The Lamb
The chapel was alive with the sound of the boys’ hymn, their voices weaving through the dimly lit space, echoing off the cold stone walls. The solemn melody hung in the air, accompanied by the flickering glow of candlelight. Tom Riddle knelt with the others, his hands clasped loosely before him, his face a mask of perfect composure. The Latin words of the hymn spilled over the congregation like a ritualistic spell, though their meaning carried little weight for him.
Beside him, Orion leaned slightly closer, his posture relaxed in a way that made Tom acutely aware of the rigidity of his own spine. Orion sang the hymn softly but properly, his tone blending seamlessly with the others'. The same could not be said for the boy seated on Tom’s other side. His voice broke through the solemn harmony with a muttered stream of absurdities:
"Boiled cabbage and mutton stew... seasoned with vinegar... salted fish, too..." Tom’s jaw tightened imperceptibly. He turned his head slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse of the culprit—a boy with a mischievous glint in his eye, trying not to laugh at his own irreverence.
"Mashed potatoes," the boy continued under his breath, "and a pudding that’s burned..." Tom’s lip curled faintly, a mix of irritation and disdain flashing in his eyes. Orion, seemingly unbothered by the disruption, reached into his jacket and retrieved something. Without pausing in his singing, he handed it discreetly to Tom.
Tom glanced down, his brow furrowing as he turned the card over. It bore the image of a saint, serene and pious, staring out from its worn surface. On the back, written in sharp, hurried script, were the words: "May Abraxas Be Converted." Tom’s lips pressed into a thin line, and he shook his head faintly. Without a word, he handed the card back to Orion. Whatever jest Orion intended, Tom had no interest in playing along. Orion’s mouth quirked into a barely perceptible smirk as he tucked the card away. The hymn continued uninterrupted, but Tom’s thoughts churned. Conversion. Redemption. All meaningless drivel designed to pacify the weak.
Conversion. The word lingered in Tom’s mind like a bitter taste. Abraxas was one of those names whispered often among the halls, attached to a reputation that seemed impervious to reproach. Tom’s thoughts wandered. Conversion, he thought again, the concept scraping against his carefully constructed beliefs. To change, to surrender one’s will for the sake of absolution—that was a weakness. Power lay in mastering one’s self, in bending others to your will, not in being reshaped by them.
For Tom, there was no redemption, no conversion. Only power—and he would let no ritual, no tradition, stand in his way.
Before his mind could wander further, the heavy creak of the chapel doors broke through the solemn chant. All heads turned, the hymn trailing into an uncertain murmur as a procession entered. Boys no older than twelve stepped forward in unison, their white robes stark against the dim glow of the chapel. Their cassocks swayed with each careful step, the younger boys at the front holding censers that swung gently, releasing tendrils of fragrant smoke into the air. The rich, heady scent of incense filled the room, mingling with the faint echo of their footfalls. Behind them, two older boys followed, their hands clasped together in prayerful reverence.
Their faces were pale and serious, their movements deliberate, as if the weight of their duties bore down upon them. The congregation watched in silence, the sacred ritual drawing their attention like moths to a flame. The soft clink of the censers and the hushed shuffle of robes became the only sounds, and for a moment, even Tom found himself observing with an odd stillness. There was an undeniable sense of gravity to the procession, a reminder of the traditions and rules that governed their lives. Yet, as Tom's gaze lingered on the two older boys, he felt no reverence—only a quiet disdain for the system that sought to bind them all in its suffocating grasp.
Just then, A boy no older than twelve stepped forward, cradling a young lamb in his arms.
He was slight, his white robes fitting a touch too loosely, as though they’d been borrowed rather than tailored for him. His dark hair fell in an unruly mop over his forehead, brushing against his lashes with each movement. There was a faint flush on his cheeks, either from exertion or the weight of the lamb, and his green eyes—unmistakable even from across the room—shone with quiet determination as he carried the animal forward.
His steps were deliberate, as though the task demanded a level of reverence he didn’t yet fully understand. His small hands, though steady, gripped the lamb carefully, his fingers brushing its soft, white wool. The creature bleated faintly, its voice echoing in the otherwise silent space, drawing more attention to the boy’s presence.
Tom’s gaze fixed on him, his posture tense yet calculating. The boy was unremarkable at first glance, another faceless participant in the endless monotony of ritual. But the longer Tom watched, the more something about the boy unsettled him. It wasn’t his disheveled appearance, nor the awkward way he held the lamb as though he wasn’t quite sure what to do with it. It was the look in his eyes—sharp and aware, as though he were seeing far more than he let on.
Tom’s lips thinned, his thoughts stirring with disdain. A lamb. How fitting.
The symbolism wasn’t lost on him: innocence, sacrifice, submission. All things he loathed. The boy might have been chosen for his appearance alone, his role a deliberate ploy to reinforce the endless lessons of selflessness and devotion. It was laughable, predictable even, yet somehow, Tom couldn’t dismiss him entirely.
What was it about this child that felt... different?
Tom then leaned over to Orion and whispered. "Who is he?" But Orion merely stared at the boy, then at Tom without answering. But Tom wasn't paying that no mind, Tom’s eyes narrowed as the boy approached the altar, kneeling with careful precision as he presented the lamb to the priest. His movements were calculated yet unpracticed, suggesting a defiance against the rigid traditions forced upon him. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but Tom noticed. There was something raw about him, something untamed beneath the veneer of obedience. Tom couldn’t quite place it, but he recognized the flicker of rebellion, the refusal to fully conform.
And that intrigued him.
For a brief moment, Tom wondered if the boy’s defiance was born from the same place as his own. Did he chafe against the expectations placed upon him? Did he reject the idea of submission as thoroughly as Tom did?
Or was it merely an illusion, a glimmer of individuality that would inevitably be stamped out by the weight of tradition?
Tom’s thoughts sharpened, his intrigue quickly giving way to irritation. Whatever the boy represented, he would not be a distraction. Tom had no use for innocence, no patience for the weak. The boy would either prove himself useful or fade into insignificance like all the others. As the boy stood and retreated, the lamb left in the priest’s care, Tom’s gaze lingered on him for a moment longer before he forced himself to look away. A lamb, indeed. But even as he turned his attention back to the altar, the boy’s image remained in his mind, a quiet reminder that not everything was as it seemed.
Harry sat with the other boys, playing a guessing game hosted by their mentor and educator. As the sounds of the train moving the background lulled his thoughts but still present as a friend of his was guessing. "You'll find out" encouraged their mentor. The boy next to him then pursed his lips as he stared down at his shoes before answering. "With a hammer?" He asked looking up at the others then back at their mentor.
The others smiled as the mentor mentioned he was close. "The hammer of the scots!" The others then smiled and patted his back for guessing it right. Harry just smiled, The mentor—a charismatic, somewhat mischievous man with a keen sense of humor—had an uncanny ability to bring the boys together through lighthearted activities. For Harry, these games, while amusing on the surface, were tinted with a quiet sense of observation.
Harry’s gaze wandered over the crowded room as the boys burst into laughter, tossing out guesses in the mentor’s latest game. The man’s voice, warm and lively, carried easily over the din, urging the boys to think harder, to dig deeper into their imaginations. It was charming, in its way, how someone older could blend so seamlessly with their youthful energy, his own enthusiasm almost boyish.
But Harry's mind worked differently from the others. He didn’t just hear the words of the game or the laughter—it was as if he were peeling back layers, uncovering the subtle dynamics beneath the fun.
Why does he do this? Harry thought, his expression composed as he listened to another round of guesses. To win their favor? To keep the boys close? Or perhaps, something simpler—a way to lighten the atmosphere, to bring a sense of camaraderie to a place that could often feel suffocating under its rules and expectations. The games were a relief to many, a chance to shed the weight of chapel sermons and rigid routines. But Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that it was all a little too... crafted. He wasn’t sure whether that unease stemmed from his own guarded nature or from the mentor’s knowing smile that lingered just a second too long after each correct guess.
Still, there was a begrudging respect in Harry’s thoughts. The man knew how to read them, how to keep their attention without ever making it feel forced. Harry, in his quiet corner, watched and listened, filing away each moment. The games might have been just that to the others—games—but for Harry, they were something else entirely: another puzzle to solve, another person to study, another truth to uncover.
"Who's turn?" One of the boys asked. The mentor then pointed at Harry "yours" Harry chuckled and smiled. "That'll be tough" the others just encouraged Harry that it'll be fine and that they'll go easy on him so Harry just smiled at them for the final time before exiting their compartment. As he got out he then leaned against the window and watched as the motions on the outside blurred by the speed the train went. It was beautiful but that wasn't what Harry paid attention to at all, no.
The boy from before, he remembered. A tall pale skinned boy who seemed to be a year or two older than him was standing beside his compartment with his arms crossed.
Looking like a model or some sort. He knows, he noticed the boy looking at him intently, it sent shivers through his spine, it wouldn't hurt to take a peek now wouldn't it? So Harry did, he turned his head to the side to where the boy stood, just as he met the boys brown eyed gaze, the boy looked away, caught you. Harry thought as a small smirk made his way to his face. The boy then looked everywhere and anywhere aside from Harry's direction which amused Harry to no end.
So Harry then shook his head and proceeded to open the window of the moving train, sliding it down before poking his head out, it felt refreshing, the way the breeze pass through his skin like a gentle kiss.
The train rattled steadily along the tracks, the rhythmic clatter of wheels filling the compartment. The cool breeze rushed past him, tugging at his hair and brushing against his cheeks like a fleeting caress. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the wind carry away the heavy stillness that so often clung to him. The scent of the countryside filled his senses—fresh grass, damp earth, and faint traces of smoke from distant chimneys. It was a scent he didn’t recognize but found oddly soothing, as though it belonged to a world far removed from his own. The fields that blurred past seemed endless, the green stretching on forever under the muted sunlight.
Harry tilted his head back slightly, the sharp bite of the wind making his eyes sting, but he didn’t care. Out here, with the world speeding by and the distant horizon beckoning, there was a strange kind of freedom. For a moment, it felt like he was leaving everything behind—every expectation, every shadow of his past—lost somewhere in the wake of the train. The rush of air roared in his ears, drowning out the laughter and chatter from inside the compartment. He tightened his grip on the window frame, leaning a little further out, as if he could let the wind sweep him away entirely.
This is what I imagined it would feel like, he thought, the faintest hint of a smile ghosting across his lips. Like flying, but without the weight of anything holding you down. The countryside blurred, the colors blending together like a watercolor painting, and for the first time in what felt like ages, Harry felt himself relax. There was no pressure out here, no one looking at him, no questions or answers waiting to be given. Just the endless fields, the steady hum of the train, and the wind that seemed to promise something new.
He opened his eyes, the rush of the world snapping back into focus. Behind him, the boys in the compartment laughed and teased, their voices faint but familiar. Harry lingered a moment longer, his fingers brushing the edge of the window frame before he finally pulled himself back in, the lingering chill of the wind still clinging to him.
For a brief second, he wondered if this fleeting moment of weightlessness would stay with him. Then the train rocked slightly, pulling him back to reality.
Tom stood outside of the boys compartment -yes he knows where he sat, with his other year mates and an educator- to what Tom seems to guess playing a guessing game. Just then the compartments door slid open and the person the person he so awaited -impatiently- might I add then slid out and went over to the window, he looked pretty, yes pretty. There are no rules on how to compliment a person, a guy can still be called pretty. He leaned forward a bit, swing the boys smile made Tom smile which was not an everyday acurance, or even ever.
The boy then suddenly turned towards Tom making Tom panic, only for a moment as he turned anywhere, anywhere but the boy who was know looking directly at him no doubt, God Tom you sound like a pervert, he chastised himself. Feeling like the boy wasn't looki anymore, he then turned, only finding the boy poking his head out of the window. He looked happy. The way his hair blow over the breeze, the way his smile brightens by the second. His pale complexion, his puffy red cheeks. The boy looked like a literal angel.
The boy then suddenly jerked back inside as he rubbed his eye. Ah, a bug perhaps? Dirt? He slowly walked over to the boy, picking his handkerchief. "Hey, wait." The boy then looked up, as he rubbed his eye on the other. "Stop, let me take a look." He then slowly lifted the boys chin up towards him. "Good good." He then slowly lifted he handkerchief. "Now, Look down." Harry, ever so painstakingly looked down despite not wanting to, and just wanting to rub at his eye, complied.
"Ah, yes I see it." He then squeezed the boys cheeks down gently, God his skin was soft. He then brought his handkerchief over to the boys eye, trying to get the dirt out. "Don't move" he said. "It's the train that's moving." Tom chuckled a bit. "Am I hurting you?" He asked. " The boy just shook his head slightly, trying not too move too much. "No." Tom smiled. Aha! He then got the dirt out and lifted it up tot eh boys view. "That's a big one"
After Tom had carefully wiped the dirt from Harry's eyes, the sensation of his fingers on Harry's skin lingered in the air between them. Harry blinked rapidly, the sting from the dust fading, but something else took its place—something harder to define. Tom’s touch had been unexpectedly gentle, and for a moment, they both stood there in silence, the world around them moving on as if nothing had changed. Harry could still feel the heat from where Tom’s hand had been, the faint pulse of contact lingering like an echo against his skin.
Their eyes met again, and this time, Harry didn’t look away. Tom’s gaze was unwavering, dark and intent, as though he was studying Harry—dissecting him in a way that made Harry feel both exposed and scrutinized all at once. Harry’s breath caught in his throat, his heart skipping a beat under the weight of Tom’s stare. It was strange. The way Tom looked at him, it felt almost predatory, but there was something else too, something more complex that Harry couldn’t quite grasp. It was as if Tom wasn’t just seeing him, but searching for something, probing deeper than anyone had ever dared. The intensity was unnerving, but Harry found himself unable to pull his gaze away.
Tom’s lips barely moved when he spoke, his voice low and smooth. "You’re welcome."
Harry swallowed, the sound of his own heartbeat drowning out the noise of the train and the others around them. He nodded stiffly, trying to quell the strange flutter in his chest, but the sensation didn’t go away. He opened his mouth to say something—anything—but the words caught in his throat. Instead, all he could manage was a nod, a small, almost imperceptible movement of his head. The air between them felt thick, heavy with something unspoken.
Harry tried to push past it, to ignore the way his chest seemed to tighten with every second they stood there. But it wasn’t easy. He could still feel the weight of Tom’s gaze on him, still feel the warmth of his touch as though it had imprinted itself on his skin.
"Alright come on in!" One of Harry's friends then called out. Harry reluctantly then took a step back from Tom, offering a small smile before walking back towards the compartments. But Tom had none of that, instead, he went over the compartment the Boy just went in, finding the door still open. Ah. "Is it a man?" Came the boys voice. "No" one of them said. "A woman?" Again no. "A child." No again. Everyone then chuckled at Harry's confused and a little irritated expression.
Just then, one of the older years, Percy Weasley spoke. "Make some room." Harry turned towards the compartment door, finding the tall beautiful boy standing. Harry can't help but smile a little as he scooched over to Rons side making some space for the tall boy, Harry doesn't know his name yet so he intends to find out, he can't just keep calling the man 'Tall Boy' forever.
Tom then slid over to Harry's side, closing the door behind him. "An animal?" Came Harry's voice again. "Yes!" Everyone chorused. "No?"a boy with dirty blond hair then said beside Ron. "More or less." Tom then scanned the compartment occupants. An educator, figures. Ah, someone older, Percy was his name? Yes, so the person beside the green eyed boy must be his brother, judging by the hair. The dirty haired boy must be from the Long bottom family, yes, Tom remembers, a time where his parents said they were hosting some visitors over, he vaguely remembers what had happened throughout that day but he sure do remembers the couples faces, very similar to the boy who now seats beside the red headed boy.
"A living?" What a stupid thing to say, a cute stupid thing to say, Tom thought. "We would know." The educator then said as everyone chuckled, Tom noticed the way the green eyes boys cheeks reddens at the embarrassment for asking such stupid question, but no matter. Tom found it adorable still. "An animal.. that famous... And still alive." The green eyes boy muttered as he turned his gaze towards Tom with the most blinding smile Tom has ever seen. It made Tom smile, and his stomach churn at the thought of being the only one getting to witness it. Others has no doubt but still.
"A real animal?" Oh boy... Tom chuckled at the question as everyone said 'yes', no doubt finding it amusing, how the boy asks such questions, that no doubt will get him nowhere. "A pegasus?" Tom snorted at that. A pegasus? Really? Oh you silly boy, "that's it you've got three guess left." Harry's brow then furrowed. "But I simply asked if it was a pegasus!" Adorable.. "does it has four legs?" Alright, Now that's a start, good boy. After awhile, Harry was a bout to give up, but Tom was not having it. Harry sighed, biting his lip, and focused harder. His mind spun through images of animals, but nothing seemed to fit.
He felt the pressure building—not from the game itself, but from the subtle weight of Tom's gaze. Why did it feel as though this simple game carried more significance than it should? Suddenly, movement caught his attention. Through the thin fabric of the blindfold, Harry sensed a shift, a subtle change in the air as Tom uncrossed his arms and moved his hand.
"Don’t overthink it." Tom's smooth voice cut through the quiet.
The hint was in the tone, Harry realized, but before he could process it further, he felt the faintest brush of something light in front of him. He tugged the blindfold down slightly, just enough to peek. Between Tom’s fingers was a pristine white handkerchief, folded neatly and resting casually in his lap.
Harry’s breath hitched.
The handkerchief wasn’t just any scrap of cloth—the handkerchief now carried a subtle reminder of the moment Harry had carried the lamb in the procession.
And it clicked.
"The lamb I carried yesterday!" Harry blurted, his voice carrying a mix of relief and excitement. Laughter erupted from the group, but Harry wasn’t paying attention to them. His gaze locked briefly on Tom, who was now leaning forward, a faint smirk gracing his lips.
"Very good," Tom murmured, his voice low, almost as though the compliment wasn’t meant for the others to hear. Harry felt heat rise to his face, but he quickly masked it with a grin. Yet, even as the game moved on and the chatter of the others filled the compartment, his thoughts lingered on the moment. On the handkerchief. On Tom. What was it about this boy that made every small gesture feel so significant?
"You know Harry?"
Ah, so Harry's his name. "Hm, yes, and you?" Percy arched a brow at the sudden question but let it slip, for now. "A friend of my brothers." Percy then pointed towards Ron who was talking to the Longbottom boy. "Is that so.." Tom drawled. Percy rolled his eyes as he looked over at Harry with a friendly yet gentle smile. "This is Harry," he pointed towards Harry. "And this is the Son of Thomas Riddle Sr." He pointed at Tom. "Who's always on top and will soon be a member of the academy." Percy announced, ahh Harry then thought. Tom, a common yet nice name.
Harry then turned to Tom with a mischievous smirks, Tom merely raised a brow at that but returned his smirk, holding out his hand as Harry shook it. "Nice to meet you Tom." Tom chuckled, still gripping Harry's soft hands. "And I you my dear Harry." Tom purred, making Harry blush a bit, Percy seemingly oblivious to the while thing kept talking and taking that Harry merely tunes him out. It was going to be a long ride.