Authors Note: Hi everyone, sorry for the late update. It's quite difficult to write consistently with my mental illness, but I do try. I think I might be getting a bit more consistent! I hope you like this chapter, and I'd love any reviews.
Chapter Two
He simply stared for a long moment, mind racing.
Oh Merlin. Of course he would be here. It's nineteen forty bloody four. How did I not realise this?
Greetings and waves from various students died out. It took him around five seconds to realise he had stopped still with what looked to be the eldest students of Slytherin House, Riddle's little circle, staring straight at him, with Riddle in the centre, curious. He gulped. "Hi."
"Tom Riddle. Pleasure to meet you." Riddle stood to lean over the table and extended a hand smoothly, those intense eyes never leaving Harry's. Harry felt an overwhelming sense of danger that Riddle knew, that he must have known who he was, who they were, and what they were to each other. Yet the man simply smiled, shark like, as they shook hands. "Sit down next to Abraxas, here, and let me introduce you to Slytherin House. You'll be in seventh year with us, yes?"
Harry felt like there was a stone in his throat he could barely breathe past. He sat reluctantly opposite Riddle, where the aforementioned Abraxas had moved to make space. "Yes, seventh year," he replied awkwardly, forcing his words out. Better off saying as little as possible around him, he thought darkly. Who can tell what he's capable of ... even at this point in time.
He was starting to make the connections as to why he had ended up in nineteen forty four; had his suspicions it was that rotten Horcrux inside him attempting to save itself. Logically he knew it shouldn't have even been possible, but with magic as black as what Voldemort had descended into, he couldn't rule anything out.
That perfectly placed smile never moved an inch as the future Dark Lord gestured around the table, introducing Harry to the seventh years of Slytherin House. "This is Abraxas Malfoy, Druella Rosier, Selene Avery, Alec Nott, Corban Rosier and Tobias Mulciber. All seventh years."
Harry made his greetings to everyone, faking as much politeness as he could muster, given who he was conversing with. The boy Harry had identified as a Malfoy, blond and austere, was Abraxas, and the dark haired girl next to him, Druella Rosier, simpered a hello, flicking her hair dismissively. The male Rosier and Nott flanked Riddle on either side, with Mulciber, large and bodyguard-like, to the far left. Selene Avery, a thin girl with pale skin and light brown hair, was the only one who didn't seem altogether intimidating, smiling and greeting Harry with enthusiasm. Regardless, Harry knew the family name, and boxed his judgements away for future examination.
From there on, the table settled back into conversation. For all intents and purposes, Riddle came across as a normal, pleasant, polite student; clearly the leader of his circle, but benign nonetheless. His pale, handsome face and high cheekbones were clearly part of the attraction for the fawning admirers surrounding him ... and from what Harry knew of Riddle's school days, he suspected those admirers were ever present. Dark brown curls, cut short, accentuated his strong, masculine features. Grudgingly, Harry admired the meticulous construction of the mask the dark wizard wore - because make no mistake, he knew just how much of a mask it really was, and the sickness it was hiding. The man was already blacker than black. The murder of his own flesh and blood at such a young age surely had to have caused an irreparable tear in the soul, and the creation of a Horcrux would only exacerbate it, bleeding it into a permanent wound.
He flinched, focus snapping back as he noticed those dark eyes boring into his. He realised he must have been staring rather intently, because Riddle's gaze had sharpened. All of a sudden he seemed to be analysing and assessing Harry, inch by inch. Harry felt like a potions ingredient being picked apart, cut up, ready to be tossed into a toxic vat, and resolved to be much more careful with every move he made, every facet of his personality he dared show while in the presence of this dangerous man. Thankfully at that moment, the Headmaster announced the feast, and Riddle's attentions were distracted by everyone else's exclaims of delight.
Usually not one for obsessing over food, Harry found himself rather captivated. It had been far too long since he had enjoyed a Hogwarts feast. Those long, cold months spent camping in the tent with little to go on had thinned him out, even though he had little on his bones in the first place. His hunger, completely disregarded within the danger of battle, had now reawakened with full force. An enticing array of roast chicken, duck, veal and pork was arranged on silver platters, with giant bowls of mashed potato, Yorkshire puddings and various other sides laid neatly around. The delicious scent of seasoning wisped through the Hall, making Harry crave to fill the aching hunger he had been carrying for so long while on the run. It brought back to mind bittersweet memories of his first Hogwarts feast, when he had been so starved by the Dursleys for so long that he could barely comprehend the sight in front of him.
"So, Harry," the witch named Selene said brightly, eyeing him as he immediately reached for a plate. "It's rather curious for someone to decide to come to Hogwarts so late. Have you been at another wizarding school? Durmstrang, perhaps?"
Fuck, I should have thought so much more about this, Harry cursed inwardly. "Ah - yes, I have been studying at Durmstrang for the past six years."
Undeterred by his shortness, Selene pressed on. "Then why did you leave? It is quite an unusual situation, given you only have one more year left. You sound British. Why didn't you study here in the first place?"
"Try not to bombard him with too many questions, Avery. It's a little rude," Riddle said, and the aforementioned witch turned scarlet, ducking her head slightly. The dark wizard's expression was still pleasant, but his eyes were like blades. "But I am curious to know ... Potter, was it? I am curious to know how you came to be here at such a late point."
Harry grimaced internally ... this level of scrutiny from Riddle of all people was already too much. He drew on a little bit of warped reality, past and present, to weave his next set of lies, hoping it would make them easier to keep track of. "Well, I was happy at Durmstrang, but there was fear of an attempt by the Dark wizard Grindelwald to take over the school, so my ... godfather withdrew me. He says there's too much risk there, and it's much safer here."
"Can't see anything wrong with a takeover myself," Druella chimed in, arching a dark brow. She looked Harry up and down as she sipped from her goblet, gaze disparaging. "We should hope to have our school run by one of our own. Merlin knows that old muggle loving fool, Dippet, will no doubt be going senile shortly."
Harry felt anger burning in his veins, but forced himself to simmer. What else would I expect from an ancestor of Bellatrix Lestrange? The resemblance is even clearer now. "Regardless, my godfather wanted me away from the situation for my own safety, given Grindelwald's violent methods."
"Understandable," Riddle interjected. "Self preservation is key, after all. One of the noble attributes of Slytherin House. So, you're a Potter ... but you've been under the care of your godfather?"
Harry stiffened. "My parents are dead. I've lived with my godfather for much of my life."
If only, he thought sadly.
"I'm sorry to hear that." Riddle didn't sound even a little sorry to his ears, but the table murmured in agreement. "It is interesting that you went to Durmstrang in the first place. As Selene says, you do sound British. Most of us would automatically go to Hogwarts. Why there? Which House were you in?"
What a controlling hypocrite you are, Riddle, Harry thought scathingly. No one else can ask questions, but you can pry as much as you like? You think everything is yours to take.
"I'm feeling a little bombarded with questions, right now, Tom," he said succinctly, picking up his knife and fork and turning to his neighbour. "So, Abraxas, what should I know about Slytherin House?"
Druella sputtered. Clearly startled by Harry's choice of focus, Abraxas began to explain the details, while Tom Riddle simmered. Looking away resolutely, Harry could still feel veiled rage emanating from Riddle through the Horcrux, unfiltered and brutal, even as he knew that outwardly he would be calmly conversing with his peers, still wearing that carefully curated smile.
Later that evening, Harry sat in the dim green light of the Slytherin common room on a corner chair, watching the seventh years catch up raucously on the sofas. He, on the other hand, felt he had struggled through their conversations for long enough. The combination of having to be actively polite to people who were very likely to be future Death Eaters and also having to weave twenty lies an hour was growing taxing, but he couldn't quite work out when to make his exit. He didn't want to risk catching any more ... unwanted attention.
Tom Riddle had seemed rather irritated to say the least with Harry's distinct lack of interest in him at the Slytherin table. Harry surmised Riddle wasn't quite used to not being worshipped by his peers, and he certainly wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of converting to type, the thought was sickening - but he didn't want to piss him off too much by being completely hostile either. As hard as it would be, neutral would be his best bet, and attract the least amount of attention.
Though he stayed quiet and unassuming, he felt Riddle's gaze, unwavering, burning into his skull. He dared to look for a second and then looked away instantly. His skin prickled with fear. Stop looking at me for Gods sake. Why can't you even leave me alone when you don't know who I am?
The small table in the centre of the space was currently littered with several semi empty bottles of elf made merlot. Harry didn't even want to know how the Slytherins smuggled that in. Selene and much of the seventh years outside of Riddle's circle had departed early to bed, leaving Harry feeling like he was being pried open by untrustworthy eyes. Corban Rosier, who seemed to be the sane sibling by all accounts, had already offered him a drink, but he dared not let a drop pass his lips.
Riddle sat in the middle of his group, goblet in hand. His body language was confident and sprawled, with Mulciber to his left and Druella Rosier to his right. She seemed to laugh at anything Riddle said, her eyes glittering with greed as she stared at him. Looks like crazy runs in the family, Harry thought derisively. The man seemed to only tolerate her presence for the most part, responding charmingly to her comments, but maintaining a level of physical distance on the settee.
At one point she laughed and rested her hand softly on Riddle's arm, and Harry saw him visibly tense, disgust flickering through the link, even as he smirked winningly back at her and countered her point. "Oh I agree, Muggle Studies is an essentially worthless subject. No one would miss Professor Imphis and her silly little lies if she was to depart. But I would not leave Hogwarts with anything less than an O in every subject, and everyone here should strive for the same. One day, someone can use the power they attain to change things around a little here."
Harry bristled as he picked up on the conversation, the words jamming on all his triggers.
Druella rolled her eyes, lip curled, and rubbed a hand along Riddle's forearm before drawing away. "You are right, as usual, Tom. I just find it unbearable having some jumped up old Mudblood stood in one of our historical classrooms lecturing us on how to behave around Muggles. It's disgusting! And pointless."
"Hear, hear," Malfoy agreed, raising his goblet of wine unsteadily. The blond man had looked so uptight and formal at the Feast, but a few drinks later and he seemed to have come out of his shell. His pale eyes, wilder and looser with alcohol, spun to Harry. "Say, Potter, you are of pure blood, aren't you? We don't usually get the Mudblood filth sorted into this House. Think the Hat knows they wouldn't last long."
Blood pressure rocketing, Harry remained quiet in yet another internal battle to not lose his shit.
Most of the table snorted at the Malfoy heir's remarks, but Corban Rosier sneered. "Are you that drunk, Malfoy? He's a Potter. How many Mudblood Potters have you ever heard of?"
"They're all Gryffindors though. Normally. Not exactly as ... clean a palate as us, so to speak."
Not so subtly looking down her nose at Harry, Druella decided to pipe up. "Could be of weaker blood for all we know. Who are his parents?"
"I hardly think that's any of your business," Harry replied coldly, eyes trained on the dark haired witch.
She snarled, probably about to retort something predictably venomous back, when Riddle leaned forward in his seat, entering the fray.
"Now, now, everyone," he said, voice dripping with danger, while staring straight into Harry's eyes. "You're being exceptionally rude to our newest student. He has just joined us; he may as well be a guest at this stage - where are your manners? This is embarrassing behaviour."
Riddle's words immediately quelled everyone into silence. Malfoy shrank back in his seat, while Druella's now closed mouth remained twisted in malevolence.
The future Dark Lord continued. "As Corban says, the Potter family is an exceedingly well known pureblood line. I'm not sure how you all have managed to forget basic pureblood history, but it is a family held in high esteem indeed, albeit not considered one of the Sacred Twenty Eight. Potter is no Mudblood filth."
Harry had no idea why a future Voldemort was defending him against a horde of Slytherins, but he wasn't about to complain.
Until it was ruined, of course.
"Never know though, could be half blood filth," Riddle added with a smirk. The group laughed along with him as if it was all one big joke, collectively eyeing Harry up, not quite cruel but not quite kind.
His jaw could have dropped. The fucking hypocrisy. You, with your blood? I don't know how you dare. Abruptly, he stood and moved towards the stairs leading down to the boys dormitories.
"Where are you going, Potter?"
Twitching violently, Harry kept moving to disguise it, not even turning his head in acknowledgement. "I'm off to bed. Need an early night." His tone was clipped.
"If you must. Stairs to the right, all the way down. The free bed is at the back, to the left." He seemed to wait for a response from Harry, who simply walked on and started descending the stairs. "Thank you, Head Boy," the man mocked, and Harry heard Riddle's little circle titter and guffaw as he left.
Once in the relative safety of the empty dormitory, he dropped his head in his hands and sighed deeply, before moving to the only bed with no possessions near it. Heavily he flopped down, and wondered just what the fuck had happened to him in the last twenty four hours. Both mental and physical exhaustion were eating away at him, but even though he longed to close his eyes and seep into sleep, his mind was filled with static and confusion. It was an insane struggle just to try and wrap his head around the situation he found himself in, and now he was alone, really alone, it was hitting him like a Confundus to the head.
He rolled over. His bed was right next to a window looking out into the Black Lake. The view of the bottom of the Lake was eerie in its muted green desertion, the odd fish jittering past before disappearing into the murk. He felt like a shark might crash through and devour him at any moment.
Drawing the curtains of the four poster with a flick of the hawthorn wand, he warded himself in heavily and attempted to settle. He closed his eyes, attempted to drift. Almost there.
Then blood and gore and battle seared across his vision, white hot and loud and terrible. He gasped, eyes peeling open, heart racing, the Horcrux like a tumour in his head.
No rest for the wicked, his mind mocked. He closed his eyes again firmly, tears leaking against the sheets.
The next morning, Harry walked into the sparsely populated Potions classroom, quietly setting down his textbooks on a table towards the back. Just a few other students, mostly Ravenclaws, had arrived, and there was barely any sound other than the scratching of quills. Having skipped breakfast after his fitful sleep, mainly to avoid Riddle and his little Death Eaters in training, he had arrived fairly early. He was hoping to go relatively unnoticed by both the class and Slughorn, who no doubt he knew he would have to deal with again in this time. He could not be blindsided by this time period again, not like he was with Riddle after the Sorting. He had to prepare for every eventuality. How possible that was going to be as a member of Slytherin House under the unofficial rule of a future Dark Lord, however, he wasn't quite sure.
His concerns were solidified when said future Dark Lord walked in not long after, all tall and smirking and undeservedly handsome, and promptly walked towards Harry's table. "Hello, Potter. Mind if I sit with you today? I can get you up to speed on where we are in the curriculum."
Of course, without even waiting for a response, Riddle promptly sat down.
Harry raised a brow. "Sure my blood isn't too dirty to be anywhere near you?"
"You tell me, Potter," the taller replied calmly, setting down his textbooks and opening his notes with a flourish. They looked extremely detailed, the black writing flowing elegantly in loops. Harry felt cold at his recognition of that handwriting. "Although I find I have little interest, compared to my peers."
Speechless for a moment, Harry collected his wits slowly. "You? You have little interest in blood status?"
Riddle stared at him. "I know you are no Mudblood, and that is good enough for me. Why do you consider me so specifically in this respect?"
Wow. He's just full of it.
Slughorn took this moment to enter the classroom, loud and jovial in his address. Pretending to listen while steadfastly ignoring Riddle next to him, Harry decided he hated the prick already. Even if he wasn't going to become Voldemort, he would never have liked him. The constant questioning had already gotten under his skin, and the Dark wizard knew it, already knew just the buttons to press to wind him up. It was probably a consistent talent with everyone the man needed to oppress. Harry respected honesty and a good nature, and Riddle's veneer of respectability and kindliness was faker than a two sickle Seer.
Nevertheless, it didn't seem to stop countless people, like the vaguely younger and rounder Slughorn, for example, falling for it hook line and sinker.
"That is just remarkable, Tom!" Slughorn exclaimed as he walked past and glanced in Riddle's cauldron, patting him on the back. "Excellent progress since last session. But what else can we expect from you?"
Riddle thanked Slughorn graciously, but Harry revelled in the uncomfortable set of the Dark wizard's shoulders and the tight smile he seemed to force. He seemed to be repelled by any touch, any vaguely human contact beyond sly words and social climbing.
Slughorn then rounded on him. "And our newest student! I do believe your name is Potter?"
"Harry Potter, Sir," he responded, grimacing inwardly. "Great to meet you."
"Likewise, likewise! I've taught several Potters so far in my time, all excellent talents, an excellent family. And it's a fantastic surprise to get one sorted in Slytherin, if you don't mind me saying," Slughorn said, shaking his hand vigorously. "Are you by chance related to-"
Harry cut him off quickly, anticipating what he might ask. "I attended Durmstrang, Sir, so I'm afraid I don't have a lot of contact with my extended family here in England. I'm afraid I haven't been briefed on what seventh year Potions at Hogwarts entails, if you could enlighten me?"
"But of course! You have your books with you, yes? If you could turn to page seventy six ..."
To Harry's surprise, it turned out the class were a week into brewing their own samples of Polyjuice Potion. Slughorn bustled around him, assuring him he would get extra time if needed and giving him hints and tips that, for once, he was confident he could do without. When he left, the silence on the table slowly grew deafening as they worked.
"Look, Potter, listen. Between you and me, you are coming off a little unfriendly. You don't want to give the impression that you aren't fond of your House. People might talk." Riddle clicked his tongue condescendingly, eyes burning straight into his. He moved to glance into Harry's bubbling cauldron casually, looming into his personal space. "We have a way of doing things and a social order in Slytherin. Follow along, and you will do well. If you don't, well ..."
"Well what?" Harry snapped. "You'll ruin my life? Scheme against me? I'm not scared of you, thanks. I've encountered much more fearsome enemies." The Dark Lord's venomous face burned in his head. He swallowed, trying to clear his mind, unsure of the capabilities of the Horcrux connection in this time and with this iteration of his enemy.
Riddle levelled his angry gaze with a strange interest. "We barely know each other, yet you seem so ready to assume the worst in me. I don't want to be an enemy to you, Harry." The 'but I can be' remained unspoken.
Hearing his first name in that voice again, Harry felt sick. The tone was deeper, the sound much more human, but all he could hear in it was Voldemort's high, merciless mocking. "Don't call me that. We don't know each other like that."
"What, enough to use first names?" Riddle laughed. "So unfriendly, Harry. Anyone would think you have something to hide."
About to snap a retort, he froze and remembered he was supposed to be going under the radar, not drawing attention to himself. He needed to force some cordiality into his voice and manner before Riddle actually stalked his life. While he knew he would be incapable of pretending to be a fawning fan like the rest of the seventh years, he at least needed to blend. "I'm not hiding anything. I just don't appreciate people sitting and talking about my blood status or whatever as if I'm not even there. And I'm just not used to this, that's all. Durmstrang was very different. I didn't really have many ... friends, as such. A lot of people spread rumours about me, decided they liked me only when it was convenient."
He winced, inwardly slapping himself. Why would I even tell him that? Riddle would jump at any sign of weakness and deride him, he knew it.
But those hard eyes almost ... softened, and Riddle merely acknowledged his words with a tilt of his head, stirring his potion gently with a wandless motion. "I wasn't always surrounded by followers myself."
Why is he this bothered? Harry thought nervously. I should just be a new, uninteresting face. Why is his attention on me?
He looked straight at Riddle properly for the first time, full on, and met those dangerous eyes. They glittered, and an odd half smile played on his lips. Suddenly, Harry was filled with an unknown, foreign sense of wonder and glee.
There it was. The link, like an electric shock to his senses, and he instantly knew that Riddle could - and had been able - to feel it too.