Beneath the Surface
“Alright, Tom, the cameras are rolling! You can start whenever you’re ready!”
An elderly man sat in his wheelchair, his bones frail and his skin as thin as parchment, the intricate web of blue veins prominently visible against the pallor of his age. He offered a faint smile at the lens pointed toward him, letting out a wistful sigh.
“Now, where to begin?” he mused, more to himself than to the camera crew before him.
“I suppose I’ll start with the day I can never forget—1951.”
The nights at Hogwarts always felt cold, but Tom supposed it was far better than the cramped beds he shared with filthy Mud bloods at the orphanage. He had carved out a respectable reputation at the school, earning the proud title of prefect, and he felt well on his way to becoming Head Boy.
Evening rounds were something he exploited more often than not; it wasn’t as if he could sleep peacefully anyway—he never did.
As he roamed the halls, his feet guided him aimlessly, allowing him to wander wherever they wished.
Tom had grand dreams and aspirations—ambitions he was determined to fulfill. Ever since learning about his history, particularly how his wretched mother had practically drugged his pathetic Muggle father, he had come to understand that neither side had ever truly wanted him. His main goal had become clear: to take control of the mingling of these two species.
Those born with magic needed to preserve its purity. Why stain it with something as filthy and disgusting as Muggle-borns? Muggles had nothing; they were worthless in every aspect and unworthy of wielding the magic that flowed through the veins of purebloods. If he could erase every trace of his Muggle upbringing and replace it with one rooted in a lineage of magic, he would do it in a heartbeat.
He found himself walking into the library. It wasn’t like he could achieve all his ambitions right away; for now, his best option was to study hard and earn a spot as a Defence Against the Dark Arts professor. That position would allow him to gain more followers for his cause. At the moment, he did have a small following.
He called them the Knights of Walpurgis—a handful of students, all pureblood of course, who shared his goals.
To him, these people weren’t friends; they were followers, disciples of his worthy mission to wipe out all Muggle-kind. At best, they were foolish pawns.
He had created a club, disguised as a study group, approved by Slughorn. Slughorn was his Potions professor and seemed genuinely proud to have a student like Tom under his wing.
If you asked Slughorn, Tom was probably one of the best Potions students he had ever had. He was smart and calculating, and he excelled at nearly every assignment the professor had ever given him.
Thus, the blind support and freedom he gave the boy.
‘No harm in studying at this hour’ He thought to himself, stepping further down the rows of books and tables. He wasn’t going to be studying normal subjects of course, he was far too smart and advanced for any of that.
No , he was going to fulfill his other mission.
For many years now, he had been on the hunt to create horcruxes. He wanted not only to cleanse their world from those unworthy of inhabiting it— no. He wanted to achieve immortality. He wanted to make sure that once his goal was complete, he was going to be there to oversee it for centuries, millennia to come.
The soft glow of candlelight flickered against the darkened corners, casting playful shadows that danced along the towering shelves. Rows upon rows of books loomed above him, their spines lined like sentinels guarding the secrets within.
Navigating through the labyrinth of bookshelves, Tom felt a surge of anticipation. He relished the quiet that wrapped around him, no distracting rustles of pages being turned by students, no hushed gossip from students who have no intention of using the library for its intended purposes. This was a sanctuary where knowledge thrived, a place he intended to exploit to further his ambitions.
His footsteps were deliberate as he approached the heavy wooden door that led to the Restricted Section. It loomed at the end of the aisle like a forbidden treasure chest, its surface scarred and worn from years of neglect. The brass handle gleamed invitingly, a stark contrast to the dark wood.
Tom paused for a moment, glancing around to ensure no one else was nearby. Not that it would matter; he had a pass from Slughorn that allowed him to visit whenever he pleased. The inked signature on the folded piece of parchment in his pocket was a ticket to his ambitions, a shield against any prying eyes.
He smirked to himself, recalling how he had spun the tale to the old, boisterous professor. “It’s to further deepen my knowledge of Potions, Professor, there are certain things I’m curious about that I just can’t seem to find within the regular books in our curriculum” he had said, his voice steady and earnest, masking the darker intentions that simmered beneath the surface. Slughorn, with his fondness for promising students, specially for him, had easily bought the excuse.
With that thought in mind, he pushed open the door to the Restricted Section, feeling a thrill of anticipation. This was his sanctuary, a place where he could delve into the arcane and obscure, exploring secrets that others would never dare to touch.
As he entered, the atmosphere shifted. The air was cooler here, tinged with an almost palpable sense of mystery. The shelves in this section were stacked high with tomes that promised forbidden knowledge—books that whispered of dark magic and ancient spells.
He moved with purpose, scanning the titles that lined the shelves, each one a potential key to power. This was where he could uncover the truths that would set him apart, where he could find the knowledge to help him shape the world according to his vision.
But something was.. Off .
He could feel another presence there with him, and his brows furrowed as he stopped in his steps. His eyes danced around, hoping he could catch a glimpse and potentially catch the student in the act.
He continued to walk, slowly, step by step. He continued to look around warily, his eyes making sure to scan every corner, and that’s when he heard it.
A faint breath escaping someone’s mouth, he could hear it so clearly in the dead silence of night, specially here in the restricted section where only a very few number of souls were allowed in.
He turned the corner, taking quick steps.
A boy stood before him, shorter than Tom and wearing glasses, clearly not dressed in Hogwarts robes. The clothes he wore were unmistakably Muggle—plain and uninspired. Just the thought of being in the presence of a Muggle left an ugly taste in Tom's mouth.
Tom studied the boy a moment longer, neither of them speaking a word. The stranger didn’t look familiar; Tom was certain there was no reason for a Muggle to be in the Restricted Section of their school. Curiosity mingled with suspicion as he contemplated how this boy had managed to breach the barriers that kept the unworthy at bay. What was he doing here?
He felt a flicker of annoyance. This intrusion was intolerable. The library was a sanctuary for those who understood the value of magic, and this interloper threatened to shatter the quiet sanctity of the moment.
“Are you a Muggle?”
The boy shook his head. “No, I’m not”
He waited for the boy to continue, but he supposed he wouldn't if tom didn’t instigate him further.
“What are you doing in the restricted section? Students aren’t permitted to be here.”
“What are you doing here then?”
Tom raised a brow, how dare this boy question him?
“I happen to be the Slytherin prefect, and I have special permission to be here. You , on the other hand, have absolutely no business in this section,” he clipped, his voice sharp and commanding.
He noticed, with irritation, that the stranger didn’t flinch. The usual reaction from students was fear; to his Knights, his word was law . In the halls of Hogwarts, his authority held sway, instilling a sense of dread in those who crossed his path.
Yet this boy, with his Muggle clothes and unyielding gaze, seemed immune to the intimidation that Tom wielded like a weapon. It was as if he didn’t recognize the power that came with being a prefect, as if he had no stake in the hierarchies of the magical world. This one didn’t belong to Hogwarts, and that thought ignited a spark of both curiosity and irritation within Tom.
He took a step closer, narrowing his eyes. “So tell me, what are you doing here? This is no place for someone like you.”
The boy cleared his throat, meeting Tom’s gaze with a hint of defiance.
“I was in the library—I just got lost, that’s all. I didn’t mean to end up here.”
Tom didn’t believe this lousy excuse, did the boy think he was hit in the head with a bludger hard enough to accept it?
“Lost? Are you seriously suggesting you somehow overlooked the enormous sign reading ‘Restricted Section’ and strolled right through a solid wooden door… by accident? ”
clearly the boy seemed to take him for a fool.
“Right, you can tell this story to the headmaster, Mr..?”
“Evans— Harry Evans”
Tom resisted the urge to raise a brow at this. Clearly a muggle surname, but the magic that laced the air suggested that he wasn't lying earlier.
“I shall escort you to the headmasters office, Evans.” He quips, turning his back to the boy. “Follow me.”
Tom stepped out of the Restricted Section with a brisk pace, expecting Evans to follow close behind. The library was quiet, shadows pooling between the shelves, and the only light was a faint silver glow filtering through the high windows.
They moved through the main part of the library, the towering shelves stretching endlessly around them, their outlines barely visible in the dark. The whole place was wrapped in an eerie stillness, as though the books themselves were holding their breath.
Tom’s steps were steady, his gaze flicking back once to make sure Evans was keeping up. Neither of them spoke, the silence heavy as they reached the large wooden doors. Tom pushed them open, and they slipped into the empty hallway beyond.
In the corridor, the chill of the castle seemed sharper. Only a few torches were lit, their flames casting weak, flickering shadows across the stone walls. The portraits on the walls were quiet, most of their occupants asleep, though a few watched the pair pass with quiet curiosity.
Tom kept his pace as they walked through the winding halls, heading toward the headmaster’s office. At last, they arrived at the staircase leading up. Tom stopped and turned to face Harry, his expression unreadable.
“Wait here,” he said quietly. “I’ll let the headmaster know you’re here.”
“Come in, Tom, It’s quite late in the evening. I can’t say I was expecting company.”
Dippet’s voice echoes from the other side of the door he knocked on, turning to beckon evans to follow him. He pushes the door open, standing in front of Dippet’s desk.
Headmaster Dippet was an older man with a frail, somewhat stooped frame that hinted at the many years he had spent at Hogwarts. His robes were simple and traditional, often in dark shades of gray or muted brown, reflecting a quieter, more understated presence than his colleagues.
His hair, thin and wispy, framed a face lined with age, and his eyes, though kind, seemed tired, as if weighed down by the responsibilities of the school. He carried himself with a gentle authority, his soft voice and careful words giving him a grandfatherly air. Though not as vibrant as some of his staff, there was a warmth about him, a subtle dedication to the castle and its students that made him respected,
Not to him though.
To Tom, Headmaster Dippet was little more than a frail, soft-spoken old man, far too trusting to be truly effective. The headmaster’s kindness and willingness to see the best in his students, even those like Tom, who wore respect as a thin mask, made him almost laughably easy to manipulate. Dippet’s lined face and tired eyes only confirmed Tom’s suspicion that he was well past his prime, a relic of an older, weaker era.
The headmaster seemed perfectly content to believe Tom’s every word, convinced of his talents and his charm. It was almost disappointing, really—how easy it was to convince Dippet of his innocence, to play the role of the brilliant but humble student. Tom saw no threat in him, no hidden depth of perception.
Dippet, Tom thought, was exactly the kind of leader Hogwarts didn’t need. The kind who could be swayed by false smiles and empty words, who would never look deep enough to be perceived as any kind of threat.
“I apologize for the late hour, Headmaster, but I have something to report,” Tom said, his voice steady as Evans lingered behind him.
Dippet looked past Tom, his gaze settling on Harry with a hint of interest. “Ah, it seems you’ve brought someone along, Tom.”
“Perhaps a guest, Proffesor—or perhaps an intruder,” Tom replied smoothly. “I found him roaming the Restricted Section and thought it wise to bring him directly to you. He claims to be ‘Harry Evans’ sir, perhaps his name may ring more of a bell to you than I.”
“Very well, Tom, I commend you for your duties; 20 points to Slytherin. You are dismissed. And you,,” The man says, turning his gaze to Evans.
“Mr.Evans, may stay. Have a good evening, Tom.”
“You too, Proffesor.” He bows slightly, turning and giving Evans a look. He walks past the boy, pushing the door open and striding down the dimly lit corridor down to the dungeons.
Tom lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling of the Slytherin dormitory, his mind a restless whirl. The faintest glimmer of light was beginning to seep in through the narrow windows, casting a cool, gray glow across the stone walls. Sleep had eluded him all night, slipping through his fingers like sand.
He clenched his jaw, replaying the night’s events over and over in his mind.
Harry Evans.
The name had meant nothing to him, and yet, the boy’s presence had been anything but ordinary. Muggle clothing, a bold gaze, and a calm defiance—qualities that stood out among his peers. Tom was used to commanding attention, respect, and fear. But Evans had looked at him as though he were nothing more than another student, unperturbed by Tom’s status or presence.
Who was he ?
Tom’s thoughts lingered on the Headmaster’s dismissive tone. There was something unsettling about the way Dippet had so easily accepted this stranger. Tom's instincts told him that there was more to the boy than met the eye, more than a mere “guest” or “visitor.” The unanswered questions hung in the air, adding to the irritation that churned within him.
As the sky lightened, casting pale light over the dungeon, he resolved to uncover more about Harry Evans. Hogwarts was his domain; every secret, every hidden path was under his command. He would cross paths with Evans again. And next time, he would demand answers.
The next morning, Tom sat in the Great Hall, a thick, leather-bound book open before him. His eyes scanned the words, but his mind was elsewhere. The events of the previous night lingered like an unanswered question, gnawing at him with quiet insistence. Harry Evans. No matter how he tried to focus, Tom’s thoughts circled back to that name, to the strange boy who’d appeared in the heart of Hogwarts as though he belonged there.
A slight murmur rippled through the hall, pulling him from his reverie. Tom glanced up just in time to see the same boy from last night—now dressed in Hogwarts robes, the garish Muggle clothes gone. Evans looked slightly disheveled, his expression thoughtful as he scanned the room. Without meeting anyone’s gaze, he made his way to the far end of the Slytherin table, sitting down with a furrowed brow.
Tom’s eyes narrowed as he observed him, curiosity sharpening into determination. So, the boy was officially here. But how, and why? His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of hushed voices from the seats beside him.
“Did you hear about the new boy?” whispered Peter Gibbon, leaning in toward Thomas Avery with an eager look.
“Yeah, Evans, isn’t it?” Avery replied, glancing over his shoulder towards the end of the table where Harry sat. “heard that he was privately Sorted into Slytherin. That’s unheard of, isn’t it? No ceremony, nothing in front of the other students.”
Gibbon nodded, his voice dropping further. “I heard he arrived late, and Dippet did it himself, up in his office.”
Avery snorted. “What’s so special about him? The old fool barely tolerates most Slytherins as it is.”
“Don’t know,” Gibbon muttered, glancing suspiciously down the table at Harry. “But it’s strange, isn’t it? Dippet doesn’t normally make exceptions.”
Tom’s gaze shifted between his two housemates and the newcomer at the end of the table, his curiosity sparking anew.
So, The stupid old relic had gone out of his way to make Evans a Slytherin. A late arrival, privately sorted, and seemingly unconcerned with the usual norms of the school. Tom’s fingers drummed lightly on his book, his brow tightened briefly, but he held his expression steady.
Tom closed his book and rose from his seat with an easy grace, his expression warm and composed. He was the Slytherin prefect, after all, and maintaining a polished image was essential. Despite the darkness he held within, Tom found that his charm— and his face— were his most effective tools.
To most, he appeared a model student—charming, courteous, and effortlessly likable. Only his Knights knew of his stricter, more calculating side.
With a smile, he strolled down the length of the Slytherin table toward Harry Evans, who was occupied with his breakfast, looking entirely unbothered by the whispers that followed him. Tom stopped beside him and inclined his head politely.
“May I sit here?” he asked, his tone smooth.
Evans looked up, blinking at him before giving a small, indifferent nod. He didn’t speak, didn’t even offer a courteous greeting, simply returned his attention to his plate.
Rude not to speak, but alright, Tom thought, hiding his irritation behind an easy smile as he took a seat beside him. Settling in, he waited a moment, letting the silence stretch just long enough to assert his presence.
“I’m Tom Riddle,” he said finally, his voice pleasant. “Slytherin prefect. I thought I should properly welcome you to our house.”
The boy glanced at him, his gaze cautious, as if he were assessing Tom’s every move. After a slight hesitation, he replied, “Harry Evans.” His voice was low, almost reluctant, and he barely looked at Tom as he said it.
Tom’s eyes narrowed, his smile still in place, but he couldn’t help noticing the boy’s quiet defiance, the lack of awe or even curiosity he usually commanded from others. Evans didn’t seem afraid of him or interested in his reputation—he was simply indifferent.
“So, Harry,” Tom continued smoothly, masking his irritation with practiced charm, “I understand you were Sorted privately. That’s… unusual. Did you arrive late?”
Harry’s eyes flicked to him, a faint trace of suspicion in his gaze. “Something like that,” he said vaguely, taking a sip of water.
Tom’s smile tightened slightly. This boy was guarding his words as carefully as any Slytherin, which only piqued Tom’s curiosity further. He leaned in just a bit, lowering his voice to match Harry’s subdued tone.
“Well, if you need anything as you settle in, don’t hesitate to ask. I’d be happy to help.”
Harry just nodded, barely acknowledging Tom’s words, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the hall, lost in thought. There was a subtle tension in his posture, a distance that spoke louder than anything he’d said so far. It was clear he wasn’t pleased with Tom’s presence, an unusual reaction that stirred something in Tom—curiosity mingled with irritation.
What’s wrong with him? Tom thought, studying the boy's expression carefully. Most people were drawn to him, charmed by his presence and eager for his favour. But Harry Evans seemed immune, his indifference bordering on cold. Was he playing hard to get, putting on an act? Or was he simply that unaware of who Tom was?
Either way, Tom’s intrigue deepened. He wasn’t accustomed to resistance, and it sparked a determination within him. He would make it a point to earn the boy’s regard, if only to prove that he could.
After all, Tom always got his way.
He straightened in his seat, maintaining his polite smile. “You’re a hard person to read, Harry,” he said, his tone light and conversational, masking his own intentions. “But I suppose a little mystery makes life more interesting, doesn’t it?”
Harry looked at him briefly, his expression unreadable, before his gaze drifted away again, as if Tom’s words were nothing more than a faint background noise.
Tom’s fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the table. This was a challenge, and he would accept it.
He would unravel Harry Evans, piece by piece.
After a predictably dull Charms class—one he could practically sleep through and still be leagues ahead of his classmates—Tom made his way back to the Slytherin common room. He had a meeting with his Knights later in the evening, but for now, he had a moment to himself. A moment he could savour.
As he entered the dormitory, his eyes swept the room, noting with satisfaction that everything was exactly as he left it. There was a bed across from his, vacant and undisturbed. Professor Slughorn had arranged for Tom to have this room to himself. He hadn’t asked for such treatment, but he welcomed it all the same.
Privacy was a luxury he didn’t take for granted. Growing up in the orphanage, he’d been forced to share a cramped bed with four other children, always jostled awake or pressed against the cold wall. It was an experience he could still feel, even now, like a bruise that never quite faded.
He shook his head, reining in his thoughts before they could wander too far.
Those memories belonged to a different life, one he’d shed the moment he stepped into Hogwarts.
Everything in his space was neatly in place, from the stack of carefully arranged textbooks on his desk to the crisp folds of his bed. Tom kept his things in perfect order, a reflection of the control he maintained over his life. To him, his surroundings—and the people he chose to associate with—were extensions of himself. And he would accept nothing less than a standard approaching perfection.
Satisfied, He ran a hand over the polished wood.
This quiet, this solitude, was his sanctuary.
With some time to spare, Tom decided he’d make good use of it. He crossed the room to his trunk, bending down to lift the lid and peer inside. He rummaged past a few neatly stacked books and belongings until his fingers brushed the familiar smooth leather. He drew out his diary, a black, finely bound book with golden edges that protected it from wear. His name was written across the cover in elegant, gold embossed lettering.
Tom Marvolo Riddle.
He stared at the name, a flicker of distaste crossing his face. It was a name tainted by his idiotic mother’s decision to memorialise the man who had abandoned them—the filthy Muggle father who didn’t want him. The name was a mark he’d inherited, one he intended to shed as soon as he could shape his life into something greater. Once he’d made significant strides in his plans, he would fashion a new name for himself, one untouched by Muggle blood or weakness.
A slight smile tugged at his lips as he closed the trunk and returned to his desk, diary in hand. Settling into his chair, he opened the book and dipped his quill in the inkwell, the ink gleaming at the tip as he poised it over the blank page.
6th of October, 1951.
I've made considerable progress in my research on Horcruxes. From what I’ve gathered, creating one would require me to take a life, drink their blood, and use an incantation to anchor part of my soul into an object. I’ve thought carefully about my options, and I’m set on creating multiple Horcruxes. It’s the clearest path to true immortality. As for the first vessel, this diary seems fitting enough. It’s important to me, deserving of the honour as my first Horcrux.
The only issue now is locating the incantation. Everything else is simple—the life I’d need to take could be any worthless soul. The person doesn’t need to be anyone significant, just a living being of the same kind. I have no reservations; this step will be easy. But I’ll need to continue my search to find the spell.
Tom paused, wondering if he should write about anything else. It’s not like anybody would be able to read his diary, only his own soul would be able to see its contents. He’s made sure of that with a cloaking spell.
Lately, however, a certain individual has piqued my curiosity. His name is Harry Evans. A strange name, distinctly Muggle, and yet… There's a trace of magic about him that doesn’t align with his common appearance. He’s an enigma, someone new, recently placed in Slytherin through a private sorting by Professor Dippet.
Since I am Slytherin’s prefect, his placement here makes him slightly my responsibility. His behaviour is odd—he keeps to himself, silent and withdrawn. Perhaps he thinks this will shield him, but he won’t keep anything hidden from me for long.
T.R.
As Tom finished his last sentence and set down his quill, he felt a quiet shift in the air, followed by the faint sound of his door opening. He turned, slightly annoyed, only to see the very person he’d just written about: Harry Evans, standing in the doorway. The boy looked as though he’d just arrived, carrying only a single, modest trunk.
Interesting , Tom thought, observing him with mild curiosity.
"Can I help you?" he asked, his tone level but probing.
Evans’s expression was unreadable as he replied, “Professor Dippet told me I’d be rooming with you. Said it would be easier since… well, since you aren’t rooming with anyone.”
Tom’s jaw clenched just slightly. It irritated him to have his space disrupted, especially with someone he couldn’t quite figure out. Still, he managed to keep his composure, reminding himself that perhaps this arrangement would serve his interests. He’d have ample opportunity to learn more about Evans, to uncover whatever it was he seemed to hide.
“Very well,” Tom replied smoothly, hiding his irritation behind a polite mask. He watched as Evans moved silently to the other bed, setting his trunk down and opening it with careful hands. Tom stayed seated at his desk, his eyes fixed on the boy, noting each detail—the slow, almost mechanical way he unpacked, the distant look in his eyes.
Evans paused, standing still as he gazed at his trunk, seemingly lost in thought once again.
“You do that a lot, you know,” Tom remarked. “Your mind seems to drift often.”
Harry’s gaze snapped up, a hint of something defensive flashing across his face. “And what’s that to you?”
Tom raised his hands, feigning innocence. “Nothing to be hostile about. I was simply making an observation.”
Harry said nothing, his expression guarded as he resumed unpacking.
Tom wanted to know more about Harry, and he figured that starting a small conversation might help. That was how others in Slytherin made friends, or so he’d observed. Maybe it would work with Evans too.
“So, what do you think of Hogwarts so far?” Tom asked, leaning back in his chair, adopting a casual tone as if they were discussing the weather rather than the looming unknown of a new school year.
“It’s fine,” Harry replied shortly, still focused on unpacking, his brow furrowed as he rifled through his belongings.
“Just fine? Not much to say about the castle, then?” Tom pressed, intrigued. Hogwarts was steeped in history, magic, and endless stories. Surely there was more to say.
“It’s a castle. What do you want me to say?” Harry muttered, irritation creeping into his voice as he avoided eye contact.
Tom noted the defensiveness in Harry’s tone but didn’t let it deter him. “What’s your favourite subject?” he asked, trying to steer the conversation towards something more engaging.
“Don’t have one,” Harry replied curtly, his tone clipped as he shuffled around his trunk.
“Really? Not even Defense Against the Dark Arts? It’s quite popular among the students,” Tom remarked, leaning in slightly. “I hear the new professor is particularly good.”
“I guess,” Harry shrugged, his eyes still focused on his trunk, making it clear that he was not in the mood to entertain the conversation.
Tom feigned nonchalance, determined not to give up. “Have you met any of the other Slytherins yet? I know most of them are pretty eager to get to know you.”
Harry shot him a look, his green eyes narrowing slightly. “Why do you keep talking to me?”
Tom couldn’t help but smile at the directness. “I’m just trying to make you feel more comfortable, Maybe we could be friends.”
The word “friends” hung in the air between them. Internally, Tom scoffed at the notion. Friends? He never wanted nor needed friends . He made followers, admirers— worshippers. If he couldn’t gain anything from a person, there was no reason to interact with them.
Harry crossed his arms defensively, tilting his chin slightly. “I’m fine, really. I don’t need a friend. Just let me settle in.”
Tom’s smile didn’t waver. “You say that now, but it’s good to have someone to talk to. Trust me, the other Slytherins can be… well, you’ll find out.” He paused, gauging Harry’s response. “What about Quidditch? Any interest in playing?”
“Not really,” Harry replied, his voice growing softer but still firm.
Tom raised an eyebrow, feigning surprise. “You’re telling me you don’t have any interest in the most popular sport in the wizarding world?”
“I’ve never played, so I wouldn’t know,” Harry said, his tone quipped. Tom could sense there was something the boy wasn’t telling him, but he’d let it go for now.
“Ah, well, that’s something that could change. Slytherin has a reputation to uphold, after all,” Tom continued, keeping his tone light despite the undercurrent of seriousness. “Besides, it’s not all about the game. It’s about the camaraderie. The house spirit.”
Harry finally looked at him, a flicker of curiosity breaking through his indifference. “What do you care about camaraderie?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” Tom replied, tilting his head. “It’s about building alliances. You never know when you might need someone to back you up.”
Harry’s eyes narrowed again, and Tom could see he was weighing his words. “And you think that’s what friendship is? Just using people?”
Tom shrugged, playing it cool. “Not using, just… knowing how to get the most out of your relationships. There’s a difference.”
Harry seemed to consider this, his expression softening slightly. “You really think we’ll be able to do anything together?” he asked, scepticism lacing his words.
“I think we could, if you let us. We’re in the same house, after all,” Tom replied, keeping his tone earnest. “It’s better to have allies than to face things alone. You might find it’s not as bad as you think.”
The moment hung between them, the air thick with unspoken questions. Tom knew he had to tread carefully. He was going to figure out Harry Evans, and if that meant playing the role of a friendly prefect for now, then so be it.
Harry scoffed, a hint of disbelief in his voice. “Yeah, right. Friends? As if,” he murmured, his tone dripping with sarcasm as he resumed unpacking his belongings, seemingly dismissing Tom entirely.
Tom decided to leave him alone for now, closing his diary with a soft snap and running his fingers along its black leather cover. He could sense the tension in the air, a friction he found oddly satisfying. For the moment, he had gained a small victory in opening a line of communication, even if it was met with indifference.