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Harry was quite excited when, on the day of the Third Task, Professor Dumbledore announced that the champions’ families had all been brought to Hogwarts. Sure, he’d known he would see them next week when he went home on the Express (for the final time—he still couldn’t believe he was graduating). But there was just something special about hanging out with his parents and godfather in the context of the magical castle where they’d all spent their teenage years. Plus, he’d gone an unusually long time without a visit home this year, as he’d stayed over winter hols for the Yule Ball.
(Not that he regretted that for a moment. He’d gone as friends with Luna and they’d had, as she put it, “a narwhal of a time”. Harry had asked if those were like nargles, but she’d merely laughed and said, “No, silly, even Muggles can see narwhals.”)
But now he was being hugged by his mother and clapped on the back by Dad and Sirius, and then Professor Lupin came down and it became a regular reunion, with Padfoot and Prongs teasing Moony about having “gone over to the opposing side” (“You said the same thing when I was made Prefect, but you still keep me around,” Remus said dryly). They all caught up over lunch, joined by the Weasleys, who had gotten tickets through Charlie after he helped with the First Task.
After they’d all had their fill of bacon sandwiches and cottage pie , they began to splinter into smaller groups and go their separate ways around the castle and grounds, promising to meet up again before dinner. The three Marauders decided to visit their old stomping grounds at the Shrieking Shack; Harry did an involuntary full-body cringe when James nudged his friends and suggested, as unsubtly as humanly possible, that they “study Herbology, just like in ‘75”. Lily ignored them and said that she was off to the dungeons to say hello to Professor Slughorn; despite his obsequiousness, the old Potions Master’s connections were an invaluable ongoing resource in her and Severus’s careers. The Weasley parents, meanwhile, fancied a stroll up to the Gryffindor dorms and Astronomy Tower. Harry thought this might be a good opportunity to ask Bill about his work and travels, since Curse-Breaking was adjacent to many of the careers he was interested in himself; but when he turned around, the eldest Weasley son had disappeared. Harry looked around and spotted his iconic ginger ponytail over by the Beauxbatons students, for some reason.
Laughing in bemusement at being essentially ditched at his own event, Harry thought to go find Hermione—she’d probably want to go over all the spells they’d practiced for the Task one more time, for her own peace of mind more than anything else—when he heard an unpleasantly familiar voice behind him and stifled a groan.
“Ah, Mr. Potter—Britain’s beloved Champion! I was hoping to run into you!”
He fixed a convincing smile on his face and turned to greet the portly man in the lime-green bowler hat who, for reasons he still couldn’t comprehend, was currently serving his second term as Minister for Magic. Fudge had been finding excuses to “run into” Harry at every opportunity for the last two years or so, from Ministry functions to holiday celebrations, and now, with the Tournament, he’d been hounding him at school as well. No amount of subtle hinting, polite demurrals, or noncommittal non-answers had managed to deter the man from his conviction that, with just a few more incentives and a bit of buttering up, Harry could be persuaded to follow in James’s footsteps and join the Auror Department.
(He had expressed interest in a DMLE career—when he was ten, for Merlin’s sake. He’d long since realized that an Auror’s job involved far more paperwork, regulations, and petty office politics than the kind of creative, fast-paced problem solving Harry excelled at.)
“Hello, Minister,” he said politely. Unfortunately, being blunt or refusing the man outright was not an option, due to James Potter being very much affected by the aforementioned office politics. His father had more than once asked him, apologetically, to just put Fudge off a bit longer until Harry had a firm job offer someplace else to cite.
“Yes, yes, Harry, it’s so good to see you. From afar I even thought you were your father for a moment there, you look more like him every day! Incidentally…”
What followed was a circular conversation in which Fudge asked him about his current place in the DADA rankings (top of his year, same as the last five times the Minister had inquired), his chances of winning the Triwizard Cup (Harry was still narrowly in the lead just ahead of Krum, which was unsurprising as nothing had changed since Fudge last brought it up at the Ball), and how very unfortunate it was that, even with fifty years gone since the defeat of Grindelwald, there were still so many criminals and ne’er-do-wells menacing peaceful wizarding society.
Harry had just about decided that he’d done enough and could safely beg off, when Fudge glanced over Harry’s shoulder and widened his eyes, apparently seeing something that, incredibly, momentarily distracted him from his life’s mission of establishing a Potter dynasty in the Auror department.
“Tom! Just the wizard I wanted to see! Come and join us, it’s high time the two of you met…”
Harry turned to see a tall man in viridian robes approaching them with a confident, long-legged stride. As he got closer, more details became apparent: a head of thick, lustrous hair, subtle snake motifs embroidered on his sleeves, a lordship ring on one long-fingered hand. Realization struck Harry; this must be—
“Harry, I’d like to introduce my Senior Undersecretary and protégé—Tom Riddle, Lord Slytherin! Tom, I’m sure you recognize Harry Potter, the pride of Hogwarts…”
Harry suppressed a smirk. From his dad’s talks—frequently shading into rants—around the family dinner table, Riddle was not so much Fudge’s ‘protégé’ as the de facto shadow Minister, basically running the country from the Undersecretary role until he was old enough to make a credible bid for the position himself. Though he was heir to a Founder’s House, the head of the traditionalist faction in the Wizengamot, and by all accounts (even James’s, extremely begrudgingly) brilliant and charismatic, Wizarding Britain was still a bit too hidebound to elect a leader who was barely twenty-five. He’d been in the same Hogwarts year as Tonks and Charlie, and Head Boy.
“Pleased to meet you, Lord Slytherin.” Harry dipped his head in respect and extended his hand to shake; Riddle clasped his in return, gently but firmly. His hands were smooth and soft, but Harry could detect callouses in all the places that indicated frequent work with a wand and quill.
“The pleasure is all mine, Heir Potter.” He held Harry’s hand—and his eyes—for just a split second more than was customary. His own eyes reminded Harry of a banked fire—dark and smoldering, with something burning at the heart.
Fudge cleared his throat; Harry and Riddle broke both physical and eye contact and turned to the Minister. “Now, Tom,” he said officiously, “Have you been by the hedge maze yet? I do hope everything’s in order with the magical projectors—we don’t want a repeat of the Second Task…”
Harry chuckled at the memory. The student population had not been best pleased to be dragged outside in February to stare at the aptly-named Black Lake for an hour while the champions sought out their hostages. The Beauxbatons delegation had spent weeks performatively shivering.
“…what on earth was Ludo thinking, I don’t know what I pay that man for…” Fudge was muttering, clearly still traumatized.
“I’m sure I couldn’t tell you, sir,” Tom said, the wry undercurrent in his tone lost on the Minister. “As for the Second Task…we were fortunate that at least Mr. Potter here treated us to such a spectacular display.” He caught Harry’s eye again over the top of Fudge’s hat. “I’m so pleased with the opportunity to congratulate you in person for your performance.”
Harry flushed. Besides the cold and the lack of a decent view, all anyone talked about after the task was his “unique” approach. Honestly, as soon as he had worked out what the egg clue meant, he’d figured at least one of the other champions would come up with the idea of taming a kelpie. It was Scotland, for Godric’s sake! He’d spent all winter tracking one down and earning its trust with Hagrid’s enthusiastic help, and when the day came, he’d ridden the sleek black water-horse to the merfolk village and back in a mere twenty minutes, emerging with a waterlogged Ron and a dramatic splash that soaked the front row of the audience. In retrospect, he realized it made him look like a showoff—especially after his stunt with the Firebolt in the First Task—but he couldn’t have predicted that Fleur and Krum would rely on basic swimming, assisted with only a bit of Charms and Transfiguration. No one even thought of gillyweed!
“Oh my, I hope I haven’t offended you,” Riddle said when he saw Harry’s face. “I meant it only as the highest compliment. It’s a rare privilege, to see such a majestic magical creature up close.”
After another time-dilated moment under the Undersecretary’s intense gaze, Harry realized that he really should say something. “Thanks,” he managed, and then quipped, regaining his confidence, “With any luck, I can find something to ride to victory in the Third Task too.”
The embers in Riddle’s eyes sparked with delight as he let out a full, genuine laugh. “Indeed, Britain can only hope. And this time the audience will get to enjoy it as well, because”—he returned his attention to his boss—“yes, Minister, all the projectors are working splendidly. We have eyes on every corner of the maze, from multiple angles.”
“Excellent, excellent,” Fudge said pompously, before reasserting his place in the conversation. “Anyway, Tom, I was just telling Harry here that with the recent uptick in crime we could really use him in the DMLE, especially with the skills he’s showed against Dark creatures in the tournament—“
“Wait, what Dark creatures?” Harry blurted, forgetting his usual delicacy with Fudge in his confusion.
The Minister looked as if he had been asked a trick question in class. “Well, the Horntail, of course, and—“
“Dragons aren’t Dark,” Harry interrupted. It would have been unforgivably rude—had Tom, the man’s own Undersecretary, not said it near-simultaneously. The two younger men glanced at each other and shared the quick smile of two wixen who had just realized they shared a favorite school subject.
Two pink spots appeared on Fudge’s round cheeks. “Well, of course not, but surely during the Second—“
“You mean the Grindylows in the lake?” Harry asked, naming the only creature he’d faced so far that qualified as even remotely Dark. Dragons, merfolk and kelpies were all grey-neutral, and really qualified more as Beings than creatures anyway, given their high intelligence and complex culture.
Seeming to sense that Harry was on the verge of actually saying as much and wounding the Minister for Magic’s fragile ego, Riddle stepped forward and put a quelling hand on his upper arm. “Minister,” he interjected smoothly, “would you mind terribly if I borrowed Harry for an hour or two? I’ve missed Hogwarts dearly these last seven years, and I’d love to take a turn around the castle without a certain bearded meddler dogging my every step.”
Fudge seemed overjoyed with the change in topic. “Ah, of course, of course,” he said, waving his hand magnanimously. “You young people enjoy yourselves; I need to touch base with Bartemius anyway. Very astute observation about Dumbledore too, Tom, I’ve always said the man is rather poor at recognizing talent…”
And he wandered away, looking secure in his resentment of the Headmaster.
Once he was out of earshot, Harry shot Riddle a grin and tipped his head in a gesture indicating both Thanks for the save and Nicely done. The older man smiled back conspiratorially.
“Well then,” he said, extending his elbow for Harry to take, “shall we?”
————————————
“So I take it you’re not a fan of Dumbledore,” Harry said as they passed through the great oaken double doors and into the Entrance Hall. “Or was that just pandering to the Minister?” He didn’t know what had gotten into him to speak so boldly, but there was something about Riddle that made him feel comfortable letting out his more playful side. The Undersecretary, for his part, seemed to enjoy the banter as well.
“It would be more accurate to say Albus is not a fan of me,” he said, not actually answering either question directly, before inclining his head in the direction they were walking. “I did not expect a Gryffindor and star Quidditch player to make the dungeons his first stop on the tour.”
Harry halted at the entrance to the stairway leading down; he’d headed this way automatically, with the vague notion that Riddle might like to visit—
“Your common room,” he said by way of explanation. “I thought you’d probably want to see it again, so…” he saw the man’s quirked eyebrow and realized his error too late.
“And you weren’t wrong. I was wondering, however, why you seem so confident you know where it is.”
Harry winced. Perhaps he had gotten a bit too comfortable after all. Still, Riddle’s face showed nothing but amusement and curiosity, and once again, he decided to answer openly.
“Okay, my friends and I might have brewed Polyjuice in second year to sneak in there and look for dirt on Malfoy,” he admitted, bracing himself for offended Slytherin pride or, at the very least, a lecture about making banned potions.
But Riddle looked thrilled. “Draco Malfoy? Lucius’s son?” Harry nodded, kicking himself as he remembered that Lords Malfoy and Slytherin worked extremely closely in the Wizengamot. “Oh, I hope you got something good on the little twit.”
“Not really.” Accepting that he probably wasn’t going to get into trouble, Harry smiled at the memory of Malfoy at twelve, stuffing himself with sweets and boasting about the size of his manor. “He never found out, though—I reckon he still thinks Crabbe and Goyle had a weirdly sharp evening.”
Riddle snorted. They’d descended the stairs in the course of their conversation, and were well on their way to the dungeons, with the older man now leading the way to his old House common room. “Come along then,” he said, casually lighting his wand in the gloom. “It’s no betrayal of the House of Serpents if you’ve seen it all before, now is it?”
———————————-
It only occurred to Harry as they reached the telltale blank stretch of dungeon wall that Riddle’s last password would be about seven years out of date, but Lord Slytherin quickly proved that being the Heir had its privileges, opening the passage with a low hiss that sounded exactly like a snake but had an air of command that was all Riddle. Harry knew of the man’s Parseltongue abilities, of course, but he’d never heard the language spoken before. It sparked a warm, coiling feeling in his lower belly that Harry decided was probably similar to the excitement he always felt when witnessing new kinds of magic.
The common room was as he’d remembered it from that stolen hour five years back, all dark tones and shades of green, right down to the waters of the Black Lake outside the window. Riddle looked like he belonged there in his emerald robes, like the entire scene was a living portrait.
“Dear old Hogwarts,” he said, his face uncharacteristically soft, not a trace of irony in his voice. “I still remember my first night here.” He ran a hand over an intricately carved snake on the mantelpiece.
It took no effort at all for Harry to recall his own first night in Gryffindor Tower, watching the stars through the window and getting accustomed to the sounds of four other sleeping boys, stomach fluttering with nervous anticipation for his first day of classes. But he’d read the same stories in the Prophet as the rest of wizarding Britain, seen the photos of Riddle speaking passionately in the Wizengamot, arguing fiercely for better protections for magical children in Muggle homes. He knew the broad strokes of the man’s childhood, knew that coming to Hogwarts had probably meant more to him than someone like Harry, who’d stayed up late that first night penning an excited letter to his parents about his Sorting, could ever imagine.
It felt oddly intimate, watching all those emotions and memories play out so openly across Riddle’s face. It made Harry want to reveal something of himself in return.
“The Hat said I could’ve done well in Slytherin,” he said, a secret he’d never told anyone slipping out as easy as breath. “We debated it for three minutes, and in the end it let me choose.”
Riddle surfaced from his reverie and regarded Harry, his eyes as liquid and changeable as the water through the glass behind him. “Really,” he said, sounding truly intrigued. “Fascinating. Split decisions aren’t too uncommon, of course, but a near tie between the lion and the serpent…you must be a unique soul indeed.”
“Yeah, well, I almost picked Slytherin just to prank my dad and godfather,” Harry said, breaking the tension with a chuckle. “It was only Malfoy being a prat on the train that tipped the balance.”
Riddle smirked, sliding easily back into this lighter mode. “Well, you’ll have to tell me what it was like, conversing with the Hat,” he said, pushing off the fireplace and making his way back to the door. “The only thing it ever said to me was ‘SLYTHERIN!’, and it had barely even touched my hair.”
————————————
“Don’t think I’m going to let you into Gryffindor Tower just to be fair,” Harry warned. They were ascending the castle floor by floor, enjoying the scenic views from the moving staircases, visiting their favorite portraits and secret passages, stopping for a bit in the library and comparing when they’d each first gotten into the Restricted Section (Riddle had Harry beaten with his signed permission from Slughorn in only second year, but Harry took secret, silent comfort in the fact that he’d snuck in with the Cloak as a firstie). “You haven’t ‘seen it all before’, so I have to keep my House’s secrets.”
Riddle stopped a few paces ahead and leaned against the wall with a smug look on his face, waiting for Harry to catch up. “Oh? Are you quite sure about that?”
Harry startled for a second before remembering his own inner snake. “Nice try. You’re bluffing.”
The taller man leaned in as Harry came level with him, meeting his eyes. “The entrance is in the westernmost corridor of the seventh floor, behind the portrait of the Fat Lady. The common room itself is decorated in red and gold, with furniture that could likely devour a first year whole and”—he raised a finger to stop Harry, who was about to say those could be lucky guesses—“a variety of classic magical artworks featuring lions, including a tapestry depiction of the poem ‘The Lion And The Unicorn’, a naturalistic scene of a pride on the Serengeti with the Mountains of the Moon rising in the distance, and a more recent series of seven paintings by a Muggleborn fan of the author C.S. Lewis.”
Harry goggled at him. “How—?”
“I’ve been capable of a powerful Disillusionment Charm since third year, Harry. And as for the Fat Lady herself…” The levels of smugness radiating off the man could have been detected by a Muggle Geiger counter. “Canvas and oil she may be, but she is still a woman, and as susceptible to my charming personality as any other.”
A laugh escaped Harry’s chest before he could help it; Merlin, but the Lady was vain and weak to flattery. He felt a little guilty for not defending the honor of Gryffindor’s loyal guardian, but luckily at that moment someone else stepped in to do it for him.
“You, good sir, are a rogue and a brigand! Besmirching the good name of a noblewoman, taking advantage of the feminine urge to be praised and admired—“
Riddle sprang away from the wall, and almost out of his skin, as the barmy knight Sir Cadogan rode in on his wheezing pony, charging into a previously empty prairie landscape hanging nearby. “Sweet Salazar, I thought they’d have painted over you by now—“
“Ha! The noble ideals of chivalry may never be painted over, you loathsome cur. As long as scoundrels like you darken the doorways of this fair castle, the forces of justice will always be ready to call the banners. Have at you!” He urged his pony forward and jabbed out with his oversized lance as if trying to poke straight through the canvas.
“Your own frame is three floors away, you deranged hedge knight!” Riddle snarled, sounding extremely put out. Harry snickered, getting the feeling this was far from the first run-in between these two.
“Come on—I know where we can go!” Harry grabbed Riddle—Tom, he’d used Harry’s first name more than once and it was only fair—by the arm and took off running through the halls with Cadogan in hot pursuit across multiple canvases, the knight’s insults and his own laughter echoing off the stone until they finally reached a corridor where no paintings hung, and ducked into an empty classroom.
“The Fat Lady barely even knows who he is,” Tom said haughtily, once they had both caught their breath.
Harry rather liked seeing this side of the man, he decided; it made him feel more human. He found himself wondering what other hidden depths the Undersecretary had to offer.
———————————
Tom claimed to have lost whatever desire he might have had to revisit Gryffindor Tower after that, so the two of them decided to make the Astronomy Tower their final destination before trekking back downstairs for dinner.
The solstice was just days ago and the sun was still high, but at this height there was enough of a breeze to cool them down after the climb. Tom stayed near the center of the tower, but Harry leaned out over the edge to feel the wind ruffle his hair.
“Getting a bird’s eye view of the hedge maze?” Tom said teasingly.
“Is that the real reason you brought me up here?” Honestly, Harry would not have been at all surprised if it were true. The host country’s government trying to get a home-field advantage was a venerated Triwizard tradition; he’d almost been seriously hampered several times by Ludo Bagman’s attempts to “help” him.
“No, but it’s what I would have done if I were champion.” Tom moved just a little closer to the wall of stone around the edge and peered in the direction of the Quidditch pitch. “Today almost makes me wish I had attended Hogwarts a bit later.”
“So you could compete? Yeah, the Goblet definitely would’ve picked you,” Harry said, truly meaning it. He was high-ranked in his class but couldn’t have held a candle to a seventh-year Tom Riddle.
“…Yes, among a few other reasons,” Tom said after a pause, giving Harry a considering look.
“Well, your loss is my gain—Hedwig!” He spun around at the sound of a friendly hoot, to the sight of his beloved familiar winging her way from the direction of the owlery. He extended his arm, and she swooped down and perched as if it were a throne. “Did you come to wish me luck?”
She nipped his earlobe affectionately in response, and began to preen his hair. He laughed. “I think my hair’s a lost cause, girl. Here, come and meet To—er…” he hesitated; he wasn’t sure if it was appropriate to be so informal out loud.
“I think it’s only fair that we both use first names, Harry,” Tom said, echoing Harry’s earlier thoughts almost exactly. He smiled and strode toward the boy and his owl. Harry met him halfway and angled his body so Tom and Hedwig were face to face; Tom extended his hand to her, palm up and wrist relaxed. “May I?”
Harry noted with pleasure that he was clearly addressing Hedwig herself, as was proper for a wizard’s familiar, rather than asking Harry’s permission. He was showing respect for their bond as companions and equals, rather than master and pet.
She gave Tom a long, hard stare with unblinking yellow eyes, as if sizing him up, then inclined her head and permitted him to gently stroke her snowy feathers. After a few moments, she pecked curiously at his fingers, then lifted off into the air again, circled his head once or twice—Tom stayed remarkably still and calm—and plucked a single hair from his head as if for analysis, before settling back down on Harry’s shoulder with a hoot of grudging approval.
“She’s protective of you,” Tom said approvingly.
“I’ve had her since she was a baby,” Harry said proudly. “We even did the post-owl training together.” His dad had said that all the best companion owls bonded with their wixen early, and Lily had agreed that he should have to ‘prove responsibility’ if he wanted to bring an animal to school.
Tom hummed, pleased. “I also hatched my familiar myself,” he said, and then, his lips quirking mischievously, “though not underneath a toad, as my detractors would have it.” Harry laughed; at times, when Lord Slytherin was pushing controversial legislation, ‘anonymous sources’ had insinuated to the Prophet that his python, Nagini, was actually a “covert miniature basilisk”.
All of a sudden, Hedwig gave two sharp, warning hoots and flapped her wings hard, pecking Harry firmly on the side of the head. He frowned at her rapid change in demeanor. “What is it, girl? Oh—I think someone’s coming up here.” He could just make out the sounds of footsteps and hushed speech bouncing off the walls of the staircase below. Satisfied that he’d gotten the message, she gave a final push off his shoulder and launched into the air, quickly disappearing from sight.
The two wizards turned as one to the doorway. The noise had begun to resolve into distinct words and voices; Harry recognized them, and felt his face drop in tandem with his stomach.
“Just like old times, Mollywobbles—“
“Oh my, Arthur!”
Tom cringed, but Harry was in a full-blown panic. “That’s my best mate’s mum and dad!” he whispered-shouted in horror. He turned to the other man in desperation. “You better have been serious about your ‘powerful Disillusionment Charm’!”
With a sharp nod, Tom drew his wand and silently cast on both of them; as the shivery, runny-egg feeling of the glamour washed over him, Harry used his own wand to Silence their footsteps. They both darted to the side just as Arthur and Molly Weasley emerged into the open air.
“It was a summer day just like this when I first noticed how your hair looked under the sunlight…”
Harry stood stock-still next to Tom’s invisible form, praying for a clear shot at the stairs. Determined to look anywhere but at Mrs. Weasley’s flushed cheeks and disheveled hair, he examined the air where his hands should be. Tom really had done a masterful job; only the family Cloak had ever hidden him better.
A quick squeeze to his forearm from Tom alerted him that Ron’s parents had finally, finally ambled, giggling, over to the tower’s edge to look at the view; they made a dash for it on muffled feet, ducking into the darkened stairwell and not daring to say a word until they had exited again at the base of the tower.
Tom rippled back into view as he cancelled the charm. Even his usually sanguine features looked unsettled. “Wasn’t that the head of Misuse of Muggle Artifacts?”
“Nope. Nope nope nope nope nope. We’re not going to say anything about this.” Harry covered his face with his hands and pulled at his hair. “Oh Merlin,” he groaned, defying his own order, “ten more seconds and I might’ve seen something that permanently scarred me.”
“I would have Obliviated you, with your consent,” Tom offered manfully.
Harry sighed and, with a mighty effort, pulled himself together. “Nah,” he said, shooting Tom a grin. “I could’ve used the Pensieve memory to threaten Ron and Ginny.”
“Ah, now you’re thinking like a Slytherin.”
——————————-
“Before we go,” Tom said as they made their way across the seventh floor to the main staircase—he’d offered Harry his elbow again at some point—“I have something to ask of you.”
Harry nodded in a silent invitation to continue, his curiosity piqued.
“It’s nothing important,” Tom assured him, “and a long shot besides, but in the mad rush at the end of my final year here, supervising the younger years and saying my final goodbyes, I neglected to retrieve a few of my things—specifically, I remember leaving them in a certain room on this very floor. I was wondering if you might…know where I could find them.”
Harry nearly stumbled as he turned to look sharply at Tom. The taller man was regarding him with a neutral expression that matched the tone of his voice, but his eyes glinted with an unspoken challenge.
Not ready to give the game away just yet, Harry parried. “Maybe…you’ll have to be more specific. The room where you left your stuff—did a lot of people come and go?”
Tom’s delighted smile flashed a rare glimpse of his white teeth. “A fair number, I suppose, but never more than was required.”
A truly ridiculous amount of happiness bubbled up in Harry’s chest at this confirmation that his hunch had been correct, and that someone else had discovered one of Hogwarts’s best-kept secrets. “Well in that case, I think I might have an idea,” he said, and took the next left turn towards the tapestry of Barnabus the Barmy teaching trolls to dance ballet.
———————————
“Here we are,” Tom said, kneeling to pick up a small wooden box carved all over with strange, squiggly runes that Harry didn’t recognize. They were inside the Room of Requirement—currently in its Room of Hidden Things guise—and had spent the last ten minutes weaving through the precariously stacked piles of contraband prank items, vintage Firewhiskey, cursed jewelry, and everything else that a millennia’s worth of students had ever wanted to squirrel away. Tom shrunk the box with a wave of his hand and slipped it into the pocket of his robes.
“So what was it like your first time?” Harry asked, examining a row of half-sculpted statues that apparently hadn’t made the cut for the main hallways.
Harry could practically hear the man’s eyebrows hit his hairline. “I beg your pardon?”
“The Room,” he clarified quickly, flushing. “What did it look like when you first found it? Was it like this,” he waved an arm at the labyrinth of trash and treasure, “or did you need something different?”
“Ah, I see,” Tom relaxed. “Well, in my case, it was something like…this.” He closed his eyes, and in an instant, the mounds of lost items disappeared, replaced by a windowless chamber of smooth, seamless black stone, one wall lined with shelves stocked full of chalk, crystals, and candles in every shape, size, and color. The air was unnaturally still, and Harry suspected the room was also soundproofed. “Hogwarts has a dreadful lack of suitable spaces for ritual magic.”
“Nice.” Harry grinned. “For me, it was a room durable enough to practice high-level dueling spells.” He scrunched his own eyes shut and concentrated; when he opened them again, the magic-resonant stone floor and walls had been replaced with sturdy blocks of granite, reinforced by thick oak beams; a line of state-of-the-art autonomous dueling dummies stood in place of the ritual supplies. It brought back fond memories of long hours spent training for his Defense OWLs in fifth year, when he’d first learned of the Room from Dobby.
Tom cocked his head in the manner of someone accepting a gauntlet thrown. “I once cross-bred a new type of Occamy for a Care project. They only mate under highly specific conditions.” He shut his eyes so quickly it might have passed for a blink, and the Room suddenly no longer seemed like a room at all, but a verdant, humid patch of jungle straight out of the Subcontinent; the walls and ceiling receded behind impenetrable vines and foliage, rustling gently with an invisible breeze.
“As I’m sure you’re aware,” Harry batted back, affecting an exaggeratedly unimpressed air, “the Slytherin Quidditch team plays dirty, on and off the pitch. My first year as captain, they booked the field in advance for two straight weeks during peak season. So…” He blinked, and the space around them expanded into a slightly small but perfectly operational training pitch, complete with two sets of hoops, a nearby crate of balls, and a clear blue sky that went on seemingly forever.
Tom stared into the expanse with an almost hungry look on his face. “Incredible,” he breathed, and then turned back to Harry. “Tell me, did you ever lose track of time here and forget to eat?”
“Oh yeah—and a passage to the Hog’s Head appeared behind a big portrait!” Harry blinked and there were four walls again, on one of which was hung a painting of a young blonde girl with sad eyes and a dreamy smile.
Tom threw his head back and laughed. “For me it was a Vanishing Cabinet that connected to Diagon Alley.” Blink—they were back in the Room of Hidden Things, this time directly in front of a tall, angular cabinet of stained maple wood.
Harry’s competitive spirit soared. “I can do this all day,” he said, and with a moment’s concentration the Room became a precise replica of the Prefect’s Bathroom, a form he’d first tried out one night when Myrtle refused to make herself scarce…
“While I don’t doubt that for a moment,” Tom reached out a steadying hand to Harry’s shoulder, “and I’ve sorely missed this place myself, my career in politics would be forfeit if I caused the Hogwarts champion to go into the Third Task on an empty stomach.” He closed his eyes a final time, and the baths gave way to a room full of every kind of timekeeping device, from massive grandfather clocks to intricate pocketwatches to ancient water clocks; the combined ticking sounds seemed almost deafening at first. “It’s quarter to six, I’m afraid.”
As he looked around to confirm that he was due for dinner—and a reunion with his family—in fifteen minutes, Harry’s stomach rumbled as if on cue. He was also reminded of the other, much more important competition he was to participate in tonight. “Oh, crap—we’d better get going.” Unable to resist showing off one last time, he focused on his need to exit the Room quickly and made a door appear in the wall before them, right between a whimsical cuckoo clock and a person-sized hourglass. Tom swiftly reached forward and held it open.
“After you, Heir Potter…”
———————————
The moving staircases seemed eager to cooperate on the way back down, and before Harry knew it, they were standing outside the Great Hall with minutes to spare.
“Thanks, I had a really good time,” he told Tom earnestly, feeling oddly forlorn that this would likely be the end of their interaction. The Senior Undersecretary would be expected to dine at the high table with the Minister and professors, of course, while Harry would sit with his favorite Gryffindors both past and present. He certainly couldn’t have predicted when this day started that he would be disappointed to share a Hogwarts dinner with his parents and the Weasleys.
“Nonsense—it is I who should be thanking you. You were a marvelous escort through the halls of my alma mater.” Tom took a small step back, creating enough space between them to look Harry in the eye. “As a memento of our time together, and a token of my most fervent wishes for your success in the Task…” With a delicate gesture like plucking a blossom from a tree, he flourished his hand, the late afternoon light catching on his sleeve’s silver embroidery, and conjured a star-shaped purple columbine from thin air.
“Oh! Wow! Thanks so much,” he said again, wondering why he seemed to know only one word all of a sudden. Harry reached out to take the flower, but in an instant, Tom leaned in and tucked it into the thick hair just behind his ear—then took Harry’s outstretched hand in both of his, and pressed a kiss to the back of it.
“Oh. Er. Um,” Harry stuttered, the last remnants of his vocabulary spilling out his gaping mouth.
But Tom was already backing away again, a faint smirk on his lips. “Good luck, Harry,” he said softly, stepping through the wide double doors; just behind him, the cheerful babble of hungry, excited students spilled from the Hall. “I look forward to our next meeting.” At the last possible second, he turned and disappeared through the archway in a swish of robes.
By the time Harry managed to unstick his feet enough to make his own way to dinner, Tom was already seated at the head table beside Fudge. But all through the meal—throughout which his family peppered him with questions and comments that he couldn’t for the life of him remember—he felt the twin, phantom burns of the flower behind his ear and a searing pair of eyes on his back.
———————————
Harry didn’t find anything to ride to victory in the maze. He did expend a fair chunk of magical energy flipping a Blast-Ended Skrewt onto its back, though, and had several close calls with the dangerous plants woven cleverly into the hedges. He hoped that he gave the audience a good show when he cast a Riddikulus on the Boggart in Dementor’s clothing, forcing it to turn itself inside out with a botched attempt at a Kiss.
The Sphinx, with her leonine body, might have made an impressive mount for a Gryffindor champion, but she had a different challenge in mind. “If you want to pass unharmed, you must first confront a Riddle,” she told him coolly.
Harry stopped short and made a choking noise before she launched into her rhyme and he felt like an idiot.
(Somewhere in the stands, a single audience member smiled to himself as he watched the encounter on the projector.)
He made short work of the word puzzle, but in his hurry to reach the Cup he failed to realize that spider was not just the solution but a warning, and was almost blindsided by an Acromantula. Fifteen harrowing minutes and eight maximum-power Sectumsempras later, he’d never felt so grateful to his honorary Uncle Severus.
And then the Cup turned out to be a Portkey (someone really should have mentioned that beforehand; Harry and magical transportation did not get along even under the best of circumstances) and he was out of the maze and in front of hundreds of cheering spectators, Fudge grabbing his hand and raising their joined fists in the air while unsubtly scanning the crowd for cameras. With both his arms encumbered, Harry scrambled to get his balance, but there was something off about one of his legs as well—
“For Salazar’s sake, he’s been bitten—somebody get a Healer!”
Harry was a little embarrassed to pass out in front of the whole school, but also very grateful that he did it without vomiting first.
————————————
He woke up to white walls and cool sheets and the disorienting blur of being without his glasses.
“Accio,” he muttered, using the first wandless spell he’d ever mastered to Summon his black frames and get his vision back. He was, unsurprisingly, in the Hospital Wing. The sun was shining through the window beside his bed; he’d been out for at least half a day. Through a privacy curtain drawn around him, he could hear the murmuring of familiar voices.
“Mum?” he said; it came out scratchier than he expected. “Dad?”
The curtain parted, and he was met with a flash of mirror-image green eyes before being enveloped in warm arms and auburn hair and the most comforting scent in the world.
“Oh, Harry, baby, you’re awake! Well, we knew you’d be fine, of course, but we were so panicked when Lord Slytherin yelled that you’d been bitten…”
“‘Course he’s fine, Lils, he’s our kid,” said a tired-looking James as he followed his wife into the makeshift “room”. “Severus, on the other hand, is sleeping like the dead after being interrogated about antivenoms by your mother all night, and the less said about the Minister’s ears, the better.”
“He earned every word of that telling off, looking more closely at Skeeter’s cameraman than at the state of Harry!” Lily pulled back from Harry’s shoulder and beamed at him. “And it’s always best practice to have a complicated potion checked by two brewers.”
“Thanks, Mum,” Harry said warmly. “I feel good, really, a bit groggy is all.”
“Congratulations, son,” James said, sounding uncharacteristically serious. He stepped forward and clapped Harry on the shoulder. “We’re extremely proud of you. As is every other wixen in the British Isles, naturally,” he added, his tone wry again as he inclined his head toward the bedside table, which was so packed with flowers, cards and sweets that they had begun to overflow onto the windowsill and floor. Near the ceiling, several animated magical balloons in various animal shapes were gamboling merrily.
“Some of those wixen might be feeling more than just pride,” Lily teased. “Is that a courting bouquet I see?” She brushed her fingers over the largest flower arrangement, a riot of nasturtiums, gladioli, and multicolored camellias, surrounded by feathery asparagus ferns and wrapped in lace.
James’s face lit up with wicked glee, but just then Madame Pomfrey bustled in with a handful of potion vials, her timing impeccable for once. “Honestly! Why didn’t you tell me he was awake? These have to be taken on a strict schedule, Acromantula venom is nothing to play around with and I’m still not quite sure what those creatures of Hagrid’s have in their stingers…”
The potions, as it happened, couldn’t be taken on an empty stomach, so Harry and his parents breakfasted on food brought up from the kitchens while they talked about the tournament, his NEWTs, and his rapidly approaching graduation. When the plates had been emptied and vanished, James managed to persuade Lily to Floo home for a nap and a shower (though she promised to return later that afternoon), and the courting bouquet was forgotten in the shuffle.
But Harry never quite forgot it completely, if he was being honest. It hovered there, a burst of color in his peripheral vision, all through breakfast and then afterwards, when Ron and Hermione came by and demanded a blow-by-blow first-person account of his time in the maze. When Madame Pomfrey finally shooed them out and declared that he was to rest and have no more visitors until after lunch, he at last let his gaze linger on it, examining it more closely. It really was exquisite, the flowers and greens magically preserved at the peak of their beauty. It tugged at something in his memory; the blossoms’ perfection reminded him of…
He stopped, breath caught in his throat, and leaned carefully over to look more closely among the stems. The smell of the blooms was just as heady as their appearance, and when he spotted a note tucked in amongst the fronds, he had to very firmly tell himself to get a grip already.
The note was ivory cardstock folded over once, his initials written neatly on the outside. Flipping it open, he perceived three things at once, or maybe in rapid succession, like a devastating spell combo unleashed to clinch victory in a duel:
The crest stamped in emerald ink, a serpent curled in the shape of an S, subtly enchanted to flick its tongue at him;
The note itself, short but thick with meaning, in elegant calligraphy—
Heir Potter,
I came in person to gift you these, but you were still recovering and deeply asleep. Rest assured, I shall return later; there is much I would like to discuss with you.
With deep affection and sincerest congratulations on your victory,
Lord Slytherin, Tom Marvolo Riddle
—and the object tucked into the crease, which fluttered out and into Harry’s hand as he opened the note: a pressed purple columbine, lovely as a miniature star.
————————————
By the time Tom entered the infirmary later that afternoon, Harry was…well, it was impossible to ever be prepared for something like this, but in the intervening hours he’d reminded himself that he was a Triwizard Champion soon to graduate Hogwarts with eight NEWTs, and regained a mostly-solid hold on his wits.
“Hello again, Harry,” Tom greeted him, and now Harry could fully appreciate how his eyes smoldered under the sweep of chestnut curls on his forehead, the way his austere navy robes were no less flattering on his lean body than yesterday’s more formal green ones.
“Hi,” he said, because he was never going to be one for pureblood formalities. “It’s…good to see you again.”
Tom approached the bed. In one hand, he carried a heavy leather pouch that Harry recognized as the kind they used at Gringotts. “I am here, officially, to present you with your Triwizard Tournament winnings in the amount of one thousand Galleons.” He said this as if reading off a script; then his lips turned up and he continued, in a more playful tone, “The Minister was meant to come himself, but he is very busy with celebratory press conferences and has also been told by your mother, in no uncertain terms, that he is forbidden from contacting you unsolicited for the remainder of the summer.”
Harry grinned; that certainly lined up with what his parents had hinted at earlier. “I’m glad,” he said. “I’d rather have you.” Then, courage bolstered by those embers that sprang to life in Tom’s eyes: “What about unofficially?”
Tom raised one perfect eyebrow, silently urging him to go on.
“I got your note—and your message, too.” Harry looked meaningfully at the bouquet, which he’d moved to a place of greater prominence at the front of the nightstand—and at the book that lay next to it. He had asked Neville to bring The Wixen Guide To The Language Of Flowers when the shy boy dropped by after lunch, and had been perusing it on and off all afternoon. It had been an enlightening read.
“Ah.” Tom’s face at last resolved into a triumphant smile that could’ve convinced anyone he’d just won the Cup. “Then we understand each other.”
“Yeah.” Harry was helpless to do anything but mirror Tom’s happy expression; his cheeks were actually aching. “Yes.”
“In that case…” Ignoring the chairs for visitors arrayed nearby, he casually waved his hand and conjured an architectural, hardwood piece that wouldn’t have been out of place in a museum. He folded himself gracefully into the chair and, bag of Galleons forgotten at his side, pulled a slim black velvet box from a concealed pocket in his robes. Deft fingers opened it facing out, revealing the contents to Harry where they sat in the silk-lined interior. “This is my first courting gift to you.”
It was a bracelet, if that simple Muggle word could be used to describe something so deeply saturated with magic. A thick band of pure, silvery-white platinum shaped into the form of a snake, complete with a delicate scale pattern engraved into the soft metal. The eyes were sparkling peridots the color of new spring leaves, and as Harry watched, transfixed, it poked out a forked tongue of pink topaz and tasted the air, reminding him of the one stamped on the flower notecard.
“It’s beautiful,” Harry breathed. Then it turned into a nervous half-laugh as his words stalled out. “I…Merlin. Sorry, it’s like I don’t know what to say all of a sudden.”
“Beauty for beauty,” said Tom while looking straight into Harry’s eyes, as if that were supposed to help loosen his tongue any. “And you have already said the most important thing, darling, which is Yes.” He lifted the bracelet from its cradle; it coiled in his hand like a live serpent. “May I?”
“Yes,” Harry said again, and the word was short and easy and oh so very true, and Tom’s smile when he heard it was just so much icing on the cake. He offered his hand; Tom took it and, with a sibilant hiss of Parseltongue to the bracelet, the platinum serpent crossed between them and slithered around Harry’s wrist, seamlessly adjusting for a perfect fit. It bared diamond fangs and bit down on its own tail almost possessively, completing the circle with a flash of magic. Tom flipped his hand over and, in a more intimate echo of his gesture yesterday, laid a featherlight kiss on Harry’s pulse point.
Harry smiled stupidly at their hands for a moment; then something occurred to him, and he looked up at Tom—Tom who was now courting him—and narrowed his eyes. “This can come off, right? I like you a lot, Tom, but I can’t have my Seeking arm weighed down when I’m playing Quidditch.”
Tom chuckled. “And your competitive nature is one of the many things I like about you. Of course, it comes off—it responds to open and close in Parsel.”
Over the next hour, in between sharing plans for the future and sweets from the pile by the bedside, they worked on pronunciation until Harry could slip his new gift on and off with ease. And this time, he had a feeling that the heat in his belly had only a little to do with learning new magic.
———————————-
Harry rummaged through the broom cupboard (the Quidditch one, specifically; the regular one was much smaller and on the other side of the house), hunting down his spare Nimbus, his Firebolt already slung across his shoulders. Nearly all the Weasleys and most of the Marauders were staying over at Potter Manor this weekend for Harry, Ron and Hermione’s joint graduation party, and everyone had agreed it was an excellent opportunity for some truly epic Quidditch matches.
The events since the end of the tournament could be told through a series of numbers: Three weeks. One thousand galleons serving as a healthy principal deposit in his new, personal Gringotts account. Eight NEWTs, all EE or above, delivered by Ministry owl just last Wednesday. Five thick acceptance letters from some of the best Defense mastery programs in Europe.
A dozen letters from Tom, an equal number of responses from Harry, three more dates (Harry considered that long walk through the castle their first one), one excellent kiss that was decidedly not on Harry’s hand.
“…and he's also too old for you…!”
Approximately seven million reasons why James Potter felt that no son of his should be entertaining offers of any sort, let alone those of the romantic variety, from Tom Riddle.
Harry had been patient. He had been calm. He had done his utmost to demonstrate to his father, through his words and actions, the very point he was trying to make: that he was a mature, of-age wizard perfectly capable of deciding for himself what he wanted in a potential partner.
(His mum, meanwhile, had merely kissed his cheek and said she was happy for him…and then owled Tom a long missive about how she trusted that he’d treat her only child well and be a perfect gentleman. Packaged with the letter was a copy of the latest issue of Charms Currents, with the page folded down on an article about new advances in magical methods of severing body parts, and its implications for Healing, authored by one Lily Evans-Potter. Harry had been mortified, but Tom had just laughed on their next date, a stroll through the magical section of Kew Gardens. “I see where you get your fire, darling,” he’d said with delight.)
Now, though…this was the fourth time James had brought up the age thing, just beating out his three rants about the untrustworthiness of politicians, two dire warnings about “inherently Dark families” (“I’m telling Siri and Uncle Reg you said that, dad,”) and one old Prophet clipping, shoved under Harry’s nose at breakfast, with a quote about “miniature basilisks” circled in red ink. Enough was enough; Harry hadn’t wanted it to come to this, but it was time to bring out the long wands.
“This is different from Tonks and Remus how?” he dropped casually, freeing the broomstick from under a pile of old cloaks with one last, satisfying tug.
Predictably, James began to splutter. “I would trust Moony with my life! And Tonks asked him out first—“
Harry mercilessly pressed his advantage. “Also, you and Molly have been dropping hints about me ‘spending more time’ with Charlie since fifth year.”
Before James could deploy yet another counterargument, Charlie himself poked his head around the corner. “Is someone talking about me? My ears are burning.” His eyes lit up as he spotted what Harry was holding. “Oh good, Harry, you’ve got the Nimbus—I call dibs, the dragon reservation only has old Cleansweeps.”
“Your ears are always burning,” Harry jibed, indicating Charlie’s flaming hair as he tossed him the broom; the dragon tamer caught it with a Seeker’s ease.
“We were talking,” James interjected loudly, “about Tom Riddle, and why he is a highly inappropriate person to be courting Harry—“
“Oh, I’d been meaning to ask you about that!” Charlie said eagerly. “Isn’t he the bloke from my year who could talk to snakes?”
“Yeah, he’s even taught me a few words!”
“Wicked. Looks like this Seeker’s got himself a great catch.” He ruffled Harry’s hair affectionately. “I always wanted to ask him if he could understand dragons any.”
James looked apoplectic. “Let’s discuss, just for a moment, who exactly Parseltongue is inherited from—“
Harry ignored his father and began walking with Charlie toward the back door. James could moan all he wanted, but he’d have to come with them if he wanted to play Chaser. “You should! Ask him, I mean—I invited him to stop by the party on Saturday.”
He hissed a quick §Open§ at his bracelet (James was, indeed, right behind them, as evidenced by the choking sounds he was making) and tucked it into the mokeskin pouch he wore around his neck, a gift from Hagrid before he left Hogwarts for the last time. Charlie may not have played formal Quidditch in a while, but the man flew alongside dragons on the daily; Harry would need every advantage to stand a chance Seeking against him.
As they exited the manor onto the patio, Harry waved at his friends and family awaiting him on the backyard Quidditch pitch. There was Molly—Mollywobbles, Harry’s traitorous brain whispered, before he firmly stomped it down—with a pitcher of lemonade and two dozen levitating cups. There was Tonks, who was sitting out this match due to being five months pregnant, but had coerced a reluctant Remus into taking her place as a Beater. There was Bill—who was, Harry had heard through Ron, dealing with his own fair share of family rows over his love life.
He absolutely couldn’t wait for the day when Tom was a regular presence among his loved ones as well.
“Harry! Finally!” Ginny jogged over from where she’d been playing fetch with Padfoot. “Hope you’re ready to go down—winning team gets to pick the music for the party.”
Sirius transformed back into a human, only to realize belatedly that he still had a stick in his mouth; he spit it out and casually tossed it aside as if he’d meant to do that all along. “Come on, Prongs, can’t let these whippersnappers show us up.”
“Oh, it’s on.” Harry made for the pitch, already swinging a leg over his Firebolt. He needed control of the record player if he was going to dance with Tom tomorrow—his rhythmic skills had improved this year, but were still very much hit or miss.
And besides, he wasn’t ready to end his winning streak just yet.