To My Old Readers: sorry, this chapter doesn't bear any significant changes except for a couple of paragraphs with Daphne, but they are hardly worth the re-reading. On the other hand, the next one will be the point where the old and the new versions begin to diverge almost completely in some point.

[SLIGHTLY SPOILER-ISH!] I wanted to show Snape from another side, through Tom mostly, so from chapter 3 you will see him a lot. He has two big reasons to despise Harry, so their relationship will not change for a long time, but Snape is not entirely bad. Probably. Anyway, he becomes a prominent figure from year 5 onwards, and while the relationship between Snape, Harry, and Tom will be a complex one, it will be changing overtime.

Furthermore, I'm altering the dynamics between Harry and Tom. They will have lots more of interaction but, err, it will be different. Well, somewhat. [SLIGHTLY SPOILER-ISH!]

Chapter 2. Just a Step Away

September, 4th

"Theo, know any good hexes to use on this mudblood?"

Tom was lying on his bed, his dark eyes half-lidded as he listened intently to what his housemates were saying. He glanced at his watch in annoyance. It was time to go down for breakfast soon, but he was reluctant to leave while his housemates still lingered there.

When he had first heard of acrid controversies between mudbloods and purebloods, he hadn't expected to be confronted with such a wave of enmity from the people he was supposed to trust.

Tom wasn't a coward; had he known any hexes or curses, he wouldn't have worried. Alas, their number exceeded his lonely presence, and the idea of traipsing around with Gryffindor-red hair after a hex did not appeal to him.

"Better not risk it, you know how Dumbledore is. The mudblood will go to him, and the old coot will go whine to the Board. My father will be rather... dissatisfied if he has to hear about my getting caught attacking someone. He always tells me to hide the body- or, well, the wounds I inflict."

"You have always been a pansy, Draco," Blaise Zabini, a dark-skinned curly-haired boy sneered contemptuously, glaring at the blond from beneath the dark fringe. "It's a wonder you've made it into Slytherin."

"Don't insult me! If my father finds out-"

"Yeah, yeah. We know. Good Merlin, Draco, do you tell your father even how many times you go to piss? Honestly, you are unbearable!"

From behind the curtains, Tom felt the same, hating the way he agreed with Theodore Nott, a boy not burdened with astonishing intellectual abilities.

"You-!"

"Anyway, what are we going to do with the mudblood?" someone butted in impatiently.

Idiots, Tom thought mockingly, his hands wrinkling his light-green blanket. I can hear you, you know. If you are going to assassinate me, do it discreetly.

Not that he wouldn't be able to thwart any plan they threw at him.

"Dunno. Poison him or something? Mother always does that when someone annoys her. Usually it's her husbands; she has quite the collection. Of poisons, I mean."

A chuckle rang out in the room. "And of husbands, I bet. Any space left in the backyard?"

I'd better check my goblet next time. Should I buy a flask for myself? Doesn't seem too bad of an idea. I should definitely remember it this summer when I go to Diagon Alley.

"No one doubted your mother's skills, Blaise, but I think she will notice if one of her precious vials gets stolen."

"Listen here, minions!" Draco Malfoy exclaimed, irritation entering his tone. "Why waste all this good stuff on a mudblood? We can do better. Use it on, say, Dumbledore; he has been living for far too long, in my opinion. My father thinks so, too."

"We don't live with Dumbledore, Draco."

"The mudblood is an eyesore! Of course it should be killed!"

"I agree with Goyle, no matter how retarded that sounds. The mudblood will bring us nothing but trouble. Mordred knows they are uneducated barbarians. I bet Salazar Slytherin weeps in his grave to have one in his honourable house."

You know my name! Use it! Tom thought angrily and balled his thin childish fingers into fists, not used to this kind of treatment. The orphanage had been different. They had been afraid, terrified of his power and his smile, and frightened of the deeds he forced them to do as his magic dazzled them.

"Dead can't do it, can they? Weep?"

"Sure they can't, Vincent. It's a figure of speech. I won't use the word 'metaphorical' 'cause I know you won't know what it means in any case."

Crabbe responded an exasperated Malfoy with a dull glance.

"Let's go have breakfast, guys," Nott proposed, motioning to the door. "Leave the mudblood here. Who knows, he might die of oversleeping."

"Only you would think of such idiocies like this one, Theo." Zabini scoffed soundly, shaking his head in disapproval.

"Hey, it could be true! My Uncle…" Their voices drifted off as the boys left the room one by one, leaving a seething Tom alone.

When he was sure they were gone, he crawled out of his bed and stretched, getting ready to start his first day in a magical school. He wasn't impressed with the reception, but realized that others couldn't see his potential from his appearance. He had to prove himself to them, of that he had no doubt. Friendliness, respect, or loyalty were hard to come by these days, and the boy was contemplating different ways of acquiring at least one while brushing his teeth and going through his morning rituals.

Tom scowled, remembering the blabbering fools who prided themselves in being purebloods. If this was what native wizarding folk was like, no wonder that muggles were the prevailing race. It just showed how those mudblood supremacists were right in their opinion that muggles and wizards were alike.

Their shared idiocy was a perfect bonder.

Once again, Tom's thoughts drifted to the black-haired boy from the evening before, Harry Potter, his name was. Would he be like them? Completely and utterly useless and dull? Or would he be something else entirely? More like Tom himself, perhaps?

...And his entire fascination with the other student stunk of something fishy and unnatural. In his entire life, Tom had never spared a thought to other people, yet now the image of the boy haunted his dreams and his thoughts and his plans – and it scared him. Perhaps he was overreacting - after all, a few passing thoughts could hardly be described as 'haunting' or 'obsessive', but he would prefer not to have them at all.

The brown-haired boy was fastening the clasp on his black and green school robes when he realized he was once again devoting too much time to thinking about someone other than himself, potential ally or not. He pinned up his Slytherin badge to his robes, and the pin grazed his creamy skin lightly, drawing blood.

With a hiss, Tom skewered it with a glare, knowing that there was no time to fix it – he had designed a certain schedule for himself, and his descend to the Great Hall had to begin now.

For some people a scraped hand would be a mere nuisance, but to Tom, who strived to be the epitome of flawlessness, it was one more imperfection in addition to his tainted ancestry. Not to mention that it reminded him too much of those little children who played often with each other and had scratches like that all over their bodies along with other mild injuries.

He looked at himself in the mirror: classical features, expressionless face, dark eyes, immaculate robes, and polished shoes. And a scratch on his hand, its bloody red contrasting starkly with his pale complexion.

Would Potter notice it?

Tom pinched himself lightly to get his mind off the topic.

Even if Potter did, it didn't matter to Tom. It didn't. He needed no one's approval or disapproval, because he was certain he would hold a position of power in the Wizarding World. He wasn't sure which one yet: he didn't know much about wizarding professions. He wanted it to be a substitute for a muggle politician – a career in which people would be begging him to accept them, to acknowledge them.

Dark eyes flashing in anger. Tom wiped the blood off his hand with a handkerchief and stomped down the stairs to have breakfast.

His housemates were finishing with their meal, only crumbs left on their plates. They were talking animatedly with one another, some arguing, some gesticulating wildly to prove their point, others simply staring off into space or whispering with their companions in hushed tones.

Tom supposed it was still better than Gryffindors – those were howling with laughter at something two gingers were showing. A grinning black boy sitting next to them cracked open a matchbox, and a couple of girls bolted up from their seats screaming.

Unfortunately, Tom's placement at his table – between a blonde girl named Daphne Greengrass, the only one not minding a mudblood near her, and Goyle, who wasn't that much of a company – didn't give him an adequate view of the object in the matchbox. Craning his neck like a prying fool was out of question – what respected man would commit such an undignified gesture?

A shame. In the box could be something Tom could use to hurt or threaten others with. Wasn't that how wizards and witches made friends? Seemed to work pretty well for the redheads, anyway.

Potter is not here, Tom thought absently while shuffling stewed carrots around the plate. In the end he decided they wouldn't poison him. Not that morning. Even if his classmates had decided to assassinate him for his blood, they wouldn't have had the time to receive a package from their homes or steal it from the Potions Master.

Speaking about Potions Masters…

Professor Severus Snape, a man with greasy black hair and yellowish waxy skin, was a brooding glaring thing, and had snapped at Tom something about being up to standards in Slytherin. The boy had been listening to the man droning on and on about house loyalty and honour (did Slytherins have one? A huge surprise here) and found himself severely disappointed in the man.

Couldn't they have found a better Head of House? Tom just hoped Snape would be adequate at potions as a qualified specialist. Tom tolerated anyone as long as they did their job well.

An elbow nudged him, and Tom turned his head to the blonde sitting on his left. He raised his eyebrow, waiting for the explanation.

"I suggest we get going," she told him and brushed a lock of hair away from her azure eyes.

She was pretty, Tom supposed, and pureblood. He wondered why she would talk to him.

"The bell doesn't ring for another twenty minutes," Tom responded haughtily, lifting his chin.

Greengrass looked at him pityingly and sighed, shaking her head. "You're a mudblood, aren't you? There is no need to reply. You try to hide it but completely botch up it all up with small things like that."

A dark scowl crossed Tom's face, and the boy moved to get up, ready to leave. He had wanted to go to the classroom anyway, even before that stranger had addressed him. Greengrass gripped his arm, preventing him from standing up, and tugged him closer.

Fury spiked in Tom at the touch. A flash of red tainting his eyes, a hissed command of "Let go!" – and Greengrass winced away from him, as if both bedazzled and frightened.

Tom mentally smirked, recognising the reaction: the orphanage's children responded the same way, cringing and gasping and crying, but always submitting. And wizarding children were not immune either, Tom noticed when a bemused grimace crossed Greengrass's face when she realised she had acted strangely for her.

Now, Tom had to test it against adults. Would a malicious chuckle sound over the top?

"I didn't want to offend you-" Greengrass began apologetically.

"You didn't." His pride wouldn't let him say aloud or admit to himself otherwise.

"Hogwarts is huge, if you haven't noticed. There are a lot of classrooms here, but that's not the problem. Staircases move and false doors are scattered all over the place. You can get a nasty surprise if you don't know the right paths."

"And you do?" Tom asked reluctantly, a calculative glint in his eyes. If his impressions were right… He was on the road to acquiring his first fr- ally. He heard the term 'ally' used often in the dungeons and the books, and it definitely sounded less mushy than friends.

'Friends' and all the botched attempts at making them remained in the orphanage.

"Father's on the Board of the Governors," Greengrass said smugly, hurriedly urging Tom to rise and follow her out of the Hall. He could see students around him doing the same. "He lets me come with him if I want to on some occasions. Very useful, if you ask me."

"And why are you being so helpful? Don't you hold a grudge against muggles?" Tom asked her, only now noticing the way she was holding his hand, and wrestled his limb out of her hold. His voice was laden with distrust: he didn't believe in people's goodwill at all.

Her cheeks flushed a dark brown, Greengrass mumbled something incoherently and averted her eyes as she guided him through the labyrinth of corridors, their steps hurried.

Realization hit Tom, and he smirked complacently, knowing the blonde wouldn't see him from her position. The idiot had a crush on him! It cleared everything up, and speculations about how he could use this to his advantage immediately filled his mind. Plans began to form, and Tom couldn't wait to sort out the best possible choices of how to execute them in the silence of his room tonight.

"I- Um…" She obviously wanted to slow down to catch her breath, but Tom didn't let her. He didn't give a damn about her well-being, and she herself seemed to be smitten with him, which gave the boy a lot of leeway.

"Our family is neutral in all this hustle between muggles and wizards," Greengrass admitted finally, when they were steps away from the Defence against the Dark Arts classroom.

Tom nodded distractedly, not really caring about the answer.

He made up his mind to start researching important wizarding families and who was who in the Wizarding World, and how they treated people with muggle descent. He would have done it sooner but school funding didn't involve much – all the money had been used to buy books and proper clothes, including but not limited to everyday robes.

When Tom entered the class and Professor Quirinus Quirrell, a balding stammering man in his thirties, began his lesson, the boy's mind was far from the boring introductory speech as he made mental lists about the literature he had to peruse.

Tom was striding aggravatedly to the next classroom, Greengrass having already told him the way. Her speech hadn't been coherent, what's with that awkward moment from before, but Tom wasn't called a genius for naught: his mind processed her rambling explanations with practiced ease, acquired at the orphanage.

His Defense against the Dark Arts lessons had been one huge disappointment. The teacher was a stuttering fool and while he knew the subject decently, his manner of speech stood in the way of comprehensibly conveying the information.

It was bloody frustrating, Tom thought, clenching his small fists in annoyance and glaring at the students passing by. Some Hufflepuff first year, whose name Tom didn't remember, squeaked and rushed out of his way under the power of the Glare of Doom.

With self-satisfaction, Tom once again ascertained the power he still held over others despite his blood.

He saw the door leading to their Transfiguration classroom and, grasping the cool metal of the handle, pushed it open. The Deputy Headmistress, who was the Transfiguration Professor, was nowhere to be seen. The only other living creature besides himself was the bushy haired bookworm from Gryffindor, muttering to herself the contents of the book aloud, her hands cupping her ears to drown out the noise from the corridor. A cat on the table watched her intently.

Tom placed his bag on the desk gently and sat down, observing the cat with a tilt of his head. There was something off about the animal, Tom knew. Its eyes were too intelligent for a lowly creature not encumbered with human intellect. He narrowed his gaze and glared at the creature, forcing it to relent and give away all its secrets with sheer force of his glower.

The cat glanced down at him, and Tom looked away. The clock tic-tocked loudly. Granger kept revising.

He didn't understand the need to review the material now – the classes hadn't begun yet and there was no homework to do. Of course, Tom had read the books, marking the most interesting paragraphs and facts, but for the most part textbooks were filled with useless information on the most basic of things – how to hold one's wand or huge treatises on the dangers of mispronouncing spells. True, those details made up magic but they weren't worth memorising - reading them once painted the whole picture.

Five minutes were left until the class began and students were rushing in in small groups of three-five. Some of them were gasping for breath after what obviously had been a mad dash to the classroom. It was a known fact that McGonagall wasn't a woman to tolerate any lateness or other disregard for rules. Even the students of her own house were punished most severely because of the smallest transgressions.

The creepy cat hadn't moved an inch.

"I heard McGonagall, the old cat, loves taking away points from Slytherin," Nott complained vociferously, landing on a chair two seats away from Tom. He threw his bag on the desk carelessly and leaned in to whisper in Zabini's ear loudly. "Favours her own house, I heard. She's really angry with Snape for Slytherin taking away from her both the House Cup and the Qudditch Cup. I fear she's going to take it all out on us."

Zabini waved him away, not at all concerned.

"Nah, I doubt it. She's too much of a goody two shoes to play unfairly, I tell you."

The bell rang. Tom watched in freezing disdain as his yearmates, encouraged by the absence of the professor, went on talking noisily. He kept quiet, as did Granger, the only other person besides himself to sit alone.

Greengrass chose to sit with Bulstrode this time, and they were talking in a hushed whisper, gesticulating animatedly but otherwise quiet. A couple of times Tom could feel Greengrass's lingering glances on his back but didn't turn around.

Suddenly, the door swung open and everyone's heads whirled around to see the newcomer. Weasley was making his way to the front seat, an apologetic yet relieved grimace on his face.

"Nev, can I sit with you?" Without waiting for a reply, the redhead whom Tom found to be as obnoxious and annoying as any other Gryffindor, crashed on the chair next to the frightened Longbottom. "It's cool that McGonnagal's not here. I heard she can be pretty vicious."

Hardly had he finished the sentence the cat's still figure began to transform. A moment later a strict woman with tight lines around her mouth was standing in front of them. She stepped off the teacher's desk gracefully and pursed her lips, looking at their class with disdain.

"Detention with Mr. Filch for a week, Mr. Weasley," she said sharply, and Tom's previous claims that the woman wasn't someone to be messed with were verified. Filch was a sick nasty man with equally sick nasty punishments. Tom was determined as hell to never get discovered while going against school rules.

The redhead flushed a scarlet red and muttered a sorry before ducking his head into the textbook to keep it like that for the rest of the class.

"The same concerns Mr. Zabini and Mr. Nott," she continued in that steely tone. Both of the mentioned boys paled, opened their mouths, and closed them.

"If you have all settled the matters regarding your teacher's competence," she was talking to a completely silent class now, in which Tom rejoiced and for which he respected her. "I hope we can start."

They took out their quills and poised them under the parchment, ready to write down whatever information was new or needed for a quiz.

"Transfiguration is some of the most complex and dangerous magic you will learn at Hogwarts," McGonagall said, walking about the classroom to take a look at each of her students and memorize their faces. "Anyone messing around in my class will leave and never come back. You have been warned."

Moving swiftly, she spun around and transformed her desk into a pig and back again. Tom was very much impressed with the sight just like everyone else but knew they wouldn't be doing inanimate objects to animal transfiguration until their fifth year, when the teacher would be sure they had grasped the basics. If there was anyone falling behind or the material seemed to be over their head, teachers had the right to abolish the topic for that year and return to it only in their seventh class. It made Tom crease his eyebrows in displeasure. Why would his potential be hindered because of some imbecilic morons who couldn't hold their wand right?

"By the end of the class, I want at least one of you to be able to turn the matches I have given you into needles. If you succeed, it will result in points for you and your housemates. If not, the task will be left for you to do in your free time. You will show me your progressing skills during the next lesson. Get to work."

McGonagall showed the class how transfiguration was done, brilliantly transforming the match into the needle. She made it seem easy by her display, but in reality it was much harder.

They were struggling with it for what seemed like half an hour before Tom got the gist of it and his match became pointy and silvery. With sophisticated pride he called McGonagall to show her his achievement.

She looked at him in bewilderment and forced out, her eyes wide as saucers, "Extraordinary, Mr. Riddle!" She took a deep breath and regained control of herself, giving him a stare full of consideration and a rare smile. "Well, I believe we can expect great things from you. If you continue showing such progress, I believe that even Headmaster Dumbledore will seem pale in comparison to you one day. Twenty points to Slytherin!"

She returned to checking other students' progress, so astounded that she didn't mind the loud chatter behind her back. Tom was very pleased with himself, especially when his eye caught Nott's and Zabini's wondering gazes as well as Greengrass's excited whispering with Davis and Bulstrode.

Those words about expectations… They reminded Tom a great deal about what Ollivander had told him in Diagon Alley while selling Tom his yew wand. The man had mentioned an issue with brother wands but Tom wasn't paying great attention to that – his mind had been filled with the ways to use his new wand.

Smirking slightly, Tom inclined his head and worked on other matches, shaping them differently or giving them different colours. It was a victory, but a small one.

The first step to his goal.

He had to work further if he wanted to achieve the same kind of influence people like Dumbledore had – only more. Much, much more. He didn't know what exactly he wanted to do, except that everyone would regret not befriending him, and they would be jealous, and they would obey. And he would be their king.

The awed mutterings around him never ceased and made a fine symphony to which he enchanted a whole box of matches.

The last lesson of the day was Potions with their Head of House.

Tom was quite thrilled to see how Snape would conduct his lessons – the man seemed to have something against both working with children and children in general.

Another reason Tom was so excited was that the lesson was with the Ravenclaws.

He would see Potter there!

Not that I'm eager to see him, of course, Tom corrected himself harshly and hastily, not noticing how there was an additional bounce to his step. I'm merely wondering whether he is valuable as an ally and worth of this hustle of befriending him. Nothing more.

Their Potions class was situated deep down in the dungeons, far below the level of the Great Hall. Dungeons were cold, and lurking shadows seemed to hide horrible secrets and dark, twisted mysteries. Glass jars stood all around the walls with both pickled and living animals and insects floating in them. The sight was eerily frightening. Tom supposed he was lucky that neither Ravenclaws nor Slytherins were of the weak sort. Hufflepuffs fainted occasionally - or so the rumour went.

Pity that Tom hadn't been there. It would have been entertaining to watch all those weak willed morons flail their hands not knowing what to do.

...But then again, a rumour didn't equal truth.

Greengrass and her friend Tracey Davis were flanking him now, talking about something inane excitedly. After his excellent performance in Transfiguration class, some students grudgingly admitted he could be as good as any pureblood.

Well, Tom had known it before, of course. But see them acknowledge his talents brought an unidentifiable kind of happiness.

If only they could admire him and be silent at the same time.

Upon entering the classroom, he immediately noticed rows of empty cauldrons and a huge blackboard just behind teacher's desk. Tom chose to sit in the front row once again, this time with Greengrass joining him.

The boy neatly arranged his small jars with animal parts, flies' wings, plants, and flowers, as well as empty crystal vials and brass scales. Potions was apparently a subject that needed precision and self-organization, the traits denoting Tom so well. Needless to say that the boy had been most anxious to start learning this subject.

And potions were connected with poisons.

Even in his early years Tom had noted how the best and most mysterious assassinations were done with a drop of a poison. Potions Masters surely knew how to make an untraceable one, right?

That Zabini guy had also said something about his mother owning a collection of them. Could be useful to get to know him. To become his 'ally'.

The minute the bell rang Severus Snape swept in with his black robes flying around him. His expression was as sour as it had been the day before. Tom secretly wondered if his professor physically could be happy for once.

"Like an overgrown bat, he is," leaned in to whisper rather loudly in Morag McDougal's ear Kevin Entwhisle.

"Ten points from Ravenclaw for insulting a teacher." Snape's voice cut through them like a razor blade. His eyes emphasized the waxy paleness of his skin and their blackness reminded way too much of dark tunnels.

It worked and there was no talk after that. Perfectionists, Ravenclaws didn't want to lose their chance at the House Cup. Snape would generously provide them many other opportunities for that.

The man started the class by taking the roll call. He paused, ever so slightly, at Harry Potter's name. No one else noticed it, but Tom was awfully perceptive when it came to the other boy and the slight change in his professor's tone hadn't gone unnoticed.

"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potionmaking," Snape began. He spoke in barely more than a whisper, but they caught every word — like Professor McGonagall, Snape had the gift of keeping a class silent without effort. It drew a reluctant kind of respect from Tom.

"As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don't expect you to really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses… I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even brew a stopper of death — if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."

Slytherins knew that Snape would never dock points from his own House – Tom had overheard proudly telling it to them the day before – but Ravenclaws tensed and straightened in their seats, alertness shining in their eyes.

Suddenly, Snape rounded on Harry.

"Potter!" He sneered, glaring at the staggered boy as if the latter had offended him. Surprisingly, there was only understanding and resignation in Potter's expression, as if he knew it would happen. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

A couple of Slytherins stretched their hands into the air along with some Ravenclaws.

"The Drought of Living Death, sir," Potter replied calmly, tilting his head and making raven black locks fall into his eyes with the motion. Snape seemed to find offense in the boy's politeness.

"Potter, where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?"

Potter opened his mouth a bit in perplexity and his eyebrows creased. Tom couldn't stop a surge of inexplicable anger directed at Snape. 'Can't he just lay off him?' Tom thought with aggravation, his fingers tapping the edge of his cauldron soundlessly.

After a few moments of intensive thinking, just as Snape's lips were twisting into a triumphant smirk and his mouth opened to utter a derogatory remark, Potter's face brightened with recollection.

"It's a stone, right? Useful against poisons and can be taken in the stomach of a goat."

From Snape's expression one would think he had eaten a bunch of lemons. Narrowing his eyes, he stomped to the younger wizard and leaned over the desk, his breath reaching Harry's rapidly blinking eyes.

"You seem to know so much… What is the difference, Potter, between monkshood and wolfsbane?"

"Umm…" Potter nibbled on his bottom lips, looking away. It was obvious he didn't know the answer to that one. None of them did.

Other than Tom, of course.

"They are the same plant," Tom heard himself say, much to his own astonishment. He added, "Sir. With all due respect, I don't mind revising the material at the beginning of the class. Unfortunately, we are yet to learn what we need to revise."

Snape grimaced but didn't say anything to a student of his own House. His glares of doom, though, promised a long talk in the privacy of their common room.

"Well?" he barked at the students. "Why are you not writing it all down?"

Obviously, you haven't told us to.

The same thought was running through everyone's heads but none of them dared to voice it aloud.

"Wow!" Greengrass exclaimed with wide eyes when they paired up to make a simple potion to cure boils. "I think you are my hero! None of Hogwarts students have ever tried to interrupt Snape when he is in the middle of tormenting some poor soul."

Tom shrugged at the compliment, once again not letting his smugness show. Whispers surrounded him once again no matter how hard Snape tried to silence the class. Only Malfoy, along with those brainless idiots flanking him, wasn't as thrilled. For reasons unknown, the guy liked Snape. And Crabbe and Goyle weren't that much of thinkers, opting to copy their 'leader' instead.

When the class was almost finished and Tom was walking up to Snape's desk to turn in the sealed flask with a perfectly-made Boils-Curing Potion, he caught Potter's eyes staring back at him.

The hesitance of the smile Potter threw him didn't diminish its luminosity at all. Tom felt his heart skip a beat. He didn't know why he was feeling like that but, Merlin, to experience once more this pleasant warmth in his chest he was ready to tolerate hundreds of Snape-talks.

AN: Do you mind checking my more recent story "Our Carnival of Dreams"? I would appreciate your opinion! :D