A/N: So um. I kind of stopped posting my stuff on here because what are genres even? Also the captcha challenge is vaguely inaccessible. Also I have written some PWP stuff that I was wary of posting.
But.
I love this website anyway haha. So I'm posting something that's been on my AO3 for ages now. If you haven't read it yet, I hope you enjoy! This was dedicated to transpreussen, and was also when I was trying out using parenthetical thoughts. Tell me what you think!
Disclaimer: I own nothing-except for the things I do.
Rating: T
Word count: 1,100
Pairing: Tom & Harry pre-slash, probably.
Genre: I don't even know what this is. Someone re-classify it if you feel so inclined?
Warnings: flustered!Harry, calculating!Tom. Unresolved ending?
"Well, if it isn't our new transfer student."
It took all of Harry's control not to show any telling reactions at the sound of that voice—so silky smooth, so precise, so controlled.
The comment was completely innocuous: a seemingly friendly overture from one boy to another, yet it was as if the entire Slytherin Common Room had nothing better to occupy themselves with. They immediately focused in on the conversation that had just begun, and Harry could feel their attention made tangible—a distinct, weighty stare hammering into his cheek (their watching us, this is ridiculous).
It was understandable, especially when taking into account that by this age, Tom Marvolo Riddle had already begun to run the social setting.
Harry didn't have to like it, however.
It took even more control to turn his head just so, and flash Riddle a helpless, wary—or maybe more than wary—(don't break your façade damn you he can't know) smile.
Harry took the opportunity to examine Riddle for all it was worth: his eyes roved over loose, long limbs; dark, wavy hair; thin, high cheekbones; full, quirked lips (is he smirking at me? Bastard). When he raised his eyes to meet the glinting gaze of the teenage Dark Lord, it was as if his stomach had been trampled by a hoard of hippogriffs; Harry was utterly certain that such an intent, piercing, calculating stare had never been leveled at him in the entirety of his young life.
There were no diary memories that could ever do this young man justice, Harry was coming to realize. His looks, while completely unsurprising, still seemed to stop Harry's thoughts dead in their tracks, and there was a presence that Riddle exuded on top of that—so composed, cultivated, and suave—that could not be replicated by anything other than himself.
"Tom Riddle," the boy in question finally murmured, and the sound of his voice was what Harry needed to break him from his thoughts.
"I kn—" (know who you are), Harry began reflexively. He blinked and gave a forceful shake of his head (stop it stop it, you're looking like such an idiot, this is Slytherin you muppet). He tore his gaze away from Riddle's, and found that a pale, long-fingered hand was being extended towards him.
"I'm Harry… Evans," he finally managed, before extending his hand in turn.
His handshake was firm, but not overly so (what, do you really think he engages in those absurd macho power plays?). His piano-player fingers curled over the side of Harry's lightly perspiring palm, and despite the fact that his body language was relaxed, Harry could feel Riddle's burning gaze on his face (have you been staring this whole time? Stop looking at me this is so uncomfortable).
"Harry… Evans," Riddle replied, and there was so many things wrong with the way that he shaped those four syllables with his silver tongue. Harry couldn't even fathom where to begin: the deliberate pause between his first and last name was clearly meant to mock his unintentional one; the low, deliberate cadence with which it fell from his lips was obviously an ingenious way to draw Harry's attention to his words; and the way his lips inched together slightly to form the V in Evans (since when have I been staring at his lips? No, I am not doing this) was certainly Riddle's clever way of throwing Harry off—obviously, he had picked up on Harry's unwilling fascination with them (you lost the plot when he first saw you, don't even pretend).
Harry was decidedly unsure where to go from here.
"Um, aer, yes," he babbled, before snapping his mouth shut with an audible 'click' of his teeth. He could feel the warming of his cheeks under that dark, glinting gaze (great, all you needed was to start blushing), and all he could think was what an idiot he had been, to think that he could be even a degree as cunning and scheming as the people he was surrounded by. If Riddle kept this up, Harry's secrets would be out within the week.
Riddle adopted a slightly amused expression upon seeing Harry's evidently flustered state. "I apologize," he murmured in that low, silky baritone, and Harry would've been a lot more inclined to believe him, if it weren't for the fact that his eyes were glinting in that—dare he say it, familiar?—way of his.
"I should go unpack," Harry finally responded, and even he could hear the strain evident in his words.
"Off so soon?" Riddle asked, and as Harry's gaze flickered up to his face once more, he was somewhat taken aback. Riddle's expression was… almost genuinely amused, and despite the fact that Harry knew it was at his own expense, he still felt a pang of something at seeing it.
"I was just about to ask you what you thought of Hogwarts in comparison to your old school," Riddle continued, and just as quickly, the feelings Harry had been contemplating immediately dissolved. A ball of worry and nerves rolled into their place instead, and he couldn't help the widening of his eyes as a result. He couldn't have this conversation right now; he had just gotten here! He had no backstory, no plan for diverting unwanted questions, and he wasn't stupid enough to think that he could just make up something like this on the spot.
"Well… I mean… I really just—"
But Harry was saved from further embarrassment. For at that moment, an owl had swooped into the Common Room—trailing behind a straggling Slytherin girl—and was making its way over to him.
Harry was absolutely positive that he had never been so happy to see something in his entire life.
"I've got to—" he trailed off, extending one arm to the tawny bird, and using the other to gesture vaguely towards the boys' dormitories. "You know." Without waiting for a reply, he quickly scurried away, his shoulders lowering as he let out a sigh of relief.
As he carefully detached the rolled-up parchment from the owl's leg, Harry's thoughts tumbled chaotically through his brain. He needed to plan; he needed to establish his background; he needed to do a myriad of things.
But most of all, he needed to avoid Riddle. It was obvious to him now, that his previous thoughts on the subject of the Slytherins uncovering his secrets had been drastically, terribly incorrect.
Harry knew with utmost certainty, that if Riddle kept this up, his secrets would be out by the end of the night.