October 1991

As the first few weeks of school passed, Harry began to realise that a half-blood orphan with dead and disgraced parents had little place in Slytherin. He wondered if the Hat had made a mistake— Slytherin was not helping him in any way to greatness at all. In fact, Harry felt significantly less great in Slytherin than when he was still in Egladus.

From the get-go, the First Year Slytherins had formed into different cliques; Draco Malfoy instantly became the de-facto leader of a select group of children with Death Eater parents. His crew consisted of Vincent Crabbe, Gregory Goyle, Blaise Zabini and Pansy Parkinson, whom even Malfoy did not seem to appreciate the presence of. She was, from what Harry could see, under the impression that they were going to get married someday.

Theodore Nott was a curiosity; he did not join any of the gangs formed, he was a loner, floating around from group to group. He was even cordial with Harry, who Malfoy's gang had already marked as an outsider. There was nothing beyond polite but meaningless nods of acknowledgement or the occasional smile in greeting, but they made Harry feel a little less invisible.

Then there was the girls' group, Daphne Greengrass, Tracey Davis, Millicent Bulstrode and a few other girls Harry hadn't learnt the names of. And no matter how desperately he longed for friends, Harry refused to hang around them. He's a boy, after all.

There were also a few more ragtag groups of friends in his year that also tended to avoid Harry like he housed the plague. They might not necessarily believe very strongly in pure-blood supremacy, but they did believe that Malfoy's gang could make their lives very difficult if they accepted Harry into their group. They were polite, but distant.

Eventually, Harry accepted his position as a loner with resignation. He knew he still had Hermione, but he could not count on Ravenclaw and Slytherin house being joined in every single one of his classes. He already knew that they only shared Magical Arts and Transfiguration classes.

While Harry had always known that Malfoy took an immediate dislike to him, he had not done anything outwardly hostile until nearly two weeks into the school year. That did not mean he couldn't sense the animosity radiating from the group, and the distaste and blood supremacist attitudes veiled behind a picture of pure-blood stoicism, but it was only unleashed after their second Potions class.

They had been learning how to concoct a Cure for Boils, and Harry worked fast and efficiently with Theodore Nott as his partner. There was a bit of a commotion when Pansy Parkinson slid into the seat next to Draco Malfoy when he had wanted to work with Blaise Zabini, and Zabini attempted to kick Harry out of his place next to Nott. It was all put to an end when Professor Slughorn walked in and arranged for Zabini to work with a Gryffindor boy who was also partner-less.

Harry had already gained quite a bit of favour with Professor Slughorn for having managed to answer the questions he had asked him in class by reading ahead. He had already brought Slytherin six points in that lesson alone.

He ignored the minor argument brewing between Parkinson and Malfoy about which direction to stir the potion to obtain the best results. The girl's arguments were thwarted by Malfoy boasting of the fact that he had been tutored in Potions by Headmaster Snape, who was the youngest Potions Master in Britain. Harry saw Nott roll his eyes at the blond boy, carefully extracting four measures of crushed snake fangs that Harry had ground up in a mortar. He added them into the cauldron while Harry monitored the temperature of their potion. When it was done, they bottled the potion in silence, writing their names on the bottle for submission. Professor Slughorn walked past their shared workstation and picked up their vial of Boils Cure. Uncorking the bottle, a plume of reddish-pink smoke mushroomed out of the bottle.

"Oh, well done, Mr. Potter, Mr. Nott! You might have stirred the potion a little too vigorously, that would account for the red tint to the smoke, but other than that, your potion is nearly a perfect blue. A wonderful effort from the both of you: take ten points for Slytherin!" Harry couldn't resist the urge to share a smile with Nott as Professor Slughorn ambled past. The thin boy simply looked at him with satisfaction glistening in his eyes.

Nott sniggered softly when he overheard Professor Slughorn comment on the potion Malfoy had bottled with Parkinson, "Hmm, the smoke is a rather dark red, the two of you must have stirred your potion too fast," he inspected the potion's colour through the bottle. "You would want the colour to be darker for a more potent Boil Cure. Not a bad effort Mr. Malfoy, Miss Parkinson." Malfoy had been terribly unhappy with Parkinson after class, blaming her for having to rush their brewing at the end and for her crudely crushed snake fangs. Harry had snorted a little too loudly, and had consequently been on the receiving end of a vicious glare from Malfoy.

Upon returning to his common room after lunch, Harry found Malfoy lounging on the black couches scattered in the middle of the common room with his gang. The fireplace cast an eerie glow on the room, and under normal circumstances Harry would have walked past without paying them much mind, but with the many pairs of eyes fixated on his every move, he slowed to a halt a distance away from the sofas. Seeing that he had Harry's attention, Malfoy stood up and glared at Harry.

"Do you know who I am, Potter?" He drawled with a practiced ease, one eyebrow raised. Harry didn't answer.

"Since you're unable to answer such a simple question, let me make it plain as day for you, Potter. I am a Malfoy, and in the Dark Lord's favour, while you are nobody half-blood with a blood-traitor father and a mudblood mother. Do not cross me."

Harry fought the urge to argue. Why is it that as a half-blood, he was automatically below the pure-bloods? He has seen Crabbe, Goyle and Parkinson's work in class and he can conclusively state that they were far worse than him. Regardless, his few weeks in Slytherin has taught him self-preservation, and he nodded mutely. Malfoy seemed satisfied with his silent submission, and gestured for the rest to leave for the Transfiguration classroom.

Harry groaned in frustration the second the entrance became a blank wall once more. Perhaps he should have asked the Hat to put him in Ravenclaw instead. At least Hermione did not seem miserable. Maybe even Gryffindor would be better. He quickly gathered his things and made his way out the common room. He had a class to attend and he was going to be late.

At the end of the school day, Harry met up with Hermione at a table in the more secluded areas of the library to get their homework done and to catch up. Harry was not in the mood to start on his Potions essay that required him to summarise the uses of the key ingredients in the Forgetfulness Potion they would be starting on next week during Double Potions. Hermione had noticed his mood and asked what was wrong. Harry sighed. "I'm just wondering if maybe the Sorting Hat made a mistake when it put me in Slytherin… I'm nothing like the rest of my housemates!"

Hermione stopped working on her homework to look at him. "Harry, I don't think the Hat would put you in Slytherin if it didn't think you would do well there. You know, it really considered me for Slytherin too, and I thought it was a great house, so I didn't mind, but it told me the prejudice against muggle-borns there would not have been beneficial to me. It thought about putting me in Gryffindor too, until it ultimately decided that my talents would only be properly appreciated in Ravenclaw." Hermione paused to make sure Harry was listening. "I think the Hat really puts a lot of thought into where it sorts the students. I think it knows you have the potential to rise above all of that blood supremacy silliness." Harry smiled shyly at Hermione's confident words.

"Thanks, 'Mione. I don't know what I'll do without you."

Despite the reassuring study session with Hermione, Harry had to face the reality that the animosity between the pure-blood party and himself had not died down. If anything, it had worsened tenfold. It consisted of simple things, such as Malfoy wrinkling his nose when he walked into the room, saying, "Did you smell that?" He would look up, feign shock and gasp, "Oh, it's just the filthy blood polluting the room! Let's go before we catch something."

And it escalated to jinxes and hexes being thrown at him in his corner of his dorm. One night, he discovered that someone had cursed his bed to make a deafening amount of noise when he closed the drapes around the four-poster, ranging from the loud chatter of the Great Hall during meals to pronounced slurs to his blood status. He had gotten virtually no sleep that night. Thankfully, it wore off by the next night, because Harry really did not want to tattle to Professor Slughorn.

The bell signaled, and Harry made his way down to the Quidditch pitch for his first Flying lesson of the year. He had previously heard Malfoy boasting that he had been flying on broomsticks since he was six and had the latest Nimbus 2000 at home. Though he pointedly did not look forward to another lesson with Malfoy which constituted listening to his egotistical yapping, Harry could not deny the fact that he was very excited. Nervous, yes, but excited nonetheless.

When Madam Hooch began the lesson and taught them how to summon their brooms and grip it properly to prevent themselves from falling off, it turns out Harry didn't have to worry about Malfoy's boasting. "No, not like that, boy! Your grip is all wrong!" Madam Hooch had exclaimed incredulously when she rounded on the blond scion.

"But I've been doing this all my life!" Came the boy's indignant, haughty voice.

"Then you've been doing it wrong all your life!" Harry smothered his laughter, bowing his head to hide the grin threatening to show on his face as Malfoy muttered, "bloody old hag" at Madam Hooch's retreating back. And when Madam Hooch complimented his grip he could not suppress his grin any longer, until he saw Malfoy glaring daggers at him, after which he schooled his expression into one of neutrality.

They flew around the pitch for a while with no incident, during which Malfoy trailed annoyingly close to him. He tried to swerve around the boy and his companions until suddenly, he felt his broom shake, like someone flying at high speeds beside him, and then, as he was distracted, a broom came up next to him and before he could even get a good view of who it was, large hands shoved him off his Cleansweep broom.

The moment was surreal; he heard screams of students and he thanked himself in that moment for choosing not to fly too high above the ground. He landed with a rather loud thud and an agonising pain shot through his right arm which he had landed on. He groaned at the pain, and tried to shift his position to relieve some of the pressure. Madam Hooch rushed over and ordered him not to move. She made a thoughtful noise and muttered, "Fractured...". She cast some sort of spell that immobilised his right side and levitated him. She then turned to the rest of the class, who had all landed back on the ground, informing them that none were to be on their brooms in her absence.

Madam Hooch strode purposefully through the many hallways and corridors of Hogwarts before they arrived at the Infirmary. She deposited him on a bed, and introduced him to Madam Pomfrey who had walked hurriedly to their side when they first entered the Hospital Wing. They spoke briefly before the Matron cast a diagnostic spell on him. She sighed and clicked her tongue in disapproval. She tapped his arm with her wand and muttered, "Ferula". There was a strange tingling sensation before the pain subsided. She moved out of his view, and returned with a vial of something. "Drink this, Mr. Potter," she instructed, "It will help with the bruises from the fall." Harry held his breath and drank the potion, grimacing at the cold potion flowing down his throat and the bitter aftertaste it left in his mouth.

"I would like to keep you here until tomorrow for observation, Mr. Potter. It would give your bones more time to heal properly. Your diagnostic also tells me you're not sleeping enough, so I would like you to have a good night's rest here. Are you suffering from any night terrors, Mr. Potter?" she asked gently. Harry bit his lip, thinking about his occasional nightmares about the muggles he used to live with.

"Sometimes… not recently though."

"Just a bout of insomnia, then?" Harry hesitated, before agreeing with a nod. "Nothing a few Dreamless Sleep potions can't solve." Harry thanked Madam Pomfrey for her help and sunk deeper into his pillows. He fell asleep from sheer exhaustion of the day's tumultuous happenings.

He woke up a while later to find Hermione sitting on the chair next to his bed with a book on her lap. She looked up when she saw Harry shift in her periphery. "Harry!" she gasped, "Are you alright? I heard about your fall from Padma. Her sister's in Gryffindor and she saw what happened."

Harry groaned, feeling his parched throat and aching body. "D-does," he paused when his voice caught in his throat, accepting the glass of water Hermione held out for him. "Does everyone know about that now?" Hermione looked a little distressed, not wanting to upset him with the rumours going around.

"Draco Malfoy and some of the other Slytherins are saying you lost your balance and fell off… The Gryffindors that were present didn't really see what happened so that's the official story." Harry kept silent for a while.

"Somebody pushed me, Hermione," Harry confessed bitterly. Hermione gasped.

"Harry! You must tell a teacher! They can be expelled for that!"

Harry shrugged helplessly. "I don't think any of the pure-bloods can be expelled for anything." Hermione looked torn between accepting his logic and insisting that he report his year-mates for their actions. She too knew of the blatant favouritism accorded to pure-blood students. It was not nearly as bad in Ravenclaw, but it still happened.

They spoke about lighter things for a while, until Madam Pomfrey returned to kick Hermione out for staying long past visiting hours. Harry spent the rest of the day in utter boredom, trying to strike the perfect balance between ensuring his body didn't ache from staying in one position for too long and moving too much. When night fell, the Matron delivered a bottle of Dreamless Sleep potion as promised. Harry downed the small vial of purple potion and was lulled into a peaceful sleep.

When Harry woke up the next morning, he found Madam Pomfrey hovering nearby with her wand drawn over him. She smiled at his wide-eyed look, informing him that she was simply performing some medical tests to ensure he was fit for discharge. Harry relaxed and she continued her work. "Well then, Mr. Potter, you're free to go," she declared. "Do not engage in strenuous physical activity for the next week. The spell simply accelerates the process, your bones will still need another day or two to fully recover, and running around may cause pain." Harry nodded at the stern gaze before he got off the bed with a "thank you", and prepared to return to his common room.

When Harry walked into his dorm, he stopped short when confronted with Malfoy and his cronies. He had a terribly insincere smile on his face. "Hello, Potter," he greeted mockingly. "What do you say to a little duel to see who is the better wizard? No seconds, nothing deadly. If you win, you can hang with us."

Harry knew he should have just walked off, but his mouth had other plans. "And if I lost?" he blurted out. It seems like even a month in Slytherin couldn't wipe away his impulsive tendencies.

"Oh, just defeating you would be enough reward, Potter." Malfoy said casually.

Harry was almost entirely certain it was a trap, but once again, his mouth colluded with his pride, and he heard himself say, "Challenge accepted." When his actions caught up with his brain, Harry felt a wave of anxiety course through him, but it was too late to back out.

"Glad you agreed, Potter. Midnight, at the Trophy Room. It's always unlocked."

Harry nodded, the jerk of his head stubbornly refusing to betray any of the mounting unease he felt. Subconsciously, he knew he had been exceptionally foolish in agreeing to a duel with Malfoy, not only because it was likely the pure-blood had been exposed to far more spells than he had, but also because his wand arm was still barely healed. How was he supposed to duel in such a state?

Harry was pacing around the Trophy Room at 12.04 in the night. He was mostly invisible, having attempted to cast a Disillusionment Charm over himself in the bathroom earlier. He would not name the attempt successful, for he could see the ripples in the background as he walked back and forth in front of the mirror in the bathroom. When he tried to study himself closely in the mirror, he even noticed the clear outline of his head with several strands of hair still floating above his concealed body. He shrugged his worry away; the hallways would be too dark for someone to see him if they didn't know he was there. He was rather proud of himself for having achieved most of the desired effects of a Fifth Year spell. It had been something he picked up from studying through a library book about useful spells in hopes of leveling the odds of his upcoming duel.

Harry chose to take the time to look around the Trophy Room, wondering why it didn't occur to him that there would be trophies in the Trophy Room. He walked up to the biggest shields in the middle of the room. The gold plating reflected the light from the Lumos he casted.

Special Award for Services to the School

Awarded to TOM RIDDLE in the Academic Year of 1942-1943

Harry hummed at the name. He didn't think it sounded like the names of any of the pure-blood families he had heard of during his Wizarding Cultures and Traditions classes in Egladus. He wondered what Tom Riddle had done to obtain this award. He looked at some of the other Special Awards, finding many pure-blood names recognised dating all the way back to the 1600s. Harry moved on quickly, his attention drawn by the few plaques on the wall with the headings of Head Boy and Head Girl.

Once again, Harry saw the name Tom Riddle on the list. Overachiever, he thought ruefully. Moving further down the list, he found one James Potter. Harry felt his eyes widen. His father was the Head Boy during his time at Hogwarts? He looked across to the Head Girl plaque, finding a Lily Evans in the same year. Harry swallowed, and filed this precious tidbit of information about his parents away. He didn't know much about them beyond their names and actions during the War, but they can't have been bad people if they were made Head Boy and Girl.

Harry guessed he must have looked around the Trophy Room for at least ten minutes by then and still, Malfoy had not shown up. He stopped short as he realised abruptly. Malfoy had never planned on coming, Harry groused in his head. I suppose I've won by default then, Harry thought sarcastically. But something didn't add up… if this was a trap, then where was—

"Sniff around, my sweet, they might be lurking in a corner."

Harry hurriedly whispered Nox and in his panic, he almost dropped his wand. He snuck quietly to the door and thanked Merlin he was going slow, for Mrs. Norris, Filch's cat, was right in the doorway. She seemed to stare right at him and for a moment, Harry had worried his Disillusionment Charm had worn off. He sagged in relief when Mrs. Norris strolled right past him into the Trophy Room, holding in the cautious breath he was tempted to release. He made his quick escape, creeping slowly past Filch who was making his way down the wide fourth floor corridor that led to the Trophy Room. Filch didn't notice him inch his way past in the opposite direction, and when there was a suitably far distance between them, Harry quickened his pace, walking off blindly in whichever direction the corridor led.

In his paranoia, Harry had simply walked briskly forward while looking back every few seconds, just in case Filch and the cat was on his trail. His eyes could not see very well in the darkness of the hallways, and did not notice a tall, hooded figure walking towards him until they were scant metres apart. Harry held his breath, turning his body sideways in an effort to squeeze past the wizard next to him.

Just as he was certain he would make it past the man undetected, a pale hand shot out from under the cloak and gripped his shoulder tightly. Harry let out an involuntary gasp of shock and the fingers curled around his wand loosened and it clattered to the floor. In his shock, he lost the thread of control he held over the Disillusionment Charm and felt the sensation of cold liquid sliding off his body as the spell wore off.

"That was an abysmal Disillusionment Charm," commented the cloaked figure. Then Harry had felt eyes sizing him up. "You're rather short for a Fifth-Year," he remarked lightly. Though frozen with fear, Harry felt a prick of irritation at that comment. His height has always been a sensitive topic.

"I'm a First-Year!" he defended. The man remained silent, though he did tilt his head slightly. Harry swallowed nervously as the cloaked figure surveyed him.

"I should bring you to Severus. Your First-Year self can become closely acquainted with his most creative punishments," The man said offhandedly after a while. Harry gulped, but didn't dare say a word. The Headmaster was not known for his leniency. "What could a little Slytherin like you be doing out of bed at this hour, hmm?"

Not wanting to be brought to the Headmaster's office for attempting to have a duel on top of being caught out after curfew, Harry blurted out the first thing that came to mind without much thought.

"I sleepwalk!" Only after it came out of his mouth did Harry realise just how ridiculously implausible it was. The man laughed, sharp and cold, but his amusement rang true nonetheless.

"Do you normally retire under a Disillusionment Charm, then?" Harry blushed at the gaping hole in his lie, hoping the corridor was dark enough for the man to not be able to see his embarrassment. Who am I kidding, Harry thought miserably, embarrassment is probably the least of my worries right now. The man silently summoned Harry's wand off the floor and into his hand. The cloaked head tilted to look down at his wand. He twirled it around slowly.

"Tell me about your wand," the man asked in a tone that suggested he always got what he wanted. Harry floundered at the non-sequitur.

"I- uh… It- it's eleven inches of holly… phoenix feather core… nice and supple," he recalled from Mr. Ollivander.

The man hummed softly, and murmured, "It almost feels like my own."

Something else that Mr. Ollivander had said suddenly occurred to Harry, and he couldn't help but ask, "Are you the owner of my wand's brother?" The man glanced at him momentarily.

"Of course he told you," the man muttered. He was silent for a long time, before he answered with a simple, "Yes." Feeling a sudden sense of solidarity with the cloaked man growing, Harry plucked up the courage to make conversation with him.

"I've never seen you around before… Are you a- you know… Death Eater?" It was common knowledge that Death Eaters would occasionally grace the halls of Hogwarts. However, Harry was most certain Headmaster Snape had not said a word about this occurrence solely because he enjoyed seeing the students suffer in encounters gone awry with the more ruthless ones.

"You could say that…" the man had replied cryptically. He moved towards a room along the corridor they were in. It was only then did Harry have a chance to properly figure out where in the school he was. It was the fourth floor of the South Tower, near Classroom 98 where his Transfiguration classes were held. Harry watched as the man lowered his hood and through the moonlight streaming in from the windows of the classroom, he could make out pale skin, dark hair, a defined nose and dark eyes. The eyes were extremely alluring, almost as if they were glowing with a tinted hue he could not quite make out in the semi-darkness of the classroom.

"Mr. Ollivander told me that brother wands tend to turn up in families… Could we be family?" Harry asked quietly. The man turned to face Harry and Harry thought he looked vaguely familiar.

"What is your name, little Slytherin?" And when Harry told him, he scoffed slightly and said, "No. Our last common ancestor likely lived during the Middle Ages." Harry swallowed down his disappointment at that. Seeing his parents' names in the Trophy Room had stirred up a buried desire within him to meet his family.

"Oh… But we still have… similar magic… types, right?" Harry struggled to recall what exactly Mr. Ollivander had told him when he received his new wand. Harry saw the shadows move on the man's face when he frowned. Then, he closed his eyes and his lips quirked upwards in amusement.

"As you have crudely put it, we have similar magical signatures. Magical signatures are a manifestation of an individual's unique magical core, determined by the power of the latter." Harry thought he rather sounded like one of his teachers when they were lecturing about magical theory. It was all terribly interesting and Harry opened his mouth to ask more questions, before he was interrupted by the man, "I have a proposition for you." Harry gave him an anticipatory look.

"I will personally teach you about the magical arts," Harry's eyes widened. "If you accept my tutelage, all I ask of you is that you listen very attentively to all my instructions."

"Really?"

"Do I look like someone who has the time to play practical jokes on schoolchildren?" Harry wrung his hands together.

"But… why?" The man seemed irritated by his question.

"I am offering you an opportunity you will never see again. Are you so ungrateful as to refuse?" he said, his tone soft but deadly. Harry felt trapped, the stab of fear in his chest causing his initial wariness of the man to return in full force, prompting him to start explaining.

"No! I am grateful!" Harry assured him hastily, but added hesitantly thereafter, "I just… I just- Why me?" The man watched him, and Harry shrunk under his scrutiny.

"We have similar magical cores, Harry Potter. You are powerful; much more powerful than anyone you will meet here. Your potential will be wasted on the typical Hogwarts curriculum. If you wish to excel, I can bring you to greatness. The pure-bloods will bow and scrape at your power. You can have anything you wanted, if only you dared seek it. I am offering you the chance to take what you deserve." Harry's eyes were wide by the time the man finished speaking. He accepted before he considered the offer any further.

"Okay, I'll be your student… But-"

"You will have plenty of time to bombard me with questions in the future. You should return to your common room now." Harry realised it was probably quite late at this point. Still, he had one final burning question to ask.

"But I haven't gotten your name yet…" Harry must have caught the man off guard, for he looked contemplative and hesitant for a moment, almost as if he wasn't used to people asking for his name. Then his face contorted into what could best be described as a face one would make when they were angry. Harry stammered, "I-if you don't want to tell me… um… it's… alright."

The man sighed and then announced in a resigned tone, "It's… Tom Riddle."

"I saw your name in the Trophy Room! That's so amazing, Tom-" Tom made a vague noise of disgust which stopped Harry in his ramble.

"Don't-" The venom injected into that one word made Harry freeze, and 'Tom' cut himself off with an aggravated sigh, "You will call me Marvolo instead."

"Marvolo?" Harry did not understand why Tom Riddle would give him that name if he did not want Harry to use it.

"My middle name," he explained curtly. "I shall take my leave now, little Slytherin. I will be in contact with you." He glanced at Harry once more and gestured for him to come closer. He waved his hand, and Harry felt the familiar sensation of the Disillusionment Charm taking effect. Harry gasped when he looked down to see that he had indeed disappeared flawlessly. "It will fade in two hours."

"You just did wandless and nonverbal magic!" He said, shocked at the display of magical aptitude.

"I am well aware of that, little Slytherin. In time, you will learn to do the same," was his drawl of a response. He left the room before Harry could say goodbye.

As he strode quickly away from the South Tower, Lord Voldemort wondered why he felt a growing sense of protectiveness for the boy. It couldn't have just been that they held brother wands; his very magic was against the idea of hurting Harry Potter. It was a mystery he had to unravel, sooner rather than later, or someone might end up dead from his temper.

hope you enjoyed this! next chapter will be out next week. i would love to hear your thoughts on this one :)