Act II, Chapter 4

September– 1943

London

King Cross Station was as crowded and chaotic as usual, but Tom moved through the masses, his shoulders squared with determination. People, mostly families, bustled past him, their faces anxious to leave London and its dreariness behind.

A sudden jolt broke his rhythm as someone bumped into him. Tom's nose wrinkled in irritation—he had saved these clothes specifically for today. After briefly making sure he still looked pristine, he confidently walked through the barrier between Platforms 9 and 10.

He shuddered unbidden and gave a tiny smile as he felt the dense magic saturated in the air cloak him, a reminder of the world he truly belonged to. Ignoring the clusters of families exchanging goodbyes, Tom's gaze landed on the Hogwarts Express.

It stood waiting, gleaming even in the hazy morning light. Smoke curled lazily from its engine, and the scarlet paint shone like a beacon. Here, he wasn't just an orphan from a dingy London orphanage. Here, he was Tom Riddle— Heir of Slytherin, Prefect, and the undisputed leader of a carefully cultivated group of students.

"Tom!"

He turned at the sound of his name, his gaze falling on Abraxas Malfoy, who was striding toward him with his usual confident air. Behind him trailed a few other familiar faces, Lestrange, Dolohov, Rosier, Nott— The Knights.

Tom allowed a faint smile to curve his lips, just enough to put them at ease. "Abraxas," he greeted smoothly, his tone warm but reserved.

"You're late," Abraxas teased, his silver hair catching the light as he smirked.

Tom was not late.

"We thought you'd decided to stay behind in London."

Tom's smile widened enough to seem genuine "And miss the opportunity to be back at Hogwarts? Hardly."

The group chuckled, the sound easy and relaxed. To them, Tom was their friend—charismatic, brilliant, and the natural center of their little circle. They didn't see the careful calculations behind every word he spoke, the subtle manipulations that kept them orbiting around him like planets around the sun.

They saw only what Tom needed them to see. They thought they were equals. They were wrong.

As they made their way toward the train, their conversation drifted to the usual topics—Quidditch, classes, the latest gossip. Tom listened with half an ear, nodding and laughing at the appropriate moments, but his mind was elsewhere.

This year would be his last of true freedom at Hogwarts, and he intended to make it count. The groundwork he had laid over the past five years was nearly complete. He was closer than ever to achieving his goals before seventh year and his NEWTS.

Tom and his group boarded the train and settled into their usual compartment. It was only when the train began to pull away from the station that Tom truly relaxed inwardly, once again he was leaving behind the bleakness and dullness of London.

And he was glad of it. Leaving behind the orphanage, the noise, the stench, the scarcity. He despised it all.

"Tom, what do you say? Fancy something off the trolley?" Rosier pulled him out of his thoughts with a nudge.

Normally, trying to avoid being too gauche, Tom would graciously accept the food, having been ignoring the churning of his stomach with hunger from months of not having enough to eat.

He'd do his best to mask his hunger with carefully measured bites so as to not betray how much he craved the food. But today, he shrugged casually.

"Maybe later," he replied smoothly. "I ate before boarding."

This was true, that day the volunteers at the soup kitchen in the schoolhouse had provided the usual hearty breakfast for them all, with milk and meat and fresh vegetables. How he was able to finance everything was beyond him.

Speaking of him, Tom hadn't seen Rigel since the day he overheard his conversation with the strange man in the alleyway. Clearly he was still alive and presumably in London as the volunteers at the soup kitchen he started were still giving out food.

Against his better judgement, Tom had taken to frequently passing through the schoolhouse outside of the designated mealtimes and lingering around the alleyway hoping to catch a glimpse of a pressed shirt or a flash of sparkling green eyes.

He clenched his fist, it seemed for all his steadiness and the air of constancy around him, Rigel Black was as transient as the rest.

And wasn't that disappointing? Realistically, Tom had only known him for a few days but he had managed to make a place for himself in Tom's life, only to leave so suddenly.

Tom shook his head and willfully unclenched his fist. It was silly of him to get so worked up over a Muggle, insignificant and insipid. Tom had lived before him, had achieved many impressive feats, surpassing his peers and many of his elders, he was the Heir.

Tom's jaw tightened, and he forced the memory of him aside. That had been... a lapse in judgment. A moment of weakness, nothing more.

He was above this.

Having built his walls back up and resettled into the hollowness, Tom removed himself from his thoughts and made to entertain his year mates.

"-about the new student? Some French-

On second thought, he tuned them out again, having no need for their useless gossip and pulled out a book from his satchel. He had read it once before, but surely its contents were of more use than whatever Nott was yapping about.

He leaned over and plucked a licorice wand from the obscene stack of food they had bought and chewed on it as he read.

...

It had gotten too dark in the carriage to read safely, this meant it was time for them to change into their robes and get ready to leave the train.

Tom closed the book and placed it back into his satchel. Rosier and Malfoy were playing a game of wizards chess while Nott was fast asleep, slumped against the window, his mouth opened slightly, Tom's nose wrinkled. Lestrange was absent, likely off with his Gryffindor paramour.

He stood and opened his trunk, retrieving his uniform folded neatly on top of his school supplies and closed it. Spelling it shut and reapplying all his wards, he left for the bathrooms.

Restraining himself from tapping his feet he waited for one of the stalls to empty, once it did, he hurriedly brushed past the boy exiting, irritated from having to wait.

He carefully took off his one good shirt and trousers - both which he could afford to buy second hand, seeing as he didn't have to use the meagre money he'd earned from doing odd jobs to buy food this summer- and put on his school uniform: a long sleeved white shirt, black slacks, a dark grey sweater vest, a green and silver stripped tied and finally his green lined robes, with his shiny gold Prefect badge pinned proudly to his chest.

Everything he wore was secondhand, much to his chagrin. Tom took the time to transfigure the hems of his slacks, sleeves, and robes, adjusting them to better fit his growing frame. He'd need to replace them soon—his first opportunity to sneak out to Diagon Alley or Hogsmeade couldn't come quickly enough. He scowled at the thought, annoyed at himself for having been so distracting over the break that he'd forgotten to handle it sooner.

He scowled to himself remembering why that was.

Squaring his shoulders resolutely, he stepped out of the stall, clothes tucked under his arm. It was of little consequence now.

Hogwarts awaited.

...

Tom clapped politely as the last first year was sorted, eager for dinner and a chance to retreat to the dungeons, where he could assess how the house standings might have shifted over the summer. So far, the Slytherin table had followed its usual order, with students sitting according to year—except for Tom's Knights. Made up of upper-year students, they surrounded him at the center of the table, his inner circle flanking him.

At the far end of the table, however, sat the Blacks. Not part of the Knights, nor adhering to the usual seating order, they formed their own cluster. All six of them were gathered, speaking softly among themselves and looking even smugger than usual.

Tom paid them no mind. They were their own little clique—perfectly Pureblood, eccentric, and other. Powerful, respected, and highly esteemed, yes, but utterly removed from the rest of the House's politics., there was no "in" with the Blacks, their loyalty was only to themselves, and Tom wanted them on his side, but for now, he was content to not have them as enemies.

And now, our transfer students will be sorted. As always, ensure you welcome them into your Houses and show them the Hogwarts spirit!"

Dippet's annual reminder had become a fixture since Grindelwald's rise to power. It was not unusual for older students to transfer from the Continent or smaller wizarding schools in Britain. Many families believed Hogwarts was the safest option until the shadow of Grindelwald's war receded, though the more paranoid among them had pulled their children entirely—either hiding them in safe houses or sending them far outside Europe.

In short, Dippet's announcement was routine, hardly the premise for anything remarkable. Tom glanced toward the platform, prepared to overlook the whole affair. That was until—

Tom's eyes widened before he schooled his features. He blinked as he watched a very familiar figure walk confidently to the platform where he was to be sorted, all smooth lines and strides, his head held high a blank, but present expression on his pretty face, framed by soft falling dark bangs- he had cut his hair, it was no longer long and tied in a ponytail, but trimmed neatly into shoulder length layers. He looked every bit the pureblood heir.

At that moment, Tom was feeling unusually foolish. How could he have thought he was anything else?

He sat on the stool, the Sorting Hat on his head. His face was still carefully blank, but his green flittered, darkened momentarily before they lit up with triumph.

"RAVENCLAW!"

The hat cried, he took it off and walked in the direction of the Ravenclaw table, Tom watched him as he sat down and flashed a brilliant smile at the group of Blacks, who nodded and clapped in approval.

For a brief moment, their eyes met. Rigel Black.

As vivid and green as remembered. Just for a second, Tom's breath caught. He felt it, sharp and unbidden.

Rigel's gaze was steady, his smile smaller now, more appropriate but no less easy or pleasant. It grated against the storm now brewing in Tom's chest at the maddening realisation he had been duped so easily.

Tom told himself this was anger.

Fingers curling against the table, he pressed his nails into his palm as his mind churned. He forced himself to relax, though the tension in his chest remained, coiling like a serpent ready to strike.

Rigel Black. At Hogwarts.

No longer a ghost, but real and present, stepping back into Tom's world in a manner more shocking than he did the first time.

He turned his attention back to his plate, though his appetite had vanished. Tom had been taken for a fool, this was a slight he would not take lightly.

The dark-haired boy might have decided to come back. But so help him, it would be under Tom's terms.

This was known.

...

...

A Flat, Somewhere,

New York

...

Draco looked up from his notes when he heard a low hissing sound coming from the Diale. How unusual, he leaned in closer.

The hissing grew louder, the runes burning red-hot against the dim light of the flat. Draco barely had time to react before the glass sphere exploded, shards scattering like deadly confetti.

He threw up a containment shield, heart pounding. 'Merlin's bloody—' His voice faltered as the realization sank in. Whatever had happened just now, had thrown things of balance.

Spectacularly.

...

Tom sat on his bed, his legs splayed out in front of him, a book perched on his lap, giving the illusion that he was reading. Around him the quiet murmur of conversation blended with the shuffling of feet and the soft creaking of bedsprings.

Tom's fingers tapped lightly against the wooden frame of his bed, his mind was elsewhere. Rigel Black shouldn't be here, He couldn't be here.

It felt like a violation, he curled his fists. Rigel had seen him at his lowest moments. Unkempt, starving, cold. He'd seen the sulky orphan, the lonely, brooding boy who slunk about, having been given a wide berth by everyone else. He had seen Tom when there was no need for masks, when there was no audience because the people around him barely qualified as humans.

He clenched his fist tighter, his nails biting into his palms. Rigel had seen Tom unguarded, and that was nothing if not a threat.

Anger and something else battled for dominance within his chest, gnawing at his bones and clawing at each other.

No. Not shame. Not shame.

Anger.

Yes. Anger.

Tom knew anger. He bent it to his will, honed it into something useful, something sharp.

And he would use it now.

Tom inhaled deeply, forcing his hands to relax. He could control this. He would control this.

He just needed to get to the bottom of things. As they stood now, Tom was now realising how little he knew about Rigel, for all their talks, Rigel never talked about himself, never anything that alluded to who he was outside of London. And Tom, caught up in the novelty of something new, something untouched by his Hogwarts persona, had not thought to push.

That had been his mistake. Tom had worked tirelessly to keep his life in and out of Hogwarts separate. Rigel Black risked ruining that.

If Rigel thought for one second that he could speak of what he'd seen—if he thought he could ruin the carefully cultivated image Tom had built at Hogwarts—

Well.

Tom's lips curved into a small smile, his fingers flexed as if itching to tighten around something solid.

He'd just have to make sure that Rigel Black kept his mouth shut.

Simple.

...

A/N: What do you think? did it live up to your expectations of Tom finding out? I lowkey feel I over-utilize stream of consciousness, so next chapter I'll be experimenting with a slightly different way of writing, hopefully it goes swimmingly .