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Two weeks into the term, there is a transfer student at Hogwarts. It is a highly curious event – in fact, school records indicate that the last accepted had been well over fifty years prior.
Tom Riddle, however, does not have the bandwidth to investigate personally. He is a busy man, after all.
Along with his duties as Head Boy extraordinaire, he must crush his NEWTS (fairly trivial), secure the Defense post after his graduation (also well in hand), and all the while, he must keep the Knights of Walpurgis in line by providing meaningful enrichment sessions to fill in their spare hours, lest they turn destructive and begin chewing on furniture in Tom’s absence (a constant headache). But, as a result of his careful tending, his followers remain steadfastly loyal to the rightful Heir of Slytherin.
It follows then that Tom also spends a substantial amount of time making nice with all the Lords and Ladies of the Sacred-Twenty Eight via owl post such that they might hand over the keys to the kingdom to Tom’s Knights at their earliest convenience.
After a private sorting, Headmaster Dippet announces that one Harry Potter (a Potter – how interesting indeed) will be joining Slytherin House as a seventh year student.
And Tom has an idea.
All great rulers must learn how to delegate. So, he will dispatch his Knights to squeeze every secret out of this peculiar new boy. It will occupy his minions and reward him with answers. Two birds with one stone. He allows himself a private smile, pleased by his clever solution.
Knight 1
Alphard Black serves as Tom’s right hand, both resourceful and well-connected. The Knight’s only unfortunate vice is his terminally laissez-faire attitude towards anything resembling achievement or maintaining a decent reputation. To put it mildly, Alphard enjoys his flings. Tom has, of course, orchestrated an illustrious post-graduation career for Alphard in spite of these flaws.
Alphard will be joining the Society for the Preservation of Ancestral Governance (SPAG) as a junior representative.
His new role will be responsible for the planning of lavish parties and then trot around the globe to extend invitations and secure the attendance of various wealthy socialites. In truth, it is the first rung on the ladder within one of the most powerful lobbying organizations in the Wizarding World. If the Wizengamot is a lake, then SPAG is the wind that produces the waves that ripple across it. And it is no coincidence at all that SPAG is a lead sponsor every year for the Ministry’s Yule Gala.
So he asks Alphard to approach Potter first.
Alphard slides him a note during their Arithmancy lecture. The report is underwhelming.
He’s nice enough, a bit of an idiot, but nothing special. I don’t believe any further investigation is required.
Tom reads it twice and finds himself disappointed both times.
After dinner, Tom asks that Alphard join him in reviewing his latest proposal to Lord Black. It will be a key stepping stone in his diligent plot to replace Orion with Alphard as the official heir.
“I can’t, my lord. I’m studying in the library tonight.”
Tom blinks. The sequence of words is so entirely nonsensical coming from Alphard’s mouth that he very nearly doubts his own senses. But it is impossible. His hearing is impeccable, as is his every other sense. “Alphard. You do not study. Never once in the six years that I have known you, have you ever partaken in this activity that we call studying.”
“Well, NEWTS are coming up—”
“It is October.”
Alphard shifts on his feet, swaying back and forth like a tree in the middle of being felled. “My father assured me that he would end our entire family line should I fail to achieve at a minimum an Acceptable for all the exams I’m sitting. Really, I'm terribly sorry, my lord, there’s simply nothing I can do.” As he speaks, he inches nearer to the door. “Farewell! Have a most lovely night! I will see you tomorrow, my lord.”
And then the door clicks shut.
Rage simmers at Tom's fingertips.
Perhaps he’s been too lax with his Knights lately, if Alphard believes that such a transparent lie would be able to escape unnoticed.
It is only at breakfast that the interaction finally makes sense. Thaddeus mentions that he had seen Alphard studying with the transfer student.
Nothing special, indeed.
Tom sighs. He cannot fault Alphard.
He’s seen Potter’s face and figure, if only at a distance.
Of his Knights, Alphard is the most vulnerable to a sob story with a pretty face. That his Knight would find himself trying to get into Potter’s trousers is simply part of his nature. Tom would be punishing a fruit fly for trying to get with a fruit. Or punishing a fruit for falling down instead of up.
He stares at the pile of apples in the center of the Great Hall table and allows himself a second sigh.
Knight 2
He orders Landon Rosier to find Potter next. Landon is a very practical individual – fond of dueling but not the most adept at spotting a lie. By the same coin, Landon is not prone to overexaggeration or deceit or falling for any emotional appeals.
Landon returns several days later with news, requesting that Tom meet him privately in their shared dormitory.
However, as soon as they arrive and Landon begins to speak, Tom is immediately concerned. He has never once seen the boy so... enthusiastic. He gushes, eyes sparkling with excitement.
“He’s excellent at Defense, my lord. You should see how he moves with a wand!”
“Did you learn anything else, Landon?”
“Have you ever seen a corporeal Patronus, my lord?!”
Before Tom can respond, Landon continues eagerly.
“I hadn’t until last night! A fully formed stag, honestly unbelievable if I hadn't seen it with my own two eyes.”
What Landon says next, Tom is not entirely sure, sinking heavily into his own thoughts.
Could he even manage a corporeal Patronus? He has never tried – dementors are far from a credible threat at Hogwarts – but now he finds himself uneasy.
He steps away from the conversation with a frown. There would surely be records within the library on how to produce a Patronus that he could review.
Landon does not appear to notice him push out the door as he continues to gush about Potter to an empty room.
Knight 3
Tom sends Abraxas Malfoy next. The young heir genuinely despises those of lesser heritage and had spent Tom’s first few years at Hogwarts slinging insults with gleeful abandon.
Abraxas has naturally paid for his mistakes since the reveal of Tom's true lineage and reformed into a biddable hound for Tom’s entertainment.
And yet, Potter disarms Abraxas in a single day.
Tom cannot even find it in himself to be surprised any longer.
He finds Abraxas and the most recent addition to his Inner Circle, Vance Avery, in the Come-And-Go Room. He re-styles the space into an intimate sitting room akin to those that he has visited in several of his Knight’s ancestral homes and manors. Vance flops into one of the room’s plush, emerald chairs, and Abraxas paces before the crackling hearth. Tom stands by window, surveying the quiet expanse of Hogwarts’ evening grounds, hands clasped behind his back as Abraxas delivers his observations.
“It is true that he’s a Potter bastard, my lord, and it is a shame that he is half-blooded, which of course, I do not mean to say that it is a stain against any halfbloods and certainly not you, my lord, but you must understand that Harry has an extremely noble bearing, a most distinguished taste in forms, and his eyes, my lord, I have never—”
Tom snaps, spinning around to face the blond. “And pray tell, does Potter's noble bearing have anything to do with his specific form?”
Abraxas’ mouth shuts with a clack.
Vance’s poorly concealed laughter leaks out as an occasional high-pitched squeak, each one making the pulse at Tom’s temple jump.
“Get out of my sight,” he barks.
The giggling stops.
Abraxas scrambles out of the room without a moment to waste.
“That includes you as well, Vance.”
Accordingly, his other Knight beats a hasty exit.
Tom sinks into the newly vacated chair by the hearth and rubs his temples, a throbbing headache building at the base of his skull.
This can only be the result of some heretofore unknown and devious forbidden magic. There is no other plausible explanation for their adoration of Potter.
Knight 4
Tom sends his last hope the next morning.
The most unflappably red-blooded heterosexual male among his Knights: Thaddeus Nott.
He gives Thaddeus strict orders to investigate Harry Potter without getting himself overly involved and to report back immediately on any suspicious findings. There may be a slight note of desperation in his tone as he does, but Thaddeus is wise enough to not comment on it.
Today is the seventh day of the month, which means that it is time for the Knight of Walpurgis round table gathering. Tom and his five most trusted Knights convene to discuss their progress on the multi-step Manifesto for World Dominance that Tom had handed out at the start of the year, with accompanying appendices and diagrams as appropriate for still developing minds.
Four out of five of his Knights had called out for the meeting with variously thin excuses, ranging from a sick familiar to an ‘appointment with a Mediwitch to improve their hairline.’
Thaddeus is the only one that had not sent a note ahead and Tom finds himself waiting at a very large and otherwise empty round table for their regularly scheduled round table evening.
He waits a quarter past the hour, his magic lashing spitefully around the room, when an owl announces its arrival with a soft hoot. He unrolls the scrap of parchment hastily bound to its foot.
Apologies, my lord. I find myself under the weather and will not be able to join the round table today.
- Thaddeus
The note erupts into a ball of flame and then drops onto the table, now a small pile of glowing cinder.
They are all flouting him. They all dare to flout him, Tom Marvolo Riddle, Lord Voldemort and Lord Slytherin: their master.
Enough is enough.
Tom finds his Knights and the bewitching temptation, the beguiling harlot, by the Black Lake. Even from a far away distance, he can see a dark speck against the sky swooping down and around. A flock of giddy boys passing around a shared broom to take turns doing barrel rolls out and over the lake.
As he draws near, the lustful siren is offered the broom by a blushing Abraxas. The dark-haired boy takes it and then kicks off into the air with a exuberant whoop.
He performs a textbook corkscrew. Three times in a row.
Tom is not impressed. He is not.
Alphard notices him first. It is not difficult to when the furious edge of Tom’s magic unfurls into the air like the pressurized front of an oncoming storm. Alphard steps behind Vance, clueless, evidently glad to use him as a meat shield.
Like a chain of dominoes, his Knights all eventually spot him, sense his radiating displeasure, and quaver with palpable dread.
“All of you,” Tom intones, voice low and edged with ice. “We are leaving. Now.”
Potter lands and dismounts the shared broom with a frustratingly casual, well-practiced motion. His gaze sweeps over the crowd of paralyzed boys and then lands on Tom. He is not afraid. In fact, Tom recognizes the brazen challenge in his eyes. He tilts his chin in reply. He does it not because he is petty but because he is commanding.
Landon turns to Harry, movements stiff. “We’ve gotta go, Harry. Really sorry about this.”
The rest of Tom’s Knights murmur with varying degrees of apology. The automatic deference to Potter makes Tom seethe.
“No, it’s alright,” Potter says, expression warm and understanding, as if he were some generous, forgiving god. “Go ahead. I’m sure everyone’s busy and has very important secret cult things to do with the Head Boy.”
“Thanks,” Abraxas says awkwardly. “We do. But again, I must emphasize, the Knights are not a cult.”
Alphard slings an arm around Potter’s shoulders, ruffling the wild rat’s nest that functions as his hair. “See you soon, Harry.”
Potter splutters, laughing, and bats Alphard away.
Something tightens sharply underneath Tom’s ribs. For once, he is startled to find that he does not have the vocabulary to describe the feeling. Only the source. The casual ease of the touch, maybe.
He puts the thought aside and wheels around.
His band of Knights trudge obediently behind him with drooped shoulders and an irritatingly unsubtle air of tragedy. When Tom glances back, Potter is a small figure at the edge of the lake. He looks almost forlorn. A lamentable maiden awaiting upon the rocks, singing a beautiful song to draw in sailors by their yearning, only to grow claws and drag them into the unfeeling deep.
Tom shakes himself and the strange image away.
It is not fair to describe Potter as a siren. Nothing about the boy’s admittedly enticing appearance necessarily inspires the sin of lust. Instead, his wiles are cherubic. When he smiles, it is pouty and playful, a promise of hidden depths. When he laughs, it is as if the sun has peeked out from behind the clouds.
Tom is even further convinced that Potter is in possession of some hidden Dark magic. The creature ability of a secret ancestor, or perhaps some manner of generational curse or disease.
No wonder his Knights had fallen so easily. Spoiled as they are, they are terribly ill-prepared for any true threat.
The round table meeting is a disaster. Tom does not regret calling his Knights back, but he does regret that he has allowed any of them a turn to speak.
His Knights have completely lost the plot by the half hour mark and the subject has turned to Potter.
The ensuing discussion grows so heated that they begin talking over one another with their petitions.
“Can we keep him, my lord? Please? He’s adorable. Harmless. Well, he put me on my arse without using his wand, but he’s harmless, really—”
“It would make seven of us in the Inner Circle, which as my lord has graciously explained in the past, would be a most fortuitous number.”
“He has the eyes of a soaked puppy in the rain, my lord. It would be cruel and heartless to abandon him to the snakes— apologies my lord, that was poor phrasing— to the lions.”
“An entire stag, my lord!”
“I have full faith in your plan, my lord, as it is flawless and will obviously succeed and reshape Britain in our lifetimes, but sometimes side quests are important for building character—”
“He’s brighter than he appears! Why, just earlier this week he pointed out an error in my essay for the Care of Magical Creatures on the Hungarian Horntail. Did you know that—”
“Have you considered, my lord, that the Knights could use a mascot for broader public appeal? Your charm is magnetic, but Harry has this look that just makes you want to trust him. I’ll confess, I think he’s a little leery of the Dark Arts, but he’ll surely come around with some convincing and, my lord, you’ve quite the silver tongue—”
Tom flips the table.
He has run out of Knights. There’s no point throwing Vance at Potter. All of them are somehow already on the wretch's side.
Tom’s hand is forced.
He must investigate this personally. It was his mistake to delegate such an important task in the first place.
Sure, Potter is pretty – with his ‘natural air of charming innocence’ as Thaddeus had so elegantly and heterosexually put it. But it is still entirely baffling and infuriating how Potter had managed to ensnare all of Tom’s Knights in a matter of weeks when it had taken Tom the better part of a year to gather them for himself. What was his secret? What was he hiding beneath that hateful veneer?
Tom intercepts the boy in a walkway near the dungeons. Potter’s clearly on his way back from the Quidditch pitch – he’s not a part of the team officially, but he’s so often flying on a broom that he’s been all but adopted. It is late enough into the night that the moon hangs swollen in the sky like a giant wheel of luminescent brie. It is also past curfew, which Potter evidently disrespects as easily as he does everything else that Tom has worked so hard to build. Introducing chaos into his painstakingly ordered life. The sheer audacity.
“Potter.”
“Ah—” the boy says, surprised. “Tom.” Like they’re familiar, even though they’ve never spoken before this moment. “You surprised me.” Stating the obvious.
Disgust roils in Tom’s stomach.
How had this managed to achieve so much with so little?
He draws his wand with a Crucio at the ready, some light coercion to ferret out the evil, villainous truth from Potter's thrice-damned pouty mouth.
The universe intervenes before he can.
A snake slithers out from underneath the bushes behind Potter.
Tom blinks, questioning his senses for the second time in his life in a scant handful of weeks because he immediately identifies it as a King Cobra: one of the most venomous snakes the world has to offer. He had not even been aware that Hogwarts grounds had any snakes as they generally confine themselves to the Forbidden Forest, mistrustful of the magic in the castle’s wards. And a King Cobra most certainly was not native to Britain.
Tom debates the merits warning Potter or asking the snake to leave. He decides that if Potter dies, it would solve his problems incredibly neatly. Serendipity.
And then the cobra wraps around Potter’s ankle.
Not a bite. Not an attack.
An attempt to crawl up Potter’s leg in a sad rendition not unlike an earthworm attempting to scrunch itself across a trouser-clad branch.
Potter glances down.
“Sir Hissalot, what are you doing here?” he asks, expression alarmed. He asks it in a sibilant series of hisses.
“Visiting!” Sir Hissalot replies brightly.
Potter sighs, a fond smile blooming on his face. He reaches down, offering his arm, and the snake slides onto it with obvious glee. “Oh, alright. You’re so bloody spoiled. I always tell you, you’re lucky Hermione isn’t here. She would be aghast to know that you were sneaking onto school grounds.”
Tom stares, jaw hanging in open-mouthed shock.
Potter is sweet-talking a snake in Parseltongue, a language that until this moment Tom had believed himself the sole remaining speaker. It is clearly not Potter's first time.
Tom examines him more closely. And this time, the scales have finally fallen from his eyes.
It had never been his Knights' fault.
The fault lay entirely with Tom for not seeing the truth.
The moon flatters Potter’s— No, the moon flatters Harry’s delicate skin and reveals the rosy flush on his cheeks, leftover from his skillful exertion on a broom, no doubt. His hair is dark, wild in the same way that his magic is, and it contrasts deliciously against the luminous candy-green of his eyes. The ghostly color of Tom’s second favorite curse.
He would really like to learn how Harry knows Parseltongue - and all the other delightful things he could do with his bouquet of hidden talents.
Perhaps they are distantly related. Closely related, even. For a Gaunt, it is not as much of a detraction as it is a nice bonus.
Tom opens his mouth to ask, and the question that slips out instead is:
“Will you go out with me?”
Harry's gorgeous eyes snap to him, and a crease forms between his brows. It is precious. Tom would like it all to himself.
“No, I’m bloody joining your—" Harry pauses. Blinks. "I'm sorry. What did you just say to me?”
“Will you go out with me?” Tom repeats, feverish, unsure how Harry could have possibly misunderstood his meaning.
And for the following hours, days, weeks, Tom is more than happy to expand on the utility of joining the Knights of Walpurgis as a valued muse, a founding member really, with all the advantages of being an early investor in the cause.
Tom is nothing if not persistent. It is one of his standout qualities, and he has no doubt in his ability to whittle Harry's questionable but undeniably endearing resistance to his courtship attempts.
Of course his future husband would play hard to get.
Thoughtful and considerate since they both know that mind games are Tom's favorite hobby.
Shortly after Yule hols, Harry finally agrees to go out with Tom. A foregone conclusion, as his Knights had assured him many times in the preceding weeks, and Tom had grown rather wand-happy as Harry had drawn their game out. Still, all good things come to those who wait. Tom can appreciate a boyfriend that would encourage him to always improve, even if the thing that he is improving is his patience. For example, Harry continues to insist upon calling the Knights of Walpurgis a cult. To which Alphard jokes that it is no longer even Tom's cult since they have all pivoted to worshipping Harry instead. As Tom is an adherent to the happy spouse, happy house philosophy, he sees no merit in protesting this.
Their first date in Hogsmeade is trailed by this same handful of Knights, doing a truly atrocious job of staying hidden.
Tom finds that he does not mind.
He is happy to provide a demonstration of the many practical benefits that come with dating Hogwarts’ most accomplished Head Boy and future ruler of Britain, possessor of a great many talents. Including his silver tongue.
As they kiss, Landon knocks over a display at Honeydukes, and Harry draws away to laugh and laugh and laugh.
"Your cult," Harry says, cheeks pink from his mirth, "is incredibly annoying."
"Not a cult," Tom replies automatically.
Harry hums, non-committal. They watch Landon jump to his feet and straighten two boxes before bolting. "They actually really like you, y'know. They respect you, obviously, but they like you, especially when you're not being a certified arse."
"And you?" Tom asks, before he can think better of it. "Do you like me?"
The corner of Harry's lip twitches. "What do you think?"
"I think yes."
"Is that your final answer? As a professional swot."
"Of course. I am a professional." Tom glances at Harry, a swell of awful, intolerably human affection fluttering in his chest. "Meanwhile, my boyfriend – who is very lucky to have me – is a professional menace."
Harry snorts. "Flatterer." He slips his hand into Tom's own. "Think anyone would pay me for that?"
"I could think of a few. Harry James Potter has quite the fanclub as it turns out."
"You hate it," Harry replies, voice teasing.
"Hardly," Tom says sincerely. "I lead it."
"Mm. That's convenient then."
"Oh?" Tom quirks a brow at Harry's impish tone. "How so?"
Harry grins, and the sun, another shameless eavesdropper, really does peek out from behind the clouds. Draws a golden halo around Tom's most precious treasure as if marking the spot.
"Because I like you too."