Chapter Text
For many weeks after Harry's 'training' session with Dumbledore, he avoided Hermione and Ron's eyes when talking about it. He spoke of the lesson in vague, un-opinionated facts and neglected to tell them of his feelings about the memories he'd witnessed.
Sure, Harry knew that he was allowed to confide in his friends, but what should he say, that he felt sympathy for Tom? Absolutely not. Ginny might have understood, but she was doing her own thing. Harry often caught her staring strangely at Malfoy and dropping everything to go and chase after him whenever it seemed like he was doing something suspicious. She often gave some stupid excuse and ran off after him. That was strange in its own right, but he hadn't yet gotten a chance to ask why she was doing it.
He was stuck right where he was. He couldn't stop thinking about Tom and his childhood and their current relationship, and he couldn't stop staring at the bracelet on his wrist. He felt like a fool for accepting it—it could have been cursed, Tom might have just been masterfully pulling the wool over his eyes this whole time and Harry was a little lamb who dutifully followed after him. But he wasn't. Tom wasn't.
He knew he was foolish, he was such a Gryffindor, and he was a stupid bleeding heart for thinking that Lord Voldemort could ever change, but he was already in too deep and he was seeing it, he was feeling it. Every night.
Ever since Harry's knowledge of occlumency began to grow, he had been able to reach into his connection with Tom more and more. Their dreams recently were strange and hazy in an unreal way, nothing like the visions they'd had before, but just because these recent dreams weren't entirely physical didn't mean they weren't real. They felt emotional, a tie soul-deep. In those dreams, Harry and Tom were both bare and lying against the other. Their hearts were open to each other and they could feel what the other felt. They didn't have to speak because their minds were one, and their bodies were entangled in a way so deep that Harry swore he could feel it in his soul.
It felt like healing, as if something small and hurting in Tom was piecing itself back together through Harry, as if Harry's magic was the glue filling in the cracks in Tom's consciousness. He wasn't sure how he knew that, but he felt it. And with every dream, Tom seemed more solid, more real and whole.
He had no idea what it was, and neither did Tom. And every morning after their shared dreams, Harry expected another letter from Tom. Or a vision. Or maybe a secret rendezvous in the Forbidden Forest if Harry's prayers bore fruit. It had gotten to the point that Harry, who was feeling rather pent up, started to make good use of his hand under the cover of darkness and silencing charms. His wrist felt rather sore these days.
It was stupid, really. Harry had never had this much of a sex drive before, the virgin that he was, but now that he knew the joys of sex, he found himself thinking of it more and more, and he was masturbating more than he'd ever done in his entire Hogwarts career, which was a lot, considering he was still a teenage boy, presentation or not. But he was an omega, and he had felt a slight increase in his sex drive after his presentation, considering the influx of new hormones at the time. Now, it was simply...more. He pointed his finger at Tom for that.
Anyway, in lieu of actually being with Tom, Harry had begun to pay more attention to both the Daily Prophet and Ginny's copies of Witch Weekly (turns out Tom had won the Weekly's most charming smile award, what a surprise that was, Harry had thought sarcastically), to the point that it was getting unhealthy.
Hermione assumed it was because he was feeling embittered and rageful that Voldemort was able to fool the masses.
She did her best to reassure him. "I know it's hard, Harry, but don't worry! He can't stay hidden as," she scrunched her nose, annoyed, "Thomas Slytherin for very long. The Wizarding World will realize how mad he is! I know his policies seem good, but he's just trying to fool everyone—"
"Is he?" Harry interrupted her. "His policies are weirdly...good. As in, he's been lobbying for an earlier introduction into the magical world for muggleborns, and increasing the Hogwarts supplies funding for the students who can't afford it. Isn't that strange to you?" And then, seeking the shocked surprise in her expression, he added, "Also, when was the last time the Light side passed any pro-creature or muggleborn laws? Slytherin's trying to do that, and the Light just...isn't. They're too concerned with keeping up the status quo, and even Dumbledore is going against pretty reasonable bills, just because Slytherin was the one behind them."
Hermione looked dumbstruck at that. "I've never thought of it that way."
A sigh, and then Hermione slumped on the couch to fall beside him. "Honestly, you're right. Yes, it's so strange. I just don't get it. I-I didn't want to say anything—to make you angry, I mean, but how are we so sure that Lord Slytherin is really You-Know—er, Voldemort, I mean?" She looked away from Harry, across the room to the fireplace, as if she couldn't bear to look him in the eyes.
"You saw Riddle's face back in second year, but Voldemort's face is so different now, and glamours can't easily anchor themselves to a face that...inhuman, and a transfiguration just can't be convenient, and it wouldn't work long-term. The Ministry would also pick up on that sort of magic. So how can we be certain that Thomas Slytherin really is Voldemort? I wanted to trust you and Headmaster Dumbledore, but it's...Slytherin isn't a pureblood maniac, from what it looks like, and he isn't publicly aligning with those sorts of people either. I'm just confused. Harry, is there any chance that maybe...maybe Thomas Slytherin isn't Voldemort, but a relative? A cousin—or a son, grandson, perhaps?"
She appeared regretful just for suggesting it, as if Harry would suddenly blow up at her for airing perfectly reasonable thoughts.
Harry said nothing. His throat suddenly felt dry, and he began to pay attention to the curling orange flames of the fireplace, just to have something to look at other than Hermione. What could he say to that? Should he just lie again?
Thomas Slytherin was undoubtedly Voldemort. He couldn't be a cousin, as the Gaunts looked nothing like the Riddles and Harry doubted Morfin would lower himself to sleeping with Riddle Sr's sister if he had one, and the Riddles had no Slytherin heritage themselves, so Thomas Slytherin must either have been Voldemort or directly related to him, especially for that Lordship to hold.
His lips pursed, and before he could really think about it, he spoke. "He could be. He looks so much like Riddle did, but he doesn't act like him. At all." Before Hermione, who had a suspicious gleam in her eye, could say anything, Harry added, "I—I don't know him, obviously, but Voldemort is—" Harry silently sent an apology off to Tom, "—insane. He's utterly mad, and I'm not sure if he's Slytherin. I'm not sure of anything right now. I'm...not sure what to believe."
Harry ducked his head. At least the last part was true.
"Harry...," Hermione whispered, leaning her head on his shoulder. She rubbed his arm comfortingly.
"I know it's hard, but Ron and Ginny and I, we're here for you. I promise. You can talk to us, we'll understand."
Will you? Harry thought.
He closed his eyes and tried to relax.
Harry sighed. He truly was becoming a rather prolific liar.
─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───
After that encounter with Hermione, Harry sent off a wave of relaxed warmth towards Tom, who had mentally sent a barrage of worried question marks towards him.
It's okay, I'm alright, he tried to convey in feelings, not words, as his scar throbbed comfortingly. It didn't feel like a headache anymore. It was more like a second heartbeat. It was soothing, and the more often it happened the more closely it felt like Tom and Harry were tied. He couldn't exactly summon up any feelings of reluctance at that, even if he should have.
Their link wasn't so one-sided anymore. Harry and Tom were both paying attention to it and sending things through it, and now that Harry was aware of how to work the link, it had gotten so much stronger. Tom certainly didn't mind, for how often he was checking in on Harry and mentally 'talking' to him.
The link hadn't yet progressed to them sending words across to each other, if it ever would, but sometimes Tom would unconsciously project stresstirednessfrustrationannoyance and can'tthosefoolsdoanythingright? and Harry would respond with warmthcareloveaffection.
Tom would stumble back mentally. Just a little. And then he'd send a mental exclamation mark and ask what the lovewarmthcare was that Harry sent over, from which Harry would send another barrage of it towards him. Harry wasn't ashamed to admit that he'd almost teared up at the thought that Tom didn't know what love was. So obviously, he—randomly and throughout the day—opened up their link to send affectionlovewarmth at Tom.
A bit of time would pass before Tom would actually try to send something back, but he did. Harry was in Potions class with Slughorn, and when he felt hesitantlikeanunfurlingflowercareaffection, he'd stumbled and almost dropped his silver knife into the cauldron. It was only due to his quick Seeker reflexes that he'd caught it.
"Woah, there...be more careful next time, my boy," Slughorn started with a boisterous chortle.
Sheepishly, Harry said, "Sorry, Professor."
Then, he sent back another wave of love towards Tom. (He consciously did not attempt to ruminate over what it meant that he sent love towards Tom; he was better off not thinking about it.)
─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───
One day, about two weeks after the start of October, Harry was lying in bed as he read the Half-Blood Prince book. There was a strange spell scribbled in the margins along with a scrawl of 'For Enemies.'
Sectumsempra, the spell was. He was awashed with a wave of curiosity, but he didn't dare attempt the spell in the dorm room. He kept it in mind, though. It might be useful.
He whittled away some time reading the book, and before he knew it, he was travelling down to breakfast with Ron and Hermione. They ended up on the topic of the Half-Blood Prince.
"I'm not sure about that spell, Harry. 'For enemies?' We have no idea who this Half-Blood Prince could be! He could be a Death Eater for all we know. That spell could be dark," she whispered.
“I don’t see where you get that from,” said Harry heatedly. “If he’d been a budding Death Eater he wouldn’t have been boasting about being ‘halfblood,’ would he?”
Even as he said it, Harry remembered that his father had been pureblood, but he pushed the thought out of his mind; he would worry about that later....
“The Death Eaters can’t all be pureblood, there aren’t enough pureblood wizards left,” said Hermione stubbornly. “I expect most of them are halfbloods pretending to be pure. It’s only muggleborns they hate, they’d be quite happy to let you and Ron join up.”
“There is no way they’d let me be a Death Eater!” said Ron indignantly, a bit of sausage flying off the fork he was now brandishing at Hermione and hitting Ernie Macmillan on the head. “My whole family are blood traitors! That’s as bad as muggleborns to Death Eaters!”
“And they’d love to have me,” said Harry sarcastically.
“We’d be best pals if they didn’t keep trying to do me in.”
This made Ron laugh; even Hermione gave a grudging smile, and a distraction arrived in the shape of Ginny.
“Hey, Harry, I’m supposed to give you this.”
It was a scroll of parchment with Harry’s name written upon it in familiar thin, slanting writing.
“Thanks, Ginny.... It’s Dumbledore’s next lesson!” Harry told Ron and Hermione, pulling open the parchment and quickly reading its contents.
“Monday evening!” He felt suddenly light and happy. “Want to join us in Hogsmeade, Ginny?” he asked.
"Oh, no thank you. I...er, have something to do!" She blurted, and then she looked suspiciously away from them and towards the Slytherin table. "I might join up with you all later, though. For a drink at Rosmerta's." Then she left.
Huh, thought Harry. Weird. He of all people knew better than to ask, though. He'd rather let Ginny keep her secrets until she was ready to come to him.
─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───
Ginny felt just a smidge of guilt. She didn't really have an errand to run, she was just suspicious. Dra—Malfoy had been acting so strange all year, and she'd spent more of her free time than she was willing to admit simply watching him. She didn't speak to him, of course, not ever since the incident during the summer, but Malfoy was somehow off all this year. His habits had changed, and he looked so tired. Ginny didn't like it.
Then, when she heard he was going to Hogsmeade, she wondered what he would do. She doubted he was up to anything, but she still wanted to keep watch. Malfoy was so clearly a Death Eater, and while she didn't have Harry's Marauders' Map, she could make do with her own investigative skills.
So, when she found Malfoy wandering around the rough area of the Three Broomsticks, about to enter, she pushed her way through the crowd of students.
"Malfoy!" She shouted. "Malfoy! Can we talk?" She had no idea why, but when she saw the hard set of his jaw and the dark and determined gleam in his eyes as he prepared to enter the establishment, she knew he had to stop him from whatever he was planning. Whatever it was, Ginny had the feeling that it would be terrible.
He startled. "Weasley—"
She grabbed him by the arm, and she dragged him a few paces away to a darkened alley. (What was it with her, Malfoy, and alleys? She had been in too many of them recently, she could admit.)
He pushed her hand off him once she succeeded in getting him away. "What do you want—it's so uncouth, Weasley, dragging me around like an animal...." He huffed, but he didn't sound very angry. Just...relieved? His hands had stopped shivering. She thought it had been from the cold, but he was wearing gloves, she noticed.
She had no idea what to say.
Then, looking around and seeing something poking out of his pocket, she blurted. "I—I know your secret!"
Malfoy paled.
"What do you know?" He hissed.
She stood tall, and she doubled down on her story. "A lot. I know that you've been sneaking around often, you're later to your classes than usual and you almost got detention with McGonagall for not turning in your homework, and—and...you look scared."
"Scared," he said, more a repetition of what she said than a question.
"Yes. Scared," she continued. "You just...you look so sad all the time. You broke up with Parkinson—" (Not that Ginny noticed, she certainly didn't care) "—but while she was broken up about it, you weren't. You just kept your head down and you haven't bothered Harry all year! Then that time in Knockturn Alley. You did something with your sleeve and—"
"I'll cut you off right there," he interrupted her with a snarl. He backed her into a corner, and with a dark look, he whispered into her ear. "I know where that thought goes, Weaslette. Don't finish it."
Ginny stared up at him. She smirked. "Finish what? I know your secrets, Malfoy. Aren't you angry? Upset?"
He raised an eyebrow, then he chuckled, whispering, "Weasley, you stubborn girl...."
Her stomach swooped, then, because of his words and the deep, velvety tone he used.
Malfoy was suddenly too close to her and his rainherblimelemon scent danced in her nose. "No, actually, because I know you've been watching me. You know about my breakup with Pansy, but it wasn't big or dramatic—that means you paid attention to me."
He noticed the way she looked at him, the slight o-shape to her half-opened lips, and he uttered lowly, "See anything you like, Weaslette?"
Her heart skipped a beat.
Then, she flushed bright red. Not in embarrassment, but anger. He was turning this back on her. He was—he was using his status against her. Obviously, she would react to his natural alpha musk if he were to just suddenly wave it in her face! She was an omega, and he was a desirable alpha.
Her brain shorted. Oh, Godric. What were they doing in this situation? Her mother would flay her alive if she knew she was being pinned to an alleyway in a rather suggestive position by a Malfoy.
In a sudden fit of sanity, Ginny pushed him away, flustered.
"Shut up! That-that doesn't matter!"
"It doesn't? My, Weaslette, judging by that blush on your face it looks like you're embarrassed. Hm, who knows, maybe you're just jealous." He grinned, like the peacock he was. "Do you want to date me, to have been in Pansy's place?" He stepped closer to her, and Ginny's scent peaked in a way she wasn't going to unpack.
Malfoy's hand reached out to grab one of her curls, twirling it in a way all too reminiscent of their last meeting. "If I did date you, I can assure you I wouldn't have broken up with you like I did with Pansy. That girl—she's a friend more than a lover. But you..." He smirked playfully.
He brought the lock of hair up to his nose, and he smiled. "Strawberries. You smell like strawberries." He sighed.
Ginny's nose scrunched. He was cornering her, playing with her like a cat would with its food. She snarled.
"Step away from me. Now."
Instantly, his hand shot away from her. At least he can listen to orders, she thought.
"I'm not some toy, Malfoy. Don't just—don't just do that! You hear me?" She got close to him and poked him on the chest to emphasize her point. Their faces were far too close and she got an up-close view of the way his pupils blew.
She huffed, and before he could say anything, she stomped out of that alleyway.
Then, she dashed all the way back to Rosmerta's before she realised Malfoy wasn't following her.
It was packed. Too packed for Malfoy to do whatever he was planning. Rosmerta herself was having a time trying to cater to everyone. Ginny sighed in relief.
─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───
Harry split up from his friends. Ron was loyally following Hermione, but Harry said he had an errand to run and he skipped off to a curios and antique shop to buy just a little something he thought he might need.
For weeks now, he kept looking at the stunningly made, elegant snake bracelet that Tom had sent as his first official courting gift, and Harry just wanted to send something back. Sure, he'd sent the blanket, but Tom had sent one of his own already, and Harry wouldn't be outdone by Tom.
So, he purchased a few books on magical metallurgy and a kit for it. Just a few pieces of metal and some gems he'd hopefully transfigure into something much nicer. Perhaps a ring to match the bracelet on his wrist? He'd send it to Tom as a gift of some sort, perhaps for Christmas.
He just wanted to do something in return for him. He wanted to prove himself to Tom, that he'd be a good mate. And it wasn't the omega in him talking either. Harry wasn't explicitly against being given affection and spoiled as an omega—not that he'd ever say that out loud, but Tom seemed exactly the type of alpha to spoil his mate rotten—but he wanted to spoil Tom as well. He wanted to prove himself.
So he would. He would craft an excellent gift for Tom. He wasn't half bad at Transfiguration if he said so himself, so hopefully he'd be able to make something good.
Harry took a deep breath in. Hopefully.
─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───
It was a short wait til the second meeting Harry had with Dumbledore, and he spent that time thinking. What was Professor Dumbledore even doing? How was he fighting against Voldemort? (Not that he was technically Voldemort anymore, but that was complicated) As of the current moment, all he'd been doing was spending a strange amount of time outside of the castle, and now he was showing Harry memories of Tom's childhood.
Not that the memories were unappreciated. He certainly approved of having access to the past that Tom would never in a million years reveal to him of his own will, but it just didn't make sense to show Harry this. What would it change? All of it had already happened, so how would this defeat Voldemort?
Not that Harry would. Just the thought was treasonous, but he wouldn't fight in the coming war. He'd be ending it, just not through battle. He'd thought long and hard about it, and perhaps Dumbledore was right—the power Voldemort knew not, it was love.
Or perhaps, more likely, desire.
Tom desired Harry just as much as Harry desired him, it was mutual, and if they were to mate, Harry may just become the linchpin in ending the war. That's all he wanted. In a perfect world, Tom would end all of his Dark Lord nonsense and they could just be together, without any of the drama, and Harry would be free of guilt.
But this wasn't that world, and Harry was coming face to face with the realization that he wanted to stay with Tom. He'd grown far more fond of him than he had any right to. It was stupid, but Harry's bleeding heart cared. Just the smallest show of affection and Harry began to fall.
To be fair, so did Tom. He hadn't yet realized, but Harry knew. No one would be able to falsify those feelings through the link, even Tom, and it felt genuine. Tom cared. Tom could love. Tom worried for Harry.
He kept that close to his heart.
After Harry scaled the staircase to Dumbledore's office, when he looked at the man, his gaze was centred on his crooked nose. Dumbledore could never know.
Their meeting began, and it wasn't any different from the last. Just more elucidating.
“I was wondering whether you could tell me anything of Tom Riddle’s history? I think he was born here in the orphanage?”
Harry's gaze was pinned to the woman—Mrs Cole—the moment he realized this memory was directly about Tom.
“That’s right,” said Mrs Cole, helping herself to more gin. “I remember it clear as anything, because I’d just started here myself. New Year’s Eve and bitter cold, snowing, you know. Nasty night. And this girl, not much older than I was myself at the time, came staggering up the front steps. Well, she wasn’t the first. We took her in, and she had the baby within the hour. And she was dead in another hour.”
New Years, Harry thought. Tom's birthday. He would remember that.
Mrs Cole nodded impressively and took another generous gulp of gin.
“Did she say anything before she died?” Asked Dumbledore. “Anything about the boy's father, for instance?"
“Now, as it happens, she did,” said Mrs Cole, who seemed to be rather enjoying herself now, with the gin in her hand and an eager audience for her story. “I remember she said to me, ‘I hope he looks like his papa,’ and I won’t lie, she was right to hope it, because she was no beauty—and then she told me he was to be named Tom, for his father, and Marvolo, for her father—yes, I know, funny name, isn’t it? We wondered whether she came from a circus—and she said the boy’s surname was to be Riddle. And she died soon after that without another word.
“Well, we named him just as she’d said, it seemed so important to the poor girl, but no Tom nor Marvolo nor any kind of Riddle ever came looking for him, nor any family at all, so he stayed in the orphanage and he’s been here ever since.”
Mrs Cole helped herself, almost absentmindedly, to another healthy measure of gin. Two pink spots had appeared high on her cheekbones. Then she said, “He’s a funny boy.”
“Yes,” said Dumbledore. “I thought he might be.”
“He was a funny baby too. He hardly ever cried, you know. And then, when he got a little older, he was...odd.”
“Odd in what way?” asked Dumbledore gently.
“Well, he—”
And then Harry heard the rumours. Billy Stubbs and his rabbit, Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop and the cave—the incidents.
He sighed. He couldn't be surprised. In that environment, no wonder things were...off. Tom wasn't a very kind boy, and neither was the orphanage he was raised in. Somehow, Harry got the feeling that whatever Tom had done, it was a retaliation to what had been done to him.
He couldn't exactly support what Tom did, but Harry couldn't bring himself to be angry. He understood. If he had known of his magic at a young age, he'd have used it against Dudley and his goons. He'd even trapped Dudley in a snake exhibit once, and that was cruel as well. Tom was a child, could he really have been at fault for that?
To an extent, yes. But he also should have been disciplined by his caretakers, and he wasn't. The matron who was meant to do so clearly didn't want to, nor did she really care about the children under her guardianship, judging by the gulp of liquor she just took. And she was already talking badly about Tom as well, as if she wanted to close the door to a great opportunity for him.
“Tom? You’ve got a visitor. This is Mr Dumberton—sorry, Dunderbore. He’s come to tell you—well, I’ll let him do it.”
Harry and the two Dumbledores entered the room, and Mrs Cole closed the door on them. It was a small bare room with nothing in it except an old wardrobe, a wooden chair, and an iron bedstead. A boy was sitting on top of the grey blankets, his legs stretched out in front of him, holding a book.
There was no trace of the Gaunts in Tom Riddle’s face. Merope had got her dying wish: He was his handsome father in miniature, tall for eleven years old, dark-haired, and pale. His eyes narrowed slightly as he took in Dumbledore’s eccentric appearance. There was a moment’s silence.
Harry took in his features. It was so clearly Tom, but he was all cherubic looks and chubby cheeks with gangly little limbs. Harry smiled. He was an adorable child.
“How do you do, Tom?” said Dumbledore, walking forward and holding out his hand.
The boy hesitated, then took it, and they shook hands. Dumbledore drew up the hard wooden chair beside Tom, so that the pair of them looked rather like a hospital patient and visitor.
“I am Professor Dumbledore.”
“‘Professor’?” repeated Tom. He looked wary. “Is that like ‘doctor’?
What are you here for? Did she get you in to have a look at me?”
He was pointing at the door through which Mrs Cole had just left.
“No, no,” said Dumbledore, smiling.
Then, while Dumbledore tried to explain who he was and what he was doing in the orphanage, Tom looked fearful. He grew more angry, then, and he shouted, "Tell me!"
Harry's heart ached. It was clear the boy thought he'd be sent off somewhere, just as the Dursleys had once threatened to send him off to an orphanage. Tom was so scared, and Harry could see that in his dark grey eyes.
And then, when Dumbledore finally explained, Tom's eyes widened. Harry could see it in his face, hope.
"Magic?"
“That’s right,” said Dumbledore.
“It’s...it’s magic, what I can do?”
“What is it that you can do?”
“All sorts,” breathed Tom. A flush of excitement was rising up his neck into his hollow cheeks; he looked fevered.
“I can make things move without touching them. I can make animals do what I want them to do, without training them. I can make bad things happen to people who annoy me. I can make them hurt if I want to.”
Harry understood. He understood exactly what Tom meant, but then he saw the look in the younger Dumbledore's eyes. He didn't take that well. What Tom said...it was cruel, but Harry understood. To orphaned children such as them, magic was a tool, both a shield and a sword.
His legs were trembling. He stumbled forward and sat down on the bed again, staring at his hands, his head bowed as though in prayer.
“I knew I was different,” he whispered to his own quivering fingers. “I knew I was special. Always, I knew there was something.”
“Well, you were quite right,” said Dumbledore, who was no longer smiling, but watching Riddle intently. “You are a wizard.”
Tom lifted his head. His face was transfigured: There was a wild happiness upon it, yet for some reason it did not make him better looking; on the contrary, his finely carved features seemed somehow rougher, his expression almost bestial.
“Are you a wizard too?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Prove it,” said Tom at once, in the same commanding tone he had used when he had said, “Tell the truth.”
Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. “If, as I take it, you are accepting your place at Hogwarts—”
“Of course I am!”
“Then you will address me as ‘Professor’ or ‘sir.’" Tom's expression hardened for the most fleeting moment before he said, in an unrecognizably polite voice, “I’m sorry, sir. I meant—please, Professor, could you show me—?”
Flames. The wardrobe, Tom's wardrobe, burst into flames.
Harry balled his fists. Of all the god-awful ways to be introduced to magic—
Never before had Harry ever felt this much rage towards Dumbledore. He set flames to Tom's wardrobe, and even though it wasn't real, Harry couldn't simply forget the heartbroken look of loss on the face of a young Tom.
And then, embarrassment. As all the stolen items made their way out of Tom's wardrobe, as Dumbledore's dressing down made Tom shy away from the man's unforgiving eyes, Harry could see the utter humiliation in Tom's expression.
And again, Harry was angry. How could this be a good way to discipline a child? All it did was make Tom angry, embarrassed, and hateful of the man who humiliated him. No wonder Voldemort always hated Dumbledore. So would Harry!
Harry slowly calmed his breathing as the memory continued. It wouldn't do to have Dumbledore ask why he was so angry. Then, Harry noticed Tom's lips flicker downwards.
“You dislike the name ‘Tom’?”
“There are a lot of Toms,” muttered Tom. Then, as though he could not suppress the question, as though it burst from him in spite of himself, he asked, “Was my father a wizard? He was called Tom Riddle too, they’ve told me.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know,” said Dumbledore, his voice gentle.
“My mother can’t have been magic, or she wouldn’t have died,” said Tom, more to himself than Dumbledore. “It must’ve been him. So—when I’ve got all my stuff—when do I come to this Hogwarts?”
“All the details are on the second piece of parchment in your envelope,” said Dumbledore. “You will leave from King’s Cross Station on the first of September. There is a train ticket in there too.”
Tom nodded. Dumbledore got to his feet and held out his hand again. Taking it, Tom said, “I can speak to snakes. I found out when we’ve been to the country on trips—they find me, they whisper to me. Is that normal for a wizard?”
Harry could tell that he had withheld mention of this strangest power until that moment, determined to impress.
“It is unusual,” said Dumbledore, after a moment’s hesitation, “but not unheard of.”
His tone was casual but his eyes moved curiously over Riddle’s face. They stood for a moment, man and boy, staring at each other. Then the handshake was broken; Dumbledore was at the door.
“Goodbye, Tom. I shall see you at Hogwarts.”
“I think that will do,” said the white-haired Dumbledore at Harry’s side, and seconds later, they were soaring weightlessly through darkness once more, before landing squarely in the present-day office.
With the memory complete, Harry and Dumbledore were free to discuss it.
Harry spent the discussion deep in thought, asking questions automatically and pretending as if he wasn't still reeling from the shock of seeing a young Tom be made a joke out of by Dumbledore. Undoubtedly, Tom was not innocent, but what Professor Dumbledore did—it felt too harsh.
“His powers, as you heard, were surprisingly well-developed for such a young wizard and—most interestingly and ominously of all—he had already discovered that he had some measure of control over them, and begun to use them consciously. And as you saw, they were not the random experiments typical of young wizards: He was already using magic against other people, to frighten, to punish, to control. The little stories of the strangled rabbit and the young boy and girl he lured into a cave were most suggestive...'I can make them hurt if I want to....”
“And he was a Parselmouth,” interjected Harry.
“Yes, indeed; a rare ability, and one supposedly connected with the Dark Arts, although as we know, there are Parselmouths among the great and the good too. In fact, his ability to speak to serpents did not make me nearly as uneasy as his obvious instincts for cruelty, secrecy, and domination."
And then, Dumbledore went on to speak of Tom's dislike of his name, something Harry could understand considering that as far as Tom knew, he was named after the man who abandoned his mother to give birth to an infant alone.
He spoke harshly of Tom, of his personality and habits in ways Harry certainly understood. Tom wasn't kind. He became Voldemort. He was cruel, and what Dumbledore said made Harry hesitate.
Could someone such as that change?
“And lastly—I hope you are not too sleepy to pay attention to this, Harry—the young Tom Riddle liked to collect trophies. You saw the box of stolen articles he had hidden in his room. These were taken from victims of his bullying behaviour, souvenirs, if you will, of particularly unpleasant bits of magic. Bear in mind this magpie-like tendency, for this, particularly, will be important later.
"And now, it is time for bed."
Harry got to his feet, and as he left, he eyed Dumbledore once more. He felt hollow as he glimpsed into twinkling blue eyes once more—not deeply, he instantly stared back at the man's nose—and he realized something.
Dumbledore was not the innocent man he portrayed himself to be. And at the same time, Voldemort—Tom, wasn't the fully evil man Harry was always told he was.
If good was bad and bad was good, could any option be truly good?
Harry wasn't certain, but that thought still put a horrid taste in his mouth. It didn't make him feel any better about his choices.
He chose Tom, undoubtedly. He stared at the bracelet on his wrist. He had only ever taken it off to shower or for Quidditch practice ever since Tom had given it to him.
─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───
The day after Harry's lesson with Dumbledore, he couldn't keep his mind off of things. He made sure to fill Ron and Hermione in about his recent lesson before they got to Herbology that day—to their surprised stares and shock about a boy You-Know-Who—but his thoughts just wouldn't stop. He still wasn't sure why Dumbledore was showing him all of this, and it didn't help that what he was seeing was tilting his whole world off its axis.
There was so much to think about and all he could remember was the way Dumbledore spoke of Tom, as if he were a monster since birth. He was a boy, once, just like Harry. He grew up unloved and abandoned by those who should have cared for him, yet unlike Harry, he did terrible things to survive. Tom wasn't kind or good by any means, but Harry wasn't certain that that was solely Tom's own fault. How could he have known any better if no one taught him? If he was never given a guiding hand?
And instead of being that hand and teaching Tom, Dumbledore humiliated and chastised him. What Dumbledore did wasn't discipline, and it didn't make Tom feel guilty for his crimes. All it was was a man using his power and authority over a child who did the only thing he could do to save himself.
Harry didn't know what Dumbledore could have done better, but surely there was something else he could have done. Harry wasn't certain. Perhaps, had things been different, they wouldn't be here now and Tom wouldn't have ever become Voldemort....
Somehow, that thought did not fill Harry with much joy. (He refused to think about why.)
"So, mate, whatcha think about Slughorn's Christmas party," Ron asked from beside him.
"Huh?" Harry jolted a bit, still deep in thought. "What party?"
"It was on the house bulletin this morning. Professor Slughorn's hosting a ball!" Hermione looked overjoyed, if a little stressed. "Only members of the Slug Club can go, along with anyone else Slughorn's invited, of course—Ron can even go; he was invited because his family's on the Sacred 28 list," she rolled her eyes, "but...I've heard there will be other well-connected adult wix that are coming!"
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Really, just for some stupid school party?"
Hermione nodded. "Yes! Professor Slughorn is very well-connected, you know, so he'll be inviting some former students and other close friends of his. It'll be an important networking opportunity. I'll be able to promote SPEW! And also gain important Ministry contacts. That's rather important, you know, as I am a muggleborn and don't have those pureblood connections like Malfoy does—"
Ron coughed, then he said, "I don't know about you, Hermione, but remember—it's still a party, I'd worry less about connections and more about who I'm asking out. Remember the Yule Ball?" He shivered in remembrance. "Terrible time, that."
Hermione froze. "Ah, yes...so about that, who are you talking?" Her voice was pinched as she stared at Ron, and Harry suddenly got a faint whiff of beta displeasure.
A sigh left his lips. These two....
"I dunno yet," Ron shrugged his shoulders. "Lavender has been acting really nice since this morning, though...maybe I'll chance my luck with her?" He sighed adoringly. "She's so gorgeous...I doubt she'll actually—"
Hermione frowned as she stared back at her plant. They were still in Herbology class, after all, just in the practical portion. They were meant to be taking care of their plants at the moment, but they had time to talk. "I see...I'm still trying to figure out who I'll go with. Maybe I'll get asked."
Harry elbowed Ron in the side. At Ron's 'ouch', Harry gave him a look.
At that, a flush lighted the boy's cheeks and he looked away. "Um—I, we'll see! So—anyway, isn't there some super special guest coming?"
Hermione perked up, and Harry found himself glad that they were finally finished with the last topic of conversation. He had absolutely no idea who he'd take. He was an omega now, so maybe it was expected that someone would ask him out? He wasn't sure and he wasn't ready to chance it. He could just choose to go stag. It wasn't as if he had to share a champion's dance with anyone. Though if it were with Tom...Harry wouldn't have minded. His stomach swooped at the thought.
"Yes! I overheard Professor Slughorn in the hallways talking about it. Some Lord is coming!"
"Like from the Wizengamot?" Harry asked. "Who?"
Hermione couldn't say, and even though that was all she knew, Harry's heart sped up. Surely.... No, of course not. He couldn't be silly. He shook his head.
Harry's scar twitched. It was just his imagination, he was sure.
─── • ⋄ ⋅⚡️⋅ ⋄ • ───
Quidditch practice that evening wasn't exactly awful, but it was certainly a bit of a mess. It first began with McLaggen being a complete and utter—well, Harry would probably get smacked on the head by Hermione for using that language, but McLaggen was such a knothead alpha dying for an omega cunt that Harry was so instantly turned off by it. Even if Harry wasn't already being courted—which practically the whole school knew about by now, but clearly McLaggen cared not about it—he still wouldn't have entertained the boy's advances. He was all too cocky with too much bravado and no real talent to show for it. If he really wanted to impress Harry, he should have purchased better flying skills.
He rolled his eyes at the alpha boy's antics but ignored them. Instead, he focused on Ron, whose anxiety was not at all helping the cohesion of the team during practice.
"Sorry, sorry!" The boy shouted, as he failed once more to keep the quaffle out of the goal. If this were an actual game, the enemy would have scored thirty points by now. Ron should have been glad Harry liked him more than McLaggen, because if he didn't, McLaggen would be the primary Keeper.
Ron was talented, though. He knew how to fly with good reflexes, he just kept second-guessing himself.
Harry sighed. So this was what the weight of leadership felt like. It was too much. He suddenly felt glad he wasn't a Prefect, even if he felt a bit jealous the previous year. He infinitely preferred Quidditch over late-night hallway patrols.
Once practice finished, it was late evening and Harry and Ron took a shortcut to get back to the common room. Halfway there, they happened across an interesting sight.
They heard voices shouting at each other first before they could make out the faces.
"Damn it, Weasley, would you just stop following me!" The boy hissed, grabbing her by the arm.
Ginny slapped him off, shouting, "You jerk! Damn it, Draco, I know you don't want this. It's hurting you, I know, I can—"
"What? What can you do, Weasley, that won't kill you, too?!" A familiar male voice, he sounded pained. It was...Malfoy?
They saw them, Ginny and Malfoy, in a compromising position. Malfoy had her to the wall, and they were far too close for Harry's first guess to be that this was an innocent encounter.
Harry raised a shocked brow. That was all of his reaction, but Ron? Well, he was fuming.
"Get off of her!" He shouted, snarling. Malfoy immediately backed off with a wince, suddenly brought back to perspective with the realization that he was caught with the daughter of the house his family was still in a blood feud with.
Ginny hissed back at him. "It's fine, Ron! Don't mind me!"
Ron twisted around and turned to her. "And you! A Malfoy, really? He's a slimy, hare-brained little ferret!"
Malfoy bared his teeth. "Oh, a ferret, am I?" He bared his wand. "I'll show you—"
Ginny got between them. "Stop! Both of you!"
She faced her brother with unusually flushed cheeks and a stern demeanour. "We weren't doing anything! I cornered him! It's fine, Ron, just ignore it."
"Ignore it?! He was besmirching your honour!"
Ginny gave him a side-eye. Her voice turned cold. "Besmirching my—ugh! This is not the 1600s anymore, Ron! You don't need to protect your innocent, omega little sister's honour anymore! I can make my own choices, including who I hang out with!"
"You can make your own choices just as long as they're good ones!" Ron's glare was firey-hot on Malfoy.
"Oh, just as long as they're approved by you, you mean?" She rolled her eyes. "I'm so clueless, aren't I? So clueless that I need my dumb older brother to tell me what to do with my life. Well, screw you, Ron!"
She flicked at the air with her wand, and, suddenly, Ron screamed, pushed back into the wall by a huge gust of wind.
Harry gave an oof. That must have been painful.
Ginny huffed as she stomped away. Malfoy didn't follow after her, as he was going in a different direction. But he did chuckle a bit, though he received a glare from Ginny in return.
Harry was left to pick up the pieces after that mess. He sighed. The things he did for his friends.
Well, at least he knew that he wasn't the only one in an ill-begotten love affair with a Slytherin. He gave a small smirk. Ginny certainly had some things she neglected to share with him.