In the Death of a good man/
The rain had started to mellow out by the time Harry finally saw his target. The rain had been strong all week, and while places such as Diagon Alley had strong wards against all-weather storms and the like, Knockturn Alley didn’t have the same type of shops who would willingly all pitch in for such a thing, making the difference between the two stark in days like this.
Truthfully, the rain had been a blessing for Harry. Considering its intensity, it made most people in the street below him scatter as soon as they could- even with the strongest of charms, all you needed was one misdirected soul to step a bit too hard on a puddle and wet your lower robes, and it seemed like Knockturn was full of said types of souls- which made it easier on Harry to search for his target of the week.
That very shallow part of Harry- the only that still seemed alive- felt some sort of pity for those who couldn’t perform the necessary charms to stay dry and warm. Here, in this dingy rented room above Markus Scarr’s Indelible Tattoos, Harry was warm, dry and above all, delightfully presented with a wide view of the key entrances of the Alley. So, while all others did their best to fight the elements on a street that did nothing to help them, Harry could just drag a chair to the wide window and, under his strongest disillusionment charm, sip the tea he brought and search for Cavendish.
Dicun Cavendish, a notorious thief, was something normally the DMLE wouldn’t ask the Auror Department to look into. At best, the man stole from muggle houses, enchanted their items and tried to sell them to curiosity and pawn shops as expensive family relics. Maybe he’d pocket a wizard’s pouch if he could get close to them. Such criminals would normally be the problem of the Magical Law Enforcement Patrol, but ever since Cavendish was seen and reported to be visiting Etheldred Wilkes - the widow of the late Death Eater Cyril Wilkes, that somehow managed to escape conviction to Azkaban twice even with clear evidence of her presence in at least seven different meetings - it was now Harry’s job to tail Cavendish and arrest him for any charge he could, in order to interrogate him and hopefully pressure any good information out of him about Mrs. Wilkes.
Harry was considering feigning an illness again in order to go home, when he actually got a glimpse of Cavendish - skipping along to Ye Old Curiosity Shop, no doubt - and made his way to the door. His right hand had already found his wand and his left hastily grabbed the warrant of search in his robes, when he stopped, for a single second and grasped the object in his trousers’ pocket.
Immediately, he felt it all once more, the magnitude of the difference making even the dirty hallway spark with previously unseen colours. After a few breaths, he let it go and composed himself . A caress for motivation, to go and search Cavendish, hand him to the Auror’s department and finally go home where he could enjoy his little reward to his heart’s desire.
Silently opening the door and casting the necessary spells, Harry hurried after Cavendish. Even here, and even after all these years, all it took was one glance to his face - to his forehead - to clear any and all paths. Unlike the crowd in Diagon Alley, no one here ever seemed to want his attention, to ask him which cosmetics products he used to look so young still, to ask for an autograph or his hand in marriage or just let him touch his hand as if they’ll gain new found powers. In fact, here, people did all they could to avoid his person, his gaze, the wand in his hands. After all, no one liked Aurors, but especially Auror’s of Harry’s reputation. It was quite easy to clear a straight path to the oblivious target of the hour.
“Cavendish! Digun Cavendish!” He yelled, with as much authority as he could muster and the man in question jumped so high that a few items fell from his pockets, all certainly stolen, making Harry’s job of finding a reason to arrest him even easier.
But of course, what kind of job would that be if it was easy? For as soon as Cavendish turned and got a good look at Harry, he ran, stolen items discarded on the street. Cursing, Harry had no choice but to run after him, once again lamenting himself for not choosing a nice boring job that didn’t involve chasing petty thieves down narrow streets in the rain.
Harry supposed the scene was quite comical for anyone watching: Here goes the Boy-who-lived, the Man-who-conquered, chasing down a thirty-year-old lowlife with a beer gut that keeps pushing anything he can grab to the ground and throwing silver chalices over his shoulders at him. Sadder even, to say he actually almost did slip in one of those blasted chalices.
At last, Cavendish seemed to run out of options as he ran into an abandoned building, Harry following behind, into what appeared the very top floor, into an askew door. Gripping his wand tightly, Harry slowly entered the room, where immediately Cavendish, hidden behind some furniture, tried to curse him. The exchange was short and swift, for Cavendish was quickly hit with a disarming charm,-
And quicker even, he threw himself at Harry.
The two hit the ground, Harry’s wand slipping from his hand, rolling beyond his grasp. Seeing an opening, Cavendish tried to make for his own wand, but Harry quickly grabbed the man’s calve and pulled him down once more. Cavendish yelped and when on the ground, did his best to try and kick Harry’s head, who let go of his leg and hit him on the crotch.
Getting up quickly, Harry scrambled for his wand, under a vanity chest covering a broken window, as he heard Cavendish trying to rise up. The vanity chest was too low and deep for Harry’s arm to reach and so; while cursing, Harry pushed it to the side and dived for this wand.
He had barely grabbed it when thundering steps were heard coming in his direction, and only had time to turn his head up as Cavendish crashed against Harry, who felt the piercing of the glass and the smell of the rain before he managed to understand what happened.
Cavendish, in his most glorious moment, threw them both through the broken window. Harry heard a scream, he felt the rain, and just as he lifted his wand, his body hit the pavement.
And then he was gasping for air, on a cold floor. It took a moment, two, three, to finally connect what he was seeing with reality. It was his current home - a small flat in Muggle London, over a Nando’s where he got most of his meals from, with its mismatched furniture and pictures scattered all around, just as he left it that morning.
Except, this version was all white, and it managed to feel colder and more uninviting than his actual flat. Immediately upon this realisation, he was assaulted with memories of another location, just as empty, just as cold.
“Finally awake?”
Harry’s head turned sharply and it took him yet another moment to comprehend Cavendish, of all people, in his flat, looking as if this was actually his home, as if it was him who found all this furniture in old shops and who knew the downstairs workers by name and who laid down on his bed and grabbed the object in his trousers’ pocket and -
Except that there’s nothing in his pockets. And no wand as well. Harry patted himself once more, still on the ground, still confused, as he stared down at the thief, who only gave him an amused glance and lifted his hand, letting two very familiar belongings fall to the ground.
“No point in keeping them, is there? You can’t use them here.”
“Here?” Harry croaked. His voice was rough, as if he hadn’t talked in a long time.
“Yes, here. Now don’t tell me you don’t recognize it, boy, I know you do. I have yet to meet a single thing that has managed to see this place twice.” Cavendish smirks as he turns to Harry- and it is in this very moment Harry realises his mistake. This isn’t Cavendish, It is simply using his body. Looking closer, Harry can see where the entity starts and where Cavendish’s body ends, how the eyes, the expressions are all wrong; how Harry’s heart isn’t beating, how he is breathing only by habit and how, even if they had never met before, he knows exactly what’s in front of him.
Death grins, a sharp and dangerous looking thing, and Harry feels like a rabbit under a wolf’s gaze.
Tom was never an enjoyer of surprises. One could say that it’s simply because he never experienced a good type of surprise- it was always something that would complicate his life. A new orphan to compete for food, a new priest who preferred physical punishment, a new uncaring matron, a new equation to his life that he had not yet studied and controlled.
Looking at it in a subjective way, one may argue that not all surprises were bad. After all, Hogwarts and magic had been a surprise when he was first introduced to his world, and no matter the adversities, he would never count his salvation as unpleasant. The simple confirmation of what he’d always known- he’s special, he’s better than the other snivelling children at the orphanage- was enough for Tom to perhaps change his entire view on surprises, until he realised that it wasn’t exactly a surprise. After all, he knew that there was something different about him, about what he could do. No, this was simply confirmation to a long-time mystery, and those Tom enjoyed thoroughly.
That being said, the arrival of a new student to Slytherin just as Tom had managed to perfect his control on the house was most surely not wanted. His control, while extensive, was strenuous enough that all it would take to be toppled was a new unstudied number into his perfectly crafted equation. It took two years of endurance and pure spite to survive in Slytherin, surrounded by simpletons who could barely lift their wands and yet believed themselves above him for something as idiotic as parentage.
Truly, after second year, it was ridiculously easy to change the tide of leadership. Most of his colleagues had never encountered a single adversity in their lives to truly know how to play the game while Tom, after all those years at Wool’s, knew exactly what to say and what to do, to show the entitled dunces what true superiority looked like. They may have learned about the game at their father’s knees on a plush chair, but Tom learned to play the moment he started to walk. To be able to survive in Slytherin, in Wool’s, in life, you need to be very best.
By the beginning of third year, his roommates had stopped sneering and looking at him as if he was filth, and had rightfully gained a disgruntled respect for his intelligence, for his manners, for his charisma and for his sheer ruthlessness. All those years at Wool’s, fighting for the last stale roll bread and the best beddings, had given him all the necessary tools to survive.
But Tom wasn’t looking for simple survival, he wanted domination. The only safe place , he knew, was at the very top, a place rightfully his after so many years of hard work. And so, during those early years, he had not only proven his worth, but his capability of adapt. He observed and studied his surroundings and how best to assimilate. Long gone was the cockney accent, and the horrid table manners used at Wool’s. Here, there was no need to eat as fast as he could, to take as much as he could. Here, no one stole other’s food, for these imbeciles believed as their absolute right in life to have all they could ever wish. And during the months in Hogwarts, Tom pretended he too, wasn’t aware of the true value of a full table.
It was ridiculously easy, in his opinion, to get the older students to learn their place. None of these children had to ever steal or go hungry or even pass a single hour in mild discomfort. Their cruelty wasn’t of necessity, but of enjoyment, and so, while presented with the raw, true, desperate ruthlessness of life, they all kept their eyes down and necks bared. All he needed to do was take some silly sentimental holding of theirs, to kill some rats and put them in silk sheets, to trip someone before long stairs, to send some sweets laced with mild poisons. What in Wool’s was everyday play between its residents, here it was the pinnacle of power. Soon, he was established within Slytherin, if not by his cruelty -only shown to the most problematic of students-, by his sheer intellect and perfected charisma.
From there, it wasn’t hard to change his perception; there’s always an exception to the rule and it seems that mudblood Tom was it. It wasn’t wrong to listen to him, to befriend him, to follow him, for he was one of a kind, a true pureblood with an unfortunate case of unknown parentage.
His parseltongue, previously hidden until the best of opportunities, until an adversary he couldn’t control with his magic alone presented himself, was unleashed on fourth year, as some idiotic seventh year student thought it funny to threaten to cast him a cruciatus. There are simply some things one can’t ignore and if Tom wanted to keep his place at the top, he needed to show everyone else how beneath him they truly were; this wasn’t their world anymore, it was his, and it’s high time they played by his rules. After said incident, when he summoned the surrounding stone snakes in the common room, Tom stopped being simply respected as someone who earned their place in Slytherin. No, he was now admired as the rightful ruler of it.
And yet, parseltongue means nothing with no family name to support it and his personality and strength would only go so far against inquisitive minds. No matter how much they would pretend to be so superior to muggles, it was all the same in the end- it doesn’t matter if you can control a small environment, for the real world is made by and for family names and without one of those, you can only go so far.
And so, until Tom could confirm his suspicions, until he found a powerful name he could attach to his person, his control on Slytherin was simply held by the fear he could cause. A good tactic if temporary but not useful if Tom wants his control to extend beyond the constrictive walls of Hogwarts. He needs to be more than feared, he needs to be worshipped to the point no one will question him and his motives.
But for that, Tom needs to have all and any knowledge of those around him. His control must omnipotent and all mighty, something hard to accomplish when a new student suddenly joins in the beginning of the school year.
Hartwin “call-me-Harry” Peverell appeared, at best, to be passive about everything around him. Keeping to himself and seemingly ignorant of the politics around him, he breezed through the first week of school ignoring all his housemates. He sat by himself at the far corner of the table, and mostly replied with evasive answers when questioned. His table manners were somehow worse than his personal grooming, and yet, he managed a quick neutral position by family name alone. Apparently, some of the older students recognize Peverell as an old wizarding family whose British line died in the early 1400s. It was believed the line survived with some distant cousin in the continent and by Peverell’s appearance and weird accent, it seemed it was correct.
With parents who died from dragon’s pox, Peverell was sent to the care of a family’s friend in Scotland and therefore made to attend Hogwarts. Between his parents’ illness and the wars, Peverell didn’t return to Drumstang to further his education, losing two years of schooling, and therefore re-entered in Hogwarts as a Fifth year, becoming class and dorm mates with Tom.
Unnecessary to say, Tom hated him the second they met. This boy, uncaring of all, had managed a neutrality in Slytherin that took Tom almost two years to create. Truly, the more undeserving of privilege are those born into it, not realising the advantages they gain from it. And what did he do with said neutrality? He stared at them.
It took him quite a few days to notice - which by itself alarmed Tom quite a bit, as he is always conscious of his surroundings- but Peverell, in his most discreet way, was studying them, which meant that unfortunately, Peverell wasn’t as much of a dunce as Tom had first perceived him, and it was that alone that alerted him to the true danger of the boy; He managed to make his presence so non-threatening that even Tom fell for it. Inadmissible, that he was trying to appear non-threatening, for that was the same tactic Tom had used for so many years as a young child. Appear docile, study his surroundings and attack at the best moment.
To know that this idiotic boy, who could barely make a Wit-Sharpening potion let alone anything in the fifth-year curriculum, was trying to use his own methods to what? Overthrown him? Take over Slytherin?
It was a constant worry, in his mind, a feeling that never left him. He had just managed to subdue Abraxas’ overreaching mentality and Caius’ superiority complex. To have a new player arrive, one that could potentially sway those alliances with the simple power of a better name and the unspoken promise of cleaner blood, was possibly the worse thing that could happen to him. To be thrown away as an undesirable object and be forced to restart all his hard work, simply because some unfazed idiot decided to test him…No, it wouldn’t do.
Tom’s first instinct was of course, to subdue the threat before it appeared. That meant, to show Peverell how his best option was to be by Tom’s side, not against him. For the first month, he instructed the boys in the year to give Peverell no mind. It was best to show him the power Tom already had, and how swiftly he could use it. To isolate anyone for enough time, would drive them desperate enough for any sort of connection afterwards.
During said month, Tom paid more attention to the boy than what it was perhaps wise. Peverell was nothing worth of notice on the outside; He did reasonably well in most classes, with the distinction of Defence, where he did slightly above average and Potions, where he performed below expectations. He preferred to drink tea with no sugar and gravitated more to chicken and turkey than to beef or pork. Normally, he ate a piece of treacle tart or pudding as he pretended not to observe them.
From what Tom could see, Peverell preferred to pay attention mostly to their year. He did show the healthy amount of curiosity to their peers in all years on the first days, but for the most part, he seemed to keep an eye on Caius and Alphard. Sometimes, on Flavian and for the most part, he stopped paying much attention to Abraxas and himself after the first week.
A mistake, that Tom would make sure to cost Peverell. To dismiss Tom as if he wasn’t worth keeping a cautious eye, as if he was below Flavian Rosier or Caius Lestrange. Oh, how Tom would make him pay for not realising his betters.
After that first month, Tom sent Alphard in Peverell’s direction. Of all the boys in their year, Alphard Black was easily the most docile. From the secondary branch of the Black Family and trying to survive the reputation of his deranged older sister, Alphard had since early decided on the pathetic tactic of living off other’s power. In those first years, he was the only who didn’t outright torment Tom, and would instead send him apologetic smiles and shamefully look the other way whenever someone decided to bother Tom for his lack of family name or his second-hand clothes or his filthy blood.
Too afraid to stir the sea and too weak to cause an earthquake, Alphard’s desperation for a real connection outside of the Pureblood pretence of money and names was the perfect hook to bring Peverell in. After all, when he finally regained control of his classmates two years ago, Tom made sure to isolate Alphard as punishment for his passiveness. At least the other boys were true to themselves and attacked anybody they perceived as lesser. How could Alphard Black’s sympathetic gaze help Tom?
Back then, Alphard took it as well as he expected. Isolated from the boys, he ran to his cousin Lucretia, who tolerated his behaviour well enough for a few months, but didn’t make too much space for him in her own group within the girls of their year. Quickly, he came crawling back, begging for a shred of Tom’s attention, for his approval. He’d do anything to earn a place in the new order, to feel included and above all, integrated in the tight knit group of their year.
Alphard quickly took to Peverell, following him around as a lost puppy in hopes of getting attention. In any other situation Tom might worry how Peverell could easily notice Alphard’s eagerness for a connection and take advantage from it. A lesser man would, but Tom was no simpleton and his control of Alphard had been a slow yet steady effort. His adoration for Tom was too strong for a new wind to sweep away with no notice, and Tom would make sure to notice any and all changes in Alphard’s demeanour. Even the lowest of pawns could become a Queen under lazy supervision and Tom had worked too hard to simply allow Alphard to get eaten by his rivals.
With a chimer of the bell, announcing the late hour and soon closure of the library, Tom sighed and lightly stretched, deciding to put away the records he was studying.
Just to imagine that last year he was thinking no research could be worse than trying to find his parentage. Now he wished he had the guidance of something as simples as a name. Now, searching all the news articles and school reports of the last few centuries, Tom was starting to believe that the Chamber of Secrets might actually just be another legend of the times, or some room lost in the several remodulations the castle has gone through over the centuries.
The closest he’d ever gotten in his search was accounts of older students, written in historic diaries of people of notice, on how odd some of his older ancestors could act. It seemed that the Gaunt’s weren’t liked nor respected since the mid of the eighteen century, when the reported madness had taken control of the family, who gambled the rest of their money and therefore, were forced to sell their Wizgamount Seat and Estates to foreigner families settling down in England after one too many muggle conflicts in their area.
Bitterly, Tom wondered if it would be wise to go hunt said families down and take what should have been rightfully his. Perhaps, the complete submission of their heirs and descendants to himself could be enough to quell the rage inside of him. This is why Tom needed the Chamber. To return to the Common Room and simply announce himself as a descendant of the Gaunt’s would do nothing but ridicule him. Ever since their very public fall from grace, to be seen and connected with such a family would invoke the disgust of most of the higher society, which in time led to his relatives to only manage marriages within themselves and perpetuate the madness in the blood.
To go and announce himself a direct descent of said family would be social suicide. However, if he connected his person with the likes of Salazar Slytherin instead, and only mention the Gaunt’s as distant relatives of the true line of Slytherin, his social position would become untouchable and more importantly, unperturbed for the remainder of his years at Hogwarts.
But how could he do that, if there was no mention of the Chamber other than his shameless relatives hissing around at people they didn’t tolerate? Tom had gone through every record and report of every remodulation the castle had suffered, and even if those records weren’t well kept or well cared for (very muggle of them, Tom thought, to discard most trivial knowledge as useless, some people truly didn’t understand the power of knowledge), the number of record missing was becoming suspicious.
Tom took a long and slow breath. There was no point in allowing his paranoia to take hold of him If any record wasn’t here, there had to be a reason for it. Tom highly doubted anyone was truly interested in remodulations made centuries ago for sanitary reasons and concerns of overly protective parents, but it was just as unlikely that someone was actively requesting the records to hinder his own search. After all, he had told no one of his plans and would continue so until he had incontestable proof.
Sighing, Tom walked out of the library, being stopped along the way by some irritating first years wondering where such and such was. If being a prefect didn’t grant him such extensive control and power, Tom would surely give his pin back in hopes of never having to deal with children and imprudent teenagers.
Finally reaching the Slytherin Common Room, Tom walked to his favourite chair; Turned just so, in order to have both an extensive view of the Common Room and receive the heat the nearby hearth had to offer. No one else dared to sit in his spot anymore, either out of respect or fear, that mattered little to Tom as he reached his chair without being bothered.
Caius and Abraxas, sitting at one of the several tables nearby, had already gotten up to join him. Tom kept his face a perfect mask and made sure none of the smugness he felt was seen. Long gone are the times were they would all sit together and snicker in his direction when denied companionship - No, now they willingly and eagerly came to him, basked in his words and let him wrap them in a vow of loyalty. Fools, the lot of them, to think he would ever forgive and forget.
“Good studies?” Abraxas asked, sitting on the loveseat to his right as Caius took the lone chair to his left. The humour in the siting was not lost on Tom, but he highly doubted explaining the intricacies of muggle religion would fair him any good.
“Indeed so. Though I’m sure not as exciting as your own?”
Abraxas’ smiled turned strained as he replied. “Nothing of interest, I’m afraid. We joined them earlier to complete some homework, but he seemed as uncaring as ever.”
“About you, at least, though I’m not surprised he didn’t seem to care about you, Malfoy. Perhaps he could see the stick up your arse.” Caius grinned and turned to Tom. “He asked me some questions, but nothing interesting enough to hold my interest. I tried to ask him what he thought of some muggle-hunting to see if I could pry his views, but I don’t think he heard me.”
Oh, Tom doubted Peverell hadn’t heard him. Looking at the mirror at the far back of the wall - which he himself had added in between the collection of portraits as a way of gazing to the remainder of the common room his chair didn’t allow him to see- Tom could see Peverell with Alphard, the two working on homework while Alphard seemed to try and hold longer conversations with the other boy.
“And what did he ask you?” Tom pried.
“Oh, nothing of interest, I tell you. What classes were my favourite, if I had a pet and if I was related to that cousin of mine who joined Grindelwald last year. I, of course, denied any and all family connections but I don’t think he believed me.
Certainly didn’t bother to answer me when I asked him a few questions myself.” Caius huffed.
Tom nodded. All he had from Peverell was information anyone from any class could easily confirm. His favourite class was Defence, and his parents were dead. He apparently went to Drumstang but didn’t seem to have any distaste towards muggles and muggleborns.
The lack of information and interaction was slowly but surely angering Tom past his normal level. What he needed, was to speak with Alphard, just the two.
And so, after some more trivial conversation and a promise of charm notes for Caius, Tom retired to their dorm. There, he quickly swiped some quill and parchment from Abraxas’ small desk and carefully crafted a message which he hid under Alphard’s pillow.
Grabbing a book, he took his shoes off and went to his own bed, drawing the curtains shut. It was bothersome to not change into loungewear, but the ones he owned - provided by Wools - left little to be desired, and Tom had yet to find the time – and funds - to replace them. He only owned a decent pair of causal wizarding robes, the first earned by working during the summer to some rich family in Chelsea who’s strongest employers had been drafted and the latter’s by what Tom assumed was an significant increase in the Hogwarts’s funding for the underprivileged. A fund he despised having to need with all his might.
Between his honest pay, and his nicking of small jewelleries and money from other residents at Wool’s, Tom’s wardrobe managed a small, but important upgrade. Hopefully, by confirming his relations to Salazar Slytherin, he could swindle some of the older students out of their most beloved items to later sell. No point in doing such a thing inside his own dorm or to students who he would have to see daily.
As the door to the dorm finally opened, Tom was already enthralled in the book, ignoring their shuffling and low conversations. It was uncommon for him to go to bed earlier than most, and as all bed curtains were finally drawn, Tom heard Alphard adjusting his pillow- as he did every night- and the seconds of silence that followed.
After that, all he had to do was wait until a long absolute silence, which was followed by Flavian’s light snores. With that, Tom quietly made his way out of his bed, and into the common room . There were only a few students still in there, mostly composing second years trying desperately to finish homework.
Sitting in his chair once more, Tom only had to wait for a quarter of an hour before Alphard came down the stairs. The boy in question seemed tired, but the grin he gave Tom was blinding. It would, indeed, be quite hard to take Tom’s claws from Alphard’s willing soul.
“Alphard.” Tom said, allowing the boy a small smile and a warm tone of voice. Such simple actions had him skipping towards Tom. “How are you? I’m sorry I haven’t been able to talk to you in public, but it would be by far too obvious.” He pretended to be regretful, and Alphard took it as a child takes a treat from a stranger.
“Oh, I know, Tom, don’t worry. But-” His face turned grim, and he knew what was coming. “-I’m afraid I don’t have much to tell you. I got some small things- His mother was named Elena and his father worked on his own. I wrote to my uncle asking if he knew of anything, but he too didn’t know much. As you can imagine, those parts of the continent are fairly hard to approach at the moment and most records were actually burned a few years back in an uprising.” Alphard sighed.
Tom reached and lightly touched the boy’s hand. As expected, Alphard leaned in slightly into his touch, into the illusion of care. One thing Tom surely loved about some pure-bloods families is how they would raise their children so rigidly that it became almost laughable easy for Tom to take advantage of it.
“That’s more than enough, Alphard- certainly more than anyone else ever got.” He smiled and ran his thumb over Alphard’s palm. “And what about us? Does he seem interested in joining with the rest of the dorm? I can’t believe it must be very nice for him to be so alone.”
Alphard grimaced, no doubt remembering his own forced isolation. “I don’t think he minds, truth be told. He doesn’t seem to mind me but other than quidditch scores and games, there’s not much else to talk about. I’ve told him Flavian would be able to talk to him better than me about it, but he just shrugs and says he’s perfectly content with me.” He clears his throat, but Tom didn’t miss the underlined happiness in his tone. Something that perhaps, would need correction later on.
“I see. And there’s nothing else he said?”
“Besides quidditch talks, we help each other in homework. He’s not bad, but honestly his lack of interest to further complement his essays with additional material is-”
“Yes, no doubt about it, Alphard. And what have you observed?” Tom cut in.
“Oh, well. Nothing we haven’t seen, I suppose.” At Tom’s encouraging nod, Alphard continued. “He’s not very good in potions and seems to prefer to stare out of the window in Transfiguration. Normally he finishes his homework during History of Magic, but he seems to like charms and defence enough. He isn’t overly happy with the duels Professor Merrythought wants to have next month but it doesn’t appear to be out of fear. More laziness.”
“And has he said anything about the rest of the boys?” Has he asked about me, is what he really wanted to ask. If Peverell was sniffling around Tom’s power and wondering what his weaknesses were…
“He normally asks more about Caius, but not, well - Not out of his personality, more of his temper? Considering what he asked him today I’m guessing he might have run into his cousin in the continent. Other than that, not really. He asked if I knew what hair products Abraxas wore or if it was Flavian who left his razor in the worse of places. Nothing about you, I think.”
Tom fought to keep the scowl from his face. Whatever game Peverell is playing, he’s not as smart as he thinks he is. To not ask a single question about his person while wondering of trivial matters about the remaining is even more suspicious than if he had asked. Perhaps, this matter was more pressing than Tom had first perceived. And so, it would be foolish to allow it to sit in Alphard’s hands. It appeared it was time for Tom to make contact himself.
“-And he seems to get along fine with the girls, to the point that I asked if he could put a good word in with Murk for me, but- ”
“Alphard.” Tom interrupted, finality in his tone. Alphard immediately closed his mouth and waited for Tom to speak.
“I fear the time has come for me to talk with him personally. I think it’s best for you to continue your reports of him, but only of any important information he may give. Other than that, you only have one more thing to do.” Tom replied and Alphard leaned in.
“What? what is it?”
Tom smirked.
❃ ҉ ❃
As Tom made his way to the Potion class, he made sure to reel his giddiness in, and to perform his usual routine; Greet his classmates, make small talk with Professor Slughorn and accept his light-hearted japs with the grace expected of him. At long last, he made it to his new seat, ignoring the curious looks of the nearby students.
Getting seated by Peverell’s side was ridiculously easy. The hardest part was to prepare Alphard. To hear exactly how he would speak and reply and train his posture into a concerning one. After that, he’d make the boy deliver some parchment with another change in prefects schedules -nothing too important- and have him start a casual conversation with Professor Slughorn over his homework, which in turn would direct into how he had to help Peverell with his, followed by a rehearsed concerned sigh and shift in posture and a small rant on how Alphard was ever so concerned over the new boy and his horrid potions understanding.
Professor Slughorn would nod and sigh and say he himself can only do so much, with the amount students in class and such. If only there was someone else who had an outstanding knowledge of potions and wouldn’t mind helping Peverell. Alphard in turn would sigh and leave, letting Slughorn to his thoughts which, unsurprising, led to Tom.
Truly, sometimes Tom wondered if he’d ever get tired of playing such games with subpar adversaries. Even if said adversaries were the reason he was here, as Peverell’s new potions desk mate, without any direct intervention.
After the seed was planted, it took merely a day for it to bloom, as Tom was called in by Slughorn and asked so nicely if he wouldn’t mind trading partners with Mr. Black, who he fears isn’t enough to explain the intricacies of the art of brewing to Peverell, the hopeless case he is.
Tom of course, dutifully accepted with only the right amount of hesitation - after all, not even the kindest of students would eagerly accept to trade their perfectly fine partner for a disastrous one. And the clear small amount of hesitance, followed by an acceptance simply showed how great of a character Tom had. To abandon all selfish desires to help a classmate in need? Why, that’s Head Boy material.
And so, Tom decided it was only fair to bask in his glory for a mere second, as he took the necessary materials from his satchel and laid them neatly on the table. In a few moments Peverell would enter the room, and be surprised with the change, but in no position to argue it. Tom would smile and explain and Peverell would be forced to accept it.
With this clear connection, Tom would work wonders. Peverell would have no other choice than to recognize his presence and, in time, realize who the true ruler of this school was. Whatever game he is thinking of playing, Tom would always be seven steps ahead.
Flickering through his book, Tom noticed in the corner of his eye, Peverell entering the class and hesitating for a moment only. The boy, as expected, sat in his place, and Tom supressed the smirk that tried to take over his face. Peverell had so swiftly and carelessly stepped into his web, and Tom wouldn’t let him leave until the boy was utterly subdued and knowing who his betters were.
Yes, poor Peverell had no idea what he had just gotten himself into.