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god-of-dust · 3 years

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after much deliberation, i decided to post what i wrote of chapter 2 and 3 of Trick Me here. this will probably never end up on ao3 because of Reasons, but someone might enjoy reading it and i definitely enjoy the validation. (also, leaving this to rot in my folder seems like a waste.)

this is rated T, no particular warnings apply besides tom’s occasional murderous thoughts.

-----

There’s no sign of Potter. Figures. Tom glares at the suit of armour as if it’s the one meant to carry the blame for this situation.

Disillusionment Charm firmly in place, he leans on the rough stone wall and resigns himself to wait.

“You’re early. Why am I not surprised?”

In a split second, Tom turns in the direction of the voice and points his wand towards... the empty corridor?

Then Potter’s head—only his head—emerges from thin air.

“Jumpy, too. Again, not surprised,” Potter says, smirking. Then he moves, revealing the rest of his body and the rippling fabric of a cloak.

An Invisibility Cloak. No wonder Potter can get wherever he wants without getting caught. “Where did you get that?” Tom asks, envy colouring every word. That kind of Cloak is worth thousands of Galleons, which is more money than Tom has ever possessed in his entire life.

The things Tom could do with one... he’d have no need for permission to slide beyond the wards of the forbidden section of the library. While certainly tame compared to what a collection from a Dark pureblood family would hold, there are also many old books there that Tom has been dying to get his hands on since he’s seen their titles and felt the power they contained.

“Family heirloom,” Potter says with a shrug.

Of course Potter has a family that provides for him, and of course he has the gall to shrug, like it’s absolutely normal to carry around an object this valuable and use it to go to the Quidditch pitch at night. It’s maddening, to witness this utter lack of ambition in someone who has so much at his disposal and wastes it so pitifully.

He reaches out to touch the fabric. It’s soft and perfect, spells woven so beautifully that it appears not to be enchanted at all. He refuses to believe that this Potter is the one who cast them. “What kind of spells does your family use to prevent the magic from fading? How frequently do you have to refresh them?”

Potter only smiles and shakes his head. “You and Hermione would be amazing together if you just stopped being an arse to her.”

Tom glares at him. His thoughts on that particular topic must be crystal clear, because Potter laughs that full-bellied laugh of his. “You haven’t answered my question,” Tom insists.

“Do you want to stand in the corridor all night discussing my cloak? I thought we had Quidditch to play.”

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Tom says: “Fine.”

“Get under here, then,” Potter beckons, holding a side of the cloak open for Tom to slip under and cover himself.

Sliding in the offered space, Tom instantly becomes very aware of how close they have to stay for them both to be concealed. Wonderful, he thinks, just wonderful. Just what I needed: more contact with him.

He lets Potter lead the way outside; after a bit of fumbling, they find a rhythm that allows them to walk in sync without constantly bumping into each other’s shoulder.

“Thank Merlin you’re shorter than Ron. His feet try to peek out all the time, it’s an absolute nightmare.”

Are his friends all he can talk about? Tom vaguely wonders, before noticing the route they’re taking. “The Quidditch pitch is the other way.”

“We’re not going to the pitch,” Potter replies.

Tom stops in his tracks, making the cloak tangle around Potter’s form; unsurprisingly, it only takes a moment for the miraculous Golden Boy to recover his balance. Tom, voice strained with the effort to keep it under control, hisses: “If you’re trying to trick me, Potter, I swear—”

“I’m not,” Potter interrupts. “The pitch is too open and couples go there to shag all the time, so the chances of someone seeing us are too high. I’m taking you to a place only I and my closest friends know about.”

Again with his friends. “Are you really so arrogant as to believe you’re the only one that knows anything about Hogwarts?”

This time, Potter is the one who stills abruptly. He turns to face Tom, noses almost touching under the cloak, eyes ablaze with an emotion that Tom has never seen on him: genuine, unfiltered anger. “Listen, Riddle. I offered my help, but what I didn’t offer was being target practice for your fucking abrasiveness. You want to learn Quidditch? I can teach you. You want to act like a bastard? Go do that somewhere else, because I’m not afraid to punch you in the face if you insist on constantly accusing me of imaginary crimes.”

“As if I’m not able to defend myself from your punches,” Tom snarls.

Potter’s eyes narrow. “Were you even listening to me?”

There’s nothing stopping Tom from hexing Potter into the next century; nothing, except for the fact that he’d be expelled and then the whole Potter clan would ensure that he’d rot in Azkaban for an indeterminate amount of years. Right now, it seems like a minor price to pay.

He keeps his twitching fingers away from his wand. He needs to hold himself in check if he wants to avoid Potter’s suspicion. After a steadying breath, he says evenly: “I was. My words were... out of line. I apologise.”

Silence stretches while Potter stares at him. Then he turns on his heels, facing away, and they resume their walking.

It takes them a few minutes to reach the boundary of looming trees that students are supposed to never cross. “Is this secret place of yours really inside the Forest?”

“Yeah. That’s why I’m reasonably sure that no one else has discovered it. A wrong turn would take them either into an Acromantula nest or in centaur territory,” Potter explains, navigating with sure steps amidst trunks and twigs and weeds and bushes as if he owns the place.

Both options are incredibly dangerous, for many different reasons. Not even the Headmaster has jurisdiction over the creatures in the Forest, and any reckless student who wanders too far is responsible for their own fate. Over the years, Tom has done a little exploring of his own to gather herbs, shed fur and other potion ingredients, but he never went as deep inside as wherever Potter is taking them now. “How did you discover it, then?” Tom asks while memorising the convoluted trail so that he’ll be able to return later. The potions he could brew with even a small vial of Acromantula venom, or some eggs... he has to find out more about those supposedly wrong turns.

“I followed my nose,” Potter says with a mischievous smirk, previous anger washed away like a leaf in a river. “And perhaps I had a bit of help.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Well, sorry, but I’m not going to divulge my secrets to anyone who asks... besides, you’re smart enough; perhaps with time you’ll figure it out on your own.”

Focus still firmly placed on their surroundings, Tom ignores the compliment. He has no use for Potter’s pretense.

A large clearing suddenly materialises before them, encircled by towering trees whose foliage forms a protective half-dome high over their heads. Ancient magic caresses Tom’s skin, making him shiver with anticipation. There’s a circular area in the center, large enough to hold a dozen people, empty of any grass or stone; Tom is certain that someone has built it that way on purpose. He steps closer, prudent and fascinated in equal measure. “What is this place?” he wonders, eyes wide and searching as he studies the stone while taking in the feeling of rightness and inspiration the space emanates.

“Somewhere where we can have all the privacy we want,” Potter says lightly as he slides off the cloak from their shoulders. To him, this secret spot humming with magic that vibrates in Tom’s blood and bones must be just another day, just another priceless thing dropped on his lap that he wields without a care.

After enchanting a few Lumos spheres to hover around them, Potter extracts a small object from his pocket, lays it on the even ground and enlarges it with a wave of his wand, revealing it to be a trunk. Then he points to a twisted root that peeks out from the soil and transfigures it into three Quidditch hoops, about three meters high.

“I assume you know about Quidditch roles and rules even if you’ve never played, correct?”

“Yes.” Tom’s skimmed through a Quidditch book, if only not to be completely unprepared when it came to playing his part in this charade. He will carry his plan forward and rip the rug from under Potter’s feet, even if it involves studying a few tedious rules of a tedious sport.

“So, you can probably imagine that every role requires different skills, which is why we’ll explore every one of them and gradually build up your stamina and reflexes while you discover what you’re naturally good at.” He scratches at his head contemplatively. “When was the last time you rode a broom?”

“First year flying classes. I was average at the basics and never tried anything more elaborate.” Tom isn’t eager to recall most of those memories because, in truth, it had been humiliating to realise how far behind his peers he was. Unlike them, he’d never had a broom of his own to practice and his confidence had faltered when he needed it the most. The broom’s magic had caught on his hesitation and thus his performance had been lukewarm at best.

“Yeah, I can imagine it wasn’t pleasing for you. Hermione was the same. You really can’t stand it when you don’t excel at something, huh?”

“I doubt anyone enjoys the feeling of being incompetent.”

“Good point,” Potter admits, “but that’s not the attitude you need right now. You always have to start from somewhere and build from there, even if that starting point isn’t as glorious as you’d like.” He squats to open the trunk; it contains a clearly well-loved yet also well-kept set of Quidditch balls.

Tom eyes suspiciously the Bludgers struggling against the chains holding them in place.

“Since we’re starting from the basics, tonight we’re both going to play Chasers, which means that we’ll pass the Quaffle between us and do our best to score through the goals. Of course, there’s more to being a Chaser than this, but it will be enough for now. Before that, though, I want to see you on a broom.”

“I don’t have one. I presumed we’d use one of the school brooms,” Tom says, crossing his arms, mild irritation colouring his tone.

Unbothered, Potter reaches again into his pocket to produce two shrunken brooms. “I brought my Nimbus. It’s very good, especially for a beginner, with quick responses and great stability.”

He holds out his hand and Tom takes the now appropriately sized broom. “...Thank you.”

“Wow, you’re really making an effort into being polite. I appreciate that,” Potter says, apparently pleased. “But now, Riddle, show me how you ride.”

There’s nothing in Potter’s smile and in that particular phrasing that Tom could possibly care for. He straddles the broom and pushes himself to hover in mid-air, one meter from the ground and then one more; feeling how precarious and uncertain his posture is, he does his best to correct it.

“Good. You don’t seem to be struggling much. Are you afraid of heights?”

Tom shoots him a venomous look. “No.”

“That’s one less thing we have to worry about, then.” Potter jumps on his broom and rises too, graceful as a phoenix. Bastard. “Let’s try some loops.”

Tom nods and watches as Potter demonstrates a few simple figures: circle, spiral, figure-eight. They seem easy enough, but when Tom tries to follow Potter’s directions his broom moves in shaky zig-zags instead of the smooth curves he expects it to perform.

“This broom isn’t working,” Tom snarls. He looks at Potter, who’s certainly dying to make fun of him... only to find no trace of sadistic glee on his expression.

Potter circles around him, examining him from head to toe with furrowed brows, almost hawk-like in his focus. “You’re clenching your thighs and hands too hard. The broom reads that as a sign for ‘straight line’ and ‘speed’, and right now that’s not your objective. For curves like these, you have to flow with the movement and lean into the direction you want without overbalancing.” His posture is relaxed, bordering on lazy, as he flies in a large, slow circle for Tom’s sake. “Like this.”

Tom imitates him as best as he can, loosening his grip. “What if I want to achieve a fast curve?”

“Fast curves are more advanced. We’ll try those later.”

Tom tries again with a figure-eight, and he’s surprised when he finds that the broom’s following the path he intended with increasing ease.

“See? Way better,” Potter beams. He looks like he’s genuinely enjoying this.

After a few minutes of loops, Tom’s acquired a mild amount of confidence in his form; at least the feeling that he’ll tip over every time he steers the broom has lessened until it’s nearly gone. Seemingly satisfied, Potter instructs him on how to repeat the same figures with a single-handed grip, then handless, as he explains: “You’ll need your hands free for the Quaffle.”

Even while going through boring drills at this insignificant height, there’s an undeniable thrill to flying, to acquiring control over something as elusive as air. “One day,” he declares, “I’m going to invent broomless flying.” Perhaps a variation of Wingardium Leviosa, combined with a Feather-Light Charm... yes, he’ll do it, and succeed.

“That would be amazing. And honestly, if anyone could do that it would be you.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” Tom scoffs, close to amused. Does Potter really think that compliments will have any effect on him? Tom’s too acquainted with the subtle art of manipulation to take any of Potter’s amateurish attempts seriously.

Potter rolls his eyes. “It’s not flattery, it’s me making an observation. Every single person in Hogwarts knows that your knowledge and control over magic are impressive.” Smoothly diving forwards, Potter reaches for the trunk and grabs the Quaffle inside it.

“Catch!” he says, and throws the ball at Tom.

Instincts rearing up before he can think, Tom steers sideways to dodge, but he’s too quick, too sudden, the broom refuses to cooperate—fuck, he’s lost his balance, he’s going to slip off and fall on his face like a bloody—

An arm slides around his torso, holding him up. A steady hand over the handle of his broom stops its lurching. Tom is barely breathing, his mind catching up to the fact that he’s not going to become one with the forest soil.

“Shit, Tom, I’m sorry, I thought you were ready, I should have warned you—”

Heart still finding the way back to its regular beat, Tom interrupts Potter’s rambling: “It’s fine. Nothing happened.”

“Well it was a stupid thing to do, and I won’t do it again,” Potter insists, wide eyes painfully green even in the dark.

“Just drop it, will you?” It’s embarrassing enough that he ran away from a Quaffle like it was the Killing Curse; Potter’s self-flagellation is just rubbing more salt on the wound. As if he hasn’t done it on purpose anyway, the fucking prick.

With a sigh, the arm around Tom tightens briefly before Potter releases him. “Do you want to stop? We’ve done a lot already. You’ve been great.”

More useless flattering.

“Let’s try again,” Tom orders. He wants to challenge Potter, confuse him, shock him, give him a lesson that he’ll never forget. The plan to ruin his reputation isn’t enough; the matter has become personal.

Uncertain, Potter nods. This time, when the Quaffle comes towards him Tom catches it, albeit unsteadily. A victorious glint in his eyes, he does his best to throw Potter off-balance by flinging the ball back at him.

The back-and-forth of the Quaffle between them slowly acquires a flow. Potter accepts Tom’s viciousness and in turn pushes Tom’s limits, building his reflexes with progressively more elaborate throws, flying around him in circles like an annoying snidget. Tom fumbles, stumbles, grumbles, but he manages to avoid another fall, and he even scores a few points through the unprotected goals.

By the end of the lesson they’re both sweating—disgusting—and Potter is positively radiating joy.

Tom can’t say the same about himself. His performance’s been nowhere near satisfactory, his dexterity and form nowhere near Potter’s. While he still holds no interest for Quidditch, he also can’t stand the thought that Potter can have this golden opportunity to gloat over him. There’s no way that Tom will accept being considered inferior to anyone.

“So, uh... how was it?” Potter asks once they’ve dismounted, self-consciously running a hand through his hair. It looks like a habit of his.

“You’ve been patient,” Tom concedes. It’s true, at least on the surface: Potter’s been nothing but helpful and tolerant of every mistake, adapting his teaching to Tom’s pace with flawless precision. “I could have done better.”

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” Potter says, “will you stop with the self-deprecation? You’re learning. It’s all part of the process. Believe me, I’ve seen worse.”

Tom hands the Nimbus back to Potter, who’s extinguishing the enchanted lights and reverting the goal posts back to their original shape. “You’ve also seen best, I reckon.”

Potter huffs in annoyance as he takes the broom and stores it away along with the rest of the equipment. “Yes, and it doesn’t matter. This isn’t a competition. The whole point of us being in the middle of the forest instead of the pitch is that you can be away from judgemental eyes, so could you please stop being your own worst critic?”

“We should go.” If Potter considers having standards the same as self-deprecation, then Tom has nothing else to say. “I can find my way back.” He turns to follow the hidden trail that led them here.

“Wait,” Potter says, interrupting Tom as he was about to cast a wordless Disillusionment Charm on himself. “Do you want to do this again? More lessons?”

Does Tom want to? Is the headache of spending time with Potter worth it?

Like a sharp edge, a thorn stuck in his side, Potter’s words echo in his head. This isn’t a competition. But it is, in a way—it’s Tom’s endurance against his desire to chalk up the whole plan as a failure and sweep it under the rug.

And Potter is still an issue—he still needs to go down in flames, and Tom is the one who has to ignite that fire.

He straightens his back. I won’t quit now. “Same time, next Saturday?”

“I’ll be here,” Potter says. It sounds like a promise.

[missing scene with Tom and snake-Harry]

At half past eleven on Saturday, Harry prepares to slip away from the Gryffindor dormitory under his Cloak.

“Ron, hey,” he whispers in the darkness of the dormitory, shaking his friend’s shoulder.

Still more than half-asleep, refusing to open his eyes, Ron mutters, “What?”

“I’m going out, will probably be late again. Don’t wait for me, okay?” He’s a little ashamed of taking advantage of Ron while he’s in this state, knowing that he won’t ask questions.

“Yeah, yeah—g’night, mate,” Ron says, words slurred as the dream world ensnares him again.

Then Harry leaves, sliding through the many corridors of the castle as if he were in his Animagus form, until he crosses the entrance; outside he can run, free, breathing in the cold wind that chills his face and lungs. He feels so light, like the world is full of exciting possibilities, like he’s on the hunt for something marvellous.

Yes, he hates hiding these nighttime escapades from his friends. However, he also loves the secret thrill of this undefined thing he and Tom have, this strange agreement that’s neither friendship nor rivalry, while not being neutral either. He knows, he can see that Tom—and how weird it is, that he already thinks of him as such—still despises him... yet he’s also invested in Harry in a way that goes beyond simple hatred or spite.

He could have used many excuses to get his hands on Harry’s Firebolt and sabotage it. He could have cursed Harry himself, especially with how close they’ve been, and Harry has no doubt that Tom possesses a sizable arsenal of slow-building, undetectable curses that would have sent Harry to his grave with no one the wiser.

But then, how absurd it is that Harry’s still not afraid to know that a part of Tom, a loud and powerful one, would rejoice in his pain and in having caused it?

He’s certain that Tom Riddle’s bite is deadly venomous, and he’s been thirsting for Harry’s blood for a long time. The bane of his existence, indeed.

Yet Harry saw something else during their time together: the fierce competitiveness, the stubbornness, the drive towards excellence, the desire to be greater than anyone... and also the insecurity, the self-loathing, the fear hidden behind harsh perfectionism, the sense of not being enough, of having to push himself harder, of not belonging anywhere, of being unloved and unlovable.

Tom Riddle is human and flawed. And he has bite, yes, but along with the venom comes a blazing fire that he keeps carefully concealed under his detached, polished façade. Harry wants to witness more of that fire, wants to bask in it, wants to revel in the privilege of being the one who can bring it out.

He knows what Tom could do, the potential of his cruelty. However, night after night, he discovers an inescapable curiosity for what Tom will do.

A laughter, full and thrilling, shakes Harry’s body as he skips through the forest, jumping over traitorous roots and avoiding thorn bushes intent on drawing blood.

Tom, of course, has already arrived.

Harry admires the transfigured goal posts, smoother and more symmetrical than how his own half-arsed magic would ever mold them, and thinks, This is going to be fun.

“Eager?” Harry can’t help but tease.

Tom gives him one of his looks. “I don’t like wasting time.”

“Of course. Let’s get to it, then.”

Like last time, Harry offers Tom his Nimbus; they warm up by playing with the Quaffle, letting Tom reacquaint himself with the feeling of flying by revisiting a few of the trickier turns. Tom’s control over the borrowed broomstick is still shaky and hesitant, which he clearly hates with a passion, but he’s also improved considerably in a small amount of time.

This may be the one thing in which Tom Riddle isn’t a natural. However, for some reason he’s actually putting in an effort to learn, which leaves Harry wondering why. Merlin knows Tom’s mind works in mysterious ways, and even after spending a few nights with him as a snake and witnessing his unfiltered rants Harry’s not closer to understanding his convoluted reasoning.

“Tonight I think you could try your hand at playing Keeper.”

Tom, always straight to the point, immediately flies towards the transfigured hoops and circles around them. “On a practical level, how is it different from playing Chaser, anyway? The ball is the same, it’s just a matter of catching it as we’ve already been doing.”

Harry feels an appraising smile rise on his lips. “Interesting question,” he replies, turning the Quaffle in his hands. “I believe the main difference is in the freedom of movement. As a Chaser, you can follow the trajectory and position of the Quaffle and other players in the way that’s most convenient for you, while as a Keeper you have to stay in a confined area, since leaving the goals unguarded equals failure. You need sharper eyes and quicker reflexes, which is why I considered it more advanced.”

“But the smaller area should make it easier, not harder,” Tom says with a small frown.

“Theory is theory, practice is practice. You’ll see by yourself.”

“Let’s begin, then.” He looks impatient, and Harry privately thinks that it’s kind of adorable. Perhaps my love for Quidditch is rubbing off on him. Or perhaps he’s just that competitive.

So Harry begins throwing and Tom begins to understand Harry’s point as the Quaffle slides under his guard and passes easily through the hoops time after time. With sweaty hair plastered to his forehead, eyes aflame and gritted teeth, Tom struggles to prevent Harry’s craftiness from allowing him to score yet another point. He’s only managed to catch five out of twenty-four throws.

“You have to keep in mind that I’m not an actual Chaser myself,” Harry says, immensely enjoying the murderous look on Tom’s face. “This could be way worse.”

Tom stills, holding the ball as if he wants to strangle it. “You do so love to make fun of me,” he snarls. “Idiot Tom Riddle, who’s never learned to play Quidditch, who can’t even catch a bloody Quaffle. Must be so nice to sit on your throne and laugh at my pathetic attempts.”

The aggressiveness in Tom’s tone makes Harry feel all kinds of ruffled, and perhaps he should be keeping his mouth shut, but when has he ever listened to reason? So he says, “I thought you had more spine than this, for someone who sits on his throne and laughs at others all the time.”

“What?” Tom says, eyes narrow and voice sharp as a potioneer’s blade.

“You heard me. Is it fun, being an arsehole to Hermione and who knows how many others? How does it feel when you are the one whose efforts feel inadequate, Tom?”

“It’s Riddle, to you.”

“Well then, Riddle: how does it feel? And mind you, I was teasing you as I would with a friend, but I could also be cruel and cutting like you. I could get on the same level of ‘polite bastard’ you seem to revel in.”

The look Tom gives him is utterly blank, which could be seen as an improvement over being murderous, or could also mean that he’s so much more murderous than usual that he’s already on the phase where he’s choosing how to dispose of Harry’s body.

Harry sighs. This is all pointless. Tom hates him, will always hate him, and they’re just dancing around each other waiting for the perfect opportunity to... what? Tom is most likely waiting for Harry to lower his guard enough for him to strike undetected, but what does Harry want? What’s his excuse for being here?

Perhaps this time his curiosity is better left alone.

“Forget what I just said. I’ve been an arsehole,” Harry says. “We don’t have to do this if you’re so frustrated it makes you miserable.”

“Is this what you think of me? That I go around lording my knowledge over people?” Tom doesn’t sound angry—he just stares at Harry like he’s speaking in a different language.

“From what I’ve seen of you... well, yes,” Harry says, uncertain. He feels like this whole conversation is balancing on a very delicate thread. “It’s not overt, but you do act superior and rub your grades on other people’s faces, with those condescending smirks and such... and I don’t believe that you don’t do that on purpose.”

“I—do that,” Tom admits quietly, almost disturbed by the revelation. Even more interesting, he appears to be honestly considering it. “Perhaps... it’s a bit excessive.”

“We all know you’re the most skilled student in this school anyway. It’s not just about grades—you clearly have a touch, a passion for magic that can’t be found in books and that most of us can’t hope to replicate.”

Tom’s eyes catch Harry’s then, a blazing intensity passing between them that makes Harry feel… funny. “You’re telling the truth. You do think that.”

“Yeah. I mean, it’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?”

“Not coming from you.”

Harry frowns. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“You—” Tom pauses, raking a hand through his already mussed-up hair. He looks more unbuttoned than Harry’s ever seen him. “I’m not sure.”

“That you wanted to murder me in my sleep, probably,” Harry says unthinkingly. He knows that Tom has never been confused on his opinion of Harry; he’s heard enough dramatics when Tom’s spoken to him as Ezra, long tales on how insufferable Harry is, and how much of an attention-seeker, how brainless and privileged, and so on.

Surprisingly, Tom laughs. It’s brief, blink-and-you’ll miss it, but it’s happened.

Tom Riddle has laughed.

“I might have considered it, yes,” Tom confesses, not even remotely apologetic.

Harry is shocked and more charmed than he’d like to admit. “I don’t know what to do with this sudden honesty.”

Tom shakes his head, and he’s still smiling—not smirking, but smiling—and he looks as unbalanced as Harry feels. “Neither do I.” He locks eyes with Harry, and for a few brief seconds there’s that intensity again; then he breaks the spell to Accio the Quaffle from where he’d dropped it. “Let me try again.”

“Sure,” Harry says, quietly thrilled.

[missing scene with Tom and snake-Harry]

The trunk containing Potter’s Quidditch equipment sits on the forest floor, lid open. Tom studies the set of chained Bludgers and lifts an eyebrow. “Last time you said that in this lesson I was supposed to ‘learn my way around a Beater’s bat’.” The unspoken question of why Potter hasn’t handed him any bat yet hangs in the air.

“Yeah, I said that, but then I realised that Bludgers might not be the best idea right now,” Potter admits, shrugging. “You’re probably already familiar with how they work from a spectator’s point of view, but this is another instance of theory being very different from practice.”

“In short, you believe I’m not able to undertake this particular task,” Tom says. Of course Potter wouldn’t consider him worthy enough for the scary, angry balls, not when Tom still struggles with inconsistent balance and shaky steering at the best of times. Furthermore, Potter’s famed superior abilities allow him to keenly judge the depth of Tom’s incompetency and find him wanting.

Unimpressed by Tom’s logic, Potter rolls his eyes. “Is it necessary for you to be so dramatic?”

“Don’t bother with lying. We both know it’s the truth,” Tom insists. He has no patience for this display of futile denial.

“It’s a distorted version of the truth, so you can beat yourself up for not being perfect enough, or some crap along those lines. Yes, it’s probably not safe for you to engage with Bludgers yet. No, it doesn’t mean that you’re useless of whatever you’re telling yourself.”

“You seem awfully confident in your ability to interpret my thoughts.” Out of ingrained habit, Tom reinforces his Occlumency shields. While it’s unlikely that Potter has the wits and finesse to master the delicate art of Legilimency, he’s also revealed himself to be unpredictable in many occasions. Better safe than sorry.

“Maybe you’re just obvious,” Potter says dismissively, before tapping his wand on the small set of chains that holds the Golden Snitch in place at the center of the trunk. The ball springs free, only for Potter to catch it immediately with practiced ease and a gleam in his eyes that promises nothing good for Tom. “Tonight we’re Seeking.”

“Will the Snitch’s movements be restricted to this clearing, or will we have to follow its path amongst the trees?”

“Only the clearing,” Potter confirms with a small smile.

Tom lets his gaze roam to evaluate the length and breadth of the space. The shiny surface of the ball would be easily discernible against the dark background. “Seems feasible.”

The smile on Potter’s face grows wider. “Let’s begin, then.”

What followed were blurred hours of Tom fumbling his way through sharp turns, desperately trying to keep himself from losing his grip, then losing it anyway at every attempt to catch the blasted ball, then trying to regain his balance, then remembering to loosen his posture, then failing at commanding his limbs to go on a single direction, thus dipping downwards at uncontrollable speed until he would have surely eaten grass if not for Potter’s steadying hand.

Once they finally touch the ground, Tom flings away Potter’s broom, rage painting his world in red. He doesn’t give a single fuck about the bloody stick of wood and the bloody Snitch, he’s bruised all over the place and he’s sick of this, he won’t stand a single second of humiliating himself any further, he’s utterly and completely done. “How do you fucking do this?” Tom roars. “Why would you willingly subject yourself to this torture?”

“Uh, T—Riddle—”

“I don’t know what I was thinking,” Tom goes on, ignoring him. “Why I even considered to accept this whole ordeal as if it deserves any of my time.”

“Riddle, I told you, this isn’t an obligation,” Potter says. “We can stop, it’s okay.” He’s dismounted too, and he stands there, slowly and cautiously inching towards Tom.

‘It’s okay’—as if Tom needs to be soothed or, worse, coddled. The infantilising undertones make Tom want to tear Potter to shreds. There’s a Cruciatus on the tip of his tongue, waiting to be unleashed, waiting for him to reap Potter’s pain for witnessing Tom making a fool of himself and daring to treat him like a volatile child. I doubt he’ll be so entertained when he’s contorting on the ground, screaming his lungs out, he thinks savagely, extracting his wand from its holster.

As the first syllable of the curse leaves Tom’s mouth, red light charging on the tip of his wand, Potter is fast—he crouches and rolls away from its trajectory, touching down over the stone in the middle of the clearing and drawing up a Shield Charm strong enough that Tom can hear it crackling like lightning. “What the fuck, Riddle?” he snaps, but there’s no surprise or fear on his face, only the sharp focus of a seasoned duellist.

Unfortunately for Potter, a mere Shield Charm isn’t enough to deter Tom; many Dark curses are designed to eat through them like a parchment set aflame. He smiles, all teeth, and Potter seems to sense his intentions, eyes narrowing.

Then the unthinkable happens.

Potter casts non-verbally at the same time Tom’s spell almost strikes home; the jets of their magic meet in midair and twine together in a single stream of pure gold light. Birdsong erupts, filling the space with an otherworldly melody, while luminous threads of magic are birthed from the stream like a spiderweb, surrounding Tom and Harry in a dome until the forest disappears beyond the shimmering brilliance.

What in Salazar’s name is this?

The entirety of Tom’s world is reduced to this moment in time, to Potter’s green eyes reflecting the light. Mesmerised, Tom watches as beads of light appear in the stream of their magic. His wand vibrates and he clutches it harder; the beads gets closer and closer to its tip, and Tom feels the light whispering at him to accept sanctuary in its song, to let it wash away his anger, to cease fighting, to surrender, and his whole body becomes weightless, being gently lifted from the ground by this invisible, absurd, liminal force—

And suddenly it ends.

The light disappears, leaving them to adjust to the night again: the link has been broken. Tom aches for it, deep in his bones. He can already tell how the echoes of that melody will haunt him for many nights to come.

He and Potter stare at each other, feet back on the ground, eyes wide, breathless and at a loss for words.

“What was that?” Tom breathes. “What did you do?”

Potter shakes his head, bewildered. “I have no clue. I just—stopped it.”

“You stopped it?”

“I think so.” Potter crawls towards a point to his side, scanning the grass back and forth until he recovers his wand from where he must have lost it when he interrupted the contact.

“Why?” Tom asks, unable to keep the word inside his still pounding chest. Why would you commit such a blasphemous act?

“Because—whatever it was, I’m not sure either of us was prepared for it.” He’s holding Tom’s gaze, straight on, in a way that reaches deep under his skin.

Unnerved, Tom skims the surface of Potter’s mind and finds a confusing jumble of... something. Too many somethings, all swirling in dizzying patterns. Wonder, doubt, curiosity, wariness, joy—all underlined by the same pure bliss that has enveloped Tom under the dome.

This magic is messing with my senses. “Don’t speak to me ever again. We’re done,” Tom says, with as much vicious strength as he can muster, rising on wobbly legs.

Potter sits in the grass and says nothing, making no move to stop him.

Tom can feel the weight of his gaze all the way to the castle. Once he reaches the dungeons, the Slytherin common room and finally his own bed, he realises how not a single part of his plan has worked out as expected.

His wand, who’s been a faithful companion since he was eleven, has acted in a way that was absolutely mystifying. Still shivering with the residue of that golden magic that doesn’t let go of his limbs, Tom performs a series of spells only to have the proof of what he already expected: the wand responds as usual and nothing is out of the ordinary—not now, not anymore. But if that unreal... thing wasn’t a malfunction, or caused by a curse, then what was it? He’s never heard of anything like it.

For the first time in what feels like forever, Tom’s out of his depth.

He thought he’d ruin Potter’s reputation, only to end up tired, bruised, with his magic acting up unpredictably and his thoughts scrambled beyond recognition. He thought he would teach Potter a lesson, and yet he lost himself in birdsong and light, giving away his power like an utter fool, until Potter was the one to separate them. And isn’t it funny that the reckless Gryffindor poster boy was the one who acted appropriately, while Tom has been too weak, too compromised? Weak, his mind provides.

How could it all have gone so wrong? How could Tom have lost the guidance of his own compass so completely?

For the briefest of moments, he wishes for Ezra’s presence; the snake has no interest in what he calls ‘complicated human affairs’, and his snark would help to keep Tom grounded. And isn’t this another sign of Tom’s weakness, to need another—an animal—to recover his balance?

He rubs his eyes, feeling both keyed-up and drained to the bone. A restless night awaits him.

However, he refuses to surrender to the hold of these thoughts. It’s completely useless to wallow in defeat and waste any more time contemplating this utter failure. Whatever happens next, whatever stunt Potter pulls that could interfere with Tom’s position in Slytherin, he’ll deal with it. Tom is cunning and capable enough to adapt to what fate has in store for him, as he’s always done.

He digs into his potion stash for a vial of Dreamless Sleep.

Potter can rot.

Harry crosses for the millionth time the opening sentence of his Potions essay. His parchment has turned into a blot of ink and he sighs, his wand to vanish the black stain. Then, he stares at the blank scroll, mind empty of coherent thoughts, unable to string together the meaning of a single line in the open book before him.

“I need help,” he finally says to Hermione, almost begging. They’re sitting, along with Ron, in their usual corner of the library. “I know, I know, I should write my own essay, but this isn’t—Hermione?” Harry hesitates, as he sees her casting a sturdy Muffliato around their table, the usual sign that a serious conversation was about to happen. Harry shoots a questioning look at Ron, but for once his friend appears to be on the same page as Hermione, leaving Harry out of the loop.

“Harry,” Hermione begins, with a concerned tone and furrowed eyebrows, “what’s going on? You’ve been distracted and spacing out for days, like you can’t focus on anything. It’s the third time you’ve asked for my help this week—even with difficult assignments, it’s not usually that bad.” She’s studying Harry’s face like she would a particularly complex Arithmancy equation, looking for the familiar tells that will betray his secrets.

Even though he knows perfectly well that she’s right, and that he did in fact intend to have one of those conversations, Harry protests on principle: “It’s Potions, you know how much I struggle with it! These essays are an absolute nightmare!”

“Yeah, mate, but maybe it would help if you read from the Potions book, instead of the Defense one,” Ron suggests, tapping his index finger on Harry’s book.

Harry stares at him, mild horror creeping up on his face, before letting his eyes fall on the book. He closes it and, sure enough, the battered cover doesn’t lie. “Fuck,” he says, defeated. He pushes up his glasses to rub at his face. “No wonder it didn’t make sense.”

Unlike Hermione, Ron doesn’t seem bothered by Harry’s behaviour; he shakes his head in playful disbelief, but he seems more curious than worried, which is relieving.

“So, what is it?” Hermione says.

Here it is, the moment Harry’s been dreading since this whole ordeal with Tom has started: telling the truth to his friends.

Like many other times, he doesn’t have a proper explanation for acting the way he does; in true Marauder fashion, he’d just acted on impulse, following the trail of fun. Unlike those other times, however, an explanation will be needed at some point.

This doesn’t mean that he isn’t also feeling quite defensive about this particular issue. After all, it’s not just about him; this is Tom’s business as much as it’s Harry’s, and Hermione won’t be happy to discover that her rival is involved. Harry still isn’t prepared for the fuss she will undoubtedly kick up.

And of course, predictable as the sunrise, Ron asks: “Is this because of whatever you’ve been doing when you sneak out at night?”

“Why are you being so secretive, Harry?” Hermione questions, leaning forwards and lowering her voice even though the Muffling Charm protects them from eavesdroppers. “Are you doing something that could get you expelled?”

“Hermione, I do things that could get me thrown in Azkaban on the regular.” Like being an unregistered Animagus, for instance.

And isn’t that another guilt-flavoured train of thought? The list of people that will need an explanation does include Tom himself. He’s warming up to Ezra in a way that he would have never allowed if he were aware of who hid behind the snake’s form. Yeah, Harry can’t say he’s looking forward to confessing that particular secret to Tom. After all, how can Harry admit to him that’s listened to his unfiltered rants and musings without Tom murdering him in cold blood? The Slytherin is already mistrustful enough, and lying by omission is one of the most dangerous things Harry could do, especially considering that Tom is a Legilimens.

Hermione waves an impatient hand to dismiss Harry’s point, snapping his attention back to the conversation. “You know what I mean, and you’re deflecting.”

Harry begins to open his mouth, but before he’s figured out what he’s going to say Hermione interrupts him again, voice gone soft: “Did you break up with your partner?”

“My what?” Again, Harry looks at Ron and finds none of the confusion he expects on his face.

“You have been disappearing a lot,” Ron offers with an half-shrug. “It was the most obvious conclusion.”

Harry gapes, stunned by the turn the conversation has taken. “Did you two really think that I have a secret lover? Why in the name of Merlin would I hide that?” If only they knew who my supposed ‘lover’ is. And isn’t that a thought, Tom being anyone’s lover, and Harry’s lover to boot? It’s too absurd, too unthinkable to even consider.

Yes, Harry can admit that Tom is handsome, and that he certainly doesn’t lack admirers; even with his poor eyesight, he’s not that ignorant of the Slytherin’s charms. However, Tom’s usual regal demeanour creates a distance between him and the rest of the world. Like a marble statue, Tom Riddle is meant to be admired while staying unreachable, and Harry can’t imagine him letting his shields down for anyone.

Except he did with me. Harry has been a witness to Tom’s temper, his cruelty, his smile. As obstinate as Tom has been with his will to drag Harry into the mud and his constant misinterpretation of Harry’s motives, he’s also let Harry see unflattering, vulnerable sides of him that many others would kill for.

How did that happen? What does this say about us?

“You’re spacing out again,” Hermione sighs. “But if it’s not a secret lover, then what is this all about?”

“I’ve been seeing someone. Not in that way,” he adds, before they can say anything. “But we kind of, uh, had a disagreement, and our magic reacted strangely and I was wondering if you knew something about it that I don’t.”

At the mention of an intellectual debate Hermione perks up, her posture instantly straightening. Harry tells them an abridged version of what happened in the clearing, glossing over the more incriminating details that could reveal Tom’s identity or the reason behind their fight.

“I’m pretty sure I’ve read about something like this before,” Hermione says, tapping her index finger to her lips. She bends to the side to rummage inside her magically expanded bag where she keeps a ridiculous amount of books—though Harry has to admit that, on occasions like this, having a portable library does come in handy. “I believe it was on a wandlore book I got last year. It’s hard to find any useful information on the subject because wandmaking is passed on through apprenticeship and very few masters have bothered writing down their knowledge, but I lucked on this tome that was gathering dust on a corner at Flourish and Blott’s, I’m fairly sure they didn’t even remember having it—ah, here it is!” she exclaims, showing them an ancient leatherbound volume whose title has faded completely. After a few minutes of leafing through the yellowed pages, she says: “I was right! Priori Incantatem, an extremely rare phenomenon that manifests when two practitioners bearing twin wands—that is, wands with the twin cores—attempt a duel.”

“So my... acquaintance’s wand has a phoenix feather core like mine?”

Hermione studies the book again. “Not just any phoenix feather, apparently. It has to be a feather from the same phoenix as yours, which I guess is why most wands don’t have a twin at all, or never meet their twin.” She lifts her gaze from the page to meet Harry’s eyes with her bright ones. “Harry, who is this person? This could be an amazing opportunity to study something that—”

“I can’t tell you, and they made it very clear that they don’t want me to speak to them ever again,” Harry says. Classes with the Slytherins have been... something. While outwardly nothing had changed between them, as they’d never interacted in the first place, Harry could feel the spiky coldness radiating from Tom as if it were alive and ready for him to try and cross it.

“But mate,” Ron interjects, gesturing vaguely at Harry, “wouldn’t they like to know about this? If my wand started shooting weird golden light during a duel, I’d be freaking out and thinking that my magic isn’t working or something like that.”

“I think they’re perfectly capable of researching this on their own.” Maybe that’s the reason behind their odd connection. Their wands... attract them to each other, or something.

Would Tom even want to know? The truth is... Ron is right. Someone like Tom, who prides himself on knowing everything and always being in control, must have been utterly shaken by his magic going haywire all of a sudden.

Harry’s choice is made.

A week after the last encounter with Potter, Ezra reappears in the dungeons just as Tom’s Prefect rounds come to an end.

Tom wonders at the snake’s ability to be so precise about his routine. Ready to cage his wayward almost-but-not-quite familiar again, this time with no intention of letting go, Tom lifts his wand in lieu of a greeting.

“Put that away, human,” Ezra hisses, and his tone is enough to still Tom’s tongue. He sounds stiff, his muscles tight and struggling against his obvious distress.

Eyes narrowing, Tom asks: “What happened to you?” If someone had dared to hurt his snake...

“Too many questions.”

“That was one question.”

“Pointless details. Follow me,” Ezra commands, before slithering down the dimly lit corridor, wasting no time to check if Tom is going after him.

Tom curses under his breath. Disrespectful, disobedient creature. He casts a silent Disillusionment Charm over himself and trails behind the sinuous shadow; the snake avoids the treacherous staircases, leading Tom behind faded tapestries and secret passages that he’s never encountered before. Spelling away the cobwebs to prevent them from sticking to his skin and hair, Tom finds himself thinking that not even Potter would have discovered these places—then banishes the reminder of Potter’s existence from his head entirely. The bastard doesn’t deserve a single crumb of his attention.

At this point he’s also wondering if Ezra is trying to get him in trouble on purpose. While the snake has never been particularly talkative and often acts oddly even by reptile standards, this mysterious demeanour is unusual and bordering on suspicious.

Ezra halts in front of a familiar, half-open bathroom door, flicking his tongue at the air; then, apparently satisfied, he slides inside.

More and more confused by this bizarre pseudo-adventure, Tom follows.

Once they’re under the greenish, dim light of the Chamber of Secrets, surrounded by snake-decorated pillars that hold up the vast ceiling, Ezra melts into the shadows and disappears from sight. The last shreds of Tom’s patience evaporate. “Ezra, what is going on?” he barely refrains from shouting.

He hears rustling from behind him, and when he turns in the direction of the sound his eyes fall on the pavement. There’s a book in front of him that hadn’t been there before. The cover is clearly old, black and unassuming, but it means very little for Tom. Wary, he extracts his wand. The Chamber is not a place in which one can trust random books appearing out of thin air.

It’s enough to distract him.

“Incarcerous,” a voice says—a treacherous, insufferable voice—and Tom is bound and constricted by ropes of warm magic that bring him to his knees. As if the humiliation wasn’t enough, he watches, powerless, as Potter waltzes in his field of vision and oh-so-casually disarms him.

“You utter bastard,” Tom snarls, like a flesh-eating curse, “release me.” The spell holds strong against his attempts to free himself wandlessly.

With a grin that shows too many teeth, Potter replies airily, “I don’t think I will. We have a lot of things to discuss, you see, and I don’t fancy being hexed.” His gaze turns sharp and he crouches in front of Tom, mockingly. “Besides, you deserve a little taste of your own medicine. Going around caging random snakes? Very rude, Tom.”

“What have you done to my snake?” No ropes will protect Potter from Tom’s ire. His magic is beginning to flare up, warming his skin, ready to set ablaze everything on its path.

Potter feels it, but all he does is sit cross-legged before Tom, unbothered. “Your snake?” he laughs.

“I caught him. He’s mine.”

“Putting me in a glass case and having a few one-sided conversations about how much you hate me is hardly enough to call me yours.”

Tom’s thoughts screech to a halt. The implication behind Potter’s words dawns on him, like curtains closing at the end of a play. It can’t be true, can it? Tom couldn’t have been so foolish—but wasn’t he the one who’s compared Ezra to Potter more than once? Oh, the irony. The cruelty of his misplaced belief that he could be himself with anyone, even an animal.

And then, Potter’s face opens, and his expression morphs into a genuine smile. Something travels down Tom’s spine at the sight. “You’re surprisingly warm, though. And you smell good under that posh cologne,” he says.

“You knew,” Tom says. “You knew all along that I wanted to sabotage you. That I despise you.”

“Yes.”

“You had no right.”

“You put me in a difficult position, Tom. On one hand, I was very aware of the fact that I was taking advantage of you; on the other hand, however... what was I supposed to do? Let you harm me out of the goodness of my heart? I’m not that self-sacrificing.”

#tomarry #tomarrymort #tmrhptmr #fanfic #yay writing #harry potter

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