Chapter Text
Hogwarts, September 2nd, 1943
“If the single man plants himself indomitably on his instincts, and there abides, this huge world will come around to him.”
-Ralph Waldo Emerson
Getting ready for bed that evening is an awkward affair. Alphard, who’d tried his hardest to attach himself to Harry at the hip since they’d first met, now seems content to stay at least five paces away from him at all times, his head bowed so low his chin brushes his chest.
Coward, Harry thinks at him viciously, wishing the boy would look up long enough to face the full force of Harry’s ire.
Rosier and Avery opt to completely turn their backs to Harry, regardless of where he’s standing, even if that means facing the corner of the room.
Tom, for his part, should consider a career in acting if the dueling apprenticeships fail to work out; his eyes gloss past Harry as smoothly as water over ice. If Harry were a shade dumber, he’d swear he’d suddenly turned invisible.
Lestrange is the only one willing to acknowledge his presence, and only for long enough to shoot Harry a scathing glare while Tom isn’t looking.
It seems they’ve all resolved to ignore him to death.
Harry huffs and draws his bed curtains, immediately casting silencio to begin warding his bed and belongings. He only knows elementary detection and repelling wards, but they’re better than nothing; Harry doubts this childish farce is all they have in store for him.
It will go like this: his peers will wait until he’s unawares, oh so patiently, and then they’ll strike. Such is the nature of snakes.
Harry’s hardly going to sleep, anyway. He might as well keep busy.
Harry wakes up early the following morning. Not even Tom is awake yet, which isn’t odd in any particular way other than he seems the type to find sleep unnecessary.
Harry dresses quickly, noting that the wards he’d set the night before remain untouched. Though suspicious, Harry decides the issue isn’t worth pursuing yet.
Let them plot in the shadows. Harry has a letter to write.
He tip-toes out of the dorm, shutting the door behind him softly. Unsurprisingly, the commons room is empty at such an early hour, so Harry claims a desk near one of the windows facing the Great Lake and sets quill to paper.
Dear Myrus, he scrawls hastily.
Sorry to write to you so soon. My first day of classes went well, but somehow, I’ve already managed to make some enemies— the entirety of House Slytherin, to be exact.
I already know what you’re going to say. I’m sorry, but I couldn’t stand back and let it happen. My year-mates were harassing a muggle-born student. They wouldn’t stop cursing her to trip and fall. She dropped an entire case of glass vials and kept landing in the broken glass.
Everyone was laughing, and nobody tried to help her, even while she was bleeding. It was awful. Worst of all, the sixth-year prefect watched and did nothing.
I know this isn’t the first time something like this has happened. It seems to be the status quo, and now that I’ve broken it, I’ve made myself a target. I don’t regret stepping in, but I’d be stupid not to expect some sort of retaliation.
I’m very disappointed, honestly. I thought I’d found a friend in Alphard Black, another Slytherin student, but he delighted in the girl’s suffering as much as everyone else.
They’re all obsessed with blood purity. I don’t get it. Aren’t there more important things to worry about?
On that note, is it too late to drop out and switch to homeschooling?
I’d appreciate some advice on how to proceed from here.
Best,
Harry
He blows on the ink to dry it and then folds the letter unevenly. Shoving his belongings into his bag, he makes his way to the exit of the Slytherin dungeons.
It’s a long and beautiful walk from the castle to the owlery. Harry can feel his shoulders gradually relaxing the farther he travels, fresh air soothing his frayed nerves like a balm.
The sun just barely crests the tall mountains of the rolling Scottish countryside, morning dew coating the grass and wetting Harry’s boots as he trods on. It’s chilly out, especially since it’s so early in the morning, but Harry enjoys the briskness of the wintry air. It’s equally numbing and refreshing, so Harry decides not to cast a heating charm even though he’s shivering.
Nocturnal creatures that they are, the owls are just settling to sleep for the day as Harry enters the top of the owlery tower, nestled warm and comfortable in the rafters. Harry chooses an especially plucky-looking bird, hoping her missing a few hours of sleep won’t bother her too much.
He wakes her with a gentle scritch through the soft and downy feathers on her neck and soothes her aggrieved squawking with a treat before she can awaken the entire henhouse.
She’s a beautiful barn owl with a pale white face, dark brown wings, and a plush black tail. Harry examines the tag tied around the owl’s ankle. “Temperance,” he says softly. “Good to meet you,” Harry tells her, feeding her another treat. He digs his letter from his bag and presents it to her. “Do you mind delivering this for me? It’s urgent. More treats are in it for you if you agree,” he bribes.
For a moment, impassionate dark eyes stare at Harry, but then Temperance obligingly holds her leg out. Harry grins. “Thanks, girl,” he says, securing the letter. “To Myrus Morrigan, please.” He rattles off his address. Temperance blinks and abruptly takes flight, sending feathers and owl dander through the air like mushroom clouds. Harry sneezes and is promptly chased out of the owlery by a flock of grumpy owls.
Harry makes it to the Great Hall just as the first students shuffle in, bleary-eyed and half-asleep. Harry slams back a glass of pumpkin juice and snags a few slices of buttered toast before turning on his heel and leaving, uninterested in sticking around long enough to run into his housemates.
Harry casts a quick tempus as he steps through the doors leading to the courtyard adjacent to the Great Hall. He has just over an hour before he’ll have to report to his first class of the day, Defence Against the Dark Arts. Harry sits on a stone bench in an out-of-the-way corner, groaning in relief as he finally takes his weight off his aching feet. So far, it felt like there was nothing more to Hogwarts than walking and more walking.
He begins nibbling on the corner of a slice of toast, taking this momentary reprieve as an opportunity to ponder a question that had bothered him since he’d woken up.
What am I to do about yesterday’s incident?
Harry retrieves his crinkled notepad from his pocket to make a list of potential solutions.
The first and most obvious choice is to tell a professor. But which one? Professor Slughorn is the Head of Slytherin house, but what if he ascribes to the same prejudices as Harry’s peers? Tom and the others behaved like their actions were above reproach. Harry wonders how long they’ve been doing things like this right underneath Slughorn’s nose without fear of consequence or justice.
Harry debates which is worse: to know about it and do nothing, or to know nothing because you didn’t care enough to look. Either way, it leaves a nasty taste in his mouth.
Harry huffs and scrubs his chilled face, coaxing warmth into it. He feels like he’s accidentally stumbled into a long-buried conspiracy less than a week into the new school year.
He considers the merits of going directly up the chain of command and informing Headmaster Dippet. To accuse a Prefect and his friends with no proof other than his own two eyes, however? It might as well be tantamount to social suicide. He doubts the other Slytherin students present would back his story, either.
An even more important point to acknowledge is that Jenny and Eileen opted not to report the incident themselves. If they’d gone to the Hospital Wing, the medi-witch on duty likely would’ve demanded to know how Jenny came by her injuries. Had they tried reporting it before and been ignored? Is that why they chose to tend to the matter themselves?
It certainly was a complicated issue.
Despite the numerous negatives, Harry still puts a star next to the first option, unwilling to eliminate it entirely.
Next, he could take matters into his own hands. But what would that entail? He couldn’t wage a war against the entirety of a House, much as he might want to. Harry briefly entertains the idea of playing a harmless prank on Tom or Araminta. What if he charmed their hair to turn bright Gryffindor red? He scoffs. Amusing, but only if Harry wishes to be strung up from the rafters. He marks that option out.
Finally, he could do nothing. It makes Harry uncomfortable to even think about it, but as mentioned earlier, Jenny and Eileen chose not to report the incident, presumably for a good reason. What if Harry made their situation worse by bringing it to attention? He’d never be able to forgive himself.
Harry tears the sheet from his notepad and crumbles it up, murmuring incendio to erase the evidence. The paper slowly reduces to ash in his fingers.
Harry runs his hand along his face. Clearly, the situation would require more thought.
Casting tempus once more, Harry decides the remaining thirty minutes before class is more than enough time to find the Defence classroom.
It wasn’t enough time, as it turns out. Harry gets lost no less than three times; he has to ask for directions from several paintings and a set of armor (who points him down a hallway with a venomous tentacula three times his size at the end).
He arrives with less than thirty seconds to spare, sliding into the classroom just as Professor Merrythought exits her office to begin class.
Panting, Harry throws himself into an empty desk behind a pair of Gryffindor boys in the back of the classroom. They don’t spare him a glance, too preoccupied with frantically whispering to each other, their heads practically glued together.
At the front of the room, Alphard tries to steal a glance at Harry and flinches once he realizes that Harry’s caught him.
Harry shakes his head and turns his attention to Professor Merrythought. She’s an older witch, plump around the waist and short. Her hair is white from age and cut boyishly, with unruly strands combed away from her forehead. Bright purple powder lines her blue eyes, matching her rich amethyst robes. She’s the first and only witch Harry has seen wearing pants and shoes without a heel since he’d woken up in St. Mungo’s.
“Good morning, class,” Professor Merrythought greets, her voice high and joyful like a bell. She smiles as she rubs her hands together delightedly, and Harry notes absently that one of her front teeth is chipped. “I hope you did your summer reading because we’re beginning class today with a practical pop quiz.”
A handful of groans echo throughout the room. Professor Merrythought rolls her eyes. “Honestly, you children get worse by the year. When I was in your shoes, I was lucky if I left Defense with all my faculties still intact. Come on now, partner up.” Her eyes catch on Harry. “It seems we have an odd number of students, so if one group would be gracious enough to adopt our new student…”
The Slytherins pointedly avoid looking at Harry. The silence drags on awkwardly, and Harry is seriously considering just throwing himself out of one of the stained-glass windows when one of the Gryffindor boys in front of him stops whispering long enough to turn around and scrutinize him. “We’ll take him,” he says decisively.
At that, Tom Riddle whips around in his seat at the front and glares at Harry through slitted eyes like he was the one who’d spoken. Rather than recoiling, as perhaps Tom might’ve expected, Harry smirks. Tom had lost his own game in less than 24 hours.
Harry barely resists the urge to stick his tongue out and instead primly turns away, ignoring the feeling of Tom’s gaze burning a hole into the side of his head. It seemed like he’d forgotten to inform the rest of the school that Harry wasn’t supposed to exist.
“Thank you, Charlus. One point to Gryffindor for your readiness to volunteer. Now, everyone, up, up!” Harry obliges, standing up alongside the rest of the class and slinging his bag over his shoulder. Professor Merrythought waves her hand, and all the desks and chairs swerve around the students to line up neatly against the walls, and at her instruction, the students set their things along the walls, too.
Professor Merrythought resumes her place at the front of the room and casts a spell to enlarge the classroom, doubling its size. “Form two lines, with one partner in each,” she directs. “Put about ten feet of space between yourselves. My group of three, come here to the front. You’ll be doing something a bit different…”
She places Harry and the two Gryffindor boys into a stilted triangle, angled just-so to prevent a stray spell from hitting another student.
“Today’s focus will be the Shield charm. If you did your summer reading, you should be an expert on it. If not… well, I hope you’re a quick learner. Can anyone tell me the incantation?”
Tom Riddle raises his hand. “Yes, Thomas?” she calls on him. He grimaces briefly, the expression gone as quickly as it had appeared.
“The incantation is protego, Professor,” he answers, enunciating the Latin carefully.
“Correct! One point to Slytherin,” she cries. “Class, say it with me. Pro-te-go.”
Harry repeats it dutifully, his voice blending in with the chorus of students. Nobody sounds particularly enthusiastic.
“Good, good. I hope you can recall the wand motion from the reading, because that’s the pop in today’s quiz. You will use the first half of class to practice, taking turns casting spells on each other and using the Shield charm to protect yourself. I hesitate to say this, but all spells are fair game— with that said, try to avoid sending your partner to the Hospital Wing. We’ll conclude class with the quiz! I’ll circle around to put out any fires, but I will not be answering any questions. Begin!”
Professor Merrythought claps, and with that, they’re off.
The boy to Harry’s left draws his wand and settles into a dueling stance, his knees bent and feet shoulder-width apart. “Right, then,” he says. “Who wants to go first?”
“I do,” says the other boy. “I’m Ignatius Prewitt, by the way,” he says, speaking to Harry. Ignatius is handsome, with pin-straight chestnut hair styled to resemble a hedgehog and warm eyes of the same color. Where Lestrange’s freckles are dense and could be mistaken for patchy, rough skin, Ignatius’ are sparse and only spann his cheeks and the length of his nose.
Ignatius gestures to the other boy with his thumb. “This prat is Charlus Potter,” he introduces, and Charlus nods politely. Charlus is slighter than Ignatius, with messy black hair that reminds Harry of his own. While he isn’t ugly, there isn’t anything particularly striking about him.
“I’m Harry,” he says, awkwardly waving.
“No family name, eh?” Charlus says. Harry tenses, expecting the worst. “Good on you,” Charlus praises unexpectedly. “Some families aren’t worth claiming.”
Harry doesn’t bother correcting Charlus. He just hums noncommittally.
“Alright, enough of that,” Ignatius says. “I only skimmed the reading, so I need as much practice as I can get. Hit me, Charlie.”
“Don’t have to tell me twice,” Charlus mutters. He fires off a bombarda.
“Protego,” Ignatius shouts, lunging forward like he’s holding a rapier rather than a wand. His shield sputters pathetically, and the exploding spell shatters it upon impact, sending Ignatius flying into the far wall. Harry winces sympathetically.
“I’m good,” Ignatius groans, dismissing Harry’s offer to help him stand up. “Merlin’s beard, were you trying to kill me?” he grumbles at Charlus.
“I wish I had been,” Charlus jokes.
“Bombarda,” Ignatius shouts unexpectedly, and Charlus dives out of the way just in time. The spell hits a stack of desks behind him, exploding them in a storm of splinters.
“Ignatius!” Professor Merrythought barks.
“Sorry, Professor,” Ignatius says feebly.
“Hmph,” she huffs, but blessedly doesn’t take any points.
Once she leaves, Ignatius hisses, “You were supposed to block it, idiot,” under his breath.
“Now I’m really going to kill you,” Charlus says ominously.
“Er,” Harry interrupts warily. “I think it’s my turn?”
They turn to him, looking like they’d forgotten Harry was there in the first place. “Too right,” Charlus says, and then he and Ignatius cast bombarda simultaneously.
“Protego,” Harry incantates, summoning a shimmering golden sphere around himself. The shield absorbs the spells harmlessly, their combined force hardly setting Harry back an inch.
Harry releases the spell. “Are you sure you aren’t trying to kill me?” he asks drily. Charlus and Ignatius at least have the good grace to look ashamed.
“Five points to Slytherin,” Professor Merrythought cries behind him, making Harry jump, “And an exemption from the pop quiz. Fantastic spellwork, Harry!”
A hush falls over the classroom, Harry’s peers turning to gaze at him with equal parts jealousy and awe. “I didn’t know we could get out of quizzes,” someone mutters.
“Thank you, Professor,” Harry says quietly, suddenly shy from the shift in attention.
Professor Merrythought grins at him, and a strange chord of familiarity echoes in Harry’s mind. Briefly, he’s taken by the warmth of arms encircling him, a flash of gray-streaked orange hair, and the faint scent of rosemary.
Harry reluctantly shakes the feeling of deja vu off, resolving to record the incident in his notepad.
“Well?” Professor Merrythought addresses the stagnant class. “Get back to it.” She makes a shooing motion. With some grumbling and a few more glances Harry’s way, everyone resumes practicing.
In particular, Tom Riddle’s gaze lingers, but Harry valiantly tries to ignore it.
An arm suddenly slings around his neck, jostling Harry and nearly toppling him. Charlus flanks Harry’s other side, leaning in conspiratorially.
“You didn’t say you could cast like that,” Ignatius says faux-casually.
“You didn’t ask,” Harry replies.
Ignatius pretends that Harry hasn’t spoken. “I have a feeling we’re going to be great friends,” he says. “Even if you are a Slytherin. Say, do you mind showing us the wand movement again…”
After Harry’s performance in Defence, Charlus and Ignatius declare him a magical prodigy and decide he’s destined to single-handedly save them from failing out of their sixth year. Trying to convince them otherwise is like pulling teeth, so Harry leaves it, resisting the urge to pull out his own teeth.
Just after one spell, too. Harry wonders how dire their respective performances must be for them to want his help so desperately.
They get out of Defence early because of the quiz, which Charlus and Ignatius only pass thanks to Harry’s tutelage; afterward, the two Gryffindors insist on personally escorting him to the Transfiguration classroom, dogging his heels like… well, like a dog.
Harry stifles the urge to groan, feeling the inevitable beginnings of a headache along the base of his skull.
He loses one shadow in Alphard and somehow gains two more, except these two talk too much to be considered a shadow. They seem well-intentioned, however, so Harry bites his tongue and adds buying earplugs to his ever-growing list of things to do.
Transfiguration provides no respite. The two Gryffindor boys drag a third chair to a desk that is clearly only meant for two students and force Harry between them even though they spend almost the entire class period literally talking over his head.
Harry tries to elicit sympathy from Professor Dumbledore, but he realizes he’s doomed when he notices the amused glean in the Professor’s eyes. He resigns himself to an eternity (a single class period) of bumping elbows.
He can’t even sneak away during lunch. “Sit with us, Harry,” Charlus entreats.
“Is that even allowed?” Harry asks, and Charlus shrugs like he hasn’t considered it. Harry doesn’t even know why he tries; these two hardly seem they’re concerned with what is and isn’t allowed.
Better to ask for forgiveness, and all that.
The Gryffindor table welcomes him with a surprising amount of ease, considering the tension Harry has picked up on between their two houses. They barely bat an eye when he introduces himself, and Harry finds the lack of inherent prejudice a refreshing change. Everyone is lively and overwhelmingly sociable, and though Harry doesn’t participate much in the conversation, he finds himself slowly relaxing amidst such goodwill.
This wasn’t anything like his first experience in Slytherin. Not for the first time, Harry regrets his decision to join the House of the Snakes. What had he been thinking when this feels so much more like home?
Harry’s mulish pondering is interrupted by the arrival of the daily mail. Owls flock into the Great Hall in a great cloud of feathers, and Harry perks up, eyes instinctually seeking his new friend. Temperance doesn’t disappoint, swooping down to drop a neatly folded letter into his lap. She settles on his shoulder and chirps until he slips her a treat, which she snaps up with vigor, and then she tucks her head into Harry’s hair to take a nap.
Harry runs his finger under the wax seal to open the letter and eagerly reads Myrus’ response.
Harry,
Don’t apologize. It’s good to hear from you, though I’d hoped for more pleasant news.
I want you to know I’m far from disappointed. It was a noble thing you did, standing up for another student.
If you haven’t already, I suggest you try reporting the incident to a professor. Though I commend you for stepping in, it shouldn’t be your job. That prefect ought to be stripped of their badge.
The Blacks are an old family, and Slytherin House boasts a long line of pureblood students. Wizards are slow to learn and even slower to change. Give it time and trust your instincts.
And for the last time, you’re not leaving Hogwarts until they kick you out.
Best,
Myrus Morrigan
“Who’s that from, then?” Charlus asks, peering curiously over Harry’s shoulder. Harry snaps the letter closed.
“My guardian, Myrus,” Harry says.
“Myrus who?” Ignatius says around a mouthful of mashed potatoes. “I know several Myrus’s. It’s a pretty common name.”
“Myrus Morrigan,” Harry says, and Ignatius promptly chokes on his mashed potatoes.
“Myrus Morrigan?” Charlus asks in disbelief, reaching around Harry to smack Ignatius on the back. “As in the former Head of the DMLE, Myrus Morrigan? The one who retired from office just so he could return to field work?”
“I guess?” Harry says. “He never mentioned that to me, though.”
“No wonder you’re so good at Defence,” Ignatius splutters between coughs.
“Yeah,” Harry says absently, having already lost interest in the conversation. You should report the incident to a professor echoes in his mind like a broken record. “No wonder.”
Harry escapes to the dungeons that evening before dinner, his mind set on fulfilling Myrus’ suggestion. He creeps into the empty Potions classroom feeling like a criminal and heads toward Professor Slughorn’s office, his stomach churning tumultuously for seemingly no reason.
The closed door to the Potion Master’s office looms over Harry like an impenetrable wall. He’s mind-numbingly nervous, but he pushes through it and approaches the door. Lifting his hand to knock on the slatted wood takes a Herculean effort.
“Come in!” Professor Slughorn calls jovially. With a feeling akin to approaching the gallows, Harry clasps the wrought iron door handle and pushes the door open.
Professor Slughorn is sitting at his desk grading papers. The room is illuminated by the soft glow of gas lamps, and it’s noticeably warmer in here than in the rest of the dungeons.
Something in Harry settles. It’s just Professor Slughorn, he tells himself. Harmless, if not a bit tactless, but surely he could be trusted to care about his students.
“Harry,” he says, sounding delighted. “Sit down, please. Tea?”
“Er, no thank you, Professor,” Harry declines, taking the proffered seat. “I’m sorry if you’re busy. I’ll try not to take up too much of your time.”
“Nonsense! I’m never too busy to help a student. So, what can I help you with today? Is it a question about our next class period? The Draught of Living Death is certainly a daunting brew, but I have the utmost faith…”
Harry gets the sense that Professor Slughorn would talk for hours if left uninterrupted. “No, Professor, nothing like that. It’s a little more serious.”
Professor Slughorn examines him curiously but stays silent, inviting Harry to speak. Harry takes a fortifying breath, his mind paralyzed between, I have to tell him and What if he doesn’t believe me?
Nothing for it but to do it, he decides.
The words burst out of him like a dam. “I’d like to report an incident,” he says confidently, then holds his breath.
“What sort of incident, Harry?” Professor Slughorn asks.
“Of, erm. Hazing? Or bullying, I guess?”
“My goodness,” Professor Slughorn breathes. “Serious, indeed. Please tell me what happened, my boy. Are you hurt?”
Harry could cry, he's so relieved. He believes me. The tight pit in Harry’s stomach unfurls, and he exhales to release the tension in his lungs.
“Not me, sir. It happened last night, in the common room. Jenny Glass—”
“Who?” Professor Slughorn asks.
Harry furrows his brow. Perhaps Professor Slughorn hadn’t heard him? “Jenny Glass,” he repeats louder. “The sixth-year Slytherin girl? She’s friends with Eileen Prince?”
“Oh, of course,” Professor Slughorn says. “Miss Glass, the muggle-born. She’s so quiet I often forget she exists,” he titters, an ugly, croaking sort of thing reminiscent of a frog.
Harry clears his throat, his unease returning so suddenly that a chill runs up his spine. “Anyway, sir. She came into the common room last night carrying some glass vials, and Araminta Black cursed her and made her fall, and when she fell, she dropped all of her vials and landed in the broken glass. Jenny was bleeding and crying and Araminta wouldn’t let her get up, sir.”
Professor Slughorn stays silent for a moment, steepling his fingers. “I see,” he says finally, his voice a touch colder. “Was another student witness to this ‘incident’?” he asks.
“Tom Riddle was, sir,” Harry says. “And he didn’t help at all.”
Another, longer pause. Professor Slughorn’s face shutters and becomes utterly devoid of emotion. “Tom didn’t mention anything of the sort to me,” he says evenly.
Harry's stomach drops. “Sir,” he tries.
“No!” Professor Slughorn says sharply. “I’ll not entertain this farce for a second longer. To accuse Tom Riddle, of all people…” he trails off, shaking his head in disbelief.
“But sir,” Harry says desperately.
The gas lamps flicker dangerously. “Enough, child,” Slughorn demands. “Tom Riddle is a student of outstanding character. He is intelligent, and hard-working, but most importantly, he’s a visionary. That boy is going places, and his lofty ambitions will not be crushed by one—” he pauses here, looking at Harry like one would look at a bug stuck to their shoe, “—prone to bouts of jealousy.”
Slughorn sniffles and settles back in his chair, resting his hands atop his rotund stomach. “Get out,” he commands. “Count yourself lucky that you got out of this without detention.”
Harry stands on numb legs and stumbles out of Slughorn’s office.
He exits the adjoining classroom and picks a direction at random, following the long and winding hallways in a daze, going deeper into the dungeons than he’s ever been before.
It doesn’t take long for Harry’s scattered mind to turn to anger.
It's a blinding, blistering hot rage that leaves him seething through his teeth. The urge to wrap his fingers around Slughorn’s bulging neck and squeeze until he pops like an overblown balloon overcomes him.
How could Slughorn be so unjust?
Harmless, if not a bit tactless. Harry scoffs at his earlier words. In the haze of his own idealism, he’d forgotten that, above all else, Slughorn was a Slytherin. Of course, he wouldn’t entertain something that didn’t serve his own self-interest.
Harry should’ve gone straight to the Headmaster while he had the chance, but now it would be his word against Tom Riddle’s and Professor Slughorn’s. He could throttle himself for his own foolishness.
He turns a corner in a flurry, intent on finding an old piece of furniture suitable for flaying to bits, but a hand reaches out from behind a tapestry and drags him by the scruff of his neck into a hidden broom closet before he can go any further.
Harry has the nastiest curse he can muster on his lips the moment he recognizes who’s grabbed him. “Confringo,” he hisses, but his wand is ripped from his grasp before the spell can fire.
Tom Riddle towers over Harry, his wand shoved deeply into the jut of Harry’s jaw, pushing him back until his spine meets cold stone. Harry resists the urge to shiver.
He has to crane his neck to meet the other boy’s eyes, the disparity between their heights becoming more pronounced in such close proximity.
“Naughty, naughty,” Tom tuts, his voice smooth like honey. “How did you learn to cast a spell like that?”
The other boy is smirking, his brown eyes narrowed to suspicious slits.
“Give me my wand back and I’ll show you,” Harry snarls.
Tom chuckles lowly. “Threatening a prefect?” He leans in to whisper in Harry’s ear. “I could tell Professor Slughorn, you know. And he’d believe me, unlike you.”
Harry doesn’t bother asking how Tom has managed to find out so quickly. He shoves Tom back, intent on punching the bastard’s lights out, his wand be damned.
“Ah, ah, ah,” Tom scolds, reading Harry’s intentions right off his face. He levels his wand again with all the careful poise of a predator. It’s the first time Harry’s seen it so close, pale-white and brittle like bone. “I can assure you that is something you do not want to do.”
“And why’s that?” Harry asks.
“Because whatever you think you can do to me, I promise I can return it tenfold.”
Harry scoffs. “I’m not afraid of you, Riddle.”
“Are you foolishly brave, or just plain foolish?” Tom asks. “It’s a wonder the Hat sorted you into Slytherin. From what I’ve seen, you haven’t even the most basic makings of a Snake.”
“From what I’ve seen, that’s a good thing,” Harry snaps back.
Tom laughs again, but his humor settles quickly. “I’ve come to explain a few things to you, since there appears to be a few… gaps in your current understanding of things. I’ve afforded you a measure of leniency, due to your ignorance, and because I thought you wouldn’t be much trouble, but you're proving to be a very vexing issue.”
He pauses long enough to crowd Harry back into the wall, meeting his gaze unflinchingly. “I don’t suffer from vexations for very long.” The threat is explicit.
“In Slytherin, you’ll find that there’s an order to things,” Tom continues.
Harry bristles, the urge to sink his fist into Tom’s gut rearing its ugly head again. “If you think I’m just going to stand around and let you—”
“Hush,” Tom hisses, waving his wand and silencing Harry wordlessly. Harry bucks like a wild horse, but Tom uses his free hand to shove Harry back so harshly that his head slams against the wall. Harry’s vision flutters with stars.
“You’re welcome to do as you please, Harry,” Tom says pleasantly, as if they’re sharing this conversation over tea rather than at wand point. “But with whatever you choose to do… be prepared to suffer the consequences.”
With that, Tom turns on his heel and leaves, dropping Harry’s confiscated wand like trash.
Harry slides to the floor and buries his face in his hands, wondering at his inability to let sleeping dragons lie.
He'd finally managed to make Tom Riddle show his true face, but at what cost?