Chapter 5
Notes: Hello! So exams finished, I am still busy, since our Christmast party is coming up this Saturday, so update will be a bit slow, and I am very grateful for the positive comments you have left, and I am grateful aswell that you took your time in reading my fic. I hope you like this chapter, it's not much, and yes I'm cramming this up again. We're going to the city mall to buy my Christmast present and among other things. But please do tell me what you think, I will take that to consideration. Anyway, so the next week. It will be our Christmast break so i will have a lot of time writing this fic, don't worry!
That is all, enjoy reading!
The faint hum of voices filled the chapel as the congregation knelt on the polished wooden kneelers, their heads bowed in reverence. The soft glow of candlelight reflected off the stained glass windows, casting fragmented hues of red and gold across the stone walls. Tom Riddle, seated beside Orion, appeared calm and composed, though his mind was far from the piety surrounding him.
He turned his head slightly, his gaze drifting over his shoulder to the line forming at the altar. At the far end, he caught sight of Harry. The boy stood out even in the sea of gray suits, his attire pristine—a sharp gray suit paired with a black necktie that contrasted against the crisp white of his shirt. His dark hair, slightly tousled, framed his face, which held an expression of quiet resolve, his every movement graceful and deliberate.
Tom's sharp eyes followed the subtle shifts in Harry’s posture, the way he adjusted his cuffs as if preparing for an unseen stage. There was something effortlessly captivating about him, an air of mystery wrapped in his measured poise. For a moment, Tom’s attention lingered, his gaze narrowing ever so slightly as he studied Harry with a mixture of curiosity and something deeper, something he could not—or would not—name.
Orion rose to his feet, and the rest of the boys followed in unison, forming a line to approach the altar. Tom hesitated, his gaze flickering between Orion and Harry. As Harry neared the altar, Tom stood and fell into line, purposefully positioning himself directly behind him.
The procession moved slowly, each boy stepping forward to receive the sacramental host from the priest. As they knelt at the altar, their heads bowed in humility, the chapel fell into a serene silence. When Harry reached the kneeling bench—its soft cushion indented from years of prayers whispered into its surface—he lowered himself gracefully, his hands clasped before him.
Orion made to kneel beside Harry, but Tom’s calculated stride cut him off. Without a word, Tom slipped into the space next to Harry, leaving Orion to hesitate before retreating further down the line. Orion’s confused expression barely registered with Tom, whose focus was fixed elsewhere.
Harry glanced to his side, sensing the presence beside him, and his green eyes met Tom’s gray ones. For a moment, time seemed to slow. The distance between them—both physical and metaphorical—seemed to contract, and Harry felt the faintest flicker of something unspoken in Tom’s gaze. It wasn’t warmth or familiarity, but rather an intensity, a silent challenge perhaps, or an observation too keen to be entirely comfortable.
The priest approached, murmuring the sacred rites as he presented the communion wafer to each boy in turn. When it was Harry’s turn, he tilted his head slightly, his lips parting to receive the host. Tom watched, his gaze unwavering, his own turn approaching with a deliberate inevitability.
As the priest moved to him, Tom knelt lower, bowing his head just enough to mimic reverence. His movements were smooth, almost calculated, as he received the host. But his thoughts remained sharp, detached from the rituals unfolding around him.
The line moved on, the boys returning to their places with heads bowed. As Tom returned to his seat, his mind was already calculating, dissecting the moments he’d stolen. It wasn’t worship that filled his heart in this sacred space—it was strategy, a quiet, insidious game he had already begun to play.
The shuffling of feet echoed softly through the chapel as the boys began to return to their seats. The solemn atmosphere pressed heavily, the scent of wax and incense thick in the air. Harry moved without hesitation, weaving his way towards one of the pews near the far back. His steps were quiet, unhurried, yet there was a quiet confidence in his movements, an air of detachment that intrigued Tom more than it should have.
Tom lingered near the line, his steps faltering as he watched Harry’s retreating form. The way Harry carried himself—it was graceful yet unobtrusive, as if he belonged in every room yet avoided the need to command it. There was something inherently infuriating about that kind of ease. Tom felt the faintest pull in his chest, a strange magnetism that made him consider, just for a moment, following Harry to where he now sat.
His eyes flicked to the pews near the back. Harry settled into a seat, his posture straight, his hands folding in front of him. There was a sense of quiet resolve in the way he composed himself, as if he wasn’t just a part of this ritual but something entirely apart from it—existing in his own space despite the shared solemnity.
Tom felt the weight of indecision settle over him. Would it seem strange if he moved closer? He dismissed the thought quickly, hating himself for even considering it. What did it matter where Harry sat or how he looked doing it? He had no reason to dwell on someone like Harry Potter.
And yet, even as he returned to his original seat beside Orion, Tom’s gaze wandered. His movements were deliberate, calm, but his eyes betrayed him as they sought Harry out once more. Across the rows of kneeling boys, his focus landed on Harry again, his figure small in the distance yet commanding Tom’s attention entirely.
Harry sat still, his head slightly bowed, his hands clasped in what appeared to be prayer. From afar, he seemed contemplative, though Tom couldn’t help but imagine there was something playful behind his outward solemnity. It was the way Harry turned his hands slightly, almost imperceptibly, as though he was adjusting his grip. But no—there was more to the motion. It was deliberate. Calculated.
Then it happened. Harry tilted his head, and his eyes—those unmistakable green eyes—lifted and met Tom’s across the chapel. A small, knowing smile played at his lips, faint yet unmistakable. It wasn’t brazen, nor was it mocking. It was subtle, enough to make it clear he had caught Tom staring, but not enough to draw attention to himself.
Tom froze. His mind, so often sharp and calculating, felt oddly blank. That smile—it wasn’t meant to be a challenge, was it? It wasn’t an invitation. And yet, it made something twist inside him, a quiet unease that he couldn’t name.
He told himself to look away, to return Harry’s smile with the cold indifference he had perfected. But his body betrayed him, his lips curving upward ever so slightly in response. It was barely a smile, more of an acknowledgment, but it was there nonetheless.
Harry noticed, of course. Tom could see it in the faint amusement that deepened the corners of his lips. It was as though Harry had won some unspoken game, one that Tom hadn’t realized he was playing.
What are you smiling for? Tom thought bitterly, the smile slipping from his face as quickly as it had appeared. He hated the way Harry had managed to disarm him, even for a moment. It was infuriating.
Beside him, Orion took notice. Tom felt the nudge of his elbow before he heard the soft, exasperated snort. Orion’s sharp eyes darted between Tom and Harry before he leaned in, his voice low enough not to disrupt the heavy silence of the chapel.
“Watch out,” Orion muttered, his tone carrying a hint of mockery but also genuine warning.
Tom straightened, his jaw tightening as he schooled his features back into neutrality. Watch out. The words lingered like an unspoken truth, one that Tom didn’t fully understand but couldn’t ignore.
Harry, on the other hand, seemed utterly unbothered. His hands remained clasped, his body still, but his head tilted just slightly, as if he were looking down in thought. Then, without breaking the quiet rhythm of the chapel, his gaze flickered back toward Tom.
A small smile played on Harry’s lips again, but this time, it felt softer. Less amused, more… understanding. And yet, it still carried that infuriating air of ease, as if he had already seen through Tom and found whatever was there amusing.
Tom inhaled deeply, his fingers curling against the wood of the pew as he forced himself to look away. He stared straight ahead, the stern face of the priest coming into view as though it could shield him from the unwanted thoughts bubbling in his mind.
What was it about Harry Potter that made him feel so… unsettled? Tom couldn’t place it. But as the mass continued and the boys around him knelt in prayer, his mind refused to quiet. Harry’s small, secretive smile lingered in his thoughts like a whisper he couldn’t escape.
The morning sunlight streamed through the tall windows of the dining hall, casting long, golden streaks over the rows of tables. The sound of clinking cutlery and soft murmurs filled the air as boys of all ages sat enjoying their breakfast. Up above, on the small balcony used for announcements, Barty Crouch stood, reading aloud from a heavy book—likely the day's passage from scripture or a moral lesson.
Tom Riddle barely paid attention. His thoughts wandered elsewhere, his fork idly pushing the eggs around his plate. The words Barty droned on about were lost on him, though he supposed they were meant to inspire some form of piety. Not that Tom particularly cared for such things.
Suddenly, a sharp clang echoed through the hall. All heads turned as Albus Dumbledore, the headmaster, stood at his place at the head table. Beside him, a small silver bell rested on the table, its chime silencing the room instantly.
Snape, who had been pacing between the tables like a specter, stopped mid-step. His dark robes billowed slightly as he turned sharply toward Dumbledore, his ever-present sneer etched deeply onto his face.
“Before we pass the imitation,” Dumbledore began, his voice measured yet slightly strained. He paused, his piercing blue eyes sweeping over the sea of boys. His lips curved into a tight, forced smile. “I have some pleasant news.”
Tom felt the weight of Dumbledore’s gaze settle on him, and for a moment, he almost rolled his eyes. Of course. He knew exactly what was coming. A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, and he straightened slightly in his seat, feigning surprise for the benefit of those around him.
“Your peer, Tom Marvolo Riddle, in the 2nd form, has been admitted to the Academy,” Dumbledore announced, his voice carrying across the hall. “For the excellence of the compositions he has handed in.”
A murmur rippled through the hall, a mixture of curiosity and admiration. Dumbledore raised a hand, gesturing toward Tom. “Tom Marvolo Riddle.”
As Tom rose to his feet, a smattering of applause broke out, polite and restrained. Orion, seated beside him, clapped his back firmly, offering a murmured, “Well done, Tom.” Others joined in, some with genuine smiles, others with begrudging respect.
But Tom’s focus wasn’t on them. His sharp eyes scanned the hall, ignoring the congratulations and murmurs around him. Then he saw him—Harry Potter, standing at the far end of the hall.
Unlike the others, Harry’s enthusiasm was unrestrained. His beaming smile lit up his entire face, his hands coming together in a thunderous clap that stood out among the more reserved applause. There was no mockery, no hint of envy—only genuine pride and joy for Tom’s accomplishment.
Tom felt the heat rise to his face, a faint blush creeping across his sharp cheekbones. He hated how he couldn’t control it, hated the way his chest tightened at the sight of Harry’s happiness. It was ridiculous, how a single smile could disarm him like this.
Harry’s green eyes met Tom’s, and for a moment, the room seemed to shrink around them. The applause faded into the background, the faces of the other boys blurred. There was only Harry—smiling, clapping, radiating an effortless warmth that made something twist inside Tom’s chest.
Harry, on the other hand, felt his own cheeks flush as Tom’s intense gaze locked onto him. He faltered slightly, his clapping slowing, but he didn’t look away. A sense of pride bubbled within him, not just for Tom’s achievement but for the small connection they seemed to share in that moment.
Tom gave the faintest nod, his smirk softening into something almost genuine, though he quickly masked it with his usual air of confidence. He sat back down, ignoring Orion’s teasing glance and the scattered remarks of congratulations from others.
But even as the meal continued, his mind remained on Harry’s smile, and he found himself stealing glances across the hall, wondering what it was about Harry that made him feel so utterly off balance.