Without his least favorite teacher to darken its doorway, the dungeon-classroom was almost surreally light. Not that the lighting was any different than it usually was-Harry knew this-but that knowledge didn't prevent the illusion from continuing and he couldn't help but stare around in wide-eyed shock at the room as if he'd never seen it before. In retrospect, he supposed that such a response was well in line with his 'exchange student' persona.

Tom, shadowing him as always, looked almost vindictively amused by his reaction.

Professor Slughorn stood waiting for them all with a congenial smile on his mustached face, patiently bidding his time until everyone had filtered in and taken a seat. Unlike the prior class, where Tom had sat as far from their Professor as possible without having to risk admitting some manner of defeat, the dark brunet led him over to a table at the very front of the room. Directly in front of the bench atop which three cauldrons-two large and one small-simmered.

Only when the door swung shut for a final time did the Professor finally begin to speak.

"Good afternoon, all of you. I hope that the past summer hasn't caused too much knowledge to slide out of your heads. It is your N.E.W.T year, after all." He chuckled. "Especially you, Mr. Riddle. I expect my favorite student to excel, as always."

Tom offered a small nod and an ingratiating smile. "Of course, Professor. I would never do anything to reflect poorly upon you or the noble House of Slytherin."

If not a Dark Lord, perhaps he'll turn out to be a Politician. In all honesty Harry didn't know which was scarier.

"And Mr. Potter, too! I've been waiting all day with such eager anticipation for the chance to see Hogwarts' newest student at work."

"But it's only second period, Professor." It slipped out before Harry could even attempt to prevent it. Tom raised a perfectly arched eyebrow at him. Slughorn bellowed out another laugh that made his belly jiggle.

"That it is, my dear boy. That it is. Tremendous observational skills. 10 points to Slytherin!"

Tom let out a small snort, shook his head and leaned down to speak in Harry's ear. "You're good. Though I could still stand to teach you a few things."

Slughorn had repositioned himself behind the bench of cauldrons-a considerable feat, given his spherical shape-and with a grandiose gesture motioned to the nearest bubbling cauldron.

"With it being such an important year I took the initiative to brew three particularly difficult and interesting potions to show all of you as a sort of demonstration. This one," again he pointed to the nearest cauldron to emphasize his point, "is a particularly nasty one, really. Can anyone here tell me what it is?"

The potion in the cauldron looked, to Harry, to be little more than boiling water. Tom made a show of waiting until it was clear no one else would move to answer before raising his hand.

"Yes, Tom?"

"That, Professor, is the Draught of Living Death. A powerful sleeping draught which induces a death-like state of suspended animation in the drinker, hence the name. Likely brewed masterfully, might I add, considering it was made by someone as talented as you."

"No need for flattery, Tom. You make an old man blush, though you're absolutely right. It is, indeed, the Draught of Living Death. A dangerous potion, though not the most dangerous of the three I have with me today." He said. "No. That title belongs to this next potion."

He removed the lid which had been sitting atop the second cauldron, unleashing a silvery spiral of steam to curl up towards the ceiling. Immediately a pleasant smell washed over him. Treacle tart. The polished wood of a broomstick handle. Cinnamon and dark earth.

Tom hissed viciously and recoiled like a snake that had been stepped on.

"Do you recognize this one as well, Tom?"

"Amortentia!" Not the usual silken honey-sweet drawl but a biting almost accusatory snarl. Harry looked from the other male's obvious fury to the mother-of-pearl potion and back again but had no time to further process the implication of why such a violent and bitter reaction might be brought about by a seemingly innocent potion as Slughorn had begun to speak again.

"Right again!" Though he sounded smug rather than surprised. "Amortentia, bottled love. The strongest love potion in the world. Difficult to brew. Expensive to mess up, as some of its ingredients are quite rare. Identifiable by its distinctive curling smoke and mother-of-pearl sheen, Amortentia's scent changes from individual to individual according to what attracts them. Care to share, Tom?"

"I've no desire to bother with such a stupid thing!"

A number of girls in the room looked over at him in alarmed indignation but Slughorn-seemingly unbothered by the uncharacteristic disrespect-simply nodded wisely.

"A smart stance to take, dear boy. A love potion, no matter how powerful, can only mimic love not create it. It can fool the brain, but the Heart is not so easily tricked. Never mind its potential for harm."

He shook his head sadly.

"Not only is it unfair to the one unknowingly put under its sway, but should a child be conceived during that time-especially if it is Amorentia that was used-they're theorized to be born without the instinctual knowledge of how to feel love. They can be taught, of course, as nothing human is ever utterly incapable of it, but the process would be a long and arduous one. One which must be undertaken willingly, as it requires deep self-reflection and an openness to change. To put what I am attempting to say simply," his gooseberry eyes swiftly scanned the room, "I don't want any of you getting any ideas."

The lid was placed back on the cauldron with a clank and the alluring smell slowly began to dissipate. Tom did not relax his almost feral posture. Defensively curled in on himself. Shaking lightly, though from rage or something else he couldn't be sure.

"And this one? Do you recognize this one, Tom?"

But the Slytherin Prefect was either unable or unwilling to answer.

The potion in the smallest cauldron was a vibrant molten gold, small droplets leaping out of it in arcing trails like tiny living fish. To Harry's surprise, he recognized it if only by description: Hermoine had lectured him and Ron on it after discovering the potion amidst one of her many over-complicated texts.

"Felix Felicis."

"Very good, Mr. Potter! Very good!" The Professor actually sounded rather surprised that it hadn't been his star student who had answered. That someone else in the class knew or, at least, would dare to answer instead of Hogwarts' ruthless uncrowned king. "Can you also tell me what it is?"

"Liquid Luck." Normally he wouldn't have remembered as much as he did of what Hermoine had said, but for once the language hadn't been overly technical and he had to admit-the potion's affects had been rather interesting. "It's a luck potion."

"Precisely! Devilishly difficult to brew. Disastrous to get wrong. But if done right, a bottle of this will grant you a perfect day. I myself have used it twice in my life. Two bottles. Two perfect days." After a moment spent apparently lost in nostalgia, he asked "can you tell me, Mr. Potter, why I dare not take anymore?"

Harry was all too prepared to put forth the answer Hermoine had replied with to his suggestion that they brew enough to last the year in preparation for Voldemort's inevitable next move. "Over use can cause side effects such as recklessness and giddiness." He recited. "And, in large doses, it can be highly toxic."

"Fifty points to Slytherin for that absolutely perfect answer!" He crowed, chuckling. "My, Tom. You may just have some competition this year."

Seeming to have recovered somewhat from his lapse in control Tom made a poor effort to smile, handsome face instead contorting into something rather ghoulish as the signals met crossed wires. Again, Slughorn failed to notice.

"A single bottle: the proper dose for a single perfect day. And the prize which shall go to the brewer of the best Draught of Living Death. You may begin."

The instructions appeared on the board with a wave of his wand and the class at large instantly leapt to their feet. Harry was given no chance to hesitate as Tom's hand came down on his collar and dragged him to his feet along with him.

"Don't just sit there shocked. You want a chance to win, don't you?" he asked, still noticeably snappish, as he shoved a tray of ingredients into his hands. "The Draught of Living Death takes a long time to brew: our goal is to reach lilac before class is over. No one can afford to waist a moment if we really desire to win."

"Regardless of whether or not I want to win," and he did as Liquid Luck would help immensely with cracking Tom if used at the right time, "I have no chance."

A shadow of a smirk reluctantly curved on his lips. "I would offer to go easy on you, but…"

"It's got nothing to do with the fact that I'm competing with you!" His pride couldn't help but be stung by the suggestion he would require that anyone go easy on him. "I'm terrible at Potions!"

"If you really were 'terrible' you'd have gotten a T. Now brew!" A flick of his wand lowered the flames below his cauldron to the exact height they needed to be. Harry had to physically tear his gaze away from the loose curling bangs which hung down into Tom's face as he bent over the cauldron.

Step 1: Fill the Cauldron with water.

"Aguamenti!" The cauldron obediently filled with the clear water shot from the end of his wand. Well, at least I won't make a complete fool of myself.

He fully expected he'd soon do something wrong and Tom would never let him live it down.

Step 2: Add infusion of worm wood.

Step 3: Add Powdered Root of Asphodel.

Step 4: Stir twice clockwise.

Step 5: Add sloth brain.

Step 6: Add Sopophorous Bean Juice.

The book open on the table in front of him instructed that he cut them. Tom, beside him, had already thoroughly diced the beans with ease and dumped the juice into his cauldron, causing the potion inside to turn a deep nightshade color. Harry wasn't sure whether it was the shape of the bean, the thickness of the shells or the fact that his knife was perhaps a bit duller than it should have been but he found himself unable to cut them, instead wasting close to five minutes chasing the beans around the cutting board. Ultimately, out of annoyance, he crushed the first bean he managed to capture with the flat of the blade.

A shocking volume of juice spewed from the smashed bean. It was probably a bad idea, but doing this was better than going back to imitating a cartoon so he repeated the process. 11 beans. 12. 13.

Whoops. He was only supposed to add 12.

Final Step: stir seven times, he began doing so without fully reading the instructions, anticlockwise.

Crap! He amended his mistake after one turn in the wrong direction, stirring seven times anti-clockwise and hoping it didn't explode or worse.

"Harry!" Tom hissed in shock, grabbing his wrist. "What did you do?"

He reluctantly looked down hesitantly at his cauldron, expecting an absolute disaster. Instead it looked like it was filled with water. "I don't know. I basically did everything wrong."

"So it was an accident?" when Harry nodded Tom laughed. "You weren't bottle-fed Felix Felicis as a baby? You're absolutely certain?"

Receiving the stone from the mirror of Erotize. Melting Quirrel's face off when he'd attacked him. Pulling the sword of Gryffindor from the Sorting Hat. Slaying the Basilisk. Destroying the diary and the murderous echo of Tom Riddle that it had summoned forth. Saving Sirius, and himself, from what had to be every Dementor to exist in the world by using a Time Turner. Surviving the Tri-wizard Tournament. Enduring Umbridge. Escaping from Voldemort, yet again. "With the way that my life has gone up until now, I wouldn't be surprised if I was."

"Time's up. Step away from your cauldrons, please. I'll now check to see which of you have produced a good enough Draught to win Felix here." Slughorn began to slowly move from cauldron to cauldron. Nodding at a few. Vanishing others. And then he came to their table.

"As expected Tom, you've managed to brew-."

"Professor, that potion isn't mine. It's Harry's."

He turned to look at him. "Is it, now?"

"Yes, Professor. Surprisingly enough."

"You sell yourself short, my boy!" He said, pulling a small stoppered glass vial from the breast pocket of his waist coat and handing it to him. "One bottle of Felix Felicis, as promised. Now, we're out of time. Bottle your potions and set them on my desk before you leave."

"So," Harry asked, aware of Tom's dark gaze on the little bottle of golden liquid in his hand as he slipped it into his robes. "You have Arithmancy next?"

"I do, but it's a simple enough class. I've the textbook fully memorized, know the subject better than the teacher does and have nothing to turn in today." He informed him, carefully setting a bottle of his pale-lilac Draught on Slughorn's desk. "So if you don't mind, I'll play a bit of hooky and spend the class period hanging out with you. We can enjoy the weather and get to know each other better."

"Get to know each other better?" he repeated. "If I didn't know any better I might get the idea that you're casing me for something more than just a friendship."

"Would you be adverse to it if I was?" they turned a corner and descended the dungeon stairs. "As for your accusation that I'm 'casing' you, I suppose that I am. I make it a point to know everything about those whom I choose to keep the company of. Especially those allowed the honor of being a part of my inner circle."

Tom recited the password to allow them into the common room without losing the flow of their conversation.

"Do not tell anyone that you won that potion, and hide it. Hide it well." He informed him in a hushed voice as they moved through the mostly empty common room. A small group of third years scattered to allow them to pass, the girls tittering and the boys blanching ashen grey. "While most wouldn't know it or what it does by name we here in Slytherin, with the exception of Crab and Goyle, are capable or research and are driven to do so when confronted with information on things we do not know. And when they learn of it, they'll want it."

"I'm not a person overly prone to flaunting my fortune. It tends to invite trouble, and I've enough of that to deal with as it is." Pulling open his trunk and rummaging through the contents until he reached the bottom Harry stored the vial of liquid luck safely away. "I already have a plan of what I'll use it for."

"Oh?" Tom's voice was slightly muffled. "What for?"

"That's information I'd rather keep to myself." Harry straightened up and turned back towards the other boy, surprised to find him halfway underneath his bed. "Um, Tom, what are you doing?"

"Nagini." He replied, resurfacing and depositing what looked at first glance to be a large green ball of yarn on top of the sheets. "My familiar. She likes to sleep under my bed and tends to be rather… Antisocial if left to her own devices. I thought she ought to meet you."

A careful pass of his elegant fingers had the snake unwinding lazily from her coiled up position. From nose to tail she was nearly as long as the bed and about as thick around as his forearm, her scales a diamond pattern of venomous green. A younger version of the serpent that had bitten Ron's father in the Ministry and nearly eaten him in the graveyard of Little Hangleton. Her slitted Amber eyes glittered up at him curiously.

"Master?" She rasped sleepily.

"As the heir of Slytherin-last of his line-I possess the ability to speak Parseltongue: the language of snakes." He informed him proudly. "I'll introduce you and make sure that she knows better than to bite, even playfully, as she's near as venomous as a Basilisk." He said, his gaze on the serpent resting calmly on his bed. "Nagini, this is Harry. He's of great interest to me. I'd even go so far as to call him a friend of sorts. He's not to be harmed."

The Raven barely managed to suppress a shudder of warmth. He always had thought Parseltongue's velveteen tones sounded much better, more natural and alluring, when spoken by Tom than by himself. Even though the only time he'd ever heard it spoken by him before was when the other had sent a Basilisk to kill him.

"I understand, Master. I won't bite him, even if I think he does deserve it."

"Good girl." Tom stroked her head fondly a few times before picking her up and wrapping her body around his neck like a scarf. "You won't need to worry about her, Harry." He promised, switching back to English. "Though it may take her a while to warm up to you. You don't have a problem the snakes, do you?"

Harry shook his head. "No. Not at all."

He smiled at him. "Good." Tom motioned towards the door. "Shall we?"

"Why not?"

The common room had emptied completely by the time the pair returned down the dorm stairs.

"I thought the only pets that students at Hogwarts were allowed to have were owls, cats and toads." He said as they reemerge into the halls. "How did you get away with keeping Nagini, especially if she is as venomous as you say?"

"I took it up with Dippet and received permission. The story would've been different, of course, had I not been a Parselmouth able to control her."

"She seems almost tame."

"Snakes get a bad reputation by those not wise enough to look past their outwardly cold demeanors. They're loyal. Intelligent. And even the most mundane of serpents have a connection with ancient dark magic-powerful magic." He continued stroking Nagini like a cat. "The perfect companions for one like me. One who will rule all the magical world one day. With you beside me, I hope."

The pair stepped out into the bright sun of the grounds, skirting around the numerous students out and about either enjoying the weather or heading to class. Harry couldn't help but notice a group of three 7th year Gryffindor's glaring at him as they walked.

"What did Minerva say to you earlier?" He asked as they headed towards the Black Lake. "Just out of curiosity."

"Not much, really. Just that you're not as much of the Prince charming as you always put forth. That you're cruel. And…she compared how you're reacting around me to the way a Niffler acts around a trinket. That you never normally show such interested in a person."

"Cruel? It's not entirely untrue. I am capable of cruelty and more than willing to leverage cruelty as a weapon. But only against those who truly deserve it." With great grace Tom hoisted himself up onto a boulder. "As for the part about the Niffler, I'll admit that it's a fair evaluation. Mine is an obsessive personality: once I'm set on something I pursue it until it is mine no matter what that takes or how long. The Dark Arts. Power. Saving the magical world from filthy Muggles and itself. I'm no stranger to tunnel vision." His blue eyes rivaled the hue of the lake under the blinding summer sun. "But I have never felt it centered around another person before I met you."

"Do you know why that could be?" He asked him, sitting down on a smaller rock.

"I can't be sure." Tom replied looking down at them. "When I look at you, Harry, I feel like I'm looking into a mirror. Our wands are brothers. Our magical signature, as I've noticed while we were in Transfiguration, is almost identical. You're powerful, though you have room to grow admittedly. And, most importantly, you're intelligent which none of the others who follow me can say with any honesty. You're my equal and I want you at my side. Which necessitates the question," he tilted his head back to bask in the sun this face, "have you given any more thought to it?"

"It?"

"Our potential partnership."

Harry had hoped the budding Dark Lord had forgotten. "I don't know, Tom." He told him. "Making the world tremble and bow isn't exactly on my bucket list."

"We'd be heroes, Harry. Not just to our peers but future generations. Magic is dying."

"That's a bit of an exaggeration." He replied. "And being a hero is a greater burden than you realize."

He knew that better than anyone, what with being the Boy-Who-Lived.

"What was it like being homeschooled by your parents?"

"Not my parents, my aunt and uncle. My parents died when I was one on Halloween night."

"I'm sorry." He sounded sincere. "My father abandoned my mother when she was pregnant with me. Filthy Muggle bastard. Though I guess I can't entirely blame him: idiot of the witch that she was. Amortentia." Tom shook his head. "She died when I was born; only lived long enough to give me my father's disgusting name. But I, in all my imaginative wisdom, have given myself a new name. One which the whole world will soon fear to even speak!"

"Voldemort."

Both boys went stiff at the same moment, Tom out of surprise and Harry out of horror over his own mistake.

"I… Heard one of the others mention it."

He managed to keep the tremor out of his voice. Tom, accepting his expedition, relaxed.

"Yes. Voldemort. Lord Voldemort." In a single swift movement he scrambled up onto his feet, throwing his arms wide into a grand gesture and nearly flinging Nagini into the lake causing her to let out a disgruntled hiss. "I will make my mark upon this world as the next Merlin! I'll achieve immortality! Master magic to a degree that no other has ever managed! And go down in history as the greatest wizard to ever live!"

The greatest terror to ever live, perhaps.

"With that make you happy, Tom? Lording over the world as some sort of King?"

"Would it make me happy?" He repeated. "The bloody hell kind of question is that? I'd have absolute power. The ability to do what I've always known needed to be done. The recognition I deserve. What more is there?"

"Friends. A family. Love."

Love?" He snorted. "You're naïve, Harry. There is no such thing as love. It's nothing but the veneer the brains of those unable to confront their own animal instincts and selfish desires present. The love of a partner: desire for sex. The love of a child: desire to be cared for. The love of a parent: desire to continue the bloodline. Nature. Nothing more. Certainly no greater power nor any sort of magic."

"You've never felt it? At all?"

"Did you not hear Professor Slughorn? I am incapable. All children conceived under the influence of that damn potion are."

"He didn't say you are incapable, he said you had to learn. And you don't strike me as the type of person to abide by not knowing how to do something."

Tom slid down from his boulder, dark eyes almost black. "I do not waste my time on worthless subjects, Potter." Harry couldn't help it flinch at the all-too-familiar Arctic bitterness. "If you'll excuse me, I've prefectural duties to attend to. Come along, Nagini."

Before Harry could even act to speak he was gone.

Lesson learned: subtlety was key. He could only hope he hadn't blown everything.