And now...The weather.

Chapter 4

It came as no surprise when the taunting started. The other Slytherins observed, not participating in the heckling but not interfering, either. They had learned long ago the consequences of mocking Tom Riddle, and so instead watched eagerly as foolhardy Gryffindors displayed less caution. In this the Slytherins acted more as vultures than snakes, waiting for someone else to make the kill and then gleefully feasting on the remains.

Tom had won over the majority of the student body, of course, but there were always those who resented the most popular and brilliant.

"I must say, Riddle," MacDougal blustered, conversation's dropping off to listen to the confrontation. "I heard about how you dosed Potter with a love potion, but I can honestly say that I didn't believe it until now. I had no idea you were so desperate for a lay."

A couple of the imbecile's friends laughed while several of the Slytherins hissed, and even many of the Gryffindor's outside of his immediate group glared or looked on disapprovingly. Tom kept his face carefully blank, gently setting down his pen before raising his gaze with deliberate calm. He'd need to proceed cautiously; it was just before Transfiguration, and while Dumbledore hadn't arrived yet, Tom had no delusions as to who the professor would blame if he let the insults get out of hand.

"I'm sure you've heard by now that Potter's predicament was an accident," he said delicately, setting the crude rumors to rest. He would wait for the right moment to strike, when it was beyond reproach.

"An accident, sure," MacDougal drawled. "I understand."

"I'm sure you're very understanding of accidents," Potter spoke up unexpectedly, his voice dripping with false sympathy. Tom tensed; a love-stricken statement was the last thing he needed right now- "I'll bet you said the same thing to your mother after she had you."

MacDougal spluttered while several students let out surprised bursts of nervous laughter, and Tom's mouth snapped shut. Normally Potter kept to himself, and somehow that made his abrupt viciousness all the more shocking, especially for the rest of the class who had barely ever heard him speak. While his insult was unrefined, the direct approach might serve Potter well in this particular situation—he faced a Gryffindor, after all—although Tom could never do the same due to his own sophisticated persona.

"You're not in the right mind, Potter," MacDougal spat between his teeth, eyes darting around irritably at the jeering audience. "Riddle put you under a spell."

"And yet even when I'm not in the right mind, I still have more of one than you," Potter said thoughtfully, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "What's the matter, MacDougal? Jealous that you're not the one under Tom's spell?"

More titters; Potter had now completely won over the audience, even the ones who had been indifferent before. Jeering whispers targeted MacDougal now, and he didn't take well to the abrupt change in atmosphere.

"You little half-blood whore-" MacDougal snarled.

"Mr. MacDougal," a sharp voice came from behind him. The laughter cut off as Dumbledore strode towards the front of the room, his eyes not twinkling even a bit. "Five points from Gryffindor for language. I'm disappointed, I expected better of you."

"Bringing blood into it," Lucretia Black murmured to her sister from behind him, while Dumbledore started with the lecture. "Terribly gauche."

"Really, though, I have wondered how a bastard child got into Slytherin," Walburga sniffed, not at all bothering to keep her voice down. "Is he really half-blood? None of the other girls seem to know, but if MacDougal found out something-"

Tom watched as Potter clenched the quill in his hands, obviously paying more attention to the gossip behind them than the lecture, but his gaze remained steadily on the professor. Tom suddenly remembered Potter's comment, on how nobody deserved to have their secrets spilled to the school, and wondered if the boy's composure stemmed from an acclimation to such comments. It presented a good opportunity to fish for information, enough to risk a quiet conversation during a lesson.

"She's lucky the other girls have such unreliable information," Tom said softly, so that only Potter could hear. "Lest the rumors that she has Banshee blood be proved."

Potter snorted, shoulders perceptibly losing some of their tension. "I'd personally been betting on mandrakes. It'd explain why her screeching isn't fatal. Yet."

Tom paused, mildly surprised that Potter hadn't started pestering him with questions or proclaiming his love. He supposed the third day had almost passed, so the effects wouldn't be as intense as the initial reaction. Perhaps Potter had...gotten it out of his system, after their encounter this morning. Careful to keep his voice down, he couldn't help but resist making one more comment, leaning closer to the other boy to ensure Walburga wouldn't hear.

"She sent a singing valentine to Lestrange last year," he confided with mock solemnity. "Her voice was so terrible that he thought it was a howler."

Potter smothered an all-out laugh at that, resting his chin in his hand so he could muffle it with his palm. His own lips twitched, but he carefully wiped off his smirk, his face the picture of innocence when they earned a disapproving frown from Dumbledore. To his surprise, Potter mimicked the faux innocence almost as quickly.

"Did you have a question, Mr. Potter?" Dumbledore asked, doubtlessly believing that Tom would easily dodge the same question if confronted instead. He was right, of course.

"He didn't want to interrupt the lecture, sir," Tom said smoothly, regardless of Dumbledore's intentions. "But he noticed that our textbook described a metamorphmagus as a witch or wizard who could perform human transfiguration with little effort and no wand. The teacher from his previous school, however, suggested that this was a poor description, given that most metamorphmagi cannot transfigure themselves into non-organic objects, not even partially. How would you explain the disparity?"

"I believe I was asking Mr. Potter, Tom," Dumbledore replied sternly, unsmiling.

"I was embarrassed to ask, sir," Potter said quickly, with ostensible sincerity. "Sorry. Sir."

Dumbledore studied them for a long moment. "No reason to be embarrassed, Mr. Potter. You should never be ashamed for seeking answers to your questions."

The professor moved on at that, jumping right into the next topic so smoothly that no one even noticed that he hadn't provided the sought answer, but nevertheless kept an eye on them for the rest of the period. Tom kept his expression carefully neutral, studiously taking notes despite already having read extensively on the topic.

They didn't speak again, but Potter kept lightly knocking their ankles and knees together, oblivious of Tom's attempts to keep distance between them.

ooo

Whispers about Potter's outburst travelled the school, as rumors tended to within the walls of Hogwarts. When they arrived at dinner, both he and Potter received their fair share of glances, murmurs of love potion and MacDougal echoing quietly across the room. Hopefully something more interesting would capture the student body's attention by tomorrow, lest the gawking continued, but he couldn't say that the lack of decorum surprised him.

The attention did catch Potter off guard, however, although the boy surprised him at how quickly he caught on. He noticed the reaction almost immediately upon entering the Great Hall and scowled fiercely, his posture growing defensive, but he recovered quickly, setting his jaw and striding to the table with his head held high. The boy made no comment, but that wouldn't do. Tom wanted to know why Potter seemed accustomed to the gawking.

"It seems you've attracted unwanted notice," he said, observing the boy carefully while he did.

Potter stopped scanning the hall, his eyes flickering back to Tom. He could never seem to stop looking, constantly peeking over at him, even when speaking with other people. The boy had frequently watched him even before he'd been influenced by the potion, but now he was less subtle, unashamed of his gaze or his obvious yearning. Tom wondered if the love potion caused the conspicuity, or if his acknowledgement of the boy's existence was partially to blame.

"Some things never change," Potter said dryly, confirming his suspicion before hesitating, biting his lip. "Did you...did you want me to sit somewhere else?"

"You wish to sit elsewhere?" Tom asked, raising his brow.

He thought for a moment that the potion had worn off early, because even if only a few effects lingered, Potter should want to stay as close to him as possible, no matter what Tom wanted. After all, the boy had tracked him down across the entirety of the school yesterday, regardless of Tom's personal desires, so his sudden change of heart made little sense.

"No, but the rumors probably bother you, and I don't want to ruin your image," Potter explained, shoulders slumped. "I know you put a lot of effort into looking like the perfect Head Boy, and I'm messing it up. I picked a fight with a Gryffindor in front of an entire class."

So love potion or not, Potter knew that his facade was of his own making.

With the boy's unusual reactions, Tom reluctantly had to admit that the case would have been mildly fascinating, if he hadn't been the unfortunate target of the boy's affections. Tom never much cared for emotions, too messy and unscientific, but he'd long since learned how to predict them, and Potter somehow managed to defy expectations even while obeying them.

Love potions generally made the victim a slave to the target's will: Potter should want to do whatever Tom said, unable to refuse direct requests. He should think of nothing except proximity and winning his affections, and struggle to go for more than a few minutes without commenting on his undying love. He should be practically mindless.

Certainly, Potter was more disposed to behave this way, but he also managed to resist these general expectations on various occasions. Potter worked around the potion, twisting the falsified emotions to justify his own preferences, suggesting a very strong will.

The boy avoided certain actions, despite Tom ordering him otherwise, deliberately risking his wrath. He controlled the fabricated emotions as he wished. Rather than telling Tom everything because he "loved" him, the boy kept things from him, declaring it in Tom's best interest—because he "loved" him. The same motive, used to justify contrary ideas. He obeyed Tom's will, but only when it benefited him or required little sacrifice.

Tom could respect a strong will, especially if it worked to his benefit.

"I would say MacDougal provoked the fight," Tom said lightly, coming to a decision. "You merely retaliated. Not in the most Slytherin manner, perhaps, but no reason to eat alone. Sit."

And Harry sat. Eventually students began to pay more attention to their own food than his and Potter's, and so dinner proved tolerable. The boy's behavior had certainly improved since the first day, providing no constant questioning, and his presence did drive away the obsequious lowlifes that he normally had to humor. The besotted looks repelled the usual sycophants; they repelled Tom as well, but unlike the others, he had no escape. Still, aside from the occasional love-sick proclamations scattered about, the boy conversed with him better than most of the others, preferable even to Abraxas or Cygnus. He wasn't exceptionally brilliant, not like Tom, but he managed above average conversation, and he had a sharp tongue and dry wit.

That wasn't quite it, though. Abraxas and Cygnus were certainly more sly, Tom mused. The difference was that Potter had the wit, but not the desire or the experience necessary to manipulate him, more careless with his words and lacking any subservient respect. He proclaimed his affection often, but he never demanded any recompense, and actually alluded to the fact that he knew very well that Tom felt nothing in return.

And it was painfully obvious that the boy had no political or social ambition whatsoever.

"Frowning like that tends to encourage them," Tom said when Potter sent yet another particularly vicious glare at a peeping Gryffindor girl.

"My existence tends to encourage them," he muttered mutinously, although he went back to his meal. He spoke with his mouth full, much to Tom's disgust. "Honestly, what's so interesting about a fight between a Gryffindor and a Slytherin? It's not like I defeated a Dark Lord or fought a dragon."

"Nothing, really," Tom said easily. "Except that you're new and no one knows anything about you, you spilled a love potion and got yourself infatuated with the Head Boy, and then you suddenly quarreled with one of the Gryffindor beaters. Despite lacking any redeeming features whatsoever, the idiot is rather popular due to Quidditch."

"Half the school is infatuated with you," Potter said matter-of-factly, before his face softened sickeningly. "Of course, I love you the most."

"I'm sure," Tom said sourly, having given up informing him that it was a love potion, since the idiot always seemed to mysteriously mishear.

"There's a game on Saturday, isn't there?" Potter mused, gaze sliding over to MacDougal after he'd been sufficiently reassured that yes, Tom was well aware of his nauseatingly persistent ardor. "He looks like he'd mistake his own head for a bludger. Hell, I'd mistake his head for a bludger. I should've been a beater."

"You play Quidditch?" Tom asked disinterestedly, not at all surprised. When the potion's effects had been worse, Potter had asked him countless questions about the sport, now that bothered to think about it.

"Seeker," Potter confirmed. "I transferred in after try-outs, though. Why don't you play? You'd be good at flying. You're good at everything."

Potter gave him a saccharine smile, and Tom clenched his teeth, stifling his irritation. Conversations went much more smoothly when he didn't snap at Potter for his potion-induced comments, because if he did, the boy went on about apologies and made even more proclamations of love because he thought that Tom didn't believe him.

He almost forced a humble denial past his lips, but then stopped consideringly, and in the end simply continued his dinner. Love potion or not, Potter had been at least partially aware of his true personality before the incident, and had never told. With the oath, Tom decided he could let the mask slip, just a little.

"I have more important things to do than chasing after balls and flying on plebeian cleaning devices," he said instead. "Being good at 'everything' means that I have better things to be good at than senseless games."

To Tom's surprise the boy only snorted. "I feel like I should be offended, but you would say that. Don't you at least have to pretend to care a little, because it's so popular? What would the others say if they heard you insulting the Quidditch Cup?"

"You're not the others, are you?" Tom asked after a pause, almost automatically. People always did want to think they were special. After a brief moment of deliberation, he leaned over the table, experimentally speaking in a soft, seductive voice. He looked up at Potter with half-lidded eyes. "You're not going to tell on me, are you?"

He thought if there was ever a time to practice using this particular aspect of his charms, it might as well be on someone already infatuated with him, who wouldn't expect him to follow through. He couldn't embarrass himself too terribly, and even if Potter told, everyone would credit any insults to the boy's humiliation over the whole incident. Yesterday had proven he lacked skills in the area.

He didn't embarrass himself, regardless. He observed carefully as Potter's breath caught, and if he looked closely, the boy's eyes had even dilated. His fork hovered halfway between his plate and his mouth, treacle tart forgotten. Tom smirked, and Potter's face flushed a terribly satisfying red.

"I-" Potter stuttered, his gaze visibly trapped on Tom's lips. "I mean, um. Of course I won't. I wouldn't."

"I believe you, Harry," Tom practically crooned. He went back to his food, but the love-struck fool stared at him for several more seconds before apparently remembering his hovering fork. Tom's smirk widened.

Really, Potter made it too easy.

ooo

You know, I came to a realization the other day. Harry's name is terrible for ship names. ALL of the HP character names are terrible for ship names. Like, Drarry? It sounds like dreary. Tomarry? Sort of cute, I guess, but I'm not 100% sure it suits them. Tom destroying Harry's childhood? Adorable.

Also, how do you put Hermione with anybody? Termione...termite. Or who starts with an L? Lione...

And I don't even know what Tom and Draco would be. I don't personally ship them, but if it's Taco, I will be the happiest person.