Chapter 1. Damning Implications

When the shrieking boy spawned, Tom was busy scowling at the lake. With final exams complete, boredom was sure to follow he had been thinking. He was more than happy to be proven wrong.

Picking himself up off the ground—he had not yelped and fallen, thank you, only slipped—Tom stared at the spot where the boy spawned. Spawned—not apparated, he was sure. Though Tom had never physically seen anyone apparate before, he had done enough research to know for certain that golden, glowing eyes were not normal. Nor was the excessive screaming.

Screaming that fortunately was cut off as the boy fell to the ground. Tom glanced around to see if anyone had noticed the boy's odd appearance before turning to see him on his hands and knees, green in the face. His eyebrows knit together as he noticed the boy's eyes were green rather than gold as they had been previously.

Odd. Very odd.

"Wha... What happened?" the boy groaned.

"I was hoping you would be able to tell me that," Tom said mildly before he walked over and stuck his hand out to help the boy up. "As far as I'm aware, it's impossible to apparate onto Hogwarts grounds."

At this, the boy's face screwed up with confusion. Shaking his head, he ignored Tom's hand and began to rise, stumbling a bit as he stood. When he pushed his wayward black hair off his forehead, Tom saw a thin, lightning-shaped scar. Intriguing. "Apparate?" the boy said, almost to himself. "But I was..."

A twinge of irritation made Tom's smile a bit wooden when the boy's voice trailed off, "You were...?" he prompted.

The boy didn't seem to hear him. He was too busy staring at Tom's robes which were, now that Tom was made aware of it, slightly different than the boy's robes. Most glaringly different from Tom's soothing green and silver was the boy's bright red and gold; apparently, the boy was a Gryffindor, despite never having gone to Hogwarts. In addition to that, the boy's robes themselves were different, of a strange cut and lacking the colored hem that lined his own robes. Only the Hogwarts crest and the black color of the robes were the same. Interesting.

Tom felt excitement rise in his chest. "Who are—?"

"You're not Draco."

The blunt statement threw him off. What? "Pardon?" Tom said politely.

"You..." The boy's voice trailed off again as he stared at Tom, his expression suddenly flat. "You are not Draco."

What. After a pause, Tom spoke. "...That is correct."

Oddly enough, the boy seemed to recognize him; his face grew wary, "Who are you?"

Finally, Tom thought, Finally we're getting somewhere.

Tom inclined his head to the boy, "You may call me Tom Riddle," he said smoothly, "And you are?"

The boy fainted in answer.

"And you're sure he was alone?"

"Yes sir, I didn't see anyone else. He was just lying there mumbling."

A curious hum. "He didn't give you a name before he fell unconscious, did he?"

"No sir."

Harry could hear the voices speaking quietly, but they made no sense at all. He had no idea where he was, or how he'd gotten there, or who these people were. All he knew was that everything hurt.

"Poor soul. He's quite fortunate to have found Hogwarts. How he made it here though, I can't imagine."

Hogwarts... Made it... to Hogwarts. From where?

Harry's eyes creaked open. He was lying in the hospital wing. The blurry outline of a boy was standing next to an equally blurry enormously fat man. "What happened?" he croaked, head fuzzy.

As he groped for his glasses, blurry heads turned his way, "Oh thank goodness," the man said. His voice did not sound familiar at all. "You had us quite worried there, my boy. You're in the hospital wing at Hogwarts." Harry fumbled with his glasses before slipping them on. "Tom here found you lying by the lake all alone."

Harry's eyes slid right past the fat man and his magnificent, ginger-blond mustache and landed on the cloyingly sympathetic smile of Tom Riddle. All the blood drained from his face. Any remaining fogginess of sleep fled and he gasped, his breath caught in his throat as the memories of the lakeside flooded him. The Time-Turner. Draco. Falling sand. Tom Riddle. Tom fucking Riddle.

The implications were damning.

"Oh dear," the man sputtered, "Your face has gotten quite pale, should I call for—"

"No!" Harry yelped. The idea of talking to another person made him nauseous. "No, no, I'm fine!" His mind struggled to comprehend the reality of his situation.

The man was still talking. "Oh, are you sure, it's quite alright to be overwhelmed—"

Harry shook his head forcefully, "No, no, I'm alright, I swear."

After a moment, the man nodded slowly. "Okay. Well, it appears that introductions are in order. My name is Professor Horace Slughorn, I am the Potions master here at Hogwarts. Might I ask your name?"

"Harry P—Evans," Harry blurted in a flash of inspiration. Potter was too conspicuous, but Evans... His mother had been a muggle-born. Evans should be fine.

Slughorn paused, confusion flicking across his face, "Pevans?"

Harry blushed. "Er, no, sir. Evans, sir. Harry Evans."

"Evans. Well, it is nice to meet you, Mr. Evans," Slughorn said. "Now that you're awake, is there anyone I can contact for you, your parents, guardians...?"

A resigned heaviness fell on his shoulders. "No," Harry said quietly, "No, there's no one."

"Oh," Slughorn said quietly. "I'm sorry to hear that."

"It's okay."

After a beat, the professor seemed to shake himself off. "Okay, Harry. Well, your sudden appearance has caused quite the stir. I'm sure you can understand that we do have some questions—" Harry tensed "—but we can wait until you've had some time to recover." As Harry nodded gratefully, Slughorn turned to Tom, "Tom, do you mind watching over Mr. Evans while I go talk to the Headmaster? Professor Dippet will need to be caught up right away."

"Yes, of course, sir," Tom agreed.

Harry began to panic again, "Oh, no, that's okay, he doesn't need to do that! I'll be fine, I don't need—"

"Nonsense, Harry," Slughorn interrupted, "Tom is a model student here at Hogwarts, you're lucky it was him who found you. Now, I'll be back as soon as I can, my boy, you just take this time to relax. I'll send Madam Flemings over with a Calming Draught."

Sensing there was no use talking to the man, Harry gave up and watched as Slughorn smoothed over his walrus-like mustache, gave him what was clearly meant to be a fatherly smile, and left.

Leaving him alone with Tom Riddle.

Harry would definitely need that Calming Draught.

Tom watched and waited for Madam Flemings to finish fussing over the enigma in the hospital bed. For someone so magically powerful, this Harry Evans person did not have the slightest bit of control over his emotions. How disappointing.

"I'm alright," Evans kept saying, "Really, I am."

Tom held back a snort. Laughable that was. The boy had been given a triple dose of Calming Draught and his shoulders were still almost glued to his ears. Regardless, Madam Flemings finally relented, leaving Evans to fall back onto his pillow with a sigh of relief. That relief was short-lived, however; the moment Madam Flemings was out of range Tom turned on Harry Evans with narrowed eyes.

"You're an astronomically horrendous liar, Harry 'Pevans,'" he whispered scathingly, "and if you have the slightest intention of avoiding the Ministry's grasp, I suggest you stop allowing every last minuscule thought of yours to flicker across that face."

The green-eyed boy began to splutter. "What the f—?!"

"Language, Evans," Tom smiled, eyes glinting. "Now tell me, we haven't much time. What is your plan?"

When Evans just gaped at him, Tom's nostrils flared.

"What is your plan, Harry? You mysteriously appear on the highly warded grounds of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, alone, with no witnesses and nothing but your wand. That alone warrants questioning, but as if that wasn't suspicious enough, you're only, what? Thirteen? Fourteen? You're lucky I transfigured your robes before I got Professor Slughorn; I doubt those would've been easy to explain away. So I ask you again. What. Is. Your. Plan?"

"...You transfigured my robes?"

Tom had to shut his eyes and breathe. After a beat, he spoke. "You should say Grindelwald killed your parents."

"Excuse me?"

"It's a plausible story," Tom argued. "Grindelwald killed your parents so you fled to one of the only places you knew sheltered magical children."

"No, I get it," Evans said bluntly, "What I don't understand is why you think I'd listen to anything you have to say. I don't need your help."

His patience was spent. "I don't know who you are, or how you got here Harry Evans, but if you don't want the Ministry to drag you away, you need a story. I have one. Grindelwald killed your parents."

Evans's expression darkened. When he spoke, his voice was low. "I told you. I don't need your fucking help, Riddle."

Tom's eyebrows shot up. "Oh you don't, do you? Got a better plan hidden under that black nest you call hair?" When the boy scowled, Tom smirked. "I thought so."

Before Evans could open his mouth to retort, the sound of footsteps caught the two's attention, the door swung open, and Slughorn pushed through the doorway. In an instant, Tom allowed an angelic smile to grace his face and stepped away from Evans to turn to greet him. "Professor," he welcomed warmly.

Slughorn smiled in return and made his way over to Evans's hospital bed. Unsurprisingly, he was followed by Headmaster Dippet and—intense dislike bubbled in his chest—Professor Dumbledore.

At the sight of Tom's most hated professor, Evans let out a comical gasp of surprise. Tom's eyes narrowed.

Interesting, he thought, Very interesting.