was it? He hadn’t seen the man use any magic at all since the time he was here—clearly he hadn’t been using any cleaning or repairing spells) Tom was instead tackled to the ground. The scuffle activated Tom’s well-ingrained London orphanage fighting, which involved kicking the ass of the already inebriated man and stealing whatever the hell he had on him. Which totaled to one (1) grim-claimed wand and one (1) sweat-covered ring. 

His uncle groaned and hurled insults at him as the son of Merope Gaunt hightailed it out of there, pocketing his consolation and heading towards the inn to hunker down for the night. It felt like there was a stone in his stomach, weighing on him. The first contact with his biological family had gone… pretty awful, if he were to admit it to himself. 

As he laid in the ratty bed he was given, looking over the ring he filched and cleaned, he mulled over these things in his head.

Perhaps… perhaps tomorrow he would go to the mansion up on the hill. Yeah. He would go and see his father. Ask him the questions he never got answers to. Why he left Mother. Why he never came back for Tom. Did he know that Tom existed? He was a ‘muggle’, so Tom resolved to dress his best before he got there. 

Hopefully it would go better than what he just witnessed. 

Diana was ready to quit. 

She would do it today, for sure, finally. No longer could she stand dealing with these snobby Riddles any longer. The pay was not worth it, and the gossip surrounding Tom Riddle (the younger one, still rather handsome despite his horrendous personality) running away with that Gaunt woman who lived in the dilapidated shack in the woods died down a good few years ago after the hag never returned. 

And it had been such a fun one, too. She used to love talking about it at the Hanged Man with Dot, thinking up crazier things than the last. Especially when they tossed around the idea that they might have had a child together. Oooh that would’ve been juicy. But the Gaunt Lass (Merope, Diana thought was her name) never returned, and there was no news of her so that meant they couldn’t pin him on anything. 

From what Diana heard (as she only started working as a maid here five years ago) from the Hangleton rumor mill, he was quite stricken when he first returned, ranting and raving that marrying ‘that Gaunt hag’ was never his intention and that he’d ‘been had’. The sight was supposed to have been mighty entertaining! The man seemed to have forgotten the scene he had made only a few months prior—publicly declaring his love for Merope and marrying her in the little chapel before old Earl Riddle could put a stop to it and then eloping to London before the sun rose.

Now, though, he’s just as snobby and leery of anyone of lower status as had been before. 

However, the Riddles paid well. Very well. Enough to make the belligerent staff stay even when they had to deal with such blue bloods each day, flaunting their money, their upbringing, their accent. Everyone from the family had gone to Eton, and before the younger Riddle’s surprise wedding he had been slated to start working for one of old Thomas Riddle’s snooty friends. The one with the grabby hands and cigar breath.

Was it worth trying to get another job? A few more years and she would have saved enough to get closer to London (and hopefully this bloody war would be over with by then). Though even then it might be more interesting than here…

As she bemoaned her life, a knock came from the front door. This was odd, as any visitors usually called ahead, and the butler would be busy readying the rest of the servants to greet them. Unless it was a solicitor. They got those every so often but the Riddle’s Law was to chase them out. As politely as possible, of course, since they had a reputation to maintain. Curiosity filled her as she shouted to her co-workers that she would get it, a couple of the other maids and hands peeking around the corner to see who it was. 

“Sorry gov’na, we don’t take solici…” the words died in her mouth as Diana took in the sight of a smiling, teenage Tom Riddle. 

The lad was the spitting image of the younger Riddle lord, only he had a sweet smile on his face and… darker eyes. His clothes were neat and tidy. 

“Hello, miss!” The mystery clone-boy greeted cheerfully, “Is this the house of the Riddle family?”

“It is.” She responded, gobsmacked, “May I ask what your business is…?” 

“Right, right.” A hand combed through his dark, wavy hair nervously as he shifted a bit in the doorway. From behind Diana, more servants had come to see what the hold up was and if they could nab anything interesting to gossip about later. “My name’s Tom Riddle, ah, Junior. I’m here to look for my father. I was raised in an orphanage in London, see. Never knew him, see. Tracked my family down here.” 

His voice was very similar to the Master’s. And more pleasant with how polite he was being. But did he just say Tom Riddle was his father? No, he definitely did. And the age. Being raised an orphan. Could it be…?

“I beg your pardon, but did you happen to know your mum’s name?” Diana asked, shushing the murmurs of those behind her wanting to get a look, trying to hide her own excitement.

“Erm. Merope Riddle… uh, Merope Gaunt, Miss. She died giving birth to me so I don’t know much about her. I was wondering if my father would.”

Jackpot. Riddle wasn’t ever going to live this down now. He could deny the loss of years with Gaunt but he couldn’t deny the presence of a child between him and that woman. His child! In the flesh!

“I’m sorry for your loss.” Diana told him with no hint of sympathy, letting him in the manor and reveling in the shocked faces of her co-workers. This was going to be the talk of the town for a good, long while. “Let me see if I can get the young master for you, Mr. Riddle.”

With a grin on her face and a spring in her step, she went to find Tom Riddle…ah, Senior.

Tom would be honest in saying that he had assumed prior to coming to Little Hangleton that it was his maternal side that were the high-browed upper class (what with the whole ‘heir of Slytherin’ thing). Or that, in the least, he would come to find that his father was missing or something. Neither was the case, so this turned out to be an interesting twist in his search. 

A quick look around told him these people had at least five servants in their employ, and even a butler! Who has butlers these days?! 

Said butler was eying him like Abraxas had when Tom first revealed he could talk to snakes. Silence stretched between them until multiple footsteps were heard thundering down the halls. Then came the shouting. 

First came in the nice maid lady who let him in, her face flushed red and expression tight. Next came an old couple that reminded Tom of Abraxas’ parents, and they seemed… irritated at something. The last, though…

If Tom were twenty years older, he was sure he’d look like the man in front of him. Same hair, same build, same jaw, same look in the eyes when he’s questioning his life choices…

Ah. 

“Hi. I’m Tom. I think I might be your son.” Was what the young wizard came up with on the spot after the standoff dragged on for what felt like hours. 

His older doppelgänger reeled back as if slapped. Despite the fact that they obviously looked alike, and Tom was pretty sure he was married to his mother since there was that ring on her finger that Mrs. Cole took as payment for taking care of her during her labor. Plus the parchment had a line that had indicated marriage. 

“I have no son.” Was what the older Tom hissed out (see? Family resemblance there too!) at the younger one. 

“I-I’m Merope Riddle… née Gaunt’s son.” The younger Tom responded, trying to keep his nerve even though he too felt as if he’d been slapped. 

“That hag’s child then?” The even older Tom wheezed out, tapping his cane on the ground, “See what you did, boy? Do you really think you could run from that mistake of yours? Well, there’s the proof in the pudding! A bastard son.”

"Well a bastard is a child conceived out of wedlock. I'm pretty sure my mother and my father were married when I was." Tom the protagonist mumbled out, his eyes darting between the people around him. This was no longer friendly territory.

"I was bewitched!" His biological father shouted out, "By that hag! She… she put something in my water. It made me think and feel things I didn't really have! You may not believe me but it's true!" He snarled out like a caged beast, his head swiveling to the teenager, "Get out! You… if you're real then you're a monster born from… born from her Witchcraft!"

His mind went rather blank after that, only recalling that he had at least bowed politely and apologized for taking up their time. When he came to, he was on the outskirts of the town, leaning against a tree that seemed as sorrowful as he felt at that moment. 

What was he to think? To even begin? This trip had yielded answers at a cost he thought might have been too great. Because the answer was that yes, they never cared. Worse, they despised each other and in turn his existence.

“You look just like that Muggle.”

He didn’t understand this... pain... in his chest. It wasn’t the first time he’d been rejected. He’d been passed over, called a freak and a devil’s child and many other names back in the orphanage. Told that he wasn’t worth their love. Wasn’t good enough to be in a family. Raised with people who never quite cared. He’d gotten quite numb to that feeling until it didn’t bother him anymore. What was the point in wallowing over strangers who would never mean anything to you? 

“I was bewitched!”

It just felt quite different when the denial of family came from those who were related by blood to you. Tom had thought he had gotten over it growing up, thinking about who they might have been and coming to terms that nobody would ever be coming to take him ‘home’. Faceless manifestations in his imagination, nameless except for what little he knew. In a sense knowing that there must have been a reason why he was abandoned. Left alone. 

“Get outta here! Mudblood filth!”

It was different, though, when they told you that which you suspected (and many things that he didn’t) to your face. That they didn’t care, that even though you were family, the ‘other side’ damned you into a sense of disownment. 

“I have no son.”

A part of him knew it would hurt, would always hurt, but he’d also thought that he was better than this. Above crying over people who didn’t care. Never cared. Something in his chest ached at that. Tom brushed off the dust he had on him and trekked back to the station, not really much aware of his surroundings. 

So engrossed in his mind was he that he didn’t even notice that the friendly chap who pointed him initially to Little Hangleton was being chased by some machines equipped with toilet plungers and a beater, but narrowly escaped them by running into the police box, which vanished. The young wizard instead hopped in the train back to London, his mind stewing in all the anger and resentment he had buried years ago. 

His hand absentmindedly went to his pocket, fingers brushing against something grimy. This jolted him out of his stewing as he took the offending objects out. It was the things he stole from his raging uncle. A wand was almost emanating a deep desperation to be cleaned, and a ring that may have originally been pretty but had gone black with soot and grime. Both of these things would be getting soaked and scrubbed (and the wand a good polish—at this point it was a rescue and needed some serious TLC) as soon as he got home. 

Taking this chance to ignore the gaping hole he was feeling in his chest, Tom began to rub the ring with a rag, trying to get as much gunk as he could off. It looked like the metal was made of some kind of gold alloy, and in it was set some kind of… crystal? He would have to ask the Goblins what the hell it was. Though seeing as his uncle had it (and the state everything else was in that Shack), he doubted it was anything of value. 

A vindictive part of him felt pleased that he at least got something positive out of the encounters, even if it was something he stole. If they were going to hate him anyway, anything he did to anger them wasn’t going to change things. Just like how things were at Wool’s. Guess he wasn’t missing out on much all of these years.

When he returned to London he went straight to his little closet-room and closed the door. He did not speak to anyone. He did not converse with Mrs. Rosewood. He did not pass Go. He did not collect 200.

“Blimey. That’s a hell of a trip.” Muttered Myrtle, her legs swinging from the bench they both sat on. 

The park they had decided to meet at was quiet. It was a dreary day, though most days in London were theater way, especially with the threat of bombs dropping over their heads having increased. But both of their current abodes were safe on the border of the magical communities now (Myrtle’s family had finally hunkered down in Diurn Alley, the residential district off of Diagon Alley, with the help of Tom earlier in the year) so they risked the trip. 

It was here that the two Londoners agreed to use as their semi-regular summer hangout spot, and currently where Tom had just finished explaining everything that had happened in Little Hangleton to his closest confidant. 

“I mean, on the bright side, it saved me a trip to hunt down my father.” Tom tried, a wide smile on his face despite having wiped tears from his eyes throughout his story. Myrtle had handed him her handkerchief (a small thing of white and blue that had the letters MR hand-stitched on them multiple times as practice, which she really hoped he didn’t notice) at some point. “Saved my pocket money with that one, and unfortunately it seems like my dad wasn’t part of the circus either. A shame. Though my uncle could make it pretending to be a sentient mop…”

Myrtle sighed and shook her head in exasperation. Her fingers flicked at his nose, eliciting a yelp from the rejected orphan. “You may be good at hiding your feelings from most people, but don’t try to hide them from yourself.” She chastised, before continuing in a softer tone, “It was wrong of them to do that to you. And there’s no reason to think otherwise. You’ve got it in your head that you somehow deserve this, don’t you?”

Tom nodded silently, having brought his knees to his chest. Myrtle waited patiently in case he spoke, scooting to sit right beside him now, mirroring his pose. Her head rested on his shoulder for a moment.

“Even though they’re blood, you didn’t even know they existed until recently? They’re not your family, Tom. We’re your family. You’ve got Oscar, Pinocchio and Geppetto, and Mrs. Rosewood and Professor Dumbledore. And you’ve got us, Tom. Family can be the kind that you choose to surround yourself with. There are people who love you. We can be your family. Forget them. They don’t know that they’re missing out on someone as great as you anyway.”

His dark eyes were on her again. Those eyes that she wished would see her and how she felt about him. Would that ruin what they already had? His mouth quirked into a smile, and she felt as if she couldn’t breathe anymore.

“Thanks, Myrtle.” Tom croaked out, tears forming at the corners of those pretty eyes of his, “That means a lot.”

She decided to take her chance and hug him, which to her surprise he returned fiercely. “I’ll always be there for you, Tom. Even if you do get old, bald and noseless like your nightmares.”

A short laugh from Tom, and she felt both weightless from it and yet squashed by his hug. This was good enough, right? She shouldn’t get greedy with him. But still…

“Do you want to go dancing?” She finally plucked the nerve to ask, watching his expression topurn quizzical. “My dad taught me how since I was young and… maybe it’ll take your mind off all of this?”

Within the next hour or two the duo traversed the streets of London looking for a decent dancing club that wasn’t strictly for adults (and discreetly turning down anyone that told them otherwise while staring creepily at a cluelessly smiling Tom Riddle). They finally found one that was already starting to fill up with young teens, with a small band playing. Jazzy swing tunes and warm lights enveloped the near-adults in a bright respite to the dreariness of the outside. 

Amongst the throng of bounding youths, Myrtle Elizabeth Warren taught Tom Marvolo Riddle to jive, jitterbug, and swing. Though some would stop and watch the young man and his brightening disposition (one hapless lass accidentally stepping on her partner’s foot three times before mistakenly elbowing him in the face), the fast paced music soon had their attention instead of the laughing duo amongst the other giggling couples. 

Myrtle made sure that he didn’t think of his sorrow from Little Hangleton and relished the fact that in this moment, his eyes were almost always on her. 

She thought of stealing a kiss from him in the heat of the moment. Thought of it many times throughout that night. But she was too afraid that those beautiful eyes would change and not understand. Too afraid he would push her away and she would lose what they already had and what they’d become to each other. 

So she didn’t. 

Tom went dancing with Myrtle in the cities of non-magical London a couple more times and perfected his moves to the point where they garnered far more stares from bystanders than was comfortable before it was finally time to return back home to Hogwarts. Speaking of the spunky bunny-like Ravenclaw, she had also managed to make it as Prefect this year, which was great because that meant she could ride with them and most of the original group could be together again. 

Her Ravenclaw partner was a rather interesting fellow by the name of Serendipitus Lovegood, who joined the rest of Tom’s motley crew during the Bean Roulette without any protest (to the unsurprise but horror of their fellow year prefects). He was a close second with ‘fresh popcorn drywall’ against Tom’s ‘mud bath recently used by a green ogre during a music number’, which was astounding in and of itself. Both of the 5th year Slytherin prefects seemed to hang on to every word Tom said, and the Hufflepuff prefects were already discussing some kind of Puff exclusive party involving lots of food and weeds, for some reason. The Gryffindor prefects were also discussing something together involving the ‘illegal smuggling of alcohol’ that was prevalent in their own House. With all of these new people, the likes of Hornby and Umbridge couldn’t dampen the lively mood of the Prefects car, even when they split off to do their rounds. 

Oddly enough, Umbridge had been glaring daggers at him since they unfortunately reunited in the prefect’s train car. If he recalled correctly, she’d been like that before the summer holidays as well. Generally this would be a good thing, but her glaring was starting to distract the younger years he spoke with, who would ask why he was being followed around by an angry human toad (and that no, no this wasn’t his attempt at making a basilisk himself, thank you very much). He ignored this as much as possible, thinking of the many ways he could prank her and her posse of Pureblood supremacists to hell and back. He’d need to consult his Knights (Knights? They really need to find a decent name for their growing friend group. Every friend group needs a cool name!) for this, it would seem.

When they got to the further compartments, Umbridge stuck her noses into the smaller ones to make some snide comment at any inhabitants while Tom was chatting up and getting to know some first-years. He’d been in the middle of assuring them that the Sorting didn’t involve fighting other students in an arena for sport in order to determine one’s House when a shriek ripped through the entire traincar. 

After the ringing abated from his ears, Tom headed in the direction of the banshee-like scream but was nearly bowled over by none other than Umbridge, who accosted him with rage in her nearly protruding beady eyes. 

“How dare you?!” She screeched at him. Tom blinked in confusion. 

“What did I do?” he asked with wide, innocent eyes. 

“Th-the snake! The big snake in the closet!” Umbridge harrumphed out, stomping her foot on the rumbling train floor, “You think you can just set serpents anywhere just because you’re the Heir of… hey! I’m talking to you!”

Aforementioned ‘Heir of Slytherin’ had already put distance between himself and Umbridge to check out this far more interesting snake that had been mentioned. Feet skidded to a halt as he nearly passed a tiny storage compartment with its door ajar. He did in fact hear a hissing noise coming from it, and creeping closer he could make out the obvious complaints about the scream that most lightly had nearly knocked it out for the count. Umbridge could audition as an emergency alarm and win first place.

Opening the closet had him face to face with the largest (other than Esmeralda, but there was no contest there) snake he’d ever seen in his life. Shimmering green scales and a pattern that reminded him of a python. The feminine voice of the snake seemed to be speaking to herself.

“Well now you’ve done it. Maybe they’ll take you to Dumbledore without trying to kill or banish you this time…” 

Oddly enough, this snake lacked the usual sibilant accent that the other serpents he’d spoken to had. But even more odd was the fact that apparently she knew Dumbledore. Could Dumbledore also speak to snakes? Unlikely, but maybe there were other ways?

“Would you like me to take you to Dumbledore?” The Slytherin descendant asked politely, watching as the snake jolted and stared at him with wide eyes (well, wide for a snake, she was surprisingly expressive).

“You can… understand me?” Her voice was quite broken, as if on the verge of tears.  

“Yeah, uh. Tom Riddle. Heir of Slytherin. Can speak to snakes. Hi! Nice to meet you. What’s your name?” He stuck his hand out to shake… oh bollocks. Right. Snakes don’t have hands and they don’t understand the custom of-

The snake used her tail to ‘shake’ his hand. 

“I’m Nagini. Could you please take me to Albus Dumbledore? He’s an old friend of mine.”

In a certain Transfiguration Professor’s office, Tom Marvolo Riddle was once again the translator between human and snake. 

From what he’d ended up learning, Nagini was actually a human turned into a snake. Well, actually she was a human that was cursed into becoming a snake when she was little. Well, actually she was a human whose family had a blood-curse that allowed them all to turn into snakes but eventually would permanently transform into a snake. 

“So it’s like an animagus but without the benefits?” the sixteen year old parselmouth tried to understand. Dumbledore chuckled. 

“That is essentially the effect of this particular Maledictus curse, yes. Nagini and I met each other a couple decades ago… though that isn’t my story to tell. Back then she was not yet in a permanent serpent state, but eventually she succumbed to her curse.”

“I have tried many things to get rid of the curse or to slow it. Nothing has worked so far, as you can see.” Nagini added, which Tom passed on to Dumbledore, who stroked his beard and nodded sadly. “I was hoping that now, after some time, you might have an answer or at least a lead, Albus Dumbledore.”

The Transfiguration Professor grew thoughtful for a moment. His eyes went from Nagini—who was coiled up in an armchair and somehow holding a cup of tea with her tail—to Tom, who was sitting politely in the other armchair with his own tea in human hands. 

“I have not found an answer myself, no.” Nagini’s head drooped at this. “But I do believe a lead may lie with our dear friend Tom here. He is, after all, a very gifted young man and a talented wizard. Perhaps the answer for your particular curse can be found in Parselmagic.”

The serpent in the armchair whipped around to regard Tom with starry eyes. Dumbledore also seemed to be waiting for him with his usual twinkling eyes. Talk about no pressure. 

“Professor, I’m going to need to think about how to do this. Which I will!” Tom explained, mollifying Nagini with his exclamation. “If even you couldn’t find a way to lift a curse that’s been in a bloodline for generations, how am I supposed to figure it out? I haven’t even started my NEWTs yet!”

“Well, you are a smart boy, Tom. I’m sure you’ll find something.” His eyes continued to twinkle as Tom sighed in exasperation himself. “Besides, I’m not saying you have to solve it right this minute. Just… let’s say it’s an extra credit assignment from me. I suppose it could be considered Transfiguration, after all.”

A sigh of relief with a grateful smile. “Thanks, Professor. I was worried there for a second. I mean, it’s not like waving my wand and saying ‘By the power of Slytherin I release you from your curse’ is going to work-“ Tom said in Parseltongue with sarcasm while waving his hand in emphasis toward Nagini.

Pop.

There was no longer a snake coiled in the armchair. In the serpent’s place was a middle aged Asian woman in a black dress holding her cup of tea with surprise written all over her face. Dumbledore and Tom blinked, the Professor staring at him for a few seconds as the office went silent. 

“Oh you’ve got to be kidding me!” the young wizard shouted, jolting the two adults back from whatever they were thinking. Nagini began to sniffle and cry tears of joy, enveloping Tom in a hug.

“I can’t believe that’s all it took. After everything I’ve tried…” she finally was able to say properly. “I don’t think I can ever thank you enough for this.”

“I can’t believe that’s all it took.” Tom muttered out, Nagini walking around the office with her legs for the first time in years. “Parselmagic is actually bullshit. This is so stupid.” He continued to mumble such things under his breath as Dumbledore chuckled. “You can just say things in snake-language and make things happen. How is this legal?”

In the Great Hall where students had started to tuck into the feast, a couple students had noticed Tom’s absence. When a large amount of emeralds came crashing into the hourglass that held Slytherin’s House points, a surprising few non-Slytherins sighed in relief. Well, at least he wasn’t doing anything stupid or crazy. 

“So anyways, I guess I kind of have a snake-mom now? Miss Nagini said that she’s got some things to take care of first, but that she’ll come back to Hogwarts when she’s ready.”

The small group of students that Tom called his friends just stared at him for a moment, dead silent as he finished his entire explanation of his summer and the incident with Nagini. Filius was the first to start giggling, bowling over in laughter after a minute. Soon Minerva and Pomona followed suit, along with Myrtle and Rubeus. At last Tom, swept away by their jubilance, joined in with them. 

“How do these things keep happening to you?” Mona asked, trying to wipe the mirthful tears that poured from her eyes. 

“Because apparently an entire language is the basis of a magic so powerful you can just make things happen by just saying things.” Tom grumbled out, crossing his arms and huffing a bit. 

“You can ‘just make things happen’ on your own, Tom.” Fil chuckled out, “The fact that it took this to make you see that is mind-boggling.”

“That still doesn’t make any sense!” the teen in question cried, his hands thrown into the air. “That kind of power isn’t suited for someone like me. It should be, I dunno, Professor Dumbledore or something!”

“Da told me magic comes from the heart.” Rubeus rumbled out, patting (though it was more slamming due to his growing height and weight) Tom on the back. “And yeh got a lot of heart.”

“Yeah! Ye can do anything if you’ve got enough nerve!” Minnie exclaimed, shaking her fist and flexing her bicep to cheers from the group. “And we all show our strengths differently! Yours just happens to be through really strange magic.”

“And remember, you’re the one that brought us together. That’s a kind of power all on its own too.” Myrtle murmured, bumping her shoulder with his. “So don’t worry about whether or not you’re suited or deserving of it. The only way you’re going to know for certain is to keep going—and we’ll all be right there with you when you do. No matter where that road leads.”

Tom smiled, bumping her shoulder back. Dark eyes looked across as his group of friends, friends that he’d found and made his own. He didn’t know what laid ahead, but at least there was the certainty that he had people who supported him. Had supported him all this time. Perhaps now, the wounds that had been opened during the summer could heal. 

Sometimes a family didn’t have to have a mother or a father or an uncle or a grandfather. Sometimes it could be one’s friends, one’s Transfiguration Professor, one’s pet snakes, a kindly baker landlord employer, and a thousand year old basilisk in the school basement.

Because that was the thing about family. Be it born or found, they’re what you would call ‘home’.

Chapter Text

Aaaah! Love is in the air! 

Birds are singing, the sun is shining, people are receiving gifts of dying plants and boxes of cheap chocolate while serenades of love songs play in the background…

…Eugh, really sticking it to all the singles, aren’t they? Luckily romantic love isn’t the only type of love that exists! In fact, the Greeks had different words for different kinds of love. 

There’s Eros , which is the type of love that oft-times ends in the creation of children (even by accident). Philautia , the love of the self (no, that’s not when you make kissy faces in the mirror, or is it?). Philia , which is a type of camaraderie that forms between people — like a platonic love. There’s Storge , which is the love between parent and child. Ludus , the fleeting, playful love that passes like ships in the night amongst strangers that don’t always become friends. And Agape is the love for everyone as a whole — empathy, charity, wanting to make the world a better place for the sake of its inhabitants. 

This is all combined into one word of “Love”, which really makes things confusing. In modern days, we like to play around with the term “True Love’s First Kiss” used in fairytales. The love of a sister, a mother, a child, a friend. Are they not valid loves as well? 

And the entire spectrum of feeling and emotion is not so easily placed in little boxes, perhaps we learn later that what we thought was “Eros” was more “Ludus” or even “Philia”, or the feeling could hop from one to another like rabbits in springtime. Or perhaps they like to sit at the fence, confusing the individual feeling those feelings.

No wonder the Love Room confuses the hell out of the poor sods at the Department of Mysteries. Some things are best left in their mysterious ways. 

Harry Potter was surrounded by love the day he conquered the Dark Lord. Love of family. Of friends. Comrades in arms. The living and the dead. The Storge of Narcissa to her son, the Philia of those who fought and died by his side. The Agape of those who thought of more than just themselves. 

In contrast, Lord Voldemort had nothing. He hated and was hated by all. Nothing he did was for the benefit of anything of himself. He was denied Storge by his own mother, perhaps cheated out of Eros by the Amortentia. He found no reason to form Philia , for to him fear was a more powerful form of control. Denied Agape with an intense hatred for everyone, including himself. His blood, his face, even his name.

The Power the Dark Lord Knows Not, indeed. 

But! We are not here for canonMort, no no. We’re here for sweet little Tom who’s learning to navigate Love in all its various forms. Even if they don’t always make sense to him. 

Like all of us do, day to day.

It is said that when you cut off the head of a hydra, two more take its place. 

Last year, he had to deal with Professor Slughorn following him around everywhere, trying to get him to come to his Slug Club parties. At first he’d written that lovely essay with undertones of why the man was showcasing an unhealthy obsession with an underage boy, which worked wonders. Then Professor Dumbledore requested he go to one of these parties. And he did! But now?

Dolores Umbridge was stalking him. 

Of that Tom was certain. He didn’t care if people thought she was following him around as a fellow Prefect. Or if she hid behind excuses of needing his assistance or not wanting to get close to him (depending on the day). It was very confusing, but Tom infinitely preferred it when she stayed away from him as if he were diseased. 

The same thing had begun happening with a number of students that had begun to follow him around and avoid his gaze when he looked in their direction, but the toad had been the worst of them all. Serendipitus Lovegood had stated that many Nargles whizzed around her, and had gifted Tom a necklace of butterbeer corks to ward her away. Tom wore them religiously, wanting to ward off Umbridge and her Nargles in any way he could. Though he did ask Seren about the Nargles whilst doing so and he’d been impressed with how much the 5th year prefect knew about them. Myrtle was less impressed with him, for some reason.

On a completely separate note, it was around this time that butterbeer cork necklaces suddenly became a fashion trend. Butterbeer was flying off the shelves in unprecedented amounts unseen since the day alcohol became legal again. Galleons fell into Filius’ hands as Tom Riddle continued his walk of complete and utter ignorance. 

The second head was Olive Hornby, who also couldn’t decide if she wanted to bully him or attempt odd bouts of niceties. These bouts were oft overshadowed by the fact that she would immediately turn around and bully Myrtle whenever such things happened. Neither Tom nor Myrtle understood what was going on in that girl's head, but it was unanimously agreed upon that avoiding her was the best idea. 

The third head of the Hydra came in the form of Walburga Black, who was another Slytherin girl in his year. She skulked the halls wherever he went, accosting him at random hallways and only retreating with a hiss when Myrtle or someone else hexed her back (they learned quickly that Tom hexing her would somehow be considered flirting ). The problem was that Walburga didn’t like Tom. Walburga didn’t even love Tom. 

Walburga Black was completely and utterly obsessed with Tom Riddle. 

Navigating his classes became infinitely harder with those two around, though luckily his friends usually formed some kind of protective barrier around him (even if only one or two accompanied him, he had gotten used to it by now). What was worse was that he had to deal with them in certain classes (like Potions, and Charms, and Defense Against the Dark Arts which was surprisingly full…) and had begun to pair with Lestrange or Abraxas if the Musketeers weren’t available to do so. Lestrange wasn’t the brightest, but Abraxas did this weird thing where he refused to look at Tom sometimes and that was counterproductive when they were supposed to be practicing dueling against each other. 

Whilst avoiding Walburga and Dolores, Tom ended up running into fellow members of his house trying to avoid the duo. One was Lucretia Black, who unfortunately was in the same dorm as the nasty bints (and really should have gone into Gryffindor if Abraxas was to be believed) and the other was her little brother Orion, who gripped his wand as if it were a lifeline whenever Walburga came into view. 

After a mutual agreement regarding ‘strength in numbers’ and ‘no I did not seduce everyone in my friend group to make a giant harem why is that even a rumor’, Lucretia and Orion joined Tom’s group-of-friends-who-are-not-in-a-harem. 

“Okay, but we need a name because apparently everyone’s got the idea that I’ve seduced everyone and have been calling you all my harem and.” Tom grumbled out at dinner, where they all sat at the end of the Slytherin table, side-eying the two crazy women who were being held at bay by the sheer amount of people between him and them. 

Abraxas choked on his pumpkin juice. Lestrange thumped him on the back. 

“And this is a bad thing why?” Minnie asked with a laugh. 

“Because I didn’t seduce anyone!” Tom screeched out, stabbing his fork into the poor, innocent table. 

For some reason, there was a sudden bout of sickness as people around him started coughing together with quite a few red faces. He didn’t think the weather had been that nippy. Once it calmed down, it was Fil who piped up. 

“What about Tom’s Troupe? It’s alliterative.”

“Why does it have to be ‘my’ anything?” Tom grumbled to his first and oldest friend, “You’re all friends with each other as well. Why can’t it be ‘Filius’ Friends’? That’s alliterative, too!” 

“Minerva’s Mercenaries!” Minnie crowed out, her lilt strong and proud.

“Pomona’s Posies!” Mona shouted out triumphantly, hoisting her string beans in the air.

“Myrtle’s Minions!” Myrtle cackled out like a mad scientist. 

“Rubeus’ Rumblers?” Rubeus offered to keep the joke going.

“Lestrange’s Légionnaires?” Lestrange offered, being the one next to Rubeus, using a more French-style of pronouncing it. 

“Okay, but now I’m really curious.” Orion Black, who practically hid behind his older sister as he spoke, piped up finally, “Why does everyone just call you ‘Lestrange’? Everyone else is on a first-name basis.”

Silence befell the other Slytherins and fellow sixth-years. They looked to one another with varying expressions of confusion, understanding, and constipation. Lestrange seemed perturbed. 

“My mother was a Black.” He stated.

“What’s that got to do with anything?” Myrtle asked curiously.

“She also failed Astronomy.” Lestrange added.

“That doesn’t explain things!” The Ravenclaw fifth year who stopped wearing pigtails grumbled, though Orion and Lucretia had gained expressions of dawning comprehension.

“For the record, she thought it was pronounced ‘Beh-tell-gwee’. French-like, yanno?” Lestrange explained as those around him began to giggle uncontrollably. 

“Beh-tell-gwee?” Myrtle mouthed to Tom, who was doing his very best to keep a straight face along the other Slytherins. 

“Betelgeuse.” the sixth year Slytherin prefect who’d known since his first day at Hogwarts stated, lips pressed into a thin line.

“Your name is Beetlejuice?! ” 

“Yeah, I’ll stick with Lestrange, thanks.” Lestrange muttered under his breath. 

The box of chocolates lay innocuously on Tom’s bed. He was unsure who it was from, only that it wasn’t cursed, charmed, hexed, jinxed, or covered in itching powder. It was the day before Valentine’s Day, so it was expected, but the handsome young wizard had never received chocolates in this manner before. They were always given in person. 

And he’d been getting lots of gifts lately. During Halloween he got some from students and staff for another successful Basilisk Run, and during Christmas he’d gotten gifts from friends and strangers alike. He’d given his own gifts to people as well — be it good ones to friends and acquaintances, or bad ones to those who tried to give him cursed objects (or items covered in itching powder, or used undergarments ). Reasonable responses, he was sure. 

But this heart-shaped tin of fancy chocolates was stumping him entirely. Tom had the feeling that they’re was something off about it, but he hadn’t the foggiest idea what it could be other than everything else he’s checked things for. And he doubted a regular student could have gone past most of his dormmates (who were surprisingly adept at keeping privacy charms around the place). 

“What that?” Lestrange’s voice cropped up behind Tom, peering curiously at the object that the Heir of Slytherin was staring so intensely at that it was a miracle it hadn’t caught on fire yet. 

“…Chocolates?” Was his response, but he seemed unsure, scooting away from his bed as if it were going to bite him. 

“Well, what’s wrong with it?” Goyle asked, lumbering nearby.

“It’s obviously a trap.” Abraxas’ answered smoothly, crossing his arms and lifting an eyebrow coolly. 

“I think so too — trouble is, it’s passed all my checks. I haven’t the foggiest what could be wrong with it.” The teen who got all the weird gifts grumbled out, unsure why the box gave him such heebie jeebies. 

“Looks okay to me…” Crabbe mumbled, Tom having allowed him to lift the lid and reveal the daintily decorated confections. “Smells nice, too.”

“If it’s poisoned, I have some bezoars in my trunk.” The platinum blond offered helpfully.

“Why do you have-“ 

Lestrange’s question was cut off by the insane leader of their unnamed group reaching for a chocolate and popping it into his mouth. Seconds passed as they stare at him chewing, watching his expression and seeing if his face changed (or turned different colors). It eventually screwed up in confusion. 

“They’re perfectly fine.” Tom finally stated, mystified. 

There was a collective sigh around the dorm.

“Got us all worked-up for nothing.” Lestrange muttered, sitting on the edge of the bed. “We demand compensation!”

“Yeah, yeah, have some. I’m not finishing all this myself.” Tom muttered with a roll of his eyes, reaching for another one.

Time passed as they polished off the box, Tom’s feeling of unease slowly fading away in the face of good company. Perhaps it really was nothing. Just his overactive nerves from being pursued lately. Has he been able to really rest lately? It seemed like he was either being stalked or hounded every other day, and with the events of the summer and balancing classes, Quidditch, Duelling Club, and friendships, Tom felt drained. Maybe he was just… being paranoid, like that Ravenclaw kid that kept screaming “CONSTANT VIGILANCE!” at random hours of the day. 

However, he noticed that his dormmates looked oddly… glazed… as they made their way toward the front of the castle. It was a Hogsmeade weekend (Tom wanted to browse some more books from the little store there since he hadn’t the time the day before) and even now he could see people mulling about, waiting for Slughorn to arrive to let them out. Myrtle, the Musketeers, and Rubeus were already there. A wide grin bloomed on his face as he waved to them, only for his path to be blocked by none other than the toad herself.

“Hello Tom!” Umbridge simpered out in a way that made his skin crawl, tucking a strand of hair away from her scheming, beady eyes, “I was wondering if you would accompany me to Madam Puddifoot’s today in celebration of Valentine’s Day?”

“Why the blazes would I do that?!” Tom squawked out at the same time his Abraxas stepped up from behind him.

“Go with me instead, Dolores! I would make a far better suitor!”

“No, come with me Dolores!” Lestrange shouted out valiantly, going so far as to drop to one knee, “I promise to make you the happiest girl in the world!”

“I love you Dolores!” Crabbe proclaimed, “You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen!”

“I love you more!” Goyle roared out, punching Crabbe in the face. “She’ll be my date!”

“She wouldn’t be caught dead with oafs like you!” Abraxas sneered out, “Clearly she belongs with me!”

“No! With me!” Lestrange argued, and soon the four of them were fighting each other over a gobsmacked Umbridge. Her beady eyes shifted to them and to Tom in equal measures pride, confusion, and rage. 

Tom was shaken by their behavior. What had gotten into them? Over that pink cardigan-wearing toad, no less? He had backed out towards the rest of his friends as the commotion went down, casting disarming spells and levitating charms to prevent the boys from killing each other. 

“What is going on here?!” 

Finally, an adult arrived. Slughorn’s voice rang out beyond the Slytherin boys’ shouts as their Head made his way over to the commotion. 

“Professor, there’s something wrong with them!” The lone sane Slytherin sixth year boy tried to explain as Lestrange pulled at Abraxas’ hair, “They’re going crazy!”

“They’ve probably been affected by a love potion!” Pomona exclaimed, and Tom felt that sinking feeling in his chest return. 

“Love potion?” The Potions Master repeated, his ire dissipating into good humor. “Well, that’s an easy fix! I expected something like this around this time — someone always tries it. What was laced, then?” The professor hit the boys with a stunning spell to prevent them from hurting each other more than they already have. 

“Chocolates, Professor.” Tom answered meekly, wringing his hands nervously. His heart thumped hard in his chest. Why was he so nervous? “I found them on my bed with my name on them.”

“Aha, a common food to lace.” Slughorn responded sagely, smiling to Tom and the onlooking students (who had started whispering amongst themselves — Umbridge wasn’t going to live this one down). “And you were smart enough not to eat any, eh Tom?” A couple of chuckles bounced through the crowd, including ones from his friends.

“No, Professor. I’ve had five.” The nervous prefect answered truthfully. 

The hall fell silent. 

“You… ingested the love potion?” His concerned Head of House asked, surprise and curiosity coloring his voice, “And how are your feelings toward Miss Umbridge?”

“I’d prefer to avoid her, Professor. It’s not a secret that I dislike her.” Tom replied bluntly. Whispers began to travel through the crowd. 

“How interesting.” Slughorn stated, not one to be dissuaded when Tom wasn’t calling him a pedophile (progress! It was progress!), “Well, you should come along to my office as well, then. Get you sorted out so you can enjoy the rest of your time at Hogsmeade, eh? Albus can chaperone in my stead in the meantime.”

With that, Tom followed Slughorn to his office, four Stunned bodies floating along with them. 

“You’re immune to love potion?” Myrtle asked, almost alarmed. 

“That toad managed to sneak chocolates laced with Amortentia into your dorm?” Fil chuckled out, impressed despite himself. 

“You didn’t smell anything?” Mona prodded curiously.

The Slytherin boys had been quickly relieved of their lovestruck affliction and released to the wild. None of them were looking the other straight in the eye, but at least they weren’t contesting for Umbridge’s hand in marriage like knights at a jousting tournament. Slughorn had kept Tom back for a bit to run some tests, but soon allowed him to enjoy the rest of his time off with his friends — though not without raving about the fascinating findings of Tom’s unique situation. 

Out of spite to what Umbridge had said to him, Tom had gone to Madam Puddifoot’s Tea Shop (electing to visit the bookstore next time… sigh ) to see what the hullabaloo was about the place. Myrtle had elected to go with him, and Filius and Pomona were more than happy to introduce them to the place. It was worlds different from the likes of the Three Broomsticks or the Hog’s Head. Everything was in light pastels and frills. Food was served in delicate china and silverware — the kind that would break if one were to put the cup down wrong. Tables were tiny, and only seated two people each. Tom and Myrtle had gotten one next to Fil and Mona, who were at ease in the cramped little shop. Had they come here often?

“Okay, so in that order: Apparently so, I don’t know how, and no, it didn’t smell like anything to me. What does Love Potion even smell like?” Tom grumbled out, not quite sure what to think of the new revelations he’d been given. 

“Well, Amortentia is known to smell different to each person.” The Hufflepuff expert on potions explained to a perturbed Tom Riddle, “It smells like whatever you like most.”

“And if you can’t smell anything?” The one immune to aforementioned potion asked, not noticing how conversations around him had stopped to listen in on theirs. 

“I’ve never heard of something like that before.” The inquisitive Ravenclaw sixth year added, scratching his chin in thought. 

“Yeah, neither had Slughorn.” Tom muttered out, feeling better as the bite of macron melted on his tongue (not as good as his or Mrs. Rosewood’s goods, but he knew how to appreciate the craft), “He put a vial of the stuff up to my nose and asked me what it smelled like. Apparently I’m an anomaly that can’t get affected by it.”

“How could that be?” Was his (by table placement, whether he knew or not) date’s curious question, leaning forward on the little table, her forehead almost touching his.

“Erm, well, Slughorn hypothesized that if I’m unable to feel those feelings, I may be immune to the effects of the potion.” The romantically-deficient teen explained with a shrug, “It’s like trying to cast illusion magic on a blind person. It just… doesn’t work.”

“So you… you can’t… feel love?” Myrtle asked in horror.

“Not in the kind Amortentia affects, no.” The handsome Slytherin replied before his eyes widened in panic. “I mean, I love you all!” He placated, hands up in a form of surrender, “I love all my friends, and Geppetto and Pinocchio and Oscar, and Esmeralda, and professor Dumbledore, and Mrs. Rosewood…”

“You just can’t experience romantic love.” The girl who loved him whispered, as things clicked into place for her.

“I guess not.” The one who couldn’t fully comprehend her feelings by nature replied with another shrug. “I cannot be pierced by Cupid’s arrow.”

“How would such a nature arise?” Fil wondered aloud. At this, Tom tucked his hands under the table, noticeably uncomfortable.

“Professor Slughorn mentioned… that it’s possible to be born without the ability to love… if I were conceived… with one or both parents under, um, the effects of a love potion.”

Silence stretched into the little tea shop. No one spoke for a good minute. There was something horrible about that revelation to those who knew about Tom, and what he’d dealt with over the summer. It would be more contemplative for those who didn’t. Bit by bit, it began to return to how it once was. Delicate cups and saucers clinked together, the sound of private conversation returned as the world around them began to breathe again. As if they too had just remembered how to. 

“This explains… so much.” Myrtle breathed out.

“Could be worse, I s’ppose.” Tom said weakly, attempting to console his friend who was clearly more upset by this than he was. “I could’ve been born without the ability to dance. Could you imagine? I’d hate to have two left feet.”

At this, Myrtle broke out into peals of laughter. Fil and Mona chuckled along, but it was more in exasperated fondness for their bizarre friend. Clearly he had his priorities in very interesting places. 

“Well, I wouldn’t say something like that on a day like today and in a place like this.” The half goblin ended up saying with a conspiratorial wink after a while had passed, “People may take offense to such flippancy to the ways of Cupid and his skills as a marksman.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

At the young man’s confusion, Fil motioned around the room. Finally, Tom really took in his surroundings for the first time since he’d walked through the door of the tea shop.

“Hold on…”

Couples — actual, romantic couples, were seated at every tiny table in this cramped little shop. It suddenly made sense to him why the tables were so small, why the decor was so… tacky and frilly. Cupids charmed to fly about threw heart-shaped confetti in the air (which most students staved off with an umbrella charm over their tea), giving Tom dirty looks and shooting at him with their bows (which scattered into sparks right before impact). 

A few well-known power couples in Hogwarts were here for Valentine’s Day. Fleamont Potter and Euphemia Selwyn were over in the corner, cooing at each other like turtle doves. Augusta Rookwood and Hank Longbottom were cramped together and sharing biscuits. Goodness, even Lucretia Black and Ignatius Prewett were here! And wasn’t that a surprise to behold with everything that’s happened?

Last year Prewett had caught Cassiopeia, his then-girlfriend in a rather embarrassing position in the Prefect’s Bathroom with his dormmate Cantankerus Nott. And by embarrassing Tom meant mid-coitus, as despite what both Black and Nott claimed it was very much so exactly what it looked like. Naturally the red-headed bespectacled Slytherin Head Boy was upset by this discovery, and thusly plotted his revenge in the Slytherin fashion to enact what was later considered to be a ‘Riddle Move’ (which according to Myrtle was now a term used by the inhabitants of Hogwarts to describe something previously thought to be impossible to do but against all logic is pulled off flawlessly to the awe and horror of witnesses. Tom took it as a compliment.) The result was a rather bizarre curse upon Cassiopeia which rendered her ‘undatable’, except no one is quite sure exactly where the curse was placed and how, which makes it impossible for all but Ignatius himself to remove. 

Due to the fact her father, Cygnus Black, was on the Board, a harsh punishment was to be given to Prewett, but he wasn't able to convince them to expel him due to how close he was to graduating. Due to the finagling of the school rules and the use of an ancient loophole that hadn’t been used for a few centuries, a rather odd punishment was given.

Ignatius was banned from Slytherin, and had to be re-sorted into another house for the remainder of his seventh year. Additionally, any Prewett or one carrying the blood of Prewett could not be sorted into Slytherin in the future. It’s been very odd seeing the previously green-clad Head Boy sporting a smug grin and Gryffindor robes. 

Needless to say Tom looked up to him. 

And apparently, so had Lucretia. She was classier than her cousin, and scoffed at the idea of stalking Prewett. Instead, she’d boldly challenged him to a round of gobstones. If she won, he would go on a date with her. If she lost, she wouldn’t bother him again. After an intense round witnessed by awed onlookers, Lucretia emerged victorious (later, when asked how she did it, her eyes would slyly glance towards Eileen Prince — current Captain of the Gobstones team — and wink). 

Some would say Prewett had simply traded one Black for another. Others would joke that he couldn’t escape the clutches of the Black family so easily. Looking at the pair now, it seemed like they were happy, so why bother them? Especially when they had returned to staring into each other’s eyes so fervently. It was highly likely anyone disturbing them would be hexed on the spot. 

Tom shook his head at the distraction to focus on the matter at hand.

“Is this a cafe for couples?” The young, clueless Slytherin asked as the realization finally hit him. 

“Yes, Tom.” Fil answered easily, Mona sliding a galleon in his direction with a grumble.

“Then Umbridge was trying to-“

“Yes, Tom.” Myrtle giggled out as the galleon was flipped to her.

“Huh.” Tom mused before another epiphany hit him as he regarded the two present members of the Three Musketeers. “Does that mean you two are-“

“Yes, Tom.” Mona giggled out as the coin was tossed to her.

“How?” Tom cried, garnering some alarmed head-turns and a good few more dirty looks, “When?” 

“Started near the end of last year.” Fil answered, a mischievous grin on his face. 

“How did I not notice this before?!” Tom lamented in the way only a bloke finding out now that two of his good friends were dating each other for nearly an entire year could. 

“Indeed, Tom.” Fil mused as a few patrons grumbled, depositing their lost wagers into his hands, “How, indeed.”

Tom Riddle’s sixth year passed by quicker than the years before had. His dormmates had returned to normal, and Abraxas could now talk to him and look him in the eye without turning pink. Whatever had ailed him had been cured. Umbridge had avoided him out of shame (yay!) for a while before turning her sycophant ways towards some of the seventh years in the Slug Club instead of Tom (double yay!). While Hornby still bullied them, Walburga was being kept at bay by the power of friendship (and threats from Lucretia to not end up like Cassiopeia). His days were full with schoolwork and extracurricular activities, nearly blowing up the castle with private experiments in the Chamber of Secrets, and stress-baking in the kitchens. Even the ‘Tom can’t feel love’ fiasco had faded into the background for the most part.

That wasn't to say it had vanished, no no. He still got the odd side eye as if he were crippled in some way, which was different from the side eye as if he were crazy — he’d gotten those all his life and at this point he didn’t notice them anymore — and usually caused that weird sinking feeling to resurface every so often. 

Slughorn had run some tests on him. Madam Anise had run some tests. Professor Dumbledore Harlan some tests. He’d been asked strange and deeply personal questions by his professors and mediwitch, and he’d answered them to the best of his ability. Even people from the Ministry came. Unspeakables, they called themselves, from the Department of Mysteries. They ran even more tests on him, ‘ hrm ’ed and ‘ ha ’ed as they created charts that Tom could not understand. He could understand their reactions, though, they were the same ones he had when discovering a new runic array. They’d tutted and poked and prodded and waved wands in his general direction and concluded that yes, he was conceived while one of his parents was under the effects of Amortentia. The most powerful love potion known to the magical world. And because of that, he was unable to experience that which Amortentia fabricated. Love, at least the kind that results in children (like him, in this case). 

Professor Dumbledore had given him a look of such pity Tom wondered if he had some kind of terminal disease yet unknown to the world. 

But no, it was just that he couldn’t feel ‘love’ in the traditional sense (or Eros , as Slughorn had put it). It wasn’t a sickness, it wasn’t some disease. He didn’t even know that he was ‘lacking’ anything, that it was something to be lacking of. Perhaps it was just something strange and new to them — but Tom was strange and new in so many other ways! Had been since the day he discovered that he was a wizard. 

“I just… don’t see why not being able to experience ‘Eros’ is such a big deal.” Tom sighed out in exasperation, in exhaustion.

He and Myrtle sat at the edge of the clearing, a small cliffside facing the castle. It was quiet here, serene. Away from the hustle and bustle of the castle. 

“I suppose it’s just a shock. Most of us take that sort of thing for granted.” Myrtle’s voice was soft, pondering as she looked at the castle in the distance, at the lake, anywhere but the boy next to her.

With exams on the horizon and the tests and screens finally being over for his ‘love deficient affliction’, the young wizard desperately needed a break. So while everyone else was cramming some extra study, he’d popped off on his own to think. When he’d gotten to the clearing, he found that it wasn’t empty. 

“I understand why the professors and the Unspeakables are going round the bend, but why does everyone else have their knickers in a twist? Whether I can love or can’t love shouldn’t be their problem.” Tom grumbled, his knees tucked under his chin as he watched the giant squid play with some daring students near the water’s edge. 

Myrtle was already sitting near the cliffside, her gaze faraway. When he’d approached, he tried not to scare her. The snap of a twig almost made her jolt over the edge. Her eyes were wide even after she found out who was there, as if he was a ghost. 

“Probably because they’re disappointed their affections will never be reciprocated now.” The rabbit animagus said wryly, and Tom got the distinct feeling that she was upset. Even now, he could see the traces of tear tracks across her cheeks.

“I suppose…” the young man trailed off, scooting closer to her, his hand going to wipe away the marks. She sighed, and even as his thumb took away the previous stains he could see new tears welling up in her eyes. “Enough about me, then. Do you want to talk about…” he trailed off, unsure how to breach the subject he knew nothing about.

Her head turned towards the Black Lake. They couldn’t hear the splashes and laughter from here, but it could be imagined by the animated way the Hufflepuffs were behaving. 

“You know, when I first came to Hogwarts, I fell in the lake while in the boat.” She began. Tom stayed silent, but gave her a small nod. “When I hit the water, it was freezing. Every inch of my skin was in a state of shock. I couldn’t breathe. As I sunk lower into the water I could feel the water pulling me down. And yet… the view of the moonlight as it hit the surface was so beautiful. I couldn’t take my eyes off the glow. I thought to myself: ‘This is how I’m going to die, and I’m okay’. Crazy, isn’t it?”

“A bit.” Tom admitted, arm reaching over to comfort her. She instead caught his slender hand, gripping it in her own, smaller ones. 

“That’s what love feels like.” Myrtle croaked, tears beginning to escape her eyes, “It feels just like that — drowning, sinking, breathless. And you know you’re doomed and you can’t help but admire just how beautiful it is, how wonderful that person is. From the slightest smile, to the warmth of his touch. He’s all you can think about. And it hurts so, so much when you can’t do anything about it. Can’t tell him about it at all!”

That sounded like a horrible experience to Tom — one that he was now more than happy to live without — but he wasn’t going to voice that opinion. Instead he pulled her in for a hug, because it looked like she needed it. The Ravenclaw, who in another lifetime would have died by his hands years ago, let him as she wept into his chest. It pained him to see his friend so distraught. 

“I’m sorry you had to go through that.” Was all he could manage out, trying to think of ways to help her, “Maybe… you should talk to that person? I could try and see if he likes you back that way and you won’t have to-“

“It’s you, Tom.” Myrtle cut in, bluntly. 

The cogs in his brain screeched to a halt. 

“I… what?” He answered intelligently.

“I love you, Tom.” Myrtle confessed, her face still buried in his chest so her voice was a tad muffled but still unambiguous in her words, “I’ve loved you for a long while now. I want to hold you and kiss you, I want to be the first person you see when you open your eyes in the morning and the last one when you close them at night. I want to hold your hands in all the days of our lives, I want to experience the world by your side. I can’t picture a future without you and I’m afraid you’ll slip away and vanish from my sight like a dream upon waking.” She sobbed and hiccuped through her entire speech, her hands clutching at the back of his uniform. “I… I want to stay with you forever.”

Silence stretched across the clearing. Well, as much as silence could with the sounds of spring and the quiet sobs that were tampering off a bit now. A few minutes passed before Tom spoke, his own voice soft in the way of someone coming to terms with certain notions of their own — even if it wasn’t exactly the same. 

“I wouldn’t mind that.”

Myrtle’s head jolted from where it had been soaking his shirt, shock written all over her red, swollen face. “What?”

“I mean, we already hold each other. I’m holding you now, right?” He tried to explain, awkwardly, only going by what he could feel, what he was okay with feeling and not-feeling. “I wouldn’t mind waking up and falling asleep next to you. I wouldn’t mind holding your hand, or traveling with you. I’d like to stay by your side — really, I do — forever, if that’s something that’s meant to be. So you can stay too.”

Cue the waterworks again. Goodness, she hadn’t cried this much since her first year, or when he nearly died. Had it been even then that she was feeling this way? It felt like many years of repressed emotion was soaking into his clothes — and he’d been spelling it clean and dry again every so often. 

When she’d gotten all that out — and he’d helped her fix herself up a bit — Myrtle laid her head on his shoulder with a calmness that skipped hand in hand with exhaustion. 

“I’m always such a fool in front of you.” She muttered.

“Aren’t we all just fools dancing around in a world revolving?” He answered, hearing a laugh from her at last. A moment passed, and she fidgeted a bit in his lap, twisting to look him in the eyes. 

“Can I…. Can I kiss you?” Myrtle whispered hesitantly.

Tom shrugged again. “Sure.” As if she’d just asked him to borrow a quill.

At last — at long last, Myrtle allowed herself to close the distance. Her lips brushed against his. Light, like a butterfly to the petals of a flower. His lips were soft — so soft, and warm. Like he was. For a moment her eyes fluttered closed, relishing in the quiet moment. Her heart hammered into her chest. She could feel him hold his breath until she pulled away, watching him nervously, for any recoil, anything that showed her any sign of rejection. 

“How did that feel?” She finally asked, unable to stand the silence that stretched after the kiss. Tom tilted his head to the side, as sane as he always was, pondering it like he would a new pastry. 

“I didn’t dislike it.” He told her at last, bluntly, but there was a smile on his face. Not giddy, nor breathless. The same as it ever was. 

“I can live with that.” She giggled, lacing her fingers with his. 

As he closed his fingers over her hand as well, Myrtle was pleased to find that it was a good fit. 

Because that’s the thing about love. It comes in so many shapes and sizes.

Chapter Text

Eh? 

Eh! 

Oho! 

People!

Welcome back readers! Apologies for the delay.

Where was I, you ask?

I was in the Void. There's not much way to go about telling time out there, you see. Or don't see, since that's pretty much the point of a Void in the first place. 

What Void, you say?

The Void Outside of the Narrative. Between Canon and its Offspring. In the Endless Possibility.

What does that mean, you insist with growing agitation?

Imagine the original story of Harry Potter – with all its solidity and Canon – as a star. Like the sun, but probably wearing glasses and a lightning bolt scar. That star shoots out cosmic rays into the nothingness, creating other small baby stars. 

Yes, I know that's not how stars work, put down the Astronomy textbook you were about to club me with and listen to my flimsy metaphor.

These baby stars are separate Narratives, which orbit their Star of Canon. Each Narrative is indicative of a separate story based off of the Canon – a story in Fanfiction, for example. They take the rays called Inspiration and spin it unto themselves (think of it like making cotton candy!), creating something that oft times are entirely unique with the colors and trappings that mirror the Canon. 

Some Narratives orbit close to Canon, taking a majority of Inspiration from Canon and some so close that they could be lost snippets of the Canon itself. Others stray farther, so far that only the names and faces and settings are acquired from Canon. Some Narratives even feed off other Narratives in conjunction with Canon. A few Narratives stray so far and change so much that eventually they grow to become Stars of Canon themselves.

And yet, they all orbit (or at least start from) the same Canon and the field of gravity that could be called Reference.

When two or more stars of Canon cross fields with each other, stars made up of a mix of Inspirations are born. That's what we'd know as a Crossover, and that opens up an entirely new breed of Narrative. 

But between the stars and rays, where there is naught of empty space in this metaphor, is the Void. And that Void is Endless Possibility. 

Because the Void is not a place of Nothingness where Nothingness is Bad. It is the black page, the new document, the spark of an idea that has yet to show its form or color. It is the place where we all experience the Canon for the first time, and then discover other Narratives if we search harder afterwards (or perhaps vice-versa). It is the medium where all Narratives, Canon or not, exist. 

A word many Narratives like to use to describe a group of Narratives is ‘Multiverse’. But if we perceive it as one and the same, it is still a single Narrative. A new one, where the others have fed (or Inspired) to collide, but those Narratives already exist in their own right already, and if they are already closed loops and finished stories, nothing will change that. There can be more than one ‘world’ or ‘universe’ in the same Narrative, after all.

If a Narrative strays back toward their Star of Canon and picks up more of its story, the Star of Canon remains unaffected. A closed loop, a solid existence. But the new circumstances from the new Narrative will create a new existence where such changes did happen within the Narrative itself. For better or for worse. 

That doesn’t mean the change didn’t happen, just that it is bound to the Narrative, and not to the Star of Canon.

In the end, we perceive them as the same. Words on a page, images on a surface, and despite the way they perceive their own existence, eternally two-dimensional. In the end, we are bound by them, and them by us. They Inspire and we Create and our Creations Inspire and it continues to go back and forth, back and forth. Like the pendulum swings to mark time. Like an inhale and an exhale. And thus it breathes. 

Lives. 

But enough about that! You're wondering where I'm going with this. 

You see, the thing about Canon is that it's the centerpiece, the object of Inspiration, of Reference, of our devotion and adoration and obsession. No matter the fanfiction of fan theories, they wouldn’t come to light if the original had not been made or seen. These orbiting Narratives wouldn’t have existed otherwise. 

You wouldn’t be here, otherwise. 

Harry James Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, Youngest-Seeker-in-a-Century, Basilisk-Slayer, Producer-of-a-Corporeal-Patronus-at-Thirteen, Triwizard-Champion… who had waaay too many hyphenated titles for a mere fourteen-year-old (look! Another one!) was having quite possibly the worst summer he’s had since he’d found out he was a wizard. Considering the fact that the previous few involved a Death Eater attack at a Quidditch game and having a house elf nearly get him expelled, that was saying something. 

Not only was it a record-breakingly scorching summer, but he’d been receiving a distinct lack of correspondence from his friends and Godfather (Dogfather?). With everything that’s been happening with Cedric’s death and Voldemort’s bald, evil  noseless return, one would think they’d have more to say. But nooooo, it’s been “ Be careful and don’t do anything rash ” this and “ We’ve been told not to say anything important in case our letters go astray ” that. 

One can only get so much information listening to the local news. Luckily nothing bad seems to have happened yet if most talk was centered around skateboarding parakeets and whatnot, but Harry knew Obliviate was a spell even the ‘good’ wizards used so honestly it was driving him up the wall not knowing anything. 

The 5 o’clock Daily Prophet delivery provided no new information either (other than to call him and Dumbledore insane for thinking that Voldemort had returned, which put Harry in a foul mood). He stuffed the papers in his trousers to finish reading later. Deciding that both he and the Dursleys would appreciate it if they weren’t within the same vicinity of each other, Harry snuck out of Number 4 Privet Drive. The sun had just begun its ascent to the sky, bathing the tops of the roofs in a soft glow. It was almost enough to put Harry at ease until he remembered what was at stake again in the world that he wasn’t allowed to see until something happened, he thought bitterly. 

He walked on, hardly aware of the route he was taking, for he had pounded these streets so often lately that his feet carried him to his favorite haunts automatically. Usually he would head to the little park on Magnolia Crescent, but on the way he’d passed a lone bus stop and decided to sit there and brood instead. 

Good brooding spots were hard to come by. He’d tried alleyways, but they tended to smell horrible and some of the ‘upstanding folk’ of the neighborhood who believed him to be a hooligan had chased him out. The park was nice at times when there weren't many people around. Mrs. Figg would sometimes invite him over for tea and he’d brood there as she made him eat stale biscuits but then he’d have to try and make conversation and that rankled at his teenage angsting. 

Bus stops were decent spots, he decided, as long as there weren't any people about. 

But per its purpose of being, a bus ended up trundling along. Harry noted that this one went all the way to London, and stared as the great behemoth of metal and wheels stopped in front of him, doors swinging open to reveal the driver yawning in his seat. After a moment’s hesitation (so see? He wasn’t being rash ), Harry strode into the bus, paying the fare with the money Young Dudley had stashed in his second bedroom (now Harry’s Room, not to be mistaken with Harry’s Cupboard which was under the stairs) and sitting down near the back. The fourteen (almost fifteen!) year old gazed out the window as the locomotive hissed and groaned beneath him. 

Hey, this was a pretty good brooding spot as well!

Meanwhile, exactly 50 years in the past and in a Narrative whizzing a little too close to its Star of Canon, Tom Marvolo Riddle (Master of the Strange and Uncanny and the Heir of Slytherin if we're following the pattern of using titles) started to doze by the counter in the bakery that he lived and worked at. Mrs. Rosewood had been getting busier with other things lately, so more often than not it was Tom who ran the place in her stead. 

Pros: Tom was now an official employee and had an income on top of room and board.

Cons: Less time for outings when Mrs. Rosewood was away.

But the sadness over such things was alleviated when he recalled the first few days of the summer holidays, when he and Myrtle went on their first date as a couple.

After that day on the hill when Myrtle poured her heart out to him, Tom and Myrtle officially became an ‘item’ (as Mona had called them). Nothing much changed between them after the quiet announcement he made of it during dinner, though the other students seemed almost disappointed (and quite a few of them were depositing large sums of gold to Fil, for some reason). Tom had even joked that with how little the behavior needed to change, the two of them have probably been ‘dating’ unofficially for a good few years at this point. 

Myrtie had whacked him in the arm for that, her face doing its best to shade-match a ripe tomato. 

That had been one of the changes — his newly-ordained girlfriend insisted on them having nicknames . Tom had immediately offered up ‘bunny’ or ‘rabbit’ for her (due to her animagus form), but after the girl had become a blushing mess and the rest of their friend group had either squealed or pretended to gag, Tom settled on 'Myrtie' to spare the sentiments of his friends.

Consequently, Tom himself had been bequeathed the moniker of 'Parrots', due to his animagus form as an African Gray. Why that was allowed but his idea wasn't was beyond him.

Regardless, Tom didn’t think that much had changed between them since he and Myrtle officiated their relationship other than the fact that they’d bestowed each other nicknames and had started to hold hands when they could. With the stress of her OWLs and his own exams, they’d decided to hold off on the whole ‘kissing’ thing until they could figure things out over the holidays. 

Which led them to their first date — going dancing to the club that they had danced in the summer before. This time, though, Tom had picked her up at the little apartment her and her family was staying in, dressed in his best (not saying much, but then again Abraxas was only good with wizard fashions and they were going to be lurking in regular London) and desperately ignoring the way Mr. Warren’s eyes promised a pain worse than all the Nine Circles of Hell were he to make her cry. Tom had also decided smartly not to recount the day Myrtle had sobbed on his shoulder as she confessed. 

Thankfully Mrs. Warren was much happier to see him and embraced him in a tight hug while Myrtle sputtered for the older woman to ‘stop embarrassing’ her. Tom, who never got the warmth of a mother’s hug, did not comment. A single tear might have left his eye, though. 

The first half of the summer was spent on dancing, walks in the park, and chats in the Rosewood bakery when Tom wasn't able to get time off. Every so often he and Myrtie would “practice” kissing (although Tom thought the term foolish — it was either kissing or not, why would you add the ‘practice’? What was the definition of an ‘experienced’ kiss?) and she would be rather pleased with herself. Tom didn’t see what the excitement was about it, but hey, if she was happy with it so was he.

Such musings dissipated like someone desperately trying to wave the smoke from their burned pasta out of the way of the wailing smoke detector — only the one doing the metaphorical waving was the customer that arrived into the bakery and made the bell above the door jingle. Tom opened his mouth for the usual friendly greeting until his brain registered with his eyes on what had just strolled in. 

It was a teenage boy, perhaps Rubeus and Eileen’s age, wearing an odd-looking jacket and workman’s jeans and looking around the bakery with a tired sort of curiosity. But that was not the Problem. The Problem was that this lad also had round glasses, messy hair, green eyes, and a scar on his forehead in the shape of a lightning bolt. 

Tom knew that kid from his nightmares was real!

Harry Potter could not be considered to be one of the most observational people in the world. In fact, he probably would rank just above a racehorse with blinders on in the middle of a derby. Brooding Harry was ten times worse at being observant than Normal Harry, so one has to forgive him for not noticing the changes around him after he turned down an alleyway wandering out of the bus. 

Somehow he managed to miss the fact that everyone around him suddenly wore clothing and styles of a few generations back, or that people were giving the young lad strange looks after he emerged from the alleyway looking like a troublemaker. I mean good heavens, what was he even wearing?!

Brooding Harry ended up wandering around in the crowd (that was giving him a wide berth) until his nose caught the delectable scent of fresh-baked goods. It was probably a lot stronger than usual due to the lower amount of pollution in the city in the 1940s as compared to the 90s, but then again, Harry wouldn’t have taken this into account because this is Harry we’re talking about and he hasn’t yet realized that he’s not even in the 90s anymore. 

Regardless, such wonderful smells created the nigh-Pavlovian effect of a growling stomach, so now Harry felt inclined to go inside the bakery. Was it a bakery? Probably. Harry just knew whatever was inside smelled super good and all he had that morning was a granola bar he snuck from his stash. 

The old-fashioned setup piqued Harry’s interest as he perused the baked goods. For some reason, it seemed like the popular items were jelly donuts and Apple strudel. Harry’s curiosity turned to shock when he noticed the prices of the pastries. 

A couple pence?! How the hell does the shop owner survive?! 

He turned to question the person at the desk on what Harry could only assume was a labeling mistake and he was almost through his sentence when his brain caught up to what his eyes were seeing.

There, gaping at him from behind the counter, was Teenage Voldemort wearing a flour-covered apron, which was pink and ruffled with roses on it!

This had to be a nightmare… right?

Teenage Baker Voldemort was the one to break the silent staredown. 

“Everyone says my face is my best asset, please don’t punch it until I lose my nose.”

Harry blinked a couple times and rubbed his eyes for good measure before uttering the eloquent response of: “What?”

Teenage Voldemort in the Frilly Pink Apron blinked once before speaking again.

“Hello Boy-From-My-Nightmares, you are early as I am not yet old and bald and therefore you cannot punch me in the face just yet. You will also not gain the same experience as I still currently have a nose and I reckon punching someone without a nose is much different since it’s a flatter surface.” This extremely bizarre teenage Riddle didn’t even bat an eye or make that sneering expression he had when Harry dealt with the shade in the Chamber when he spouted… whatever the hell that was. 

Also, boy from his nightmares? This Riddle’s been having nightmares about him… punching him in the face? Considering the accurate description to the horrifying visage of the resurrected Dark Lord, he must be talking about Voldemort. But why was he being so weird and… unVoldemortlike? Even the shade in the diary had been more Voldemortlike!

Somehow, out of all the questions now whizzing around his head, the one that came out of his mouth was:

“Why are you in a bakery?”

Tom blinked.

“Well, I work here.”

“At a bakery .”

“Yes.”

“ You know how to bake .”

“That would be a requirement for this job, yes.”

Harry.exe has stopped working. Please restart the Boy-Who-Lived at your earliest convenience.  

The strange lad from his nightmares had asked Tom some rather obvious questions before staring into the center space dully. When asked if he was alright, the boy didn’t respond. Seeing as there wasn’t any indication that he was going to get socked in the face anytime soon, Tom waved a hand in front of the boys’ face.

No reaction. 

Tom snapped his fingers around the boy’s ears and face.

Nothing.

Well darn. Tom walked around the counter and managed to guide the shell-shocked teen down to one of the tables and sit him down. Perhaps he needed smelling salts, or a cup of tea. Deciding the tea was the more amicable option and would hopefully delay the face-punching, the older teen placed a cup down in front of the lad before scurrying back behind the counter when another customer came in. 

It took a few minutes and the scent of the freshly-baked slice of pie Tom put in front of him to rouse the nightmare boy from his reverie, the growl of his stomach outweighing whatever mental breakdown he was having in his mind. He watched the boy dig into the pie with all the ravenousness of a starved lion, and took the time to really look at the teen that had thankfully not socked him in the face yet (maybe he was, in fact, waiting until Tom lost his nose to do that — good sport). 

The wand sticking in his back pocket and his weird clothes probably indicated that he was a wizard. Though a bit scrawny, the lad had to be around fourteen, maybe fifteen. Other than the green eyes, the bloke bore a strange resemblance to Fleamont Potter with his messy black hair and his round glasses. But wasn’t Potter an only child? 

Weird. 

Maybe a cousin or something. Lord knows purebloods have a lot of those. 

Curious, Tom decided to test the waters. 

“So Potter, what brings you to the Rosewood Bakery if you’re not going to be punching me in the face?”

The words were apparently so shocking to the teen that he jolted out of his seat and whipped out his wand, breathing heavily. Tom blinked at the sight of a wand being pointed at him — his nightmares never mentioned getting hexed, so he wasn’t too worried about it. 

“Is this some kind of sick game?!” The lad seethed out.

“I haven’t the foggiest what you’re on about.” Tom replied truthfully, suddenly wondering if getting jabbed in the eye with a wand was something he needed to be scared of at this moment. 

“Then how do you know my name?” The confirmed Potter hissed in a rather impressive attempt at what could have been Parseltongue if he wasn’t speaking English.

“It’s pretty obvious you’re related to the Potter family, what with the hair and the glasses and I suppose the cheekbones — Fleamont Potter has those as well and I should know because apparently girls put a lot of emphasis on a bloke’s cheekbones for some reason-“

Potter looked like he was about to be ill. 

“Fleamont… Potter?” The Potter in front of him wheezed out, “D’you… happen to know a ‘James’ Potter?” 

Tom clicked his tongue. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“How about ‘Harry Potter’?” The Potter tried, almost desperately.

Tom, who didn’t much keep up with the Potters, shook his head again. “I don’t really pay attention to the Pureblood Family Trees. Too much effort for no good reason. I’m a mug- er, half-blood, but I didn’t know my mum was a witch until much, much later.”

An awkward pause.

“I’m Tom, by the way. Tom Riddle.” He stated after realizing he’d never introduced himself yet, holding out his hand for the other to shake. 

The Potter stared at Tom dumbly, looking from him to the hand, then back to him. 

“I’m… Harry.” he mumbled distantly as he took the offered hand like it was a live grenade.

“Hello Harry, why do you think I would have heard of you?” The hand-shaking that transpired was much like wiggling a garden hose. An empty one, that just sat there and did nothing.  

“You recognized me when I walked in here.” Harry pointed out flatly.

“Yes,” The matter-of-fact tone Riddle used was still jarring to Harry, “You see I have this recurring nightmare of becoming old, bald, and noseless and getting punched in the face by a kid that looks like you — down to the weird scar on your forehead. I never got your name, only that your arrival would probably mean immediate hair and nose loss and face-punching.”

Harry wondered offhandedly if this Tom Riddle was dropped on his head as a baby or something. He then imagined Pettigrew dropping Possessed Baby Voldemort on his head in the graveyard and suppressed the urge to laugh while he was still dealing with Frilly Baker Teen Voldemort. 

Teen… Voldemort… 

It suddenly hit Harry that Voldemort was a teenager long before even Harry’s own parents were born. Hell, Hagrid was a third year when Riddle framed him! 

“Do you, er, have the morning Prophet?” Harry asked Teen Voldemort, who had proven to be a decent (if insane) bloke so far, sheepishly. In response, the slightly-covered-in-flour teen rummaged behind the counter and handed him a roll of newspaper. 

The headlines were all about a Dark Lord, alright. Only, it was talking about the Dark Lord Grindelwald. Stomach plummeting, Harry took a look at the date.

Friday, July 14, 1944.

He looked outside, noticing for the first time the clothing and the look of the London pedestrians and streets. Things clicked into place. Riddle’s age, the old-timey setups, the cheap prices. Harry felt the oncoming pressure building up in his head. Surprisingly enough, even with teenage Voldemort right in front of him his scar wasn’t hurting at all.

“I think… I need time to process this.” 

“Process what?” Tom asked curiously, wondering what the lad was agonizing so dramatically about. 

Harry paused, green eyes widening as if realizing some epiphany, and pulled a roll of newspaper from the pockets of his denim pants. Wordlessly he tossed the roll to a confused Tom, who caught it on reflex.

It was the Daily Prophet, which puzzled Tom until he looked at the headlines stating HAS DUMBLEDORE GONE SENILE? HOGWARTS HEADMASTER CLAIMS RETURN OF YOU-KNOW-WHO along with a picture of Professor Dumbledore looking much older than Tom had seen of the man before the summer break. Quizzical eyes darted to the date.

Friday, July 14, 1995.

“Ah.” 

It was all Tom could really vocalize, suddenly feeling out of depth with the notion that Harry was from 50 years in the future (that would explain the old bit and sadly the bald bit, but not the noseless bit). 

“I think I need time to process this as well.”

The afternoon passed quickly, but strangely, like watching a tuna get launched out a tube at Mach speeds and you are left wondering why anyone decided weaponing ocean life was a remotely good idea. Both teens flipped through the paper of the Prophet of the other’s time, trying to make sense of their meeting. Sometimes a hurried civilian would walk in and Tom would have to help them, and Harry would watch the amicable exchange between Teenage Lord Voldemort and the usually-muggle customers with interest. 

What really drove the point home that this time period that Harry had found himself in was fundamentally different to his own timeline was when a teenage girl walked through the door with a bright smile and a horribly familiar face, especially when she began to pout after craning her neck to peek at the back of the store.

“Mrs. Rosewood out again today?” The girl half-whined.

“Unfortunately. I’m afraid I can’t leave my post today.” Tom chuckled out, and Harry watched in shock as he pecked the giggling girl on the lips.

“Seems to be happening more often lately. What’s she even doing?” The girl grumbled, though her cheeks were turning pink behind her large round glasses. 

“Cheer up, Myrtie, there’s always tomorrow.”

It hit Harry like the Hogwarts Express who this was.

“Moaning Myrtle?!” 

The girl’s head snapped around as if she’d just been slapped, turning to Harry with a severe glare.

“How rude!” Myrtle hissed, stomping up to Harry with fury ablaze in her (very much alive) eyes, her wand snapping into her hand with a flick of her wrist and now pointed squarely at his chest. “Who the bloody hell are you to throw insults around like that, hm?”

“He’s Harry, the guy from my nightmares.” Tom explained oh-so-helpfully. 

Somehow, that worked as Myrtle blinked a couple of times in confusion before lowering her wand a smidge. 

“The one who punches you in the face?”

“That’d be the one.” 

“Is this a recurring thing?” Harry asked weakly, practically shrinking under her glare that reminded him of McGonagall on a bad day. There were about a million questions whizzing around in his noggin but somehow that was the one that came out.

Myrtle’s glare turned to Tom. 

“Explain. Now .”

And so he did. And Harry did as well, pointing out the Prophet of 1995 which Myrtle dove into with a manic expression. Harry was suddenly reminded of Hermione the way she was muttering to herself and taking notes (when did she bring out the notepad and pen?). With Myrtle on a Hermione-level warpath, Harry turned to Tom with a single speck of understanding.

“I don’t think we come from the same, erm, timeline.” Harry deduced, watching Myrtle slice up the newspapers and some of her own notes and pin up the cut parts onto the cork-board on the other side of the bakery that usually held public announcements and flyers.

“What makes you say that?” Tom asked as he witnessed Myrtle break out the red string and start connecting them to other pins.

“Well, first off, she should be dead.” Harry explained as he marveled at Myrtle’s growing Timeline Conspiracy Board. “The Tom Riddle in my timeline killed her with a basilisk in his fifth year and got stuck in the second-floor girl’s loo as a ghost. We called her Moaning Myrtle. That Tom also stuffed, like, a memory of him in his diary and possessed my best mate’s eleven-year-old sister and I had to kill the basilisk he set loose to kill all the muggleborn and stab his diary with its fang.”

Tom blinked. “That’s a lot to unpack, I’ll be honest.” He admitted slowly, not noticing that Myrtle had spun around at the mention of her name and had started to turn pale from the explanation. “Wait, you killed Esmeralda?!”

“Who’s Esmeralda?” Harry asked stupidly.

“That’s the basilisk’s name!” The Heir-of-Slytherin screeched out, throwing his hands up in the air. “You didn’t know her name?” 

“I was too busy trying not to die because the ‘you’ from that diary was telling it to kill me in your fancy snake language to ask if the thousand-year-old basilisk of Slytherin had a name.” The Boy-Who-Lived sniped back with a roll of his eyes.

“ Wow , so you didn’t even try? Rude.” Tom pouted. In the background, Myrtle rolled her eyes and proceeded to change the sign on the bakery door to ‘closed’.

“You literally become the Dark Lord of my generation and I’m the rude one?” The green-eyed teen sounded exasperated, and did not like the gleam that entered Riddle’s eye at the statement.

“I’m a Dark Lord?” The dark-eyed (but not red-eyed) teen asked with a little too much excitement for Harry’s liking, “They didn’t cover that option in my career advice meeting. Did I get a cool Dark Lord name? Was I the Dark Lord Ringleader?”

“No, you were Lord Voldemort.” Harry deadpanned.

Surprisingly, instead of gloating the name like the Diary Riddle had, this Riddle let out a noise of discontent and buried his reddening face into his hands.

“Oh heavens no! I knew that anagram was a mistake!” he wailed, with Myrtle’s giggling form patting him on the back. There was a story there but Harry was too much on a roll to care at this point.

“And the last time I saw you, you had possessed a baby, had a minion tamper with a portkey to kidnap me and bring me to the graveyard your father was buried in, had another minion kill an innocent Hufflepuff for just being there, tied me up and used a ritual to give yourself a ‘real body’ using my blood, your dad’s bones, and the severed arm of your minion. That’s when you were old. And bald. And noseless.”

There was a beat of silence before-

“Dear God.” murmured Tom.

“That does sound punchable.” Myrtle offered weakly.

But Harry wasn’t done yet.

“Also you killed my parents when I was a baby and apparently tried to kill me. That’s how I got this scar. The curse rebounded somehow and hit you instead and left you without a body for thirteen years, though you did latch onto the back of another guy’s head for about a year trying to steal the Philosopher’s Stone and drinking murdered unicorn blood to survive.” 

This time the silence stretched for much longer as Tom and Myrtle just stared at Harry in shock. If one looked very closely, you could see the gears turning in Myrtle’s head while Tom once more was doing the human equivalent of the Blue Screen Of Death.

Harry leaned back in his chair, feeling lighter than he had for a long time. “Phew! Felt good to let that all out!”

“I’m sure.” Myrtle shot back quietly. “That would explain why you being here wouldn’t cause any time-traveling issues — your past is already irrevocably different from hours. And it seems to be a bleaker one at that.”

“What would have happened if it was the same?” Tom asked curiously. 

“From what I’ve read — a number of things. One book warned that going back in time could potentially erase the time-traveler from existence, or a bunch of other innocents. A rather odd one claimed that time-travel was a ‘shoddy plot hook that shouldn’t be used’ and for some reason warned against cursed children. Another claimed that messing with ‘canon’ events could lead to reality itself collapsing in on itself.”

Harry and Tom paled at the thought. 

“We’re still here, though, so that should indicate that we’re fine for now.” Myrtle added matter-of-factly, allowing the boys to heave simultaneous sighs of reliefs. 

“So how did I end up here? I just got off the bus to London and started walking around. It’s not like I was in a ritual or anything.” Harry grumbled out.

“Maybe our timelines (or universes or whatever) are passing by each other and there are places of overlap.” Tom offered, handing the younger teen a jelly donut. 

“But you also had nightmares about my timeline.” Harry pointed out, munching on the donut and- hey! This was pretty good! Teenage Voldemort had some serious baking skills!

“Have you punched noseless-me in the face yet?” Tom pointed back, handing a donut to Myrtle who had wandered back to her Conspiracy Wall.

“No,” grumbled Harry, who was now on his second donut, “but I really want to!” 

“Then it might not be your timeline… yet. ” Tom became speculative as an epiphany hit him. “Maybe I’m supposed to help you punch me in the face!”

Harry stared at the rather serious and undoubtedly insane Tom Riddle in front of him. He turned his attention to the alive and scheming Myrtle, who didn’t seem much saner in his opinion (but then again, Hermione was also not-same when she was on a warpath and the habits of the intellectuals was never something Harry or Ron understood anyways).

“Is it always like this?” he asked weakly to no one in particular.

“More or less.” came the simultaneous response.

Harry felt like he was in some kind of dream for the rest of the day. 

Riddle had reopened the bakery so he could continue his day job, allowing Myrtle and Harry into the back where the living quarters were so they could discuss their situation in a more private setting. Myrtle had moved her Conspiracy Board to the back, and Riddle had said that he doubted anyone looked at the regular board anyways so it’s not like people would notice it’s absence.

Munching on baked goods, Harry listened to the bespectacled brunette’s theories with the ease of one who has dealt with Hermione Granger for the past four years, nodding and making the proper noises of assent when it sounded as if they should be done. Most of the details flew over Harry’s head, but he was sure he understood the basics of her explanation.

One, Harry must have passed through a place where the two ‘universes’ united, much like the Leaky Cauldron or the wall to Platform 9 ¾. He should be able to return if he retraced his steps and went back the way he came.

Two, this Riddle was very different to the Tom Riddle of his universe, and seems to have been that way since before the bloke started Hogwarts. It’s possible his lack of sanity at an early age may have saved this universe from becoming like Harry’s. This Riddle managed to turn out somewhat more like Harry himself, and his life goal was to apparently join the circus.

Three, Tom Riddle, Lord friggin Voldemort , was dating Moaning Myrtle in this universe.

He was still having trouble reconciling the wailing ghost of a fourteen-year-old pigtailed girl with the older teen that was manically connecting the points on the board with red string and babbling about ‘timeline crossing’ and ‘disrupting the current future’ and ‘why do things keep getting worse every year’.

…Okay, he could see it a little bit, but some of the mania had to have come from Riddle.

As the afternoon turned towards evening Riddle closed up the bakery for the day. Myrtle insisted on following Harry as he retraced his steps to return to ‘his’ universe, and Tom tagged along. The three of them wandered through the alleyway Harry had first turned into once he’d stepped off the bus and this time Harry could feel the sensation of passing through something . Like crossing the threshold of a door that led from the inside to outside, or vice versa. The sight past the alleyway was of the London he knew, the bustling streets and the fashion of the 1990s overtook his senses. 

The gobsmacked expressions on Tom and Myrtle’s faces was something Harry wanted to memorialize, but unfortunately he had no camera.

He should fix that.

Summer days passed much quicker when you had things to do and people to do it with.

Over the next few days Harry would sneak out and take the bus to London, go through the alleyway that led to the alternate 1940s, and get breakfast at the Rosewood Bakery. Usually he’d talk with Tom, who was still barmy but surprisingly decent company. Sometimes Myrtle would show up, sometimes it would just be the two of them and they would just talk about… stuff. Not always about something important, either. Just swapping school and life stories, or the fact that Parseltongue was bullshit, or which Quidditch teams they supported. 

Harry was taken aback by the amount they had in common, the words the Riddle of his timeline had told him down in the Chamber ringing in his head every time he noticed it. They were both orphans, Parselmouths, lived in a cupboard, played Seeker for their House, and abhorred their fame. It was kind of like having a cousin, except Tom was so far from what Dudley was that he would probably have to measure the distance in lightyears.

Perhaps it was because he had someone to talk to, or maybe it was the time away from stewing at Privet Drive, but those conversations helped him get through the nightmares of Cedric dying by Pettigrew’s hand (or even Voldemort’s). Some nights they still came, but it wasn’t as bad as before. Much of the anxiety from the first two weeks of summer had melted away.

He would have preferred to stay the whole day, but Uncle Vernon had started to suspect something and had taken to waking up earlier than usual to ‘catch him in the act’. New ways were invented to escape unnoticed. New ways were invented to catch said escapee red-handed. The last straw had been when Harry nearly MacGyvered his way on the outside of the house in the wee hours of the morning and practically landed on Vernon, who had set up camp just under his bedroom window.

Needless to say, eventually all good things must come to an end, and Harry was confined to his bedroom again except to do chores.

Boredom began to set in, though he still had his friends’ unhelpful letters to look through. Hermione and Ron should know better than to string him on with tantalizing hints. It was a recipe for disaster. At least Sirius understood his plight somewhat and had words of consolation along with his request for Harry to keep out of trouble.

However, one morning an owl Harry had never seen before flew in side-by-side with the owl delivering the morning Prophet. It was a barn owl, not the most inconspicuous bird, with a folded card-paper box and a rolled-up note attached to its leg. Harry paid the Prophet bird first (they were notoriously impatient owls — Harry wondered if the people at the Daily Prophet trained them like this or specifically chose owls with little patience) before turning his attention to the other one.

As he neared the box, the smell of freshly-baked scones hit his nostrils. Harry opened the box to reveal said steaming scones and a little jam tin — a miracle for the boy that was currently famished from his time in Durskaban. Already munching on a scone (and feeding some bits to Hedwig) Harry untied the note from the barn owl’s leg and began to read as the owl, now free of its burdens, took off towards the horizon.

Hullo Harry,

Hope this finds you well. Didn’t see you for a while and assumed a) the pathway was closed or b) your unfortunate previously-mentioned circumstances barred you from visiting.

Myrtie tells me it’s the second one. She’s checked the first option, apparently.

Anyways, I get up rather early so the scones should still be fresh by the time they reach you. We make the jam in-house as well. Hope you enjoy!

I figured it would be safer if I reached out first, since you sending me a letter may land your owl in enemy territory, so to speak (write?). 

Anyways, send a reply if you’ve got this, eh? Need to know if my little experiment worked.

Yours Truly,

Parrots

Harry grinned. Looks like his summer was still going to be interesting after all. Hedwig eyed him as he took out some pen and paper, flapping her wings a bit in her cage. She could use the exercise.

To My Friendly Neighborhood Dark Lord,

I received your package (which has by now been completely emptied — thank you). I am indeed being held prisoner against my will here at Durskaban, and probably won’t be able to visit again for a while. 

Hopefully they don’t catch Hedwig — then we wouldn’t even be able to write. Have anything for that? I know your less-friendly counterpart made matching tattoos for his minions to contact them, and your girlfriend mentioned something about animal… phones?

Anyways, you’ve really been my only respite from frustration and boredom, and I’d really hate to lose my new Dark Lord friend.

Still Alive,

Harry

By the time he received a response, the dawn of his 15th birthday had risen. Hermione and Ron’s owls came earlier that morning, laden with gifts of Honeydukes chocolate and a birthday card that mentioned a fascinating ‘ I expect we’ll be seeing you quite soon ’ in Hermione’s handwriting.

What does ‘quite soon’ constitute as? A few hours? Days? A week? Harry assumed with all the secrecy to make sure letters didn’t land in ‘enemy territory’ (as Tom had put it), but it was still infuriating. They were busy, but couldn’t talk about jack shit of it. Everyone was apparently having a grand old time together without him as far as he could tell.

Those thoughts threatened to put him in a horrid mood before a familiar barn owl landed with yet another box, but no note was tied to its leg. Once it dropped its delivery on Harry’s desk it flew right off. 

Impatient bugger, that one. 

The box in question was a good deal larger than the first one it had carried, so maybe it was just happy to be rid of it. Shrugging, Harry opened it to find a letter sitting on top of some brightly-colored gift paper.

Happy Birthday, Harry!

Sorry for the wait — figured with your own personal prison guards that another letter before this might be tempting fate too much, so let’s hope this one gets through. We’re quite sure the Passage hasn’t closed yet, and even so we think we’ve found a workaround (fingers crossed!!!)

Took me a while to make, but I packed something I think you’ll appreciate.

Best Wishes,

Your Friendly Neighborhood Dark Lord

and

Your Much Alive Conspiracy Theorist

Harry let out a laugh that would’ve bothered people if he didn’t already know that Vernon was at work, Dudley was off making trouble with his friends, and Petunia was gossiping with the neighbors right about now. Carefully placing the letter to the side, the now fifteen-year-old took out the scarlet and gold gift paper to reveal a small cake in the shape of a golden snitch amongst the other assortment of breads and pastries. A single candle was packaged with it along with a small box of matches. There was also a small object wrapped in the gift paper, which won out Harry’s curiosity over his hunger (since he’d already torn into the chocolate his friends had gotten him). 

In the palm of his hand was a small, delicately carved figurine of Hedwig.

Emotion bubbled up inside Harry as he looked at his gifts. It was like his eleventh birthday all over again, in a way (though nothing could top that moment in his mind).

The eyes of the owl figurine glowed and flew out of it, dancing about his room. A transparent image of Tom, not unlike a Hogwarts ghost, sat on his bed holding his locket with a smile. Under him was an almost imperceptible outline of Tom’s bunk in the bakery. 

“Hullo Harry!” greeted Ghost-Tom cheerfully, “Happy Birthday! Seeing as you have the Aniphone, you’ve gotten our gift. How’s the day been?”

Harry stared slack-jawed at the specter for a moment. 

“Bloody hell!” was all he could articulate.

“Pretty cool, eh?” Tom motioned to himself with a flourish as Harry stared at him dumbly. “The latest model of the Aniphones allow for a more visual form of conversation. Currently it’s one-to-one but I hope to utilize a group form at some point. Anyways, I’m here to walk you through how to use it, since you mentioned other ways to keep in touch.”

A grin nearly split Harry’s face in half. “This is wicked!”

“I should hope so! Been tweaking it since around second year!” Tom stated with pride.

The rest of the afternoon was spent on learning the Aniphone, which was surprisingly modern in design compared to the 40s that Tom resided in. It was like something out of those Star Wars films, really, but Harry wasn’t complaining. 

When he practiced switching the modes, Harry got to hear Myrtle again, as well as a young Hagrid. More voices popped up, younger versions of people he knew. Flitwick, Sprout, McGonagall . Their voices a cacophony of noise as they sang him a happy birthday, and for once Harry did not think of the impending future that lay ahead of him — of Voldemort or the Ministry or all the shit he’s been through.

And it became a Happy Birthday, indeed.

The Hedwig Aniphone ended up as a pendant that hung around Harry’s neck. It was the easiest way not to lose it and the Gryffindor was too lazy to think of other creative ways to hide its true purpose.

Tom still sent care packages full of pastries, though nowadays it was in a more official manner (now that Harry had his own Aniphone) as delivery orders on behalf of the Rosewood Bakery. Harry certainly felt better tossing in the Knuts it cost for the morning deliveries of delicious pastries than Sickles for the rot they were printing on the Prophet (he sent the newspaper with Tom’s delivery owl for fun, though, since he knew they enjoyed reading about this ‘alternate future’). 

All of the care packages had the added benefit of keeping him on Dudley’s good side, as his hulking cousin was currently being starved by Aunt Petunia on her useless ‘diets’ and would leave Harry alone for a couple jelly donuts. He never enquired after the first time on where Harry was getting them, only asking to make sure they weren’t ‘made up of your freaky stuff’ and had been mollified when Harry told him it was from a ‘normal’ bakery (which wasn’t a lie — it did operate in muggle London and served muggles on a daily basis and Tom was almost scandalized when Harry had asked if he’d used magic to ‘cheat’ on the baking processes). 

It turned their relationship to something bordering on ‘amicable’, which if you were to tell any version of Harry Potter prior to this, he would’ve assumed you were crazier than Lockhart, or a complete liar (also like Lockhart). But alas, it allowed for them to both be clandestinely hiding something from the watchful eyes of Big Brother (Sister?) Petunia.

Harry was finally able to take the bus to London again on a scorching day in early August, making his way towards the bakery that housed the much nicer version of the bastard who murdered his parents. It was nice to hang out without having to worry about the Dark Lord of his universe, and the fact that no one recognized him here (since he wasn’t even born yet — wait, would he be born here?) was an added bonus. 

He wondered if Ron and Hermione were having this much fun… wherever they were. It was hard to tell from their letters, even less so from Sirius’. But he wouldn’t let that get to him, not when Tom was regaling another ‘The Slytherins’ obsessions with snakes is stupid’ story which involved his mother’s side of the family tree looking like a Christmas wreath and most of his House putting snake motifs everywhere and honestly the whole thing was leaving Harry in stitches.

Full of mirth, tea, and biscuits — and carrying another box of pastries with him — Harry stepped off the bus that dropped him back off on Magnolia Crescent only to notice Dudley parting ways with his gang at the exit of the street. Not wanting to cause an issue with all the goodies he was hauling, Harry stepped into the shadow of a large lilac tree and waited.

“See you then,” Harry heard Dudley say after they gloated about beating up some poor kid and agreed to meet at one of their houses.

“Bye Dud!”

“See ya, Big D!”

Harry waited for the rest of the gang to move on before setting off again. When their voices had faded once more he headed around the corner into Magnolia Crescent and by walking very quickly he soon came within hailing distance of Dudley, who was strolling along at his ease, humming tunelessly.

“Hey, Big D!”

Dudley whirled around. His eyes fell on Harry and then on the box he was carrying with the bakery’s logo on it.

“Oh. It’s you.” his cousin grunted, not taking his eyes off the box. “Is that…?”

Harry smirked and opened it, revealing an assortment of pies, biscuits, and jelly donuts. “Went there myself today. Want one?”

Dudley had already dug his hand in before Harry had even finished talking, fishing out a donut and stuffing his face.

“Don’t tell Aunt Petunia I have them.” Harry reminded him.

“Don’ tell mum I’ve been eatin’ them.” Dudley retorted.

“So, how long have you been ‘Big D’ then?” asked Harry, grinning and falling into step beside his cousin as they began to make their way back.

“Shut it,” snarled Dudley, but he still reached for a biscuit from the box.

“Cool name,” continued Harry, “But you’ll always be Ickle Diddykins to me.”

Dudley nearly choked on his biscuit and Harry thunked his back.

“…Thanks.” Dudley mumbled.

“Don’t want Aunt Petunia thinking I hurt her poor ‘Dinky Diddydums’.” 

Harry had to thump Dudley’s back again for that comment.

They turned right down the narrow alleyway where Harry had first seen Sirius and which formed a shortcut between Magnolia Crescent and Wisteria Walk. It was empty and much darker than the streets it linked because there were no streetlamps. Their footsteps were muffled between garage walls on one side and a high fence on the other. The night was quiet, save for the occasional munch or scrape of the lid against the box.

“So who’s that bloke you’ve been talking to?” Dudley asked out of the blue, now that the morsels had been devoured.

“What bloke?” Harry asked, tossing the empty box into a random trash bin.

“I’m not stupid, you know-“

“Could’ve fooled me,”

Dudley glared, but pressed on. “I hear voices coming from your room all the time. Especially that bloke’s. Doesn’t sound like the others of your sort , not with that cockney.”

“He’s the one that made the biscuits you just inhaled.” Harry answered before putting up his hand, “And before you ask — no, I don’t swing that way and he’s got a girlfriend.”

Dudley’s mouth shut immediately with a ‘click’.

“He’s… a new friend. That’s all.” Harry finished with a shrug.

Silence stretched between them again. It wasn’t the most comfortable, but also not as awkward as it could have been. Harry looked up at the sky and stopped. Something had happened to the night. The star-strewn indigo sky was suddenly pitch-black and lightless — the stars, the moon, the misty streetlamps at either end of the alley had vanished. The distant grumble of cars and the whisper of trees had gone. 

Beside him, Dudley gave an odd, shuddering gasp, as though he had been doused in icy water. The balmy evening was suddenly piercingly, bitingly cold. They were surrounded by total, impenetrable, silent darkness, as though some giant hand had dropped a thick, icy mantle over the entire alleyway, blinding them. Harry turned his head this way and that, trying to see something, anything, but the darkness pressed on his eyes like a weightless veil. 

“W-what’s g-going on?” he heard Dudley say in a terrified voice, “S-stop that! Th-this isn’t funny!”

“Not me!” Harry hissed, his wand out and ready, held in shaking first, “Stay alert, Dud, and be quiet, I need to hear…”

He stood stock-still, turning his sightless eyes left and right. The cold was so intense that he was shivering all over; goosebumps had erupted up his arms, and the hairs on the back of his neck were standing up — he opened his eyes to their fullest extent, staring blankly around, unseeing…

Harry’s stomach plummeted. It was impossible… They couldn’t be here… Not in Little Whinging. He strained his ears — he would hear them before he saw them…

“W-what are y-you trying to hear?” Dudley’s voice was almost a whisper.

“Rattling.”

And there it was. Something else had entered the alleyway, something that drew long, rattling breaths. Harry felt a horrible jolt of dread as he stood trembling in the freezing air.

“Like that?” Dudley whispered.

“Yeah,” Harry breathed, “Stay close, don’t do anything stupid. They guard the wizard prison and can suck out your soul.”

He felt Dudley shuffle closer to him at that. Harry’s mind was still reeling from the fact that there were dementors in Little Whinging. This couldn’t be a coincidence. Someone sicced them on him. Did Voldemort know where he lived?

One of them does…

His other hand clasped the Hedwig pendant around his neck, feeling it react, warming up. The eyes began to glow, and the ghostly image of Tom Riddle manifested himself. The light from the display allowed for them to see a little more than they could before. 

“What’s going on?”

“Who is-“ Dudley started.

“Dementors!” Harry hissed out.

Which meant Harry could see the two dementors gilding right at them. Nudging Dudley, the both of them took off in the opposite direction. Tom’s ghostly projection winked out of existence.

“Might want to think of something happy right about now.” Tom’s voice filtered through the Aniphone.

“I’m trying! I’m trying!”

“Think of somethin’ happy or-or I’ll punch you in the face!” Dudley shouted.

“That’s counterproductive!” Harry hollered back, trying to picture something in his mind, “ Expecto Patronum! ”

A silvery wisp of vapor shot from the tip of the wand and the dementor slowed, but the spell hadn’t worked properly. From beside him, he felt Dudley stumble as one of the blasted things neared his cousin.

“Harry!”

“Shit shit shit shit- Expecto Patronum! ” 

Another wisp of silver smoke, feebler than the last, drifted from the wand. This wasn’t working! Why wasn’t this working? He was able to do so much better under pressure two years ago! Harry retreated farther as the dementor bore down upon him, panic fogging his brain… Concentrate!  

A pair of gray, slimy, scabbed hands slid from inside the dementor’s robes, reaching for him. A rushing noise filled Harry’s ears. There was laughter inside his own head, shrill, high-pitched laughter. He could smell the dementor’s putrid, death-cold breath, filling his own lungs, drowning him. 

“Harry!” Tom’s voice rang out distantly in his ears, “You can’t go down here! You can’t let these bastards win!”

Right. He couldn’t let himself be downed by a single dementor if he’d chased off a score of them before. And if he went down here, he’d never see Ron or Hermione or Sirius again…

Their faces flashed in his mind. 

“ EXPECTO PATRONUM! ” he roared.

Finally, finally , an enormous silver stag erupted from the tip of Harry’s wand — its antlers caught the dementor in the place where the heart should have been. The dementor was thrown backward, weightless as darkness, and as the stag charged, the dementor swooped away, batlike and defeated.

“THIS WAY!” Harry shouted at the stag. Wheeling around, he sprinted down the alleyway, holding the lit wand aloft. “DUDLEY? DUDLEY!”

He had run barely a dozen steps when he reached them: Dudley was curled on the ground, his arms clamped over his face; a second dementor was crouching low over him, gripping his wrists in its slimy hands, prizing them slowly, almost lovingly apart, lowering its hooded head toward Dudley’s face as though about to kiss him…

“SICC ‘EM!” Harry bellowed, and with a rushing, roaring sound, the silver stag he had conjured came galloping back past him. 

The dementor’s eyeless face was barely an inch from Dudley’s when the silver antlers caught it; the thing was thrown up into the air and, like its fellow, it soared away and was absorbed into the darkness. The stag cantered to the end of the alleyway and dissolved into silver mist.

Moon, stars, and streetlamps burst back into life. A warm breeze swept the alleyway. Trees rustled in neighboring gardens and the mundane rumble of cars in Magnolia Crescent filled the air again. Tom’s high, but not cold, laughter could be heard faintly from the pendant. 

Harry stood quite still, all his senses vibrating, taking in the abrupt return to normality. After a moment he became aware that his T-shirt was sticking to him; he was drenched in sweat.

“You were right. Your life really is stupidly crazy.” Harry heard Tom mutter alongside nervous laughter. “What are dementors doing in your neighborhood?”

“That’s what I would like to know.” Harry gasped out, checking on Dudley to make sure he was still present and not a vacant shell of a cousin.

Judging by the slew of curses, he’d be just fine.

As Harry was helping Dudley find his feet, the sound of footsteps jolted the both of them to high alert. They snapped their attention towards the newcomer, Harry gripping his wand tight. Though the Aniphone was still active, no sound came from it.

Mrs. Figg, their batty old neighbor, came panting into sight. Her grizzled gray hair was escaping from its hairnet, a clanking string shopping bag was swinging from her wrist, and her feet were halfway out of her tartan carpet slippers. Harry made to stow his wand hurriedly out of sight, but —

“Don’t put it away, idiot boy!” she shrieked, “What if there are more of them around? Oh, I’m going to kill Mundungus Fletcher!” 

Harry and Dudley blinked at her in confusion.

“What?”

And like that, the story that followed Canon snapped vaguely back into its proper place. As the events of the warped first chapter of Harry’s Canon came to a close, things began to tick on in a semblance of normalcy. 

Because that was the thing about canon. In the end, all offshoots eventually return to it in some way, somehow.

Chapter Text

So! You've come back to read this story-within-another-story, eh? Nice to know, yes indeed.

Always enjoyed a little bit of that inter-fanfiction fuckery (mind the French) where the changed narrative somehow meets back up with the Canon. It acts as a sort of dipstick to see how far a narrative has strayed from its path of origin. 

And oh boy, do some stray so far that they fell down a rabbit hole, pranced past a Balrog, skipped under a lion singing another world into existence, and somehow gathered enough helium balloons to fly its house back to visit its grandmother. And the grandmother barely recognized their grime and gunk covered, overpowered, overgeared grandchild and attempted to call the cops thinking they were a home intruder. 

So much for bringing her pie. Did you remember the pie? Oh no, you left it at home with the Canon! Dammit, now we have to go back for it! Bring the weird screwdriver you found outside that police telephone box.

But that’s the joy of Fanfiction, isn’t it? You get to take something you know and love and, as one reader of mine once put it for a different story, walk your story in many unexpected and interesting ways. It’s a way to look at a story a different way, or explore various themes, or fill plot holes better than your municipal government ever could. 

…Or you can make characters befriend each other, or fight each other, or other acts that will not be discussed here. Wait, where did all these lemons come from? Why are there so many? I don’t want your damn lemons, what am I supposed to do with these?

Yes, the amount of metahumor jokes is probably enough to make people slam their heads against the Fourth Wall. But it’s already broken here, what’s another hole? No, I will not let go of the sledgehammer, get your own!

Where was I? Oh yes, fanfiction. It’s why we’re here, isn’t it? Sometimes the original story wasn’t enough and we want more. Sometimes the original story gave us Ideas on things and we wanted to see it through. Sometimes the original story made you so mad that you decided you would tear it to shreds and rebuild it in your image. Maybe things are better in it. Maybe they’re worse. Maybe they’re just funny or silly. Oftentimes they’re… citrusy. Or spicy, depending on generation.

Thankfully this one is more sweet than tart or peppery.

But we need it, we crave it. To devour stories and make it our own. Written down or not. In any medium, or perhaps entirely inside our heads. All stories are a derivation in some shape or form, but why shouldn’t it be? Why should art not mimic nature? Why should we not see the world and craft an image of ourselves from the patchwork of things we love the most?

And see that’s the thing about Fanfiction. It is a part of our Becoming, to make these stories from other stories. To weave those Narratives with the threads of Inspiration. To find ourselves in our interpretations. To see our parts reflected in characters, to rewrite a part of ourselves if we must. The things we touch and change will always inevitably become a part of the maker. The mirror, perceived, reflects the face of the hand that holds it.

What do you see in this mirror?

Finding out that his neighbor Mrs. Figg was in fact a Squib under Dumbledore’s employ (wait, was she paid or was she spying on him ever since he was a kid for free? Now he had more unanswered questions) was not exactly on Harry James Potter’s “Weird Shit in The Boy-Who-Lived’s Life” bingo card for the coming school year. Discovering that not only was he monitored by his neighbor for the entirety of his childhood on Dumbledore’s orders, but he’d been monitored all summer by a bunch of mysterious wizards, one of which was apparently a drunk two-bit black-market goods peddler named Mundungus Fletcher. 

Harry was trying very hard not to question his life at the moment. 

Somehow, with Harry’s infamous Potter luck, Fletcher must’ve always snuck off when Harry went to visit Tom. Otherwise they would’ve panicked by now, or at the very least someone would have written something admonishing him for ‘wandering off’ or some other rot. Harry decided not to mention this thought while Mrs. Figg accompanied him and Dudley home. Glancing down at the Hedwig pendant, Tom was still listening in to this entire conversation.

Coming through the door and being questioned by the Durs-police, Dudley did the nicest thing he’d ever done for his cousin and covered the fact that they were attacked by dementors. In a fit of inspiration, Dudley decided to pretend to have knocked ‘the freak’ around a bit, pretending his tumble never happened. Very on-point for the historically lumbering bully, which honestly impressed Harry with how smooth it was. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia thankfully bought it, and the genuinely mystified teen was able to hike it back to his room with only a brief harangue from his relatives.

The ruddy-feathered owl arrived when he was sitting on his bed, tossing the letter into his face before making the fastest midair u-turn Harry’s ever seen from an avian back out the window.

Dear Mr. Potter,

We have received intelligence that you performed the Patronus Charm at twenty-three minutes past nine this evening in a Muggle-inhabited area and in the presence of a Muggle. The severity of this breach of the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery has resulted in your expulsion from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Ministry representatives will be calling at your place of residence shortly to destroy your wand.

As you have already received an official warning for a previous offense under section 13 of the International Confederation of Wizards’ Statute of Secrecy, we regret to inform you that your presence is required at a disciplinary hearing at the Ministry of Magic at 9 a.m. on August 12th.

Hoping you are well, 

Yours sincerely,

Mafalda Hopkirk

IMPROPER USE OF MAGIC OFFICE

Ministry of Magic

Panic welled up inside him. Inside his head, all was icy and numb. One fact had penetrated his consciousness like a paralyzing dart. He was expelled from Hogwarts. It was all over. He was never going back.

“What’s it say?” came Tom’s voice on the Aniphone, the translucent light blue image of him materializing over his shoulder to read it. 

“I’m… expelled.” Harry mumbled, “They’re coming to take my wand, I’ve got to run-“

“Calm down Harry.” Tom said suddenly, hand vaguely on his shoulder as he read the letter again, eyes narrowing. “The letter may be official, but it makes very little sense. They can’t expel you or snap your wand without the hearing happening first. The fact that they’re trying to do so otherwise is a bit suspicious. Myrtie’s been keeping up with the papers you’ve been sending, honestly we’ve been sharing it around to read about the crazy things happening in your timeline-“

Harry gave Tom a look to get to the point before he freaks out.

“Anyways, your trial is in ten days. Don’t let anyone take your wand, and tell them you have a right to keep it until the verdict at your hearing. In the meantime, I’ll see what I can do on my side.”

The not-evil Voldemort wasn’t given a response as a barn owl flew through the translucent display, making the translucent teen let out a birdlike squawk. It stumbles the landing, and Harry rolls his eyes when Hedwig makes some very distinctively laugh-sounding hoots at the poor avian and takes the letter it was carrying, writ in hasty and blotched black ink.

Harry —

Dumbledore’s just arrived at the Ministry, and he’s trying to

sort it all out. DO NOT LEAVE YOUR AUNT AND UNCLE’S HOUSE. DO NOT DO ANY MORE MAGIC. DO NOT SURRENDER YOUR WAND.

Arthur Weasley 

“See? Even this bloke agrees with me! Oh, looks like Dumbledore’s always working on it...” Tom twittered out, though he did give the barn owl a half-hearted glare. “How does he know the Profes- er, Headmaster is at the Ministry, anyways?”

“He works there.” Harry answered with a frown, trying to make sense of the rather confusing situation, sitting on his bed with a sigh. “So he’s probably also doing some damage control as well. Bloody hell. Practically radio silence from everyone until there’s a goddamn emergency. Typical.” He grumbled, throwing both letters down next to him.

An ‘assembly’ was called with the rest of Tom’s… friends? (Minions? Group? Harry wasn’t sure what to call them. Friends and acquaintances? Not-Death Eaters?) The 1940s teens all seemed to have something to say about the letters. Clearly not much was going on with their lives at the moment or perhaps they wanted to focus on something outside the war Grindelwald was bringing to their doorstep. Oh, and World War 2. That was still happening for them. 

Harry might have told them how that all ended in his future, so they’re probably just holding on for the next year or so for it to hopefully be over.

Young Professor McGonagall might have mentioned writing something to the Albus Dumbledore of her timeline about it after lending her a few of his updated textbooks. He was sure this would have no consequences whatsoever. 

Hermione would kill him if she knew.

If.

Regardless, some of the more law-learned members of the coterie had quite a lot to say of it. By the time they were busy tearing Cornelius Fudge to shreds (apparently he was a bully and a sycophant of some other bullies in their time, which honestly explained entirely too much and also threw him into a fit of hysterical laughter) and Tom was juggling with the idea of actually becoming a Dark Lord out of spite, another owl from the Ministry arrived. 

Scratch that, judging from the fact the letter still smacked him in the face despite his attempts to dodge, it was the same goddamned red screech owl from before. Were Ministry owls all like this or was it just this one? 

Mr. Potter,

Further to our letter of approximately twenty-two minutes ago, the Ministry of Magic has revised its decision to destroy your wand forthwith. You may retain your wand until your disciplinary hearing on 12th August, at which time an official decision will be taken. Following discussions with the Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the Ministry has agreed that the question of your expulsion will also be decided at that time. 

You should therefore consider yourself suspended from school pending further inquiries.

With best wishes, 

Yours sincerely,

Mafalda Hopkirk

IMPROPER USE OF MAGIC OFFICE

Ministry of Magic

There was a chorus of cheering from the Hedwig carving. You'd think their favorite team just scored in Quidditch. But no, they were just betting on where the next letter was coming from, what it would say, and whether or not the next letter would hit Harry in the face (he was rather miffed about that one).

For some reason, young Professor Flitwick was absolutely raking in the galleons.

“Well, at least the only thing we have to worry about is the hearing.” Young Professor Sprout's voice filtered in with a few noises of assent. 

“We?” The Boy-Who-Lived asked in confusion.

“We've been entirely too invested in this not to see this through!” Young Professor Flitwick chirped out. 

“As far as we're concerned, this is an ‘us’ problem, laddie!” Young Professor McGonagall shouted exuberantly.

Harry grinned at the voices of agreement. There was something different about how these younger versions of some of the adults he knew behaved. Probably because of how skewed their timeline was from his own.

Either that, or he now had a lot of blackmail material against the professors once school started up again. If he was able to go back to Hogwarts after the disciplinary hearing. His grin faltered as he thought of that.

Nine days.

He'd have nine days to prepare for this hearing. How was he supposed to defend himself against a Ministry that seemed hell-bent on taking him down?

Another owl landed. This one was polite enough not to aim for his face, but it did land in his lap. He unrolled it, hoping for answers. But all that was there was Sirius’s scrawl of:

Arthur’s just told us what’s happened. 

Don’t leave the house again, whatever you do.

Harry read the note aloud before the message actually sunk in. 

That’s it?

That was it?

Everything that happened and that was the only thing he got?

“You, know, I don’t think I’ve really appreciated how much better the Aniphones are to owl post.” Myrtle murmured. “This could’ve been solved with a two minute conversation.”

Harry barely heard it. The note crumpled in his fist.

“THIS IS SOME BULLSH-“

Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.

Sorry! We are experiencing some technical difficulties. Please stand by for your regularly scheduled program.

It was a well-kept secret on how owls and other magical birds knew inherently the destination of their deliveries. And by well-kept I mean the average wizard or witch never really bothered to look into it. Not when there were more important things to worry about like which Quidditch team beat who or whether or not the Minister was going to ban magic carpets again after one too many of them were mistaken as lethifolds and vice versa. Questioning how the owls knew exactly where to go was generally a passing thought when you had letters to send back to your parents and hoping they didn’t go ballistic over your latest escapades at school.

Or when you were cursing the Howlers when the inevitable scolding came no matter where you tried to hide.

The method was actually quite simple. It was the same way the owls could carry far more than a bird of their size ought to — small runes on the skin, under the feathers. 

Now, for most magical avians these marks are natural, created through breeding them over and over after tattooing the runes on their original mundane ancestors. Owls became the most common as they flew by night, but technically any bird with the right runes could get the job done. Parrots and other brightly-colored ones were favored in warmer climates. Corvids for those who wanted to be broody about their letter delivery or who wanted to get free shinies.

This caused a bit of an issue back in the Middle Ages, when some swallows were magically tattooed and ended up carrying some coconuts from Africa to the British Isles and some muggles made a bit of a fuss about it. So the Ministry had to regulate the postal birds to mostly just owls.

Well? Get on with it!

The question few posed was this — what would happen if a bird animagus was to get those runes tattooed on them?

Cling.

The shop bell to Moody’s Magical Menagerie (located in the lesser-known Consikwench Alley, just past Knockturn Alley) could barely be heard among the chirping, squawking, ribbiting, meowing, barking, and even neighing. A young woman with round glasses and a bow in her hair walked in with a birdcage which housed a singular African Gray parrot.

“I would like to get my parrot tattooed.” Myrtle Warren said with as much courage as she could muster for what was potentially an extremely illegal act, walking up to the older shopkeep who eyed her and the parrot warily as she deposited the proper gold for the procedure on the desk. 

The parrot was staring at a snake enclosure. And looking around at all the various interesting wares while listening to the gossip of the store snakes. And- oh right, he was supposed to be acting like a normal parrot. How does one act like a normal parrot? Squawking seemed right but also very rude. Flapping the wings, making disgruntled noises? Shouting swear words?

“Is it an animagus?” The shopkeep asked gruffly, staring down the now very-nervous parrot. Myrtle also started from the one question she hoped he wouldn’t ask.

“Pardon?” Her voice had gone up an octave.

“Do you have an actual parrot, or is it an animagus?” The shopkeep repeated, sighing as he watched the bird act sheepish. Myrtle glared at her boyfriend. Of all days to be a poor actor!

“I’m not sure I-“ she tried to salvage, but the wizard put up his hand to stop her excuse.

“Have to put in different runes, lassie. Animagi with normal bird runes might go ‘boom’.” He exemplified this image with his hands.

Both human and parrot stared at the shopkeep, wide eyed, and then looked at each other and gulped.

The older wizard barked a laugh.

“…don’t worry. It’s only for the runes. I won’t tell none.” The shopkeep said, tapping the side of his nose as both girl and parrot sighed in relief.

“Thank you.” Myrtle breathed.

“Thank you!” The parrot squawked.

“Good. You, Parrot. Come with me. Tattooin’s gonna hurt a bit, but stay still and don’t transform back until after three hours…” the shopkeep took the cage from Myrtle’s hands and brought the parrot to the back to start the procedure.

If there were any alarmed squawks from the other side of the door, it was nigh impossible to hear above the noises from the rest of the animals. Which was good, she supposed. Tom did have a decent pain tolerance, although she wasn’t sure if it carried over to his parrot form-

All the snakes in their glass boxes suddenly bolted to attention and faced the door. They slithered, some toward the side with the door, and some away. Myrtle didn’t know Parseltongue, but she could spot the signs of snakes reacting to it by now. And right now they were reacting to foul language. She heaved a sigh and shook her head.

The things they did for friendship.

Have you ever tried to watch a pot boil?

Staring at the liquid that wasn’t even bubbling, stagnant soup floating with whatever else is there. Maybe some carrots. Potatoes. Cilantro if it doesn’t taste like soap to you. You raise the heat, you stir. Nothing. You close the lid and wait. Still nothing, maybe a noise but nothing much. And then the moment you turn your head to answer someone in a conversation, or catch the opening sequence to your favorite program, or reach to turn the radio to a different station because the current song was nails on a chalkboard, the pot is suddenly not only boiling but bubbling over and spilling scalding soup all over the place. And somehow it’s your fault for not looking.

Apparently wanting answers from the people you know and love can be a bit like that.

At first, there was a four-day waiting period after the Dementor Night (as young Lestrange of all people had coined), of which Harry had sent Hedwig aflight on the off-chance that either his friends or his godfather would give him some kind of answer (A sentence. A word. An annotated parchment essay three feet long. Something. Anything.) Even that hope was dashed as Hedwig never returned. Harry hoped she was alright. 

Oh, who was he kidding? Hedwig could stare Death in the face and demand bacon.

During that time, Harry got to know quite a few of the other members of the group since Tom and Myrtle were out doing something ‘outrageously stupid’ (per young Abraxas Malfoy, whom Harry still felt odd hearing considering his bad experiences with the man’s son and grandson in his own timeline). 

Specifically, Harry had been talking quite a bit to a young Orion Black, who was apparently also going into his fifth year. The younger ‘heir of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black’ was generally ‘bored out of his mind’ stuck in his home since he apparently broke his foot earlier in the summer doing some kind of gardening and therefore couldn't leave the house while it healed. Since his older sister Lucy (who had been some of the few to coach Harry on what to do during his upcoming trial) often went out with the bloke she was seeing (Iggy, who reminded Harry uncomfortably of Percy – if Percy stared more than he spoke) and while his parents (blessedly) holidayed in Majorca, the only other company in the house was his house elf, Grimm, who was great but kept nagging him about the accident that got him homestuck.

Orion reminded Harry of a younger, cleaner Sirius, though with more eloquence to his words and demeanor. Maybe they were related in some way? 

Harry, who could relate to the young Black’s summer predicament, decided to do his homework with the other teen (wow, they still taught the exact same curriculum 50 years in the past. Like, some of this stuff was verbatim. Was that… bad?) and blew the bloke’s mind with modern technology (Harry had forgotten television, never mind color television, wasn’t a thing yet in the 40s. Whoops.) during those four days of nothing. In turn, Orion gave Harry a ‘virtual’ tour of his family townhouse. 

It was very… Victorian, from what the vague, translucent images he could see from the Aniphone projection showed. Were all pureblood homes a generation or three back? The Burrow always had a 60/70s feel to it sometimes. Maybe they just never bothered to change the decor? Regardless, Harry immersed himself in this rather interesting look at an old Pureblood home (which had House Elf heads mounted on plaques, a troll foot for an umbrella stand, an entire cursed library, and enough secret passageways to make Harry wonder if wizards were just Like That), vicariously exploring this place since he wasn’t allowed to leave the house.

This proved to be the distraction in the soup pot analogy, as the fourth night of waiting made a whole 180-degrees turn when an entire group of wizards showed up in his living room in the middle of the god-damned night. Including a witch who could change her appearance at will. 

Screw Parseltongue and this stupid scar — he wished he had that!

Auror Tonks was a good sport about his rather reasonable geek-out over it, though.

Mad-Eye Moody was there as well, and Harry was relieved that the man hadn’t said anything about the Hedwig pendant hanging around his neck. Maybe the magic eye didn’t sense whatever Tom put on the thing? Or did Tom make the Aniphones with some kind of cloaking magic?

Questions to ask Tom when his relatives’ house wasn’t being broken into.

After watching them all marvel at a toaster, he was then told to pack everything he could and they'd be flying on their brooms. At night. Harry had put on his goggles and hummed “Danger Zone” under his breath as they made weird twisting turns to shake potential spies and scouts off their tail.

When they blessedly, blessedly landed before Harry had the chance to get hypothermia in the cold night air whilst flying through three clouds, he found himself in a quiet street corner. Harry idly wondered whilst warming his hands if they planned to make a separate clandestine trek through London on foot.

But no, Moody went instead more towards the secret agent genre and made Harry memorize something off of a scrap of parchment before setting it on fire. What, they couldn’t make it self destruct? Still, the brief flash of warm flame was certainly welcome.

The house that appeared to form between numbers 11 and 13 Grimmauld Place was registered by the rather harried teen as he also tried to wrack his brain as to why it sounded so familiar. The almost derelict building looked as if it was supposed to be featured on the telly as a haunted attraction and not, you know, lived in. He was ushered in regardless.

He was barely able to get his bearings when he nearly got all the air squeezed out of him by Mrs. Weasley. The good thing about that was that she squeezed out all the cold as well. Ah, her hugs were the best. Harry allowed himself to relish in the warmth of it before he was looked over by her. But apparently ‘dinner’ (at this hour?!) wasn’t until after some super-secret ultra-important meeting that he wasn’t allowed to be a part of because he wasn’t in their club (“the Order”, or something) and was instead told to also secret-agent sneak his ways through the halls (to not “wake anything up”. Wake what? A dragon?). Mrs. Weasley led him on tiptoes past a pair of long, moth-eaten curtains, behind which Harry supposed there must be another door, and after skirting a large umbrella stand that looked as though it had been made from a severed troll’s leg, they started up the dark staircase, passing a row of shrunken house-elf heads mounted on plaques on the wall. 

Wait. 

Wait.

Was this Lucy and Orion’s house? There’s no way other Pureblood households also have the same stuff, right. He eyed the umbrella stand and the heads in bewilderment. There’s no fucking way this is the same-

Yep, no, the one on the far left had the name ‘Grimm’ on a little placard. Poor sod.

The air and his thoughts were then knocked out of him by someone pulling him into a violent hug.

“HARRY!” Hermione shrieked from somewhere within the plume of hair he was getting smothered with, “Ron, he’s here, Harry’s here! We didn’t hear you arrive! Oh, how are you? Are you all right? Have you been furious with us? I bet you have, I know our letters were useless — but we couldn’t tell you anything, Dumbledore made us swear we wouldn’t-”, 

Dumbledore?! Dumbledore was the reason he heard jack-nothing from any of them all summer?! There better be a bloody good explanation for this or Harry was going to blow another fuse-

“Oh, we’ve got so much to tell you, and you’ve got to tell us — the dementors! When we heard — and that Ministry hearing — it’s just outrageous, I’ve looked it all up, they can’t expel you, they just can’t, there’s provision in the Decree for the Restriction of Underage Sorcery for the use of magic in life-threatening situations-”

“Let him breathe, Hermione,” cut in Ron, grinning, closing the door behind Harry. 

The redhead seemed to have grown several more inches during their month apart, making him taller and more gangly looking than ever. Harry felt a small bubble of jealousy. Was he the only one that didn’t grow much over the damn summer?!

There was a soft whooshing sound and something white soared from the top of a dark wardrobe and landed gently on Harry’s shoulder.

“Hedwig!” the scar-headed teen cried out in relief.

The snowy owl clicked her beak and nibbled his ear affectionately as Harry stroked her feathers.

“She’s been in a right state,” muttered Ron. “Pecked us half to death when she brought your last letters, look at this-” He showed Harry the index finger of his right hand, which sported a half-healed but clearly deep cut.

Harry looked to Hedwig, who was clearly unrepentant and in fact seemed as if she hadn’t shed enough blood. 

“Oh yeah,” he said, blinking at the injury, and back at Hedwig (he’ll have to get her more bacon later), and then back to his injured best mate. “I almost forgot I asked her to do that. I was in a bit of a mood with being kept in the dark and all that. I just wanted some answers…”

“We wanted to give them to you, mate,” sighed Ron, shaking his head. “Hermione was going spare, she kept saying you’d do something stupid if you were stuck all on your own without news, but Dumbledore made us-”

“-swear not to tell me,” finished Harry, who was thinking of how very correct Hermione had been about these things. He absolutely did do ‘something stupid’ and no one had realized yet. He felt a little vindictive about it, “Yeah, Hermione’s already said. Do you happen to know why he’d do something like that?”

“He seemed to think it was best,” Hermione answered rather breathlessly. 

“Right…” he muttered dubiously.

An awkward pause marked only by the squawking of owls.

“I think he thought you were safest with the Muggles-” 

“Oh yeah?” Harry muttered, cutting Ron off, raising his eyebrows. That was the dumbest excuse that Dumbledore always kept making. How was he safer with people who didn’t care if he lived or died (okay, barring Dudley, but that was a recent development!) than with actual people with the power to summon lightning or fire with sticks? “Have either of you been attacked by dementors this summer?”

“Well, no — but that’s why he’s had people from the Order of the Phoenix tailing you all the time-”

“They WHAT?!” Harry cried out, thinking back on what Mrs. Figg had said with the kind of mania that only a teen with too much mental stimulus could have, causing Hermione and Ron to back up a bit in shock. “Those weirdos that may or may not be paid to keep an eye on me! They sent some rando to watch me! That was this- this ‘Order of the Phoenix’? What is it, anyways?”

“It’s a secret society,” Hermione explained quickly. “Dumbledore’s in charge, he founded it. It’s the people who fought against You-Know-Who last time.”

“Well who’s in it, then?” asked Harry, thinking back, trying to calm himself back down into rationality. There had to be that Mundungus guy, Mrs. Figg (probably), Lupin and Moody and whoever else came to pick him up, Mrs. Weasley… all grown-ups. Judging by the fact that Ron and Hermione were here and not in the super secret Order meeting right now, they weren’t privy to any information either. Dammit.

“Quite a few people-” Hermione stated.

“-we’ve met about twenty of them,” finished Ron, “but we think there are more. Look, Harry, we told Dumbledore we wanted to tell you what was going on. We did, mate. But he’s really busy now, we’ve only seen him twice since we came here and he didn’t have much time, he just made us swear not to tell you important stuff when we wrote, he said the owls might be intercepted-”

“If he wanted to, there’s got to be other ways.” Harry cut in shortly. “You’re not telling me he doesn’t know ways to send messages without owls. It’s Dumbledore.”

He thought of the aniphone around his neck.

Hermione glanced at Ron and then said, “I thought that too. But he didn’t want you to know anything.”

A pause. He felt his blood begin to boil.

“Anything?” Harry murmured lowly.

“Anything.” Ron confirmed.

“Well,” Harry suddenly decided, with an eye twitching and the most vindictive, murderous grin spreading on his face, “I guess I shouldn’t let him know anything either.”

Ron and Hermione exchanged a glance. Had Harry gone mad while at the Dursleys?

Under his shirt, his Hedwig pendant's eyes glowed.

It was a mid-morning surprise for Filius Flitwick as he sat in his room doing his summer homework (with all the business with his personal projects and everyone trying to help the Future Potter Kid with his bizarrely unlucky life in an alternate universe where Fil’s best friend was evil and became a Dark Lord, it had completely slipped under the radar) when a bird flew in his open window. 

But it wasn’t an owl.

“So…” Fil started as he stared at the suspiciously familiar parrot holding a letter addressed to him, reading over the scant few words written on it, “It works?”

“Like a charm!” The parrot squawked in an uncannily human tone, flapping its wings a bit as if to prove a point. “Wrote you a note, addressed it to you, and when I took to the air the magic shot the information right into my brain! It’s like… I suddenly knew exactly where to go and how to get there!” 

Said familiar parrot then shifted into a very familiar best friend, who was grinning ear to ear as he sat on the floor of Filius’s bedroom. It was a rather decently decorated one filled with various trinkets he’d collected over the years as well as a wickedly sharp shortsword his mother gave him for his coming-of-age. Father had gotten him the traditional wizarding pocket watch (which had a few interesting features — his father had a wonderful sense of humor) instead. It was the full-human teen’s first time in Filius’s house since Mother usually didn’t allow guests unless they agreed to a trial by combat — and people rarely got past those without shedding blood but honestly Fil just didn’t want Tom to somehow get into his mother’s good graces by doing something crazy during it. Or maybe he should. Hmmmmm.

“Now I won’t get lost trying to fly to you guys anymore!” Tom chirped out, causing the shorter wizard to laugh.

“Yes, glad we learned from the Pet Store Incident! That poor macaw still seemed to be beak-over-talons for you!” Fil quipped with a bright chuckle as he recalled the incident the year prior with fond exasperation before looking over his best mate curiously, “So do the tattoos show up in your human form as well? You know Minnie’s going to want to study you now, right? Has anyone ever done this before?” He asked, poking at Tom’s back and arms curiously, the much taller teen lifting his arms to help in the probing. He had the lad trained well.

“Yeah it does. Really interesting, too. There’s a few on my arms but mostly across the back. Hurt like high heaven to get, though. I suppose I’m a ruffian now for having them. Should I get a motorcycle now to complete the look? I’d be positively rakish. I should. It would be nice to have anyways and if the war’s ending soon I should be able to get one for cheap once there’s a surplus…”

The half-goblin cackled, lifting up the back of the shirt of the squawking teen to see the tattoos. Tom sounded very human as a bird and very birdlike as a human — then again Filius often found himself being rather canary-like since becoming an Animagus, perhaps it was that? Things to ponder over later.

All musings halted as he looked to the black ink that swirled and spiraled and practically slithered on his back. Some looked like constellations, used as homing runes, perhaps. The lines, Filius noted, were for navigation, winding pathways of sorts. So this was what was on the owls that carried their letters…

“The shopkeep might have said something about the runes being different for Animagi.” Tom said sheepishly, “Apparently if I got the normal ones I’d explode.”

Filius blinked.

“Do you think that’s a common thing for flying Animagi to ask?” The diminutive wizard mused. 

Tom shrugged, the wing design at his shoulder blades moving fluidly with it. Filius wondered how many unregistered Animagi were actually roaming around. All of the crew registered to prevent themselves from getting into any trouble with the law (especially for people like Filius and Rubeus, who would be under scrutiny first for just being alive), but Fil understood the reasons for not making one’s animal form public knowledge.

“Possibly? He seemed to know what he was doing and was completely fine with keeping mum about it.” The parrot Animagi admitted. “I also don’t want to know how he found out the normal runes would make an Animagus blow up.” He muttered with a shudder.

The markings on his arms swirled, though the most prominent was the one on his left forearm. The magic ink pattern wove and slithered around it almost in a serpentine fashion, with a small blob that might be a stone that it moved around and through.

“Dunno how I’m gonna explain this, that’s for sure…” Tom mumbled out with a sigh. “It’s clearly runic in nature. People would ask and try to decode it and I’d prefer to have this as an ace up my sleeve, you know?”

Filius privately added up people’s reactions in his head. He could make a killing betting on how everyone would take (more like swoon over) it once the term started again. Soon he’ll have enough to get what he’s always wanted. 

Any bad feelings of betting on his best friend had flown to the wind the moment Tom found out about it in second year and just… congratulated him on always guessing it right. Somehow even now he was constantly baffled by Filius’s ability to accurately read people.

“I suppose you could always cover that one up with a muggle tattoo.” Filius offered, looking the design over this way and that. “Kind of looks like a snake coming out of a rock or something.” 

Or maybe a beehive? The shape was roundish, but a little egglike. A pumpkin?

“Doesn’t it?” Tom said rather happily, “I thought so too. Apparently it’s a runic array that helps bypass certain wards since dropping certain wards for owls seems a bit odd, innit? I’m afraid it only works in animal form, though. I just tested it on your house. Won’t let me in as a person, but let me in just fine as a parrot. Pretty spiffy.” He preened, before paling. “Uh… don’t tell your mum, yeah? She’d cleave me in half if she found out, I think. She told me the first time I was here that the ax above the mantelpiece wasn’t just for show and I could tell she wasn’t lying.” 

The line part of the tattoo seemed to weave this way and that nervously with Tom’s almost panicked words. But Filius’s mind was already whirring at the possibilities. He was a canary, so he could get the tattoos himself as well, but imagine if all of them had it…

And it would make it effortless to sneak out of wards as well.

“Huh.” Was all the half-goblin said for a while, before he voiced his thoughts to an almost panicking Tom. “Do you think it works on other Animagi or just birds?”

His best friend wrinkled his nose in thought, rubbing his forearm absentmindedly. “I don’t know. I should ask that shopkeep. He looks like he might know, or at least willing to experiment. Why? Thinking of getting one yourself?”

Filius shrugged. “Well, I’m a bird already, so I’d be fine. But think about it, Tom. Being able to sneak through wards is harder than hiring a curse breaker to dismantle them. And you’re just waltzing through because technically, mail still needs to be delivered. I suppose that’s why animals would get a free pass…”

Tom blinked. “Never thought of it that way.”

There was a pause as they both pondered what could be done.

“We could get matching tattoos.” Filius mused, “People would just think it was a friendship thing. They wouldn’t have to know its true purpose.”

He was sure he could get away with it, too. Mother and Father would be proud, at least. 

“Really?” His best friend said hopefully, rubbing the tattoos. “I mean, I’m sure there’s a way to make it smaller. Maybe we could get the rest just on the forearm, you know? But are you sure? I know they’re usually a sign from the ‘rougher sort’, or so Myrtie’s dad told me. But I am the rougher sort so I didn’t think it’d matter much. But you and Minnie and Mona and Myrtie and Rube… you’re all really great people.”

Filius smiled. “Well for one, if we really needed to it could be covered up. But I don’t mind. I’m sure a couple of the others will get on board.” He said, thinking to himself. “We should make a general design in case any of the others want to get one as well who aren’t Animagi.”

A pause as a thought came to Fil’s mind as Tom considered it, but clearly wasn’t completely convinced. He stared at the swirling markings on his friend’s forearm. 

“Hey Tom, the Future Potter Kid said something about the evil Dark Lord version of you Marking all your followers, right?” The half-goblin asked slowly as a sharp toothed grin spread across his face.

Tom blinked.

“Yeah, it’s called the Dark Mark and it’s supposed to be a snake wrapped around a sk-”

Filius could tell the moment his best mate found where his thoughts were going by the way he stopped talking, dark eyes growing wide. 

A beat passes.

“It would be funny,” he offered with a grin.  

“Fil,” Tom breathed, “You’re a bloody genius.”

Extendable ears, Harry decided, were some of Fred and George's best work.

Clearly the dynamic duo thought the same, as they managed to save a few of their prototypes from their mother's wrath. Apparently the non-Order members (that was 80% Weasley) were using it to glean as much as they could from the Order meetings since they weren't allowed to even be privy to it. They'd also been stuck cleaning the dilapidated house for the summer (which sounded awful, honestly, any ill-will he had against them giving him nothing had promptly leapt out of the window like a newly-opened chocolate frog), so they didn't get to have a lot of time on their hands either. 

Harry was also given the unfortunate honor of meeting the portrait of Walburga Black (who was screaming like a banshee every time someone was a tad too loud – case in point, a toppled umbrella stand from Tonks, whom Harry was starting to learn could trip on a dust mite) and suddenly understood why Orion and Tom seemed to treat her as if she were, well, Voldemort (they always look around so nervously when she's even mentioned, or just… pause… as if to check if she's somehow lurking in their homes). But this was also compounded with meeting his dog–er, godfather–again, which was a plus. 

Apparently this was also Sirius's house, which he supposed made sense as to why everyone was hankering down here, but Harry's brain began to grind as it attempted to chug out the implications with what he already knew. This was put on hold as dinner was held in all its chaotic glory with the twins attempting to use magic for everything and nearly chopping Sirius's hand off in the process.

Now, that was an idea. If you had an injury as a human, would it translate to your animagus form? It must, right? Like, if you were a bird animagus and you had your hand chopped off, would that mean your talon would be missing or part of the wing?

Tom was rubbing off on him already, it seemed.

Anyways, Sirius was also stuck in Grimmauld Place since he was still considered a murderer and also Wormtail would have told Evil Tom about the whole being an animagus business. Which clearly, Sirius enjoyed even less than Orion did. Especially since by this point the place had been abandoned for a decade and clearly looked it. Which meant everyone had to help clean it out.

Somehow, despite everything, Harry came out with the best summer so far. Go figure.

Regardless, the scar-headed teen was able to only really glean a couple things from his first night at Number 12, Grimmauld Place, which somehow amounted to less than what he already knew with Tom and Company picking apart every Daily Prophet Harry forwarded to him (and hearing that Myrtle's cork-board has only gotten bigger…). Voldemort was laying low, trying to gather followers, and just overall psychological warfare while the Ministry pretended it's not happening. And also that he's after some super-powerful, ultra secret weapon. Which didn't bode well at all and Harry found his fingers brushing the Hedwig pendant under his shirt, itching to just have a sounding board on the one bloke who might know a thing or two about Voldemort's thought process.

As it turned out, he didn't need to.

Bright and early the next morning, a box of baked goods arrived from the Rosewood Bakery. Only, instead of the usual barn owl with the bad attitude, it was an African Grey parrot that seemed positively confused to be here that brought the goodies. Harry felt something in his chest simultaneously elevate and drop at the sight, which really couldn't have been healthy. Luckily there weren't too many Order members milling about, and it was just him and Ron in the kitchen. The parrot squawked and looked around a bit, as if unsure if it came to the right location.

“What's that?” The redhead asked while shoveling eggs with a speed that made the African Grey stare at him, “Is that a parrot?”

Harry opened the box to see the usual freshly baked goodies he got sent to him, and didn't find anything much different. The parrot had gone waddling over to Ron and stole a rasher of bacon from the main plate before tearing into it.

“So I accidentally wandered into a magical bakery near Diagon Alley while moping a week or so back, yeah, and they do delivery.” The scar-headed teen explained in what he hoped was a causal tone as the parrot snuck a bit of scrambled eggs, “Since Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon like to do this thing called ‘Don't Feed the Harry’ and ‘Lock Harry in his Room’, I took the matter of getting food into my own hands. So, fresh pastries from London. Want some?”

Ron was already munching on a jelly donut by the time he was looking at the name on the box, humming his approval of the baked good. By the time he spoke, he'd already inhaled a jelly donut, a Danish, a muffin, and was now spreading jam on a scone.

 “‘Rosewood Bakery’. Huh. I've never heard of a bakery like this near Diagon Alley on the muggle side.” He muttered, and the parrot stared at him in a way that Harry could clearly see was not normal for a parrot, “And the family's gone down there loads. Then again, mum bakes great stuff, so we never really needed to. But I feel like I would've remembered a bakery.”

The green-eyed teen hummed in response, and then shared a look with the bright-eyed parrot. Checking to see if the bakery was there on his side of the timeline was something that must have slipped both their minds with everything else that was going on. Now that Ron has mentioned it, it seemed like an important tidbit to check out at a later time.

The more pressing matter was the parrot, who Harry was about ninety-seven-and-a third percent sure was Tom Riddle in animagus form (which Harry had only seen once, but the sight of teenage Voldemort turning into a squawking parrot was enough to at least power one patronus). An alternate timeline version of the guy they were hiding from just flew into a supposedly super secret hideout with no issue whatsoever. Come to think of it, even though people couldn't come and go from this place willy-nilly, clearly Hedwig had no issue finding the place. Did all magical birds have this ability? Did that mean bird animagi could just fly around to secure places as long as they had an address? How did that even work?

Harry voiced the latter half to Ron (though the parrot opened its mouth as if to answer, remembered they had an audience, and then promptly clicked his beak shut), who shrugged.

“Fred and George mentioned once or twice that magical owls have rune markings under their skin that lets them locate places and bypass stuff.” The youngest redhead explained nonchalantly as Harry realized the box was only half-full now. “Since getting post is important but we still have to check for curses and whatnot. We probably should have checked this box but I'm pretty sure muffins can't be evil.”

The squawking from the parrot sounded like laughter, and Ron gave it an odd look. Anything he might have been starting to say was drowned out when footsteps thudded into the kitchen.

“OI! What's taking you both so long!?” shouted Ginny, though her voice was slightly muffled from the cloth tied over her mouth and nose. “Mum's getting impatient and we really need to be getting rid of those doxies- is that a parrot?”

This, somehow, seemed to summon Hermione and the Twins, who were also wearing bandanas as if they were about to rob an old western saloon. And suddenly there was an audience here where there wasn't before, and Harry's order of baked goods was no longer his as they absentmindedly nab their own morsel. Some even cooed over the interesting-looking delivery bird who appeared very out of depth on the table and was shuffling towards Harry sideways. Harry was fine with this. The irony of them enjoying Lord Voldemort's biscuits and petting his animagus form was not lost on him. Currently the most difficult part of all this was keeping a straight face.

“It is a parrot, Gin.” Harry said, carefully. “His name's Lord Voldemort.”

The expected flinch of the name was immediate.

“Who's mad enough to do something like that?!” Ron asked with a pale face.

“Rrrrawk! Bad choices! Can't take it back!” The parrot squawked, which made all of them (including Harry, who had not been expecting Tom to be able to talk) jump. It then flapped its wings and landed itself safely on Harry's shoulder.

“Bloody smart for a bird, that's for sure…” Fred muttered out, brows furrowing.

“I did read that African Greys were the smartest parrots.” Hermione added, taking a step closer, “They have the intelligence of a five year old, and can even form sentences. Harry, where did you get this?”

Harry scratched the back of his head nervously. “Sooo… can you promise not to freak out?”

“Harry, my good man, did you steal a parrot?” George asked with a conspiratorial grin.

“Not exactly, he does as he likes.” Harry says slowly, sharing another look with the parrot, who nods enthusiastically.

“Also it's from this bakery that sends goods on owl order.” Ron piped up. “Bit odd for them to be using a parrot for deliveries. Exotics are expensive.”

“So you're just good friends with the bakery owners or something?” Fred said while attempting to poke the parrot. “Seems pretty friendly.”

“Uuuuuh, sure, we can go with that.” The green-eyed teen answers.

“But being friends with a baker doesn't sound like something we would ‘freak out’ over.” Ginny mused, “So either there's something wrong with the parrot or something wrong with the baker.”

“Or the baker is the parrot.” Ron joked, stuffing another muffin in his mouth (Harry mourned his delivery, but one must make sacrifices in Endearing His Friends to the Nice Version of Voldemort). “I mean, we know like three unregistered animagi, right?”

There's a moment of silence as Harry tries to figure out how to answer that.

“Harry.” Hermione started, suddenly serious. “Is the parrot an animagi?”

Before Harry can formulate an answer, the parrot flies up and transforms into a sheepish teenage Tom Riddle, in casual muggle wear (of the 40s fashion, dear Merlin he's got suspenders on), sitting on the table. He waves at them cheerfully. 

“Hi! I'm Tom! Nice to meet you!”

The screams that erupted from them drowned out even the howling of the portrait of Sirius's mum down the hallway.

Orion Arcturus Black woke up to a perfectly good morning.

Mother and Father were in Majorca for a romantic getaway that was completely unprompted and one hundred percent Lucretia's doing to get them out of the house for the summer so she could go do… whatever it is she does… with Ignatius Prewett without them howling about decorum and proper Pureblood etiquette. Which, frankly, Orion was more than happy with as it also meant he didn't have to hear them rag on about his future as Lord Black and how they should invite cousin Walburga over for tea.

Now, of his second cousins, Orion thought Alphard a bit odd but fine, and Cygnus to be a right pain in the arse. But Walburga?

Walburga Black, he was sure, was a hag in disguise. The kind that kidnapped children and baked them into pies. The kind that, Orion feared, would eat him alive if he was ever left alone and unguarded like some unfortunate chicken in the face of a starving wolf. She wasn't at Grimmauld Place much, but when she was she stalked around like she owned the place. And that struck a chord with him.

Regardless, he hadn't seen nor heard from her all summer (possibly due to her obsession with the Heir of Slytherin, of which Orion was grateful that her attentions were elsewhere), and thus, life was good.

Instead, he'd been talking with that alternate future Potter bloke who showed him cool things, like ‘tellyvision’, and also with Poppy Pomfrey, whom he'd promised to complete a warded dealer's supply box for (apparently people kept raiding her personal storage of potions and those things were not easy to make or prepare). If there was one thing Orion was good at, it was making wards. Maybe if his parents saw how good he was at it, they'll let him pursue a career in wardsmithing before he needed to settle down and take up the mantle of the Black family head. He'll show them. He was going to ace the required OWLs this year and they'll have to let him study. His father was still healthy, and they certainly weren't hurting for gold. Orion would settle eventually, though after the little demonstration with fast-growing Snapping Peas by Warren about the dangers of inbreeding, he was hoping to find a respectable pureblood girl whose maiden name wasn't “Black” as well. 

His eyes drifted to the black poppies he'd planted in the windowsill with a couple other magical plants used in the art of warding. Soon the seeds could be harvested and crushed to make the setting solution that would hopefully be able to numb anyone's fingers touching the box if the disarming phrase isn't spoken to it. He'd worked rather hard to cook that one up. He'll probably put it on his own things as well, not because he didn't trust Lucy (he didn't, but at least she would buy him runic chalk if she took anything) or the house elves, but because everyone else in his life seemed to love rifling through his things. He'd had to hide his letters to a few friends from his parents since he really wasn't supposed to be ‘fraternizing with the impure’ but limiting his friend group to what was essentially just his cousins (of various removals) was incredibly irritating and he won't stand for it anymore. 

Especially now that he and Lucy had somehow found themselves circling Riddle's orbit, and that meant ‘cavorting with mudbloods and halfbreeds’, which was much less horrifying than his parents had warned them about and instead taught him about marvelous muggle contraptions like the telly-gram and fizzy drinks. Also it greatly expanded the options of a possible match he wasn't going to hate, because if his parents tried to insist one more time that Walburga was the best match per Black Family Motto, Orion was going to lock himself in his room with enough wards to keep out a dragon. Or make a ward that keeps her at least six feet away from him at all times.

Grimm, the elderly house elf that took care of him and Lucy (and he was pretty sure his father and family as well) all his life, called from downstairs that breakfast was ready. Which was great, because Grimm always made the best bangers and tomatoes. Orion went down the eastern stairwell (which was hidden behind the walls and allowed him to traverse the lower floors without alerting his family – it was a house elf route), thinking of what he was going to get done for the day, when the aniphone he kept as a brooch of a grim on his lapel pulsed, sending a rippling wave of magic that almost knocked him back. When he scrambled back up from where he gripped the banister, he sneezed from the dust. Weird. Grimm usually kept this place spotless – one of the reasons Orion hated bothering the house elf with his boredom.

Noises came from within the dining area. Odd, this wasn't Grimm or the other elves’ idle humming or conversation. It sounded like… shouting? Lucy shouldn't be home yet, and his parents definitely shouldn't be home yet.

Clutching his wand tighter, he made his way to the (much dimmer… odd. It shouldn't be this dim…) dining room, only to find Riddle (how did he get here?) standing on the dining room table, and the alternate timeline future Potter bloke (how did he get here!?) trying to calm down a gaggle of redheads and a girl with bushy brown hair (where did all these people come from!?). They were in such a state that they didn't notice his arrival.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN MY HOUSE!?” Orion shrieked, pointing his wand with a shaking hand at everyone and trying not to hyperventilate. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN MY HOUSE!?!?!?”

Everyone's heads snapped to him, wide-eyed.

“Orion?” Was said by Riddle and the Potter.

“Orion!?” Was repeated in a cacophonous, incredulous tone by the Intruding Strangers.

“Why are you here?” He shouted, pointing to Riddle with his wand. “How are you here?” Now the wand was on the Potter. “Who are these people?!” Then it was motioning to the rabble, angry sparks flying off the tip as he panicked.

Okay, perhaps he was being a tad dramatic, but given the circumstances and his natural right as a Black to overreact, he thought it was well warranted.

The Potter bloke turned to Riddle. “Did you do this?”

Riddle shook his head rapidly. “I thought it might have been you.”

“Someone better start explaining or I'm going to start hexing people!” A red haired girl hissed out. Which, really should have been his line considering this was his house.

“Saltautions and good morning Intruders in My Home.” Orion sighed out, though he didn't lower his arm. “I am Orion Arcturus Black, heir to the Black family and what I thought was the sole current human denizen of the household. Who are you to enter the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black?”

“Orion, quick question, was there an odd little blip in your aniphone recently?” Riddle asked in that slow, thinking voice that usually preceded some kind of explosion while the rest of the intruders muttered amongst themselves.

“Nearly knocked me over on the stairwell.” Orion responded with narrowed eyes, which made Riddle turn to the Potter with a half-sheepish, half-horrified expression.

“Actually, then, this might be my fault.”

Ronald Bilius Weasley was not entirely convinced that the last hour or so was real and not just him oversleeping up in the shared bedroom in Grimmauld Place, where he was about to get an earful from Mum for not getting up.

But no. No, there was actually a teenage Voldemort and a teenage version of Sirius's father here, chatting to Harry like this was a normal conversation to be having.

Harry spilled the beans on what he was actually doing most of the summer that he hadn't mentioned in his letters – which… fair. Ron wasn't sure if any of them would have believed him if he'd written it, and also some things were just too hard to explain in words. The idea that there was an alleyway in London that could transport you fifty years into an alternate past was pretty unbelievable, but Harry was always the one finding the most insane things, so Ron supposed it tracked.

The fact that Tom and Orion were from some different version of events was also mind-boggling, but no less boggling than when Ginny–stone faced–walked up to Tom and politely asked if she could slap him in the face, and Tom, once she explained the Diary Fiasco and Orion assured him he had potions to fix him up with after, agreed.

After a resounding crack that shockingly didn't alert anyone else in the house, and salves put on both Tom's face and a vindicated Ginny's wrist, the not-so-evil Voldemort  began to explain how their current situation possibly came about.

Apparently not-evil teenage Voldemort had made these things called ‘aniphones’, which could be used to contact anyone else with an aniphone (which sounded awfully like a Dark Mark that wasn't tattooed, but then again, a Voldemort made it). And Tom (not-evil Voldemort), Orion, and Harry all have aniphones. Harry had a pendant in the shape of hedwig, Orion had a dog in his lapel, and Tom had his in a very Slytherin-looking locket.

This is when Tom transfigured a skittering cockroach into a stick of chalk and began writing on the table (which nearly gave Orion a conniption until he was reminded that this was a) not his timeline and b) fifty years in the future) to explain what had probably happened. Hermione had also taken a quill and changed it into chalk and had started annotating things. According to Tom, he'd made Harry's aniphone with a charm he found in a text he'd gotten from Borgin and Burke's that allowed signals to cross into their dimension while their timelines were still “sort-of next to each other. Harry could cross the threshold just fine since there wasn't anyone else in his time with an aniphone, and Tom crossing the threshold from one world to another would have usually been fine and dandy had his destination been Number 4 Privet Drive. However, his destination ended up being Number 12 Grimmauld Place, home to another person who had their own aniphone – Orion Black. Now they had three aniphones in the same place across different timelines, and the magic was starting to wear thin whatever keeps the timeline apart. When Orion neared Harry and Tom, a new threshold had been made on the eastern stairwell. Which was apparently a secret staircase that the house elves used that none of them were told about (and now that they knew, they were certainly going to be very responsible with it, cough cough Fred and George).

They'd tested it out. Going up the eastern stairwell gave them the sight of Grimmauld Place in its prime. While the decor was still a bit glum, the sconces on the walls lit up much brighter, and the chandelier in the foyer was actually bloody lit. No cobwebs, barely any dust, extremely clean. An actual house. Orion gave them a rather proud mini-tour, which contrasted drastically with the half-hearted and cynical tour Sirius had given them when they'd first arrived here. Going down the main stairwell showed them what the house looked like for most of them. Orion looked like he was going to faint at the state of everything, and stared at the mounted house elf heads for a good while (Ron thought he might have heard a sniffle, but he might have been mistaken).

How they managed to avoid Mum and Sirius through all this, Ron wasn't quite sure, but grateful for. They didn't have a good way to explain the truth (or even a decent excuse) yet.

Someone then rang the doorbell, and the screeching of the portrait of Walburga Black actually had the two blokes dashing off to hide.

“Why is she here? Why is she here???” Orion hissed from behind the China closet.

“Seconded.” Tom muttered with a much paler face than before.

“It's Sirius's mum.” Harry answered without much thought.

“She's got a portrait in the front and every time someone wakes her up this is how she punishes us.” Ron muttered in addition as the sound of thundering footsteps and the sudden silencing told them Sirius had wrenched the curtains shut again.

Tom caught Orion before he hit the ground. 

“The implications of this are horrifying.” Tom said grimly, setting the fainted teenage pre-Lord Black down by the wall. “But I need to see this for posterity.”

“If you can get her to shut up, that would be grand.” George muttered, Fred nodding enthusiastically.

“That's a bit much to ask, isn't it?” Hermione hissed, “Just because Tom isn't You-Know-Who in his time doesn't mean-”

“No, no.” Harry interrupted with a wicked grin. “I have a plan.”

There was some mixed consensus to that, but as far as Ron was concerned, “it would be bloody hilarious” was a sound reason to him. Harry whispered something in Tom's ear and the teen not-Dark Lord raised an eyebrow and changed his clothes into a set of black fancy-cut robes and slicked his hair back and changed his eyes to red- yes, Harry, YES!

They'd waited until the area was cleared of adults before Fred and George lowered their Extendable Ears while Tom snuck down towards the portrait. While keeping an eye trained for anyone coming round and also at the still-unconscious Orion slumped against the wall, the rest of them waited near the banister with baited breath.

The rustle of the curtain, and then the shrieking began, and abruptly cut off into nervous giggles. None of them had ever heard that sound from her before.

“Hello, Walburga.” Tom's voice, silken and oozing charisma, travelled up the Extendable Ears in low, dulcet tones that made Ron's skin crawl. Behind him, Ginny froze.

“My lord.” The portrait breathed out, half surprised and half-delighted, in a voice that made Ron's skin crawl even more. By the end of this, Ron was sure his skeleton would simply leave his body from the feeling alone. “I was not expecting your arrival. Have you come to reestablish the proper order in my household? I deeply apologize for the state of things, it has become overrun by filth… oh, I must get Kreacher to make things presentable…”

“Now, now, Walburga, no need.” Tom says in a lower tone, “For you see, I have been taking over this household from the shadows, taking over the minds of every mudblood, halfbreed, and blood traitor that dared walk the hallowed halls of the esteemed Black estate. Soon they will all be under my influence, but in order to keep things… beneath the attentions of those who would wrest the control back from me, I require your cooperation, my lovely Walburga.”

“Anything, my lord.” the portrait said in an almost sweet voice, apparently buying Tom's words hook, line, and sinker. “Orion's portrait is in the attic, he would not be privy…”

Orion, from where he was out cold, jolts awake at his name as if death just warmed him over. He stared at them, then below, then made the sign of the cross. Down in the foyer, Tom continued.

“You see, I will need for them to speak in code and behave as they usually would, lest Dumbledore-” he spat out the name so venomously that even the teens were taken aback, “Catch wind of my machinations. You may not hear a difference overtly, but they are there. So, I require your silence on the matter. I tell this to you in good faith, as one who also upholds the belief of our forefathers. These vermin will still be in your home, yes, but under my control, but too much mental strain, say, from your prolonged screaming, may jolt them back out of my grip. I ask for your patience and cooperation, dear Walburga.”

The resulting giggles were not pleasant to their ears, but it was better than the screeching. “My lord, I was not aware you were doing your good work in my household, cleaning it up. Of course, I would not want to undo the dark magic you placed upon the filth you have enslaved. Please accept this as my apology.”

There was the sound of a hinge swinging back, and a few seconds later it closed.

“Thank you, dear Walburga, I will… read it well.” Tom said slowly. “Until next time.”

“See that you do. Until next time.” The portrait responded as the curtains were shut and Tom returned upstairs, a little green around the collar and holding a rather fancy-looking tome.

“I can't believe that actually worked.” Harry breathed out, thumping Tom on the back as the older dark-haired teen changed himself back to normal.

“I hate that you made me do that.” Tom told the grinning Boy-Who-Lived with a half-hearted glare, and then turned to Orion with a shake of his head and mouthed ‘She did not age well’ and then looked down at the book. “Hopefully my sacrifice of my dignity is worth it.”

“So what is it?” Ron asked aloud, head craning to take a look at the tome.

“Looks like a diary.” Ginny muttered, side-eyeing Tom. “You would know about those, wouldn't you?”

“You're enjoying this entirely too much.” the not-evil version of Riddle sighed out. “And though it seems to be one, I really hope it isn't.”

“Who knows what kind of dark, twisted thoughts live inside her head?” Orion said with a grave air and, yeah, okay, Ron sees the family resemblance to Sirius. It's not just the looks.

They wandered back to one of the bedrooms and everyone gathered around in morbid curiosity as to what Mrs. Black née Black could have written in it. Ways to torture ‘mudbloods'? Complaints about Sirius? Tea parties with other Pureblood socialites? Complaints about her husband?

…she trembled to his great power, which threatened to swallow her whole. He smirked, lifting his wand higher. Beads of sweat slid down her skin.

“Are you prepared to be Marked as one of mine, Walburga? In more ways than one?” The Dark Lord growled, his red eyes glinting dangerously-

The book was slammed shut so violently dust got into everyone's noses. There was sneezing, hacking, coughing, and of course, screaming. 

“Nope, nope, NOPE!”

“My eyes!”

“WHY DOES THIS EXIST? WHY!?”

“She wrote this. She sat down and wrote this. Quill to parchment. I can never look at her without seeing this ever again.”

“My eyes!”

“Some things shouldn't exist and this is one of them.”

“I saw too much I read too much, words why have you forsaken me-”

“Someone obliviate me!”

“MY EYES!!!”

Someone retched. The book was set on fire – probably by Tom, who had an expression that made Ron feel genuinely bad for the bloke, which was something he'd never thought he'd say. He gripped his wand as the flames devoured the pages, though he made sure nothing else was burned.

Regardless, even with the book reduced to ashes, the effect reading it had on them remained, no dark magic involved. 

Because that's the thing about Fanfiction, for good or for ill, the best and worst kinds of it stay with you. Often for life.