Chapter 3:
A week or so had passed, a horrible week of pretending incompetence and gaining increased disdain from the snakes, of having to deal with Tom Riddle and frantically trying to find some way out of the nightmare he had fallen into.
He'd made quasi-friends, or at least warm acquaintances, with a Hufflepuff boy called Roger Watkins, and a Ravenclaw girl called Imogen Pierce.
They were both muggleborn, and he was glad for it, because he'd noted that pretty much every pureblood flocked to Riddle, or were at least on good terms with him.
Even the Potters.
He'd almost had a heart attack when he heard about Charles "call me Leonard" Potter, in the year above. Apparently, his middle was Leonard, and he favoured it because he said Charlus made him sound like an old man.
Harry had felt a smile, one of the first since he arrived here, tug at his lips at that - he hadn't met the sixth year though.
Imogen was very clever, of course, she'd had to be for her house, but she wasn't all about books like he'd once assumed. It made him realise how little he'd associated with any of the other houses or students in his own time, outside of Ron and Hermione.
It was utterly disconcerting having to make friends again.
He'd considered complete isolation, so there were less people to remember him, but then he'd noted that Riddle was more likely to stay away when he was in a crowd of people.
Despite this, he seemed to be bizarrely gaining something of a reputation - horrific, in itself. People noticed him when Riddle noticed him, which, he had to say, was sodding inconvenient, because Riddle did not know when to back off. It was alarming, to say the least.
When Riddle wasn't around, he was able to slip out of notice quite effectively if he said so himself, but the second the young Dark Lord was there and interacting with him, for some reason everyone zoned and remembered his presence.
He figured their attention was simply following the - admittedly powerful and easily noticeable - Slytherin Heir, but sill.
They sat doing Defence Homework. The teacher currently was Professor Merrythought, and he thought she was alright, a damn sight better than most the Defence teachers he'd had before (barring Remus, and, oddly, Moody/Crouch).
"What's going on between you and Tom Riddle?" Imogen asked suddenly, studying him, the words a decisive blurt. Harry started.
"Going on? What do you mean 'going on'? There's nothing going on between me and Riddle, I can assure you of that!" Harry replied.
Imogen looked sceptical, and Roger's attention had shifted onto the conversation too.
"Really?" she questioned dubiously. "It's just that…well. Never mind."
"What?" Harry demanded. Imogen appeared marginally uncomfortable.
"Well, it's just that…um, it kind of seems like there is - something going on between you, I mean. Every time you two start talking - and for some of who claims disinterest as much as you, you do talk to him at least once a day - it's somewhat, er, intense."
Harry stared at her, gob smacked.
Roger twirled his pen anxiously.
"With everyone else, and us, you seem quiet and stuff but with him, I don't know, your personality just completely seems to shift. All of a sudden it's like you're breathing fire and all witty and whatever, while half the time, we can hardly get a word out of you…not that I'm complaining or anything, mind," Roger added hastily, eyeing him kindly with big toffee brown eyes. "It's just…well…if there was something going on, you would tell us, wouldn't you? And, er, keep us out of it?"
"Keep you out of it?" Harry repeated, feeling slightly lost.
Imogen shot her mousy friend a sharp look, before sighing.
"What do you know about Tom Riddle?"
Too much.
Slytherin Heir. Evil genius Dark Lord. Psychotic mass murderer. I am Lord Voldemort.
"He's prefect," Harry replied. "A genius, halfblood, and people have annoying habit of worshipping the ground of he walks on and is pure evil."
Roger frowned at the last bit.
"Pure evil?" he repeated, with a laugh. "That's a bit too far, are you seriously saying you don't have a history with him after that?"
Oops.
"Anyway," Imogen dismissed, suddenly reminding him of Hermione. "The point is, you don't get in his way. He's…dangerous. Utterly gorgeous and incredibly intelligent, but…dangerous if he's crossed. You probably haven't heard those stories…"
Harry leaned forward, despite himself, fascinated. Tom Riddle was infuriating...and far too interesting sometimes.
"What stories?"
Abraxas Malfoy watched as Harrison Evans walked out the library, bidding goodbye to the two mudbloods who's company he'd seemed to have fallen into.
It was appalling.
He honestly didn't understand what his Lord saw in the boy…yes, there was something about him, but it was the tiniest spark, not worth anything, destroyed by layers upon layers of filth, stupidity and incompetence.
The halfblood couldn't even cast a stunner for Salazar's sake! It wasn't like he was a threat if left unattended.
He presumed Tom was just playing with Evans, that was the only reasonable explanation, and they'd all been sure to express their disdain. He strode over, catching up with the newest Slytherin.
"Harrison," he greeted.
"Malfoy."He nearly frowned at the address, but dismissed it impatiently.
"How are you settling in?"
"Fine, thank you."
They walked towards the Slytherin Common Room in silence for a moment, Evans' posture atrocious as normal. He came to a stop outside, blocking the entrance, noting the other stiffen fractionally.
"Look," he began. "I get it, you're new, you don't understand how things work in Slytherin so I'll explain it to you: in Slytherin, we normally do not associate ourselves with people like Watkins and Pierce."
"People like Watkins and Pierce?" Harrison enquired delicately. Naïve idiot.
"Mudbloods. Filth"
"I see…and what does what you normally do have to do with me?"
That time, he did frown, disconcerted. Everything about Evans suggested he should be docilely submitting right now!
"It means you should stop seeing them, it's unbecoming."
"And if I refuse?" Harrison's eyes met his, and he almost reared back in shock.
Gone was compliance and meekness and harmlessness, in its place was something that could definitely be considered a threat, danger, defiance, steel.
Gone was submissive posture and visibly wary or humble expressions…
"Then we could make life in Slytherin very difficult for you," he warned, lightly, almost flinching under that suddenly intense gaze.
It was like Tom's, he felt like he could quake under it, as if it was searing through his soul, seeing everything. It was…unyielding.
For a brief flash, he could understand completely why his lord was so enamoured, so determined to see this proud, stubborn, fiercely independent and not the worst looking creature, tamed.
Then, that too was gone, replaced by contemptuous anger.
"I wonder what it's like having a difficult life," Harrison returned dryly. "Is that all, Malfoy? Or would you like me to pretend to cower?"
He appraised the other, incredulous at what he was hearing and seeing. His eyes narrowed to mercury slits. So maybe the kid had a hidden fire inside him, that didn't stop him being an incompetent fool who could scarcely cast a stunner.
He'd mention it to Tom.
Before he could respond, the boy had walked into the common, slipping away like a shadow, fading like a ghost back to a different, more insipid persona.
Abraxas Malfoy narrowed his eyes.
Harrison Evans was not what he seemed.
Harry's head was swimming with new information.
He'd suspected Riddle's empire, but he hadn't…it was different hearing the stories, tales of how efficiently and ruthlessly he cut down his opponents.
Accounts of men and women who'd tried to resist him over the years - one of them, Abraxas Malfoy, and that seemed bizarre from what he'd seen in regards to the blonde's devotion to the Slytherin Heir - only to succumb under the young Dark Lords concentrated efforts.
No one had lasted longer than a month, maybe two, under such focus.
Riddle didn't just push them aside and defeat them, no, it was worth, every single person who'd once rebelled against his power and control had ended up desperate for attention, broken husks, pets and toys.
To disturb him further, Harry had come to note that some of the people most faithful and infatuated with Tom were those who'd bucked against them most. He didn't beat them, he destroyed them, only through with them when they were pleading for a continuation of his favour.
Harry shuddered.
So lost in his thoughts was he, that he almost didn't notice the figure entering the dormitory where he sat alone - being up here, in isolation, was better then being down in the common room with such unsavoury company on offer. He froze.
Speak of the devil.
"What do you want, Riddle?" he demanded.
"My, how unfriendly of you," the other murmured, with a light tsk. "Don't be rude, Harry."
"My friends call me Harry," he said stiffly. "You are not one of them."
"And the badger and the raven are? How quaint, Harry."
He gritted his teeth, but resolutely ignored the other. He'd noticed that tended to piss Riddle off, as did walking away - although, with both, he'd noted a very real danger of the other escalating to provoke a reaction or somehow prevent him from such movement.
He actually had bruises on his arm! It was unbelievable.
The other leaned closer, and Harry quickly tucked his book - the offensive and defensive spell compilation - out of sight, fixing his gaze on the duvet instead, reaching to get something out of his bag to do instead while the other insisted on pestering him.
Fingers slid, teasingly, around his jaw, tilting his head up, causing his muscles to lock and his gut to squirm with discomfort and tension.
"You know, darling, mixing with mudbloods when you've been warned off them doesn't really correlate with this submissive little picture of yourself that you've painting for the world," Riddle stated softly, a deadly smirk upon his lips.
"Did you just call me darling?" Harry demanded, aghast. "Stop it!"
"Stop what, sweetheart?" Harry stared at the other in absolute horror.
"Calling me - couple nicknames!"
"What else would you have me call you?" Tom's smirk broadened, wickedly, a pad of thumb tracing against his lip. "You refuse to let me call you Harry."
"Call me - Evans!" he snapped.
"My, you do sound flustered," the other stated, gaze glittering. "I'll take that as invitation to continue."
Harry glared, feeling a flush creeping across his cheeks.
"You can call me Harry," he conceded finally, hating himself.
Tom's eyes widened innocently, looking a mocking picture of contriteness, it was almost enough to make Harry think he wanted to laugh before he realised with dismay who he was reacting to. Damn Riddle! Damn him!
"But that would be inappropriate, as we are not yet friends," the Slytherin Heir replied infuriatingly, tauntingly.
Harry struggled to keep his composure, having the horrible feeling that it was already shot to pieces.
"And calling me bloody couple nicknames is appropriate?" he questioned incredulously, suddenly feeling somewhat hysterical, tugging his head out the other's grip.
Tom merely shrugged, casually, challenge in every crevice of his posture.
It drove Harry mad.
"If you don't like it, sunshine, why don't you stop me?"
His jaw clenched, mutinous, his voice strained.
"What do you want from me?" he asked again.
What did he had to concede to Riddle to make the other stop? The Slytherin gave him a considering look.
"Perhaps you are a Slytherin after all, lion tendencies aside."
Harry eyed the other furiously, feeling far too helpless for his liking, and not knowing what Riddle meant by that statement.
Tom was just - urgh! He got under your skin like nothing else with his comments and his arrogance and -! Evil murderer.
He waited, unable to do anything else, feeling like a mouse in the coils of a serpent.
"You want me to call you Evans, and stop with the 'couple nicknames' etc?" the other verified, sweetly. He nodded tightly, not at all certain of what he was doing, struggling to come across as if he had a clue how such negotiations and deals of concession worked.
He'd never had to deal for rights like this before.
"Then," Riddle's smile was shark like, dripping danger, with none of the model student charm to mask it, but charming nonetheless. "Bend that pretty little neck of yours and beg for me to stop."
Submission.
Bile clawed up his throat.
"Go to hell, Riddle," he spat. Unexpectedly, that smirk only widened, revealing a flash of wolfish, gleaming white teeth.
"Only if you come with me…darling."
The other walked over to his own bed abruptly, drawing a book from his trunk, before turning for the door again, stopping as he reached it, only to pause in the frame of the entrance, features flawlessly smooth and unreadable.
"Know thy enemy, Harry, have you ever heard that saying?"
Riddle walked out without another word, without waiting for response, leaving Harry feeling agitated and frustrated.
What did that even mean?
A/N: Writer's Block :(
Thanks for all the fabulous reviews, I'm thrilled you're enjoying PP so far! :)