Establish
The silence that followed his words was deafening. Tom could practically hear the gears turning in their feeble little minds, struggling to reconcile the image they had crafted of him with this new, horrifying truth.
Half-blood.
It was almost tragic, really. The way their expressions twisted—Rabastan’s in sheer outrage, Malfoy’s in open disbelief, and the others? They looked as if they had just been personally betrayed by Salazar Slytherin himself. The sheer offense radiating from the gathered Slytherins was so potent, Tom had to fight the urge to smirk.
Oh, this was fun.
"You’re lying," Rabastan spat, his face an alarming shade of red. "That’s impossible. There’s no way—"
"No way what?" Tom interrupted smoothly, arching a brow. "No way that someone of less than pure blood could outclass you? That someone who, by your own definitions, should be beneath you, could stand above you? That a half-blood could be the best Slytherin has to offer?" He tilted his head, watching as Rabastan’s rage deepened, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles went white.
A cruel part of him wanted to push further. Break him.
Rabastan took a furious step forward, face contorted with hatred. "You—you filthy half-blood! You dare call yourself one of us?! The Dark Lord would never—"
The moment he opened his mouth again, Tom did not even need to flick his wand. Rabastan went flying, crashing into the nearest wall with a force that rattled the portraits. The Slytherins gasped, taking hurried steps back, but Tom didn’t even bat an eye.
He stepped forward, slow and deliberate, watching as Rabastan struggled to his feet, his fury mounting with every second. The fool clearly wanted to launch himself at Tom, but self-preservation held him back. Barely.
"You think your little slurs affect me?" Tom asked, voice eerily calm. "Do you believe words alone are enough to shake me? If so, you are even dumber than I thought."
Rabastan trembled with rage, but before he could say anything else, Harry collapsed.
Straight onto the floor.
And he was laughing.
Not just a chuckle, not even a poorly concealed snicker, but full, uncontrollable laughter that echoed down the hall. The Gryffindors were stunned into silence, watching Harry as if he had lost his mind. Even the Slytherins, who had been ready to hurl more insults, were momentarily caught off guard.
Tom narrowed his eyes, watching as Harry gasped for air, one hand clutching his stomach. "Oh, Merlin," Harry wheezed. "That—that was the funniest thing I’ve ever heard. The Dark Lord would never accept a half-blood, you say? Oh, that’s rich. That’s—" He broke off into another fit of laughter, nearly doubling over.
Tom sighed. He already knew what Harry found so amusing. He knew why Harry was currently making a complete spectacle of himself in the middle of the corridor, but that did not make it any less irritating. He could practically feel the eyes of everyone around them flicking between the two of them, uncertain, wary.
Rabastan looked livid. "What the hell is so funny?!"
Harry just laughed harder, shaking his head as if he couldn’t believe his own luck. "Nothing, nothing," he gasped, wiping at his eyes. "Just—please, continue! You were saying something about how the Dark Lord totally wouldn’t accept someone like me? I’d love to hear more about that."
Rabastan looked completely lost, torn between continuing his tirade and trying to comprehend what, exactly, had caused Harry to descend into madness.
Tom had seen enough.
With a roll of his eyes, he reached down, grasping Harry’s arm in a firm grip. "Alright, that’s enough," he muttered, hauling him to his feet. "Let’s go before you embarrass yourself any further."
Harry, still grinning, barely resisted as Tom dragged him away, though he did cast one last glance over his shoulder at the still-fuming Rabastan. "I’m half-blood too, by the way!" he called cheerfully. "Might want to start re-evaluating your world view, Lestrange!"
Tom groaned. "Merlin help me."
Tom pulled Harry into a nearby alleyway, shoving him against the cool stone wall as he crossed his arms. "Are you finished?" he asked dryly.
Harry was still wheezing, doubled over with his hands on his knees. He tried to catch his breath but every time he looked up, the memory of Rabastan’s furious expression sent him into another fit of laughter.
"Oh, come on, Tom," Harry managed between gasps. "You have to admit—that was hilarious."
Tom most certainly did not have to admit anything. He merely stared, unimpressed, waiting for Harry to recover from his episode of absolute childishness.
After a minute, Harry finally straightened, wiping at his eyes. "Okay, okay, I’m done," he said, though his lips still twitched with the remnants of amusement.
Tom sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You were late to breakfast."
Harry blinked at the sudden shift in conversation before shrugging. "Things were tense with Sirius," he admitted. "But it’s fine now. We talked. He apologized."
Something about those words unsettled Tom. He could connect the dots. It most likely had to be his connection to Harry that caused a rift with Sirius. He knew logically that allowing Sirius to remain a volatile enemy was not ideal, and that him having helped Sirius worked in favour, but that didn’t mean he had to be pleased that his efforts had succeeded.
He had been the one to ensure Sirius did not alienate Harry completely. He had fixed things.
And now Sirius reaped the rewards.
Tom’s fingers twitched at his sides, but outwardly, he remained composed. He wasn’t sure if Harry noticed the brief flicker of something in his expression, but if he did, he didn’t comment on it.
Instead, Harry stretched his arms over his head. "So, what now?"
Tom exhaled sharply, pushing aside his irritation. "You’re going to see McGonagall," he stated. "And I Slughorn."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Now?"
Tom merely smirked. "Oh, don’t look so surprised. We agreed to do it either way."
Harry shook his head. "Alright, then. Let’s get this over with."
----
James had to hand it to Thomas —if nothing else, the guy knew how to put on a show.
The Gryffindors still gathered in the corridor certainly seemed to think so. Most of them were smirking openly, some exchanging amused glances, while others kept flicking looks toward the stunned Slytherins, who were seething. Lestrange was now standing rigidly - looking seconds away from collapsing - where he’d been thrown, like he was debating whether launching himself at Thomas would be worth the embarrassment of being humiliated twice in one morning.
James was still replaying the scene in his head, trying not to grin. Thomas had been closed of at first, but after spending most of the summer with him and Harrison, he’d warmed up to him to quickly. Tom was intelligent, probably one of the smartest people James had ever met, and even if he was a little too smug for his own good sometimes, he was great and an awesome friend.
And now? Watching him effortlessly put Lestrange in his place?
Yeah, James was finding it pretty damn hard not to be impressed.
What made it even better was that James had already known Thomas was a half-blood. He’d known for months. It had never really mattered to him—Thomas was Thomas—but clearly, the Slytherins were having a hard time swallowing the fact that one of their own wasn’t the pureblood they’d assumed.
Across the hallway, Sirius had his arms crossed, watching the scene with something close to satisfaction.
James raised an eyebrow. "You’re awfully quiet."
Sirius huffed out a laugh. "What is there to say? That was brilliant."
James grinned. "So, Avery’s brilliant now?"
Sirius rolled his eyes. "Let’s not get carried away. But, I mean..." He gestured vaguely toward Lestrange, who still looked like he wanted to murder someone. "That was priceless."
James chuckled. "Unbelievable. Just an hour ago, you were convinced he was plotting our demise, and now you’re singing his praises?"
Sirius scowled. "Alright, first of all, I never said he was plotting our demise. I just said I didn’t trust him."
"Really. Cause from what I remember - "
Sirius waved a hand. "Semantics."
James shook his head in disbelief, but before he could say anything else, Lily sighed from beside him. "Alright, we really need to go before a professor comes looking for answers," she said, glancing around nervously.
"She’s right," Remus added. "We’re standing at the scene of what could technically be considered an attack."
Marlene snorted. "What, on Lestrange’s ego?"
Mary grinned. "That definitely took the most damage."
Rina smirked. "We should get out of here, though. If a professor does come, we’ll all be dragged into it."
There was a general murmur of agreement as they started moving away from the hallway. But James couldn’t help but glance back at the Slytherins, particularly Rabastan, and frown. "Think Avery’s in trouble?"
Sirius scoffed. "Not a chance."
James gave him a look. "You sure about that? We’re talking about Lestrange here."
"Exactly," Sirius said. "Rabastan isn’t going to go crying to a professor about this."
Lily frowned. "And why not?"
Sirius smirked. "Because then he’d have to admit that a half-blood completely humiliated him."
There was a brief pause as that thought settled over them. And then, one by one, they started grinning.
"Oh, that’s true," Mary said, laughing. "There’s no way he’s going to want that getting around."
"And it will get around," Marlene added gleefully. "So many saw it happen! And I'm defs spreading the drama to Alice who will tell Frank and so on."
"Exactly," Sirius said smugly. "Avery’s in the clear. Lestrange won’t breathe a word about this."
James shook his head in amusement. "Well, that works out nicely, then."
Lily still didn’t look particularly happy, but even she had to acknowledge the logic in that. "Alright, fine. But let’s still get moving before we push our luck."
With that, the group finally made their way down the corridor, some still chuckling to themselves, others shaking their heads in disbelief.
James cast one last glance over his shoulder at the Slytherins, who were now glaring at their retreating backs. But seemed to have enough common sense to not attack.
Yeah. This was definitely going to be a story people would be talking about for weeks.
---
Harry had never been particularly nervous around Professor McGonagall.
Well, his McGonagall.
The one who had always been stern but fair, who had fought for him even when he hadn’t realized it, who had been a quiet, unwavering presence throughout all the chaos of his life. The woman who had defended him, protected him, and in the end, had stood beside him in the battle that had taken everything.
But this McGonagall?
She wasn’t his at all.
She didn’t know him.
The thought twisted uncomfortably in his chest as he made his way toward her office, his footsteps echoing against the stone floors. He had spent so much of his life viewing McGonagall as a pillar of stability that seeing her now, younger, without the weight of the war in her sharp gaze, felt wrong. It was like stepping into a world that almost looked like his but had all the details skewed slightly off.
It was stupid, really. He had already accepted that nothing in this time was going to be the same. His parents were alive but didn’t know him, Sirius and Remus were teenagers who had no idea what their futures held, Dumbledore was still the enigmatic, untouchable figure rather than the old man who had guided him toward an impossible fate.
And now McGonagall.
The woman who had once fought to keep him on the Quidditch team, who had called him into her office after Sirius’ death and quietly offered her condolences, who had trusted him when the entire world seemed not to—she wasn’t here. Not really.
He exhaled slowly as he reached the door. Hesitating for only a moment, he knocked.
“Enter,” came the familiar voice from within.
Swallowing the lump in his throat, Harry stepped inside.
McGonagall was seated behind her desk, spectacles perched on her nose as she glanced up from a stack of neatly arranged parchments. She looked the same, but not the same. Her expression wasn’t quite as lined with stress, her eyes not quite as tired.
“Mr. Evans,” she greeted, setting her quill down. “Come in and take a seat.”
Harry nodded and sat, trying to shake off the strange feeling curling around his ribs.
“I assume you are here to discuss your NEWT-level courses?” McGonagall prompted, fixing him with the same assessing stare he had seen a hundred times before.
Harry shifted slightly in his seat. “Yeah. I, er… wasn’t sure which ones I should take.”
McGonagall gave a small nod. “Have you given any thought to potential career paths?”
Harry opened his mouth, then hesitated. He hadn’t given it much thought—he’d spent so long with the singular goal of defeating Voldemort that he’d never really planned for anything after. And in this time, he didn’t have that goal.
For the first time in his life, he could choose.
His mind flickered back to the DA. To standing in the Room of Requirement, helping others fight, teaching spells, seeing the way students lit up when they finally mastered something new. That had been… good. One of the only things that had felt good, even in the middle of everything.
“I think…” He took a breath. “I think I’d like to be a teacher.”
McGonagall actually blinked at him, clearly not expecting that answer.
“A teacher?” she repeated, studying him carefully.
Harry nodded, feeling a little self-conscious under her scrutiny. “Yeah. I—I don’t know. I like the idea of it. I’ve done a bit of tutoring before, and I think I was alright at it.”
McGonagall was quiet for a moment, considering. Then, to his surprise, her lips twitched slightly. “That is… unexpected.”
Harry let out a small, nervous laugh. “Unexpected bad?”
“Not at all,” McGonagall said, and though her expression remained serious, there was something warmer in her gaze now. “It is simply not the answer I am accustomed to hearing from students your age. But teaching is a noble profession.”
Harry felt some of the tension ease from his shoulders.
“Do you have a subject in mind?” McGonagall asked, her quill poised to make notes on his file.
He considered it. “Charms or Defense Against the Dark Arts.”
McGonagall nodded approvingly. “Both solid choices. If you wish to teach Defense or Charms, you will, of course, need exceptional marks in both subjects.”
Harry nodded. That wouldn’t be a problem.
McGonagall continued, “For that, I would recommend taking Charms and Defense Against the Dark Arts naturally, Transfiguration would also do well with both subjects and at least one additional subject of course this is not mandatory and most students only go forth with three however considering your OWL results and track record I am quite confident you can handle a forth. I would advise Potions, Herbology, or Care of Magical Creatures they would be beneficial, depending on what direction you wish to take your studies.”
Harry grimaced at the mention of Potions. He’d hated it under Snape, but Slughorn had been better.
“I think I’ll go with Potions,” he said hesitantly.
McGonagall nodded, making a note. “Very well. That should give you a strong foundation for your future studies.”
Harry shifted, glancing at her again. This felt… normal. Talking about school, thinking about a future. It was something he never really got to do in his own time.
Maybe he could get used to it.
McGonagall watched him for a long moment before finally speaking again, her voice quieter. “It is good to see a student considering their future so seriously.”
Harry swallowed, nodding. “Yeah. Thanks, Professor.”
Her lips pressed together briefly, then she looked down at his file again. “I will inform the necessary professors of your selections. Classes will be starting officially from tomorrow so take the rest of the day to settle in properly. If you find yourself struggling or needing guidance, my door is always open.”
Something in his chest twisted, but he forced a small smile. “I appreciate that.”
McGonagall gave a firm nod, and with that, their meeting was concluded.
As Harry stepped out of the office, he exhaled slowly.
That had gone really well actually and he couldn't help the giddiness he felt as he went to find Tom to tell him all about it.
----
Tom had been expecting some level of scrutiny, but as he stepped into Slughorn’s office, he was met with something far heavier.
Slughorn’s usual joviality was absent. Instead, he was leaning back in his chair, studying Tom with an expression that was sharp and assessing. The warm, bumbling professor most students saw was nowhere to be found.
Tom recognized this Slughorn. The one who had been a master at navigating power, who had built connections with the influential and the brilliant, who had once been so blinded by ambition that he had nurtured a monster without realizing it.
Tom gave him a polite, pleasant smile. “Professor Slughorn. Thank you for meeting with me.”
Slughorn didn’t return the smile. His gaze swept over Tom’s face again, searching, comparing. “Ah,” he said at last, voice slow. “Yes, Mr. Avery. I’ve been meaning to have a word with you.”
Tom tilted his head, keeping his expression open and unguarded. “Oh?”
Slughorn didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he folded his hands atop his desk. “I would rather not fumble around. You have a rather striking resemblance to a former student of mine.”
There it was.
Tom blinked, allowing his brow to furrow slightly, like he was confused but concerned. “I’ve been told that before, well not the student part but the resemblance” he admitted quietly.
Slughorn’s expression flickered. “Have you now?”
Tom hesitated, then exhaled softly. “Yes. People… react strangely to me sometimes. It tends to be elders. It was ..hard in London when I was younger a main reason my parents chose to move unfortunately.” He lowered his gaze, as if embarrassed. “I know who I look like. I don’t know much about him, just that—” He broke off, frowning. “Just that people don’t seem to like the reminder.”
He let his fingers twitch against his knee, just enough to sell the nervousness. “I don’t— I mean, I don’t want to make people uncomfortable. I can’t change the way I look.”
Slughorn sat up slightly, his expression shifting.
Tom bit the inside of his cheek and carefully injected just the right amount of unease into his voice. “I just… I don’t want to be judged for something I can’t control.”
Slughorn completely softened.
“No, no, my boy, of course not,” he said, shaking his head. “That wouldn’t be fair at all.”
Tom stayed quiet, eyes downcast, letting the moment stretch just enough for Slughorn’s guilt to take root.
Sure enough, the man cleared his throat, his tone gentler now. “I must admit, it startled me at first. You do bear a resemblance, and your name is rather familiar as well. However the name Avery.”
Tom offered him a small, hesitant smile. “My mother’s side, sir. My Father is a muggle born he thought it best I take her name so there is less prejudice towards me. Especially after his own unsavoury experiences. ”
Tom took a breath, gathering his thoughts before speaking again, his voice steady. “I’m not sure if you remember my father, Professor. Ethan Gregory. He was in Ravenclaw.”
Slughorn’s eyes narrowed for a moment, a spark of recognition crossing his face as he processed the name. “Gregory, you say? I do recall a boy by that name. Ravenclaw, indeed. Quite the clever one, your father. A little… well, reserved, perhaps, but sharp. It’s a shame, really. He left Hogwarts early, didn’t he?”
Tom’s lips pressed together in a thin smile. “Yes, he did. Left after only a few years. He didn’t really explain why. He was always quite distant when it came to his time at school. Said it wasn’t worth remembering.”
Slughorn nodded sympathetically, clearly not thinking too much of it. “I understand. Sometimes, the less said about it, the better. I do recall, however, that there were… complications. Some prejudice, if I’m not mistaken?” His voice lowered slightly, as though speaking more softly in respect for Tom’s apparent discomfort. “A Muggle-born in Ravenclaw… The times weren’t kind.”
Tom clenched his jaw, knowing all too well what those "complications" meant. Ethan Gregory his 'father' had been bullied relentlessly for being a Muggle-born, an oddity in a house that valued wit and intelligence but did not unfortunately see beyond blood status at the time. Ethan Gregory had left, as the records told it, to escape the constant torment. Deciding to pose as a muggle and build a life as one. However life had not been kind to the man for he died some time after. Completely forgotten in history.
But that wasn’t what the records said. No, what was recorded, what people would believe, was the convenient lie. That after leaving Ethan Gregory had home schooled and soon fallen in love with a polish witch. Isabella Avery - and they had later had a child, Thomas Avery. And Tom… Tom had made sure that lie would persist.
Slughorn looked at him closely, his expression softening. “It’s been years now, hasn’t it, I was completely unaware of what happened to Ethan but it is good to know he did well for himself. Though I’m sorry for your loss. I didn’t know he had passed. We all lose track of each other, I suppose. Last I heard, he'd disappeared from the community entirely.”
Tom's eyes flickered for a moment. "It’s alright. It’s been a while now. I’m not here to talk about him. I’m here for me.”
Slughorn nodded, clearly not picking up on the deeper layers of Tom’s words. “Of course. And you, my boy, are destined for great things. I can see it already.”
Tom’s mind drifted as Slughorn continued to praise him, but his thoughts were far away now. The truth of his past lingered like a shadow in the back of his mind. But it was Harry that occupied most of his attention now. Harry, with the name Evans. His fathers name as most presumed.
But Tom knew the truth. Harry’s story was just as fake as his own naturally. The story of his parents being a Muggle and a Pureblood from Poland was a fabrication, carefully constructed, just like Tom’s own. Tom had done his research. Maybe it was his own need for control however he ensured there were no inaccuracies in either of there stories that everything was crafted perfectly. Harry’s parents as the records showed had once been close friends with his own, his family Polish-born, both families moving to the UK for a better life. When things got worse for Half-bloods in the UK, both families had moved to Poland. But what the world didn’t know was how Harry’s story had been altered, how his name had been changed, just as Tom’s had.
The only difference was, Harry didn’t know how carefully his identity had been crafted. How much research Tom did to ensure Harry did not come from nowhere. Though granted Harry's identity had been easier to craft. Both his parents polish born and bred. Moved to the UK when young yet moved back early on. His own had been more challenging to make yet he needed ties to Hogwarts to dispel suspicion of possible connections that could be made.
Michael had been a tremendous help in that regard not that he would ever let the man know. However crafting perfect muggle records and history had let them slip in seamlessly and due to the war explaining there missing magical records and using there muggle records in accordance allowed there identities to be fully registered and established nicely.
Though it did make Tom question how easy it had been. Especially with the find of Ethan Gregory who seemed far too.. convenient. And the questions that Michael had faced upon the name Tom riddle well that was also a concern. Especially considering Michael was a muggle so those who he had been in contact with the man should supposedly be muggle.
Tom’s mind sharpened as Slughorn’s voice broke through his thoughts. “You have such potential, Tom. Your father would have been proud.”
But Tom wasn’t thinking about his 'father'. He was thinking about how much of his own life, and Harry’s, had been constructed for a reason. They both knew the truth of their pasts, but only they knew. The rest of the world would never understand.
Tom let out a slow breath, voice quiet but sincere. “I just… I want to do well here.”
Slughorn’s expression was warm and open. There it is.
“My dear boy,” Slughorn said, his usual charisma returning, “I believe you will do exceedingly well here. You have the air of someone very talented.”
Tom gave him a sheepish look. “I’d like to think so, sir.”
Slughorn beamed.
The tension in the room had almost completely dissipated now. Tom could tell Slughorn had already moving past his initial wariness, slotting him into a different box—one of potential, not of danger.
Slughorn finally gestured for him to sit, and Tom obeyed, his posture relaxed but attentive.
“Now then,” Slughorn said, “I imagine you’re here to discuss your NEWT subjects?”
“Yes, sir,” Tom said smoothly. “I’d like to take six.”
Slughorn raised his brows. “Six? Ambitious.”
“I can handle it,” Tom assured him. “I’d like to take Potions, Charms, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Transfiguration, Arithmancy, and Ancient Runes.”
Slughorn gave an approving nod. “Fine subjects. Though you’ll be quite busy.”
“I don’t mind,” Tom said. “I like to keep myself occupied.”
Slughorn chuckled. “A good trait to have.”
There was a brief pause, and then Slughorn leaned forward slightly. “Tell me, Mr. Avery, have you ever heard of the Slug Club?”
Tom blinked, then tilted his head as if considering. “I think I might have heard it mentioned once or twice, sir.”
Slughorn chuckled. “Ah, well, it’s a little gathering of mine—just a group of students I like to keep an eye on. Bright minds, promising talent. A fine young man like yourself would fit right in.”
Tom blinked again, widening his eyes just slightly, letting them shine with something like hope. “You’d really have me, sir?”
Slughorn ate it up.
“Of course, my dear boy,” he said, grinning widely. “It would be my honour.”
Tom ducked his head, just enough to look touched. “Thank you, Professor. That really means a lot to me.”
Slughorn looked at him with something close to pity, and Tom could practically see what the man was thinking.
A second chance.
A student who looked like a past mistake, but who could be shaped into something better.
Tom had been in the room for less than twenty minutes, and he had already turned one of Hogwarts’ most well-connected professors into an asset.
This was almost too easy.
And as he exited the room later, he could not suppress the slight curve of his lips at the thought of recounting everything to Harry.