Chapter Text
Act I
Tom Riddle had never been particularly curious about people. Most of their motivations lived close to the surface. Their expressions fumbled from one thought to the next, cluttered with easily identified emotion.
It played out in real time; every cautious twitch of their lips belied their dissatisfaction, or thinly veiled excitement. They never seemed to care about things that were particularly interesting, anyway.
Really, it only made them easier to manipulate. Dangle praise in front of their feet and watch them dance for it- withhold it as punishment, or to incentivize them. Purebloods, despite their sense of entitlement, were especially susceptible to this.
Their sense of superiority only thrived in a world that reflected how much better they were than all the common folk. As such, they were forced to constantly prove they deserved their place on the pecking order, simply by existing.
Very exhausting, he’s sure, for such a boring, under performing group of sheep.
These children, coddled with their privilege and full bellies, had nothing in common with Tom. Though offered the world, they rarely had much to offer the world in return.
Slytherin house was rife with ambitious sycophants eager for power. Though most were idiots, possessing mediocre magical ability, and a lack of real motivation to work for what they desired- it was also rife with other things Tom lacked.
Money. Family. Status.
So, he smiled at those simpering enough to believe it. Charmed his professors; patiently instructed those with only slightly more propensity for magic than squibs. But he didn’t care about any of them. No one was truly interesting but himself.
Even those aware of his nature were fooled. Black and Malfoy, who he forced himself to address as Abraxas and Orion outside of the comfort of his own mind, believed themselves special. Sure, Tom didn’t care for others, but he was their ‘friend’. They were members of his inner circle- surely useful for more than just names and connections.
They sought him out for companionship, like pets, and Tom indulged them. It was useful to him in the long run.
Suffice to say, he had never met anyone who had truly intrigued him. Even those who wore their masks better than most inevitably cracked and caved under his boot.
That was, of course, until he met Harry Peverell.
Transfer students were nearly unheard of. Even with the burgeoning war, both Wixen and Muggle, Hogwarts had never accepted anyone in the middle of the term.
“He must be exceptional in some way,” Malfoy mutters to his left, already sounding somewhat bereft of attention. “My father told me the board of governors were in unanimous agreement about his acceptance.”
“He’s certainly exceptional,” Walburga says, dragging her eyes over the boy’s form where he stands, patiently waiting to be sorted.
He is straight-backed, and seemingly unbothered by, or uncaring for, all of the attention being lavished upon on him. Half the hall is awash with blatant curiosity, whispering and giggling.
They were eager for fresh blood, it seemed.
He was certainly handsome, Tom noted. Not particularly tall, but waif-like. Thick, dark hair, which appeared artfully tousled- though it was likely unintentional considering the careless way the boy kept running his hands through it. Even from far away, Tom could tell he was rather pretty, in that pureblooded way Wixen found so appealing.
“Apparently Dumbledore fought particularly hard for his inclusion. His test scores were exceptional.”
Ugh. Tom lets some of his dissatisfaction shine through at the mention of their Transfiguration professor, and watches as they all scatter like rats for new avenues of conversation.
“I thought the Peverell’s had all died out,” Black whispers to his right, already looking a bit starry eyed by the boy.
Tom fights the urge to roll his eyes. Certainly another pureblood with an inability to think for himself. Though, if his test scores were truly that high, he could prove to be a useful acquisition. Or, perhaps, simply a distraction from the banality of his usual companions.
Tom frequently tires of his peer’s idiocy- always whining and moaning without knowing what true suffering felt like. Tom will be gracious enough to teach them some day.
Really, Tom thinks with a barely suppressed grin, they ought to be grateful. With less distractions than his classmates, he possesses infinitely more time with which to achieve.
In their eyes, of course, Tom’s success is their success. Why else would they follow a half blood such as him, were he not capable of propelling them all to great heights? They would let the half-breed do the work for them, and then ride his coattails to the greater world he had promised them.
Ever foolish, they believe their return will be greater than his. No one is greater than him- and it is this mistake that Tom Marvolo Riddle plans to repay in full.
“By the Gods, how many minutes has it been?” someone whispers, jarring him out of his thoughts.
The boy is still there, grimacing a bit under the brim of the sorting hat. His fist clenches almost imperceptibly in his robes. Curious.
“Seven minutes,” Nott whispers back, clearly drawn in just as much as the rest of them by this strange boy with a dead name.
Seven was Tom’s favorite number. So, when the hat finally moved its brim, bringing forth an answer, he had decided.
“Slytherin!”
Harry Peverell would be his.
The boy certainly appeared in no great hurry to meet his new housemates. He approached the table slowly, though clearly knowledgeable enough to pivot himself in the proper direction.
His year mates all turned to Tom, unspoken questions marring their expressions. They were as eager as ever to let him do the thinking, so he nodded. Let them interpret it how they will.
“Peverell, right?” Malfoy says, beckoning him closer to where their group is seated. His expression is rife with thinly veiled curiosity.
The boy gives nothing away- simply nods, with a cool indifference splashed across his features. Closer now, Tom gets a good look at him. He runs a considering sweep of his eyes down the artful slope of the boy’s nose, and the clean cut of his jaw.
When the boy finally turns to look at Tom, long lashes casting shadows against his cheekbones, he has the greenest eyes Tom has ever seen.
Avada Kedavra.
Tom smiles at him, barely needing to fake it. He slips the boy a coy grin, one that he knows is especially charming. The rest of his peers wait with bated breath as he gives this newcomer the full weight of his attention. The boy’s eyes, however, simply slide off of him like water.
“Sit next to me,” Black begs, and Tom feels his wand arm twitch. Harry smiles a bit, a surprised quirk of his lips when he catches sight of the Black heir, but the rest of the table merely receive polite nods in return for their introductions.
Where these children simper, begging for information with unsubtle machinations, Harry gives nothing away. It is as commendable as it is infuriating.
Tom attempts to catch his eye again, sure that the surplus of stimuli must be to blame for his previous dismissal, but the boy doesn’t look his way again. He feels his jaw twitch, seething in his seat at the head of the table.
Tom smooths a hand over his neatly combed hair then, determined. Clearly, Harry is unaware of the pecking order here. He is new, after all. Tom can be gracious.
“I’m sure its all a bit overwhelming,” Tom murmurs, and the chatter around them dies instantly.
His year mates lean in like a snake charmed, eager for his thoughts. Long, slender fingers circle around the stem of his glass, and he smiles again. It stretches across his face in a way he knows is handsome- he’s practiced it enough times in the mirror, after all.
“I am our year’s prefect, so if have any questions at all, Harry,” he says lowly, “don’t hesitate to ask.” And then the boy looks at him finally, smiling, and Tom relishes the familiar feeling of success.
That is, until he goes and opens his mouth.
“That’s quite alright, Riddle,” Harry purrs, punctuating his last name in a way that leaves no room for misunderstanding. That’s Peverell to you. He hears Walburga gasp softly, foolish girl that she is, though her face flushes afterwords.
“But thank you, of course, for what is no doubt a selfless offer,” Harry- no, Peverell- finishes. He pats his mouth with his napkin then, in a display of perfect manners, before standing.
The boy is clearly moving to leave, and Tom reaches for his arm to stop him. We’re done when I say we’re done. Instantaneously, however, the sensation of the other boy’s skin on his is like a livewire.
Lightning travels down his spine, like an open current, awaking every synapse. The sensation is nearly incandescent- pure bliss is the only way Tom can think to describe it.
Somewhere in his chest, hidden beneath his ribs, there’s a sense of wholeness that had not been there prior. He'd never put much thought into what presided there before, but surely there must have been some sort of vast cavern beneath his skin. How else could Tom now feel so complete? Stuffed to the brim with some nameless thing, and set alive by it?
Whatever emptiness had once lived inside him has been replaced with liquid mercury. Warmth seeps into his belly, fluttering there, and the boys fingerprints tighten on his wrist. Tom imagines they might leave a mark, and the heat in his stomach seems to fan itself, doubling in its intensity.
The orphanage, the filth of poverty, his lack of parentage, they all seem so very far away suddenly. This new, unfamiliar pleasure is cresting- how many seconds had passed? It feels like a lifetime had echoed between them, and in the same breath, that time had slowed like honey; stretching between them with sticky fingers.
His whole body feels attuned, refocused to this point of contact. Harry’s fingertips are scalding where they touch him, like a warm bath on frozen limbs. He luxuriates in it; the touch, the feeling, the finality of it. Who is this boy? Where has he come from?
And then, as suddenly as it came, Harry yanks out of his grip, taking it all with him. The warmth hallows out, replaced with his usual vacancy.
Harry stalks out of the hall, then, taking every bit of light and color with him. The intensity that had lived momentarily in Tom is washed grey in seconds. He feels shaky, unmoored in a way he has never experienced before.
“He’ll be lost, for sure,” Orion whispers nervously.
“Good,” Tom hisses. He is suddenly furious at this boy who, against all sense, made him feel so full, and then emptied him right back out again. “Perhaps that will teach him a lesson.”
If his peers assumed he was referring to the scorn of the boy’s dismissal, good. Let them quiver over the things they can actually understand.
Tom Riddle has never been the sort of boy to give up. He always gets what he wants.
He cannot make hide nor tail of the strange boy with the deadly eyes- but it is no matter. Tom will master even death, and Harry Peverell will have no choice but to watch.