FANGS BARED
NOTES: This is a crosspost from AO3 available under the same username ('yuutsunoyatsu'). This version will be updated every few weeks, and the AO3 version will be updated much more regularly and will be ahead since posting there isn't an enormous pain in the ***.
ORIGINAL NOTES: This should be a medium sized story with a pretty unique relationship dynamic (as far as I'm aware). JKR making Slytherins almost inherently evil has always felt like a bit of lost potential so here is something to chip back at it.
While I've definitely gotten some inspiration from stories like ACI100's Conjoining of the Paragons, I'm not the biggest fan of the traditional genderbent Tom Riddle trope, so I decided to have a go (expect a very different Riddle-type character). I'll try to keep this up to date week by week. May scope creep be kind on me. This first chapter is more or less an appetiser.
IF THERE WAS one thing Harry Potter found obvious about Sylvia Riddle, it was that she was no Voldemort—at least, not without some monumental changes. Her male counterpart, left behind in a different world, had been charming, confident, and slick, winding everyone around his finger as if they were a cloth meant only for wiping the grime off his shoes. Whatever it was that made Tom so slick, Sylvia lacked it to the extreme. She was like a stray animal—a dangerous animal—backed into a corner and baring her fangs at the world. Harry had faced a beast or two in his time, but not like this. As such, he found himself incredibly uncomfortable at having to witness the gleam of Riddle's talons up close.
Harry carefully watched the yew wand tip barely inches away from his eye, flicking his attention at the empty hallway around him in hopes of an escape. The girl in front of him, however, had no such plans, and Harry was left to put his hands up in surrender. It was not enough.
"I know you hate me." The girl spoke in a voice of barely evened tension. It was a statement of fact; a sentence that implied the worst. "All of you hate me."
"Wait. I don't hate you. I don't even know you." Harry uttered slowly, staring down the length of the faintly glowing source of danger at the girl's bright amber eyes.
"You think I'm a threat," Riddle said, "and if I have to become one, I will."
Deadly silence. She sounded so sure in her words that refuting her felt like an unwise effort. And in a way, she wasn't completely wrong about the 'hating her' bit, though Harry had no clue how she came to that conclusion.
Riddle slowly lowered her wand. "Nothing to say to that, Gray?"
Indeed, since even if Harry Potter had a grudge to bear, Harry Gray certainly did not.
—TWO WEEKS EARLIER—
Harry was no stranger to waking up with no awareness of his surroundings and barely a memory to indicate how he came to be there, but this occurrence took the cake in terms of confusion. A never-seen-before ceiling, an unfamiliar room and no one to explain just what was going on.
The bed creaked under Harry as he rubbed his eyes and groggily rolled right off the edge of the bed and onto the floor.
"Ow."
The pain he now felt in his elbow was nothing compared to the splitting headache that left his thoughts feeling like a field after a stampede of elephants. He reached for the bedside table, rummaged around for his glasses and found nothing. With a slight shock, he realised that the patterns on the carpet that had just cushioned his fall were nevertheless visible.
Now slightly more alert, Harry got up and looked around the room properly. Panelled mahogany, tasteful decorations (though a little last century), a wardrobe, bed, desk and mirror. Through the only window in the room, smells of late summer and sounds of early morning bird calls wafted from a small secluded garden.
Harry stood in front of the mirror and frowned. It was, most certainly, still him. It could have been a trick of the light, or just how he looked without glasses, but Harry felt as if his face had been moulded like clay by a pair of deft hands that left only the faintest impressions where they had touched. He looked different, but not different enough to be sure.
The next order of business was the desk. On it lay a scatter of envelopes and parchment, though one in particular caught Harry's eye. The thick and familiar envelope was already open.
Dear Mr Gray,
We welcome you for an exciting opportunity to take your place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. We understand that your situation is unique, and hope that the provided materials are enough to fit your needs until you are in contact with myself or another member of our staff. Enclosed is a list of necessary books and equipment, as well as a primer on your future place of education.
Term begins on 1st September. We await your response by no later than 31st July.
Yours Sincerely,
Albus Dumbledore
Deputy Headmaster
The letter was enough to ease the stampede in Harry's mind, and brief flashes of memory came to him in quick succession.
A second chance.
But what kind of second chance was this? Was he Mr Gray? Also, wasn't the last time Dumbledore served as Deputy Headmaster…
Harry shuffled through the papers on the desk in a faint panic until he found a dated document.
14th August 1943
He stepped back and paled. His death had sent him backwards in time by half a century.
The Scottish countryside was just starting to colour itself a navy blue from the waning sun as Harry reflected on his new reality. To the rhythm of the Hogwarts Express rolling along the tracks, he tried to organise everything in his tangled mind as best he could.
He had died. Voldemort had returned, and there was little he could have done. After death, he was given a second chance—fate had a funny way of asserting itself, or at least that was the explanation he had received from a figure he could no longer remember. The existence of any pre-existing fate was news to him, but it was with its help that Harry now found himself firmly outside of a casket.
He was now Harry Gray, the last and only member of House Gray, a family that had been long dying out according to biographical records found within his new house. It was almost a perfect alibi for his existence, were it not for the fact that he had 4 years of unexplained schooling under his belt. Well, that would be a concern for later. The more important question was, why was he here? Harry had noticed cutouts and old newspapers around the house, tidings of the continued chaos outside the borders, the terrible reign of Grindelwald and all of its consequences. Somehow, Harry doubted there would be much he could do in that regard. Voldemort would have graduated Hogwarts some time ago by now if his memories regarding the Chamber of Secrets were correct. So, why was he here?
Harry emerged from the locked compartment as the train glided to a halt at Hogsmeade Station. As he pushed through the throng outside, he left it up to time to find the answers to his questions.
—PRESENT—
Sylvia Riddle was the unfortunate answer. The silence between them lasted for another ten seconds before Harry noticed movement in the corner of his eye, and heard a quiet shuffling. Riddle was quicker. In half an instant, she whipped around, her wavy black hair flaring out around her shoulders, and cast a silent spell towards the source of the sound. Harry jumped back, and as he did he heard a loud yell coming from somewhere to the right.
Riddle stood over a figure that was crouched in evident pain, blood dripping onto the floor from its chest. It was a boy their age, wearing house robes of silver and green. He clutched at the deep cut, whimpering. Harry watched over the scene with wide eyes. This was one of Riddle's shows of power, though evidently an unplanned one.
She turned back towards Harry, her breath heavy. He noticed her wand hand shaking ever so slightly.
"Remember what I said, Gray. Don't make me into a threat." She muttered something after her statement, but Harry had no interest in staying around long enough to discern it.
"Okay, okay. I got it. I won't interfere." he said in what he hoped was a reassuring tone as he stepped back. He needed more time to think.
Harry left Riddle to stand over the bleeding boy. If he confronted her, he did not doubt he would end up just the same. He needed a more indirect approach.
5