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Tom watched as Dumbledore glided down the hallway, arm resting across the shoulders of a black-haired teenager. Of course his least favorite professor would be the one with the mysterious kid - their association made the mystery five times harder to solve.
Already he had questioned Slughorn about the stranger, only to discover that the old man was just as baffled as he was. “Fantastic with DADA, decent at potions, and incredibly odd,” made up all the comments Slughorn had to offer. “I have extended an invitation to him to join our little club for dinner this Friday.” The kid, unsurprisingly, failed to show.
Merrythought simply nodded when Tom brought him up. “Ah yes. Henry I think his name was? Harvey Panner? Harold Portkey? Something like that. Very resilient to the Dark Arts, that one. Full of emotion.”
“Peculiar knowledge of herbs, but no real love for them,” Kettleburn lamented. “Something is certainly off about that one.”
Which just left Dumbledore and the kid himself, now standing side-by-side in a near empty corridor, gazing out a window overlooking the Forbidden Forest. Students whispered as they walked past. Tom had heard all their rumors - the kid was Dumbledore’s son, a Ministry agent, a transfer student from Durmstrang, a muggle involved in the wizarding society. None could possibly be true.
Tom studied him. Half a hand shorter than himself, with pitch black bedhair and skin permanently tanned, a lanky, athletic build and tense posture, he looked all too natural at Dumbledore’s side. He bore some semblance to Charles Potter and the Blacks, with features too mixed to really distinguish him as one particular pureblood family. Ridiculous round glasses distracted from the odd, jagged scar slapped in the center of his forehead.
Suddenly, the kid turned, looking Tom straight in the eyes.
Green. Piercing, angry, emerald green. Avada Kedavra green.
Tom felt the breath get sucked out of him, and every nerve in his body burned for him to come closer, to talk to and touch this man, to-
He turned away, and Tom gasped, the usual cold prickling back into his skin. This mystery needed to be solved.
--
Tom lingered in the transfiguration classroom, re-organizing his notes as his classmates filed out. Dumbledore refused to pay him any notice, cleaning up a rather unfortunate mishap with an ink bottle left behind by a favorite student.
“Professor,” Tom finally began. Dumbledore hummed in acknowledgement. “That boy who is constantly with you - who is he?”
“I am not sure I know whom you are referring to, Tom,” Dumbledore said, kind eyes doing nothing to hide his distrust. “Can you describe him?”
“Dark hair with round glasses and a scar on his forehead. I do not believe he is a student,” Tom said carefully. “I have only ever seen him with you.”
“Ah yes. His name is Harry.” Dumbledore continued working, accepting the conversation as over.
Harry. It was a start, at least.
“What is he doing at Hogwarts?”
“He has work to do here,” Dumbledore said simply, annoyance touching his voice.
“For you?”
Dumbledore paused. “Hm. That, Tom, is a rather interesting thought to consider. His work is for everyone, certainly, but to say I was the one who asked… Perhaps. I will be sure to ask him. Speaking of Harry, he should be here soon. I must request that you give the two of us privacy? We have much to discuss.”
“With all due respect, Professor, I would like to meet him.” Too risky. Too risky. Dumbledore was a loose cannon, and what Tom just said was entirely too risky.
“Perhaps another time, Tom,” Dumbledore said dismissively.
Tom froze for a second, processing, before nodding. “Of course, Professor.”
--
“Harry” had no records in Hogwarts. No word of him in a single book, file, roster, nothing . The last Harry to attend Hogwarts was a muggleborn who died decades ago with nothing remarkable to his name. Tom glared at the book before him in frustration.
The silence broke with the creak of Tom’s library table, and the star student looked up just to see Harry settling himself in across from him. Tom’s stomach flipped, and he quickly pushed the book into his bag.
“Hello,” Tom started, masking his uncertainty as much as possible.
“Riddle,” Harry acknowledged. “How’s the studying?” Tom couldn’t quite place his accent. British, for sure, but something was off .
“It’s going fine. I am not sure I have your name correct - Harry?” He nodded. “Harry then. Pleasure to finally meet you.”
Harry snorted, and lifted his gaze to meet Tom’s. Again, eyes locked, Tom struggled to breath as he felt his body warm. What the bloody hell was this? Harry studied him curiously, and Tom felt helpless to do anything but pray he wasn’t blushing.
“So, Riddle, I take it you got half the professors wrapped around your pinky. That right?” For someone who could not be much older than Tom, Harry sure held himself as a superior.
“Interesting comment. Did Dumbledore tell you that?”
Harry hummed. “No. I gathered from talking to them. And watching you, of course. I will not deny, though, that what they say is true. I am Dumbledore’s man through and through.” Harry’s face split into a smile for an instant - “That rhymed!”
Tom shifted. He didn’t exactly feel uncomfortable with this warmth, but the sensation was certainly new. He needed to focus, though. “How did you and the professor meet?”
Harry shrugged. “Things were kinda weird when I started my education at Hogwarts. He quickly became a friend and father figure. Not a perfect one, not by a long shot, but he was all I had.”
“Oh? What year did you graduate?” He wanted to move closer.
Harry smiled again. “I haven’t yet.”
“Really? What year are you?” He wanted to touch him.
Harry’s smile grew. “Sixth? I believe.”
“That should put you in the same class as me,” Tom said, eyebrows raising. He tried to force out the urges, but they wouldn’t leave.
“Yeah. I mean, I’m not really attending Hogwarts anymore.”
“What year did you start?”
“The year I turned eleven, of course.”
“And what year was that?”
“Riddle, you and I both know I’m not going to answer that.”
Tom studied Harry for a second before nodding. Warmth and desire kept scratching at his mind, trying to pull him off topic.
“Do you feel that?” he asked suddenly.
“What?” Harry stared at him, confused. Tom resisted the urge to reach out and touch him.
“Nothing. Nevermind. Library just gets a bit stuffy sometimes,” Tom shrugged. “Anyways, was there something you came here for?”
Harry frowned. The library normally felt frigid. “Dumbledore had mentioned you wished to meet me, and of course I wanted to learn about the half-blood of the pureblood house.”
Tom frowned back. “You know my blood status?”
“Oh sure. Don’t talk about it much, but everyone knows it, isn’t that right? Impossible thing to hide, blood status. So few pureblood families, it’s easy to pick out who’s part of one and who isn’t.”
“And you… you are not a pureblood either, I presume?”
Harry nodded. “Half, such as yourself. My mother was muggleborn, dad was pureblood.”
“What family?”
“Doesn’t matter, really. You must know that.”
“Why, it does though.” Tom shifted, and clasped his hands together, trying to choke back those urges. What the bloody hell was Harry doing ?
Harry shrugged. “Nah. Anyways, I have research to do. Try not to do anything too stupid, alright?”
And just like that - just like that - Harry stood up and left.
Tom felt all the heat drain out of him in an instant, and the urges deadline. Instead, he felt a familiar, hollow ache, one biting at the emptiness of his body, one that called for what he was so clearly missing.
He hadn’t felt like this since he killed Myrtle Warren.
--
“...Voldemort, sir?”
Tom Riddle looked up from the leather-bound empty diary sitting face open in his lap. Abraxas stood before him, sneering as per usual.
“Abraxas. What is it?”
“Dumbledore’s companion. He has been spending time with our… groundskeeper.”
“Interesting. Thank you for letting me know. Any other news?”
“That is all, sir.”
“Of course.”
Tom went back to his diary, his horcrux. He hadn’t looked at it properly since its creation, choosing instead to hide it away. But now…
Part of his soul hid away in the pages. A poor choice for a horcrux, truly - books weren’t hardy, and this particular one held no value to a casual outside observer. Precious magical heirlooms - nobody would want to destroy those. They were far better suited for nasty business such as this.
The horcrux warmed him where it touched him, and he could hear a dull beating deep inside. Along with it came pain - sharp, biting, angry pain, pain that didn’t know what quite to do with himself.
He felt more complete and more broken with his horcrux so near. Here was his soul, and yet it was not part of him anymore. It would remain, even if he died. It made him immortal.
His soul ached for completion.
Tom flipped through the pages until the early morning, when he returned it to his hiding place.
--
Of course Harry played Quidditch.
The apparently accomplished athlete cut through the air with ease, students flying around him, making poor imitations of his moves.
The Hufflepuff captain had approached him earlier in the week, asking if he’d like to spend an afternoon out on the field, and Harry agreed. Ten minutes in and the Hufflepuff team started to ask for tips and tricks, and gradually kids from all houses began to head out to watch, Tom included.
He had the build of a Seeker, Tom overheard. Quick, lean, light. He most likely couldn’t throw a Bludger across the field, but he could certainly dodge one.
A younger Slytherin snickered somewhere in the crowd, and Tom almost rolled his eyes when a group opened a box of Quidditch balls to test this theory. Even if the idiots had decent aim, not a single one would’ve hit Harry. He was simply too fast and graceful, simply gliding and sliding out of the way of every projectile. The box was yanked away by someone else, and suddenly the Snitch was fluttering out and about on the field too.
Harry’s eyes widened the instant the flash of gold caught his eye, and he was off. Behind Tom, teachers reprimanded the students responsible, but nobody noticed. Above everyone, Harry dove and twirled and danced through the air in an elaborate chase after the Snitch. Tom, admittedly, did not watch much Quidditch, but he doubted anyone in the school could do what Harry was now. Beauty, grace and elegance guided Harry through the air, and Tom couldn’t tear his eyes off.
An hour later of this cat-and-mouse game, Harry landed, Snitch in hand, smile on face.
Everyone cheered, and the house team captains eagerly started requesting training sessions.
--
Tom squirmed, Harry grinning next to him. Slughorn finally succeeded in getting the teen to join them for a dinner party.
Of course, he was seated next to the black-haired mystery, with that same stupid urge beating inside his heart to just touch him. Harry seemed unaffected still.
“Potions were never quite my specialty, sir,” Harry continued apologetically. “My strengths always lied more in Defense. Never quite got along with my Potions professor, either, which didn’t help.”
Slughorn found Harry absolutely delightful, naturally. Harry possessed a natural charm and sort of worldly knowledge. Never, Tom noticed though, did Harry seem relaxed. His arms always seemed tense, hand always floating near his wand pocket. He talked and laughed and joked like any normal student, carried the air of someone whose life could not be going better, and yet he never let his guard down.
“Ah. Shame, that is. You clearly have the talent. Would you be interested in giving them a second shot? I’d be more than happy to tutor you,” Slughorn bubbled. Harry nodded.
“That would be delightful, sir. Just let me know when and where.”
Pathetic, doting sod .
Tom blinked. That wasn’t his thought. Really, he didn’t disagree - Slughorn proved himself to be knowledgeable, but his need to surround himself with powerful people, but…
Tom glanced at Harry, who was listening in false earnesty to Slughorn’s ramblings. Possibly…
“He really is, isn’t he?” he whispered once Slughorn turned his attention away. Harry looked at him.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Pathetic, doting sod?” Tom questioned. Harry gaped.
“I said that aloud?”
“No, I don’t think so.” Tom smirked, and Harry’s eyes widened.
“Legilimens?”
“No.”
Frowning, the black-haired teen turned his attention back to Slughorn. If only Tom could…
Harry must feel something too.
--
This time, Tom sat across from Harry at the library table. The teen was obviously tired, messy hair sticking up even more than usual with dark rings sagging under his bloodshot eyes.
“Harry,” Tom greeted cordially. Harry looked up, and Tom found himself smoldering once more. “You look terrible.”
Harry yawned, mind elsewhere. “Yeah.”
The books next to Harry all lacked titles on their binding, clearly from the Restricted Section. Tom reached out to grab one, but Harry swatted his hand away.
The contact was electric, and Tom couldn’t help but gasp as he pulled his hand back. His heart beated and suddenly he could feel the blood coursing through his body, intertwined with magic and desire and -
Tom shook his head. Harry had been too tired to notice, basically falling asleep on the book he was currently buried in.
He had to be doing SOMETHING to make Tom feel like this though, and Tom found it impossible to believe that Harry didn’t feel anything in return. But, then again, if Harry did feel something, he would not currently look so dead. It should’ve woken him up.
Unless, of course, he made Harry feel worse…
The only way to test would be to touch him again.
“I hate this,” Harry said after a moment. His voice dragged with exhaustion.
“And what might ‘this’ be?” Tom asked.
“My entire stupid life,” Harry grumbled back. “Here I don’t even have anyone to help out other than bloody Dumbledore …”
“Dumbledore’s man, through and through, though, yes?” Tom asked, leaning across the table.
“Yes,” Harry muttered grudgingly. “Through and through. I would and will die for him, won’t I?”
Tom bit back his surprise. If he went along with it, Harry might reveal more. He was so close… so close to touching him. “Of course you will. But why?”
Harry yawned. “I know, I know. It’s worth it. It must be done. Nobody else can do it, yada yada ya… This is stupid. I- wait, Riddle ?”
He froze.
“I, Merlin, bloody fuck , I-” All of a sudden, Harry was very, very awake. “Bloody hell, when did you get here? How long have I been here? Why are you here?” He shoved his chair back and stood up, almost falling. Tom rushed over and snuck his arm under Harry’s, boosting him up. His nerves felt like they were on fire, but still, they didn’t hurt. He swallowed whatever sighs of pleasure tried to escape.
Harry didn’t react to the touch whatsoever.
“Take it easy,” Tom ordered, trying to unfog his mind. He couldn’t stop the ridiculous grin that slipped on and off his face. How did Harry feel so good ?
Harry shrugged him off and within the next second Tom felt his back hit the table, Harry’s wand at his throat.
They stared each other down for a while, Tom aching more and more- just more contact, please - before Harry scooped up his books and wandered off.
Harry, Tom decided, was someone to only approach in broad daylight. Exhaustion did not suit the mysterious man.
--
Tom didn’t see Harry for a week after that, and never had he felt more hollow. He ached and ached and ached, emptiness gnawing at his heart.
No book had an explanation either. Oh sure, books on soulmates all fed him stories of finding his other half, of true love, of desire, but all of them said Harry would feel the same. Which he didn’t. Unless, of course, Harry was better at hiding his emotions than Tom, which Tom had trouble believing.
He started carrying his diary around with him once more. It provided a similar warmth as Harry, but nowhere on the same level and it hurt him to touch it.
Soulmate. Horcrux.
Tom buried himself in researching the soul, reading every book he could find inside and outside the restricted area about mending broken souls and how ones such as his managed. Was this the doing of Harry, or just one of creating a Horcrux?
Nothing, not a single book in Hogwarts’ vast libraries, held the answer he so desperately sought. One late Saturday night found him throwing a book across the room in frustration, and suddenly Harry was beside him.
“What’d the book do to you ?” he snarked, making no move to go pick it up.
“Nothing,” Tom growled. “ Nothing can tell me why.” But already, he could feel his frustration morph into longing. He stiffened, trying to cling onto his anger.
“Why what?”
“You can’t feel it! ”
A shout of “quiet” echoed from the far off librarian.
“Can’t feel what?” Harry demanded, voice dropping to a whisper.
“This-this-I…” Tom took a deep breath. He needed to regain his composure. He needed to hold it together. “It does not matter,” he said at last.
“Uh-huh,” Harry said, examining the books on the table. “Soulmates?”
Tom scowled. “I am researching souls.”
“Ah. I see. Not just fluffy romancey books. Hey, I can tell you, this one’s a load of rubbish. My friend read it and she wouldn’t shut up about how inaccurate it all is.” Harry slid a book out of the pile. “Oh, hey, she liked this one. Hm.” A smile slowly blossomed on Harry’s face, and he looked over at Tom. Tom felt his heart melt. “Regretting something, are we?”
“ What? ”
“What, you killed Myrtle last year, right? Year before? Are we regretting it, yes or no?”
Tom gaped in horror, blood turning to ice in his too-warm body. “Come with me. Now,” he ordered, grabbing Harry’s arm - he felt so nice - and dragging him out of the library, top speed, up a staircase and into the Room of Requirement. Seeing a couch, Tom all but threw Harry down and himself on top before he finally allowed himself to breathe.
The couch underneath Harry was the kind people tended to just sink into, with fluffy, feathery brown velvet cushions and light green pillows. In front of it sat a long, squat coffee table with two mugs of lightly steaming tea, releasing a calming aroma that did anything but match Tom’s current state. The light green of the walls matched the pillows, with a dark gray ceiling to make the room feel all the more cozier.
Harry shifted, rolling Tom off of him. Tom half expected Harry to pull out his wand and hex him, but instead he sat across from him watching quietly, as if unsure of what the proper next move would be.
The longing to touch Harry again filled Tom, but he figured a confused Harry was better than an attacking one and kept his hands to himself. They sat in silence, eyes boring into each others’ in alarm.
“How did you know about Myrtle?” Tom whispered at last.
“That’s not important,” Harry answered. “I just need to know if you regret it.”
“Of course not.”
“Really? Then why are you researching souls? You’ve already talked to Slughorn about splitting yours again and again, haven’t you?”
Tom felt dizzy. “Yes.”
“So it couldn’t be that. What’s the research for?”
“You really can’t feel it?” Tom asked. He felt like crying. Everything here was wrong, wrong, wrong…
“Feel what ?”
“ This. ” Tom gently picked up Harry’s hand, eyes closing as comfort surged through him, electric happiness filling everywhere he felt empty.
Harry’s gaze lacked understanding, lacked that same warmth, and Tom sighed in frustration.
“I feel your hand?” Harry offered uncertainly.
“The warmth,” Tom said helplessly. “The sparks. The completeness. You don’t feel any of it?”
“I… ah… no,” Harry said. He mercifully didn’t pull his hand away.
“It’s there,” Tom insisted. “I’ve never felt so… good, I guess.”
The silence of pondering settled between them once more.
“It takes seven years,” Harry said after a moment. “Seven years for a soul to heal. Well, not heal, per se, but when you make a horcrux, it takes seven years for your soul to, well, scar, I think. That’s how Hermione explained it. It’s like if you cut off your arm, it’ll be bloody and sour for a really like time, but eventually skin will grow over it and the wound’ll be healed. I mean, you’re still missing your arm, but it stops bleeding.”
Tom found himself incapable of making a response.
“Your soul hasn’t healed yet, and it still hurts. You’re still seeking that last part, and you will be until seven years has passed since Myrtle’s death,” Harry finished.
“Where do you fit into this, then?” Tom demanded quietly. “Why do you make it feel better, even better than the horcrux itself?”
Harry shook his head. “I have a theory, but I’ve never been good with theories. Not smart enough for them, really.”
Tom cried.
--
Harry and Dumbledore seemed to spend more time together, and in whatever free time the black-haired teen had, he was flying with the house Quidditch teams and giving them advice. Rumor floated that he spent his Sundays with Hagrid, the gamekeeper.
In short, Harry was avoiding Tom, and Tom couldn’t bear it. He dreamt of comfort and completeness by night and ached for physical contact and companionship by day, his broken soul crying louder than ever now that it knew what it was missing.
How Harry filled the void, Tom still could not understand. He needed more information on him, to learn, to fix this problem, but that proved to be impossible with Harry himself avoiding Tom at all costs.
Surprisingly enough, Dumbledore seemed to take pity on Tom, backing off on the normal accusations and backhanded comments, and the week before winter holiday break found the two of them sipping tea together in the Great Hall.
“I suppose it would not do for me to lie about the situation and claim I do not know what has happened, Tom,” Dumbledore said kindly. It was the first time Dumbledore called him “Tom” since he got him out of the orphanage. “You are hurting greatly, are you not?”
Tom stared into his mug. “Yes.” Even then, he ached.
“You are starting to regret Myrtle Warren’s death, too. Not quite for the right reasons, but regret nonetheless. You feel empty?”
Tom failed to see where this was going. “Yes.”
“Souls are so fragile, aren’t they? Like glass. Easy to break, numbingly painful when they do so, and near impossible to glue back together. But, alas, they can be melted down and boiled into something new again, can’t they?” Dumbledore sipped his tea, and Tom mimicked him.
It flowed down his throat, simple, sharp, and sweet, the warmth nothing like that of Harry.
“I’m afraid I am going to share information with you against Harry’s will,” Dumbledore said after a moment. “He is trying to do what he believes is right to protect the future, but I cannot see his current path yielding the best results.”
“Protect the future?”
“Ah. Yes. If you hadn’t yet gathered, Harry is from the future.”
Tom wasn’t quite sure what to do with that information now, but he was glad nonetheless to have it.
“What time?”
“That, he failed to say. Quite far, decades, at least.”
“And he didn’t die trying this?”
“Miraculous, is it not. Anyways, he is trying to protect his future, but is misguided in his attempts. So, I must share this with you.”
If Tom didn’t want to know so badly, he would’ve questioned Dumbledore’s authority on this. Dumbledore, knowing better than someone actually from the future?
Arrogant.
“Harry is your horcrux, Tom. He houses a part of your soul, and that calls to you constantly. He is correct that you are still healing, and will be for some time.” Dumbledore offered a weak smile. “He calls to you more than your diary, because he has fixed the part within him. Harry is filled with love, Tom. He is blessed by it. And the piece of your soul within him has been surrounded by love for sixteen years, and it wants to bring that love back to you, to fix you. Your diary - it does not feel love. It is a book, with an angry, bitter, part of you buried within.”
“Then why does my soul not call back?” Tom asked quietly. “Why does he feel nothing ?”
“It takes a soul seven years to heal, Tom. That piece has been healing for sixteen. You call for it, constantly, and it has love to bring you, but it cannot move. It cannot leave. It is done, sealed within Harry until it is broken once more. That, or it does not want to leave. You, Tom, are full of hate and anger, and Harry is fueled by love. Why would it want to return to a life of pain?”
“And what am I supposed to do, then?”
Dumbledore offered a smile. “That, my boy, is up to you and Harry.”
--
“Dumbledore told you my theory,” Harry stated, staring at the ceiling. Tom sat next to him, not touching.
“Yes.”
“I suppose he knows better than I do, even way back now.” Something hurt in Harry’s voice. “He is the mastermind, after all. Defeated Grindelwald.”
Tom had nothing to say to that.
“I wish I could give you it back. The only way I know of to remove it would not return it, though. Just kill it.”
“And what might that be?”
“Killing Curse. That’s the future I wanted to avoid in coming here. Well, actually, it was after…” Harry trailed off. “A lot of people die, Tom.”
“Doesn’t everyone eventually?”
“Yes. But you killed them all too early.”
Tom shifted uncomfortably.
“Well, not you. Voldemort. Who is you, basically. Aren’t you going by that now to some people anyways?”
“Yes…”
“You’re not Voldemort Voldemort yet, though. Just… Tom, still, to be honest. On your way to Voldemort, but not quite there.” Harry didn’t take his eyes off the ceiling.
“I suppose so.”
“Tom, you know what the most powerful magic of all is, right?”
Tom stiffened.
“Love.”