Chapter Two
Of course, that didn’t last very long.
Harry and Ron were doing their best to find Headmaster Dumbledore’s Transfiguration class, but it was hard to locate most rooms, what with all the hidden passages and secret shortcuts.
Fred and George had been explicitly of no help; instead of providing them with any answers, they had laughed and told them that “Everyone learns to find their way through all 142 staircases…eventually.”.
Not very helpful or motivating.
Percy Weasley had come to the rescue.
Ron had been secretly shocked at this—“He’s never of any help, he likes to hole up and study,”—but they were grateful all the same, especially after a narrow escape from Peeves the Poltergeist.
“Why is he allowed in here?” Ron complained, holding a textbook over his head.
The younger Weasley's hair and robes were unfashionably stained after they had been pelted with exploding blue chalk.
“Isn’t it a hazard?”
“I don’t know if it’s such a bad thing. The color makes you look... unique, Ron,” Harry said, trailing after the two Weasley brothers as they climbed through another stairwell.
He himself had narrowly avoided the attack with some quick thinking and the willingness to sacrifice the beauty of his schoolbag. He figured the satchel would forever be stained blue—or, at least until he learned a cleaning spell.
“It certainly does make you stand out,” a voice to Harry’s left added.
He turned to see Riddle—who had appeared out of nowhere—and almost jumped out of his skin.
“Hello, Harry.”
“Hi—hello,” Harry said, trying not to sound awkward or terrified.
He spun his head around wildly. Just where had the other boy appeared from?
“Are you also headed to Transfiguration?”
“Yes. I wasn’t sure where to go.”
“We don’t know either. Ron’s brother is showing us the way.”
“Oh. Is this the brother you mentioned yesterday?”
Harry had no idea why this conversation was happening, but he accepted it. Nevertheless, a part of him was cautious. Wasn’t Riddle a Slytherin? Shouldn’t he have been making friends with students in his own house?
“No, this is a different one. It’s—”
“—Percy Weasley. Gryffindor prefect,” Percy said from in front of them, nose upturned.
He momentarily turned around and took a long, judgmental look at the Slytherin crest on Riddle’s robes.
“And what’s a little snake doing in these parts?”
“Prefect Bole hasn’t been of much help so far,” Riddle said diplomatically, despite the older boy’s derisive tone. He slung his—unstained, Harry noted, a bit longingly—school bag over his shoulder.
“Oh, he won’t be. All Lucian’s proficient at is illegally sneaking in Firewhisky and wasting time on the Quidditch field. Useless in his studies,” Percy said stuffily, head no longer swiveled back and nose even more upturned now. “It’s a disgrace that he’s been given the honor of the prefect role. Not like he’ll make Head Boy next year.”
“Who’s the Head Boy as of now? I don’t think I saw him in the Slytherin common room.”
“Corey Haden. A Gryffindor this year.”
“Bit of a dunderhead, he is,” Ron added, and just now Harry noticed Ron veering to the far right, away from Riddle. “He and George once tried to make me eat a frog when I was eight.”
Percy’s nostrils flared. “That’s no way to talk about your elders. I happen to know that Corey is quite the knowledgeable Historian.”
“Doesn’t mean he isn’t a git.”
“Anyhow,” Harry said, trying to change the topic. Fights between Ron and Percy always felt inevitable, but Harry would do everything in his power to try and divert them if he could. “Who are the Slytherin prefects this year, Riddle?”
There was an uncomfortable silence. Harry and Ron turned to face Riddle—and saw nothing but empty air.
Huh?
Howhad he disappeared?
Class itself ended up being rather dull. Harry tuned out most of the Headmaster’s kooky introduction speech, but he did do his best to look engaged. The last thing he wanted was a pointed comment from his parents in the letter they were sure to send him this week.
Harry groaned internally at the thought of that. Why oh why did his parents insist on being so social? It had irritated Harry when he was younger, but his annoyance grew exponentially more so now. He hadn’t thought ahead enough to realize that so many of those people that came round for dinner were going to be his teachers.
Even in this lazy state, though, Harry learned a couple useful things.
First: Apparently, Headmaster Dumbledore wouldn’t actually be their Transfiguration teacher; he was just a stand-in for Professor McGonnagall, who was on sudden leave to attend to a family matter on the other side of Scotland.
Second: Riddle had been lying about not knowing how to get to the classroom. Even with Percy’s guidance—and Harry didn’t love that particular Weasley, but he did have to admit Percy knew what he was doing when it came to Hogwarts—he and Ron had arrived right as the bell rang.
Riddle had somehow gotten there before them, his books, notes, quill and wand perfectly set up before Ron and Harry had stumbled into class.
There had been hardly any empty seats left, so Harry had been forced to get a seat in between Granger and Riddle. Oh, the horror.
Third: Harry had learned that only Riddle and Granger liked to answer questions. Know-it-alls, both of them. Who actually read the textbook before term began?
Fourth: Harry noted, with secret gratification, that the Headmaster favored the Gryffindors and had a tendency to give them extra points; something that made Riddle fume.
Granger and Riddle were neck-to-neck in the subject, both transfiguring their matches into needles several long minutes before anyone else managed to get anything but a sliver of some object remotely resembling a needle.
The Gryffindor girl had gotten “Very good, Miss Granger! Five points to Gryffindor,” while Riddle had only gotten “I see you’re done, Mister Riddle. Two points to Slytherin.”
Great.
Harry was no show-off, but he did have a competitive streak. Harry especially wanted the Gryffindors to win the House cup this year. Any edge would help.
All in all, a productive class, at least in Harry’s book. He even managed to get his own match turn silver and shiny before the final bell rang.
— — — — — — — —
Harry slowly woke to the unpleasant scent of smoke wafting through the air.
That was strange, he thought. He and Dean Thomas had put out the fire before they had gone to bed.
“Merlin,” a voice croaked from the other side of the room.
Harry opened his eyes and rapidly blinked; the air stung.
“What’s happening?”
He couldn’t really make out the other figure in the darkness—Oh, it must have been Seamus Finnigan, one of his dorm mates. He was sitting up in the bed opposite Harry, also blinking quickly. The other boy rubbed his eyes.
“Smells like something’s burning.”
Harry looked around the room. It was dark—the only light he could reach was his bedside lamp, so he flicked it on. It was indeed Seamus sitting across from him.
On Seamus’s left, Neville was still asleep, twitching, clinging to a nearby pillow.
Dean was to Seamus’s right, curtains entirely shut.
He must have been asleep, too, then.
And Ron—Harry turned to his friend and almost gasped at the sight.
He was on fire.
Harry couldn’t see any visible flames, but he could see the smoke wafting from his friend’s body. Ron's eyes were open, unseeing, trails of smoke emanating from both pupils.
Harry turned back to face Seamus.
“We should do something,” he said, quickly getting out of bed.
Harry raced over to Ron’s bed—not that it was very far away, anyhow—and put a cautious hand on his friend’s arm.
He jumped back and let out a yelp.
“He burned me!”
Ron was running hot. Touching him felt akin to putting a hand over an open flame and sticking it low enough so the flame actually grazed your hand and it burned.
Seamus had walked over and looked at Ron, brows furrowed.
“What’s happening to him, d’you think?”
Harry was gripping his own wrist now and kept shaking his hand in an attempt to dissipate the pain more quickly.
“I don’t know. We should go to the hospital wing and get someone.”
“I’ll go,” Seamus volunteered, and he had just put on his slippers when Ron started to speak.
"First of the one, last of them all, the messenger and clay shall take the fall.”
Ron's voice was raspy and garbled, as if it had been left unused for years.
A terrified squeak came from their right; it was Neville, who was now awake, still clutching his pillow.
Harry didn’t blame him. He, too, was frozen, absolutely terrified.
“In the moon’s light, there will be but a whisper of what’s to come. On a day of bright, the snake will pay its sum.”
Then he gasped and heaved and let out an intense billow of smoke from his mouth. That and the rest of the smoke quickly vanished, as if it had never been there.
What.
Was.
That.
“...What was that,” Seamus whispered fearfully. He slowly started backing away.
Harry mutely shook his head. He had no idea.
He stood there in silence, staring at his best mate. Since when had Ron been burning and speaking in what sounded like ancient tongues?
Well, they had better do something. Ron was no longer visibly smoking, so after a moment of hesitation, Harry shook his friend’s shoulders, surprisingly not getting burnt for a second time.
“Ron. Ron. Hey! Are you there? Can you hear me? RON!”
Seamus reappeared at Ron’s bedside just then, having somehow procured a pail of water.
“Shall we use this?”
Harry turned. “What, you want to waterboard him?”
“Put it on the bed and stick his foot in there. The water’s ice-cold. It’ll be sure to wake him up.”
“Alright.”
Together they lifted the pail and set it on the mattress, grunting.
“And now—” Harry pulled the blanket from Ron’s tight nocturnal grasp.
Once given the all clear, Seamus gingerly lifted a toe and tried to put it in the water.
“No, Seamus, not like that. Grab his whole foot—” Harry grabbed Ron’s foot without abandon, no longer caring if the motion would burn him, “—and stick it in, like this.”
His hands didn’t burn, thankfully.
They drew back.
It wasn’t working.
Ron remained wide-eyed and unseeing, gripping an imaginary blanket, not at all conscious of the fact that his whole right foot was submerged in freezing cold water.
Neville looked at both of them in horror, having also appeared at Ron's bedside. He was still clutching his pillow.
“D’you reckon we should call up a Professor?”
Harry frowned, thinking. Maybe. He certainly didn’t remember seizures like these happening before they came to Hogwarts.
Or—
“Maybe not yet,” Harry said, eyes glinting with another idea.
Perhaps the other foot in the pail would work.
He instructed Seamus to lift Ron’s other leg. Together, they and Neville stuck the leg into the pail, unfortunately with such force that the pail tipped, fell, and absolutely drenched Ron in water.
At least that had the desired effect. Ron shot up all of a sudden, panting, steam wafting from his clothes.
“Harry!”
Harry rushed to the side of the bed and shook Ron’s shoulders.
“Are you alright? What happened?”
Ron shook his head, eyes wide.
“I don’t know, mate, I was just falling asleep, and then…” his voice trailed off, and he looked down at his steaming clothes in horror. “Why are my clothes hot? ”
“You were burning, Ron,” Neville whispered, fearful.
“There was smoke everywhere,” Seamus added, wrinkling his nose. “I can still smell it.”
“You should go to the hospital wing,” Harry said. “I’ll go with you.”
Ron yawned, suddenly tired again.
“Tomorrow.” He laid back down. “I’m exhausted.” He was absolutely ignorant of the spilled water in his bed. Harry didn't know how he could stand it.
The three other boys looked at each other.
“D’you really think that’s such a stellar idea?” Seamus asked doubtingly. “You’ve been literally burning up.”
“And you were speaking absolute gibberish.”
“I’m not going right now,” Ron said. “Tomorrow.”
“Don’t be dumb!”
“Let me sleep.”
“Help me pull him off the bed,” Seamus said to Harry and Neville.
Harry nodded. That could work.
But Ron felt like he was made of lead; it was downright impossible to get him to move an inch, let alone roll off the bed. Even with all three of them pulling.
Seamus was the first to give up.
“This is impossible,” he complained, rubbing his hands together. “He won’t budge.”
“I think I’m too tired to do this,” Neville added a bit hesitantly, letting out a yawn.
Harry let go as well. He was tired, too. They didn’t even know what time it was—certainly very early in the morning, there were still stars visible in the sky—and he wanted to be awake for tomorrow, not exhausted because he had to accompany his best mate to the hospital wing through the night.
“Alright,” he conceded. “But don’t think you’re not getting medical attention later.”
“Right,” Seamus said, already leaping into bed. “We don’t want this to happen again.”
The burning had stopped, at least. There was no more eye-prickling smoke crowding the dormitory. Harry figured they were all safe again.
“The first thing I’m doing tomorrow is telling Professor McGonnagall,” Harry warned his friend as he bunched the covers tighter around himself.
Ron didn’t respond. He was already out like a light.
— — — — — — — —
“You’ll need to be on your best behavior during Potions,” Lily Potter had advised her son.
Harry, knowing his mother only gave out such serious warnings when concerning dangerous things—such as an exploding Malevolent Mixture or a quickly approaching Malfoy—took her words to heart.
That’s how he’d narrowly escaped horror in Professor Snape’s Potions class…well, almost escaped.
The beginning had gone well. He had even been able to answer Snape’s question about bezoars and wormwood. Granger had looked so disappointed when she hadn’t gotten a chance to answer those questions. Merlin knew why the hat put her in Gryffindor instead of Ravenclaw.
But he hadn’t been able to help himself at the very end of class when—
“Say, Riddle, what family are you from? I don’t recognize your name,” Malfoy had asked Riddle, turning to ignore Harry and Ron.
Harry had purposely taken a seat next to Malfoy, intending on secretly bothering him when Snape wasn’t looking, but there hadn’t been any chance for that. And it wasn’t like Malfoy was making it easy, either. All of class, he had also acted appropriately subdued.
“I—”
“Riddle isn’t a magical name, Malfoy,” Harry interrupted. He wasn’t ready to let the other heir’s attention go just yet. “He can’t be a pureblood, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Riddle shot him a glare, though for what, Harry wasn’t sure.
Malfoy let out an exaggerated sigh.
“It was a question, Potter, and I wasn’t asking you. ”
“I’m just saying.”
Not like there was anything wrong with not being a Pureblood; Harry himself wasn’t. Well, that was if you used the strict definition. As the heir to one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, Harry didn’t really think blood status mattered. At least in his case.
“Harry, maybe now—” Ron tried to add.
“What? You don’t agree Malfoy is being a bellend? So rude of him to ask about blood status.”
“That’s not what I’m doing,” Malfoy argued, turning back to face Harry.
“—is not the best time to talk,” Ron trailed off.
Oh no.
Professor Snape.
The man glared at the group of children with such hatred that Harry and Ron scooted back in their chairs.
“Detention, all of you. Ten points from Gryffindor. Two from Slytherin. No chatter while class is in session.”
“But, Professor—” Malfoy tried to say.
“Now.”
“My father—” Malfoy tried again.
Professor Snape sent Malfoy such a scathing look that Harry honestly wondered why the other heir even tried. Malfoy appropriately shrank back, and so did Ron and Harry, busying themselves with tidying their desks.
Riddle didn’t move, but a smile on his face quirked upwards, making him look very satisfied with himself. Prick. Harry had been defending him, and Riddle didn’t even realize it. So, on impulse—
“Riddle was a part of this too,” Harry said, jerking a thumb towards the new boy.
Riddle’s face dropped, and he gripped the wand set on his desk, glaring.
“Was not, Professor.”
Snape’s nostrils flared. “5 more points from Gryffindor. Enough of this. All of you. Detention.”
That was how, after each receiving a lengthy lecture on ‘mindfulness of your surroundings’ and ‘appropriate behavior’ from their respective Heads of House, they all ended up in the Forbidden Forest on a Friday night.
Harry was just glad he hadn’t had to sit through what would have proved to be a demoralizing lecture from Professor Snape. He could deal with sighs of disappointment, not thinly-veiled death threats.
“This is absurd,” Malfoy complained, kicking at a bunch of leaves. “You would think the Forbidden Forest would imply we’re not allowed to go there. Because it’s Forbidden. ”
Harry privately agreed with that.
From his peripheral vision, he could see Riddle rolling his eyes.
That unbelievable prick had been throwing dirty glances at Harry from the Slytherin table all through lunch and dinner. Even though he had been nothing but nice to him! A part of Harry didn’t really know why he had dragged Riddle into all this as well. Maybe it was because he was sick of Malfoy. Obviously. And he loved Ron, he really did, he was his best mate, but he was far too used to their trio’s dynamic in situations like these. This wasn’t the first time they had all been forced to endure great punishment together.
What kind of a sick world were they living in where they knew each other so well, anyhow? Harry didn’t care to know Malfoy all that well. He’d be happy as a clam if they only saw each other at the Yule Ball and perhaps infrequently at Hogwarts, but no, here he and Ron were, fates intertwined with the incorrigibly annoying Malfoy heir yet again.
And Merlin knew why Ron and Malfoy’s families even talked, what with Abraxas Malfoy being a notorious blood supremacist and all. Harry wasn’t sure that Ron’s current lineage was classified as…pure. Though it didn’t even matter. Grindelwald’s hatred of Muggles and Muggleborns had been so devastating that after he had reigned free after so many years and ruined the Wizarding population, blood purity had mattered less and less. It was more so about legacy now—that's what his father always told him.
So it made sense. As some of the only living heirs—even though Ron was technically a spare—all three of them had, in a sense, grown up together.
What fun.
Maybe Riddle would be more interesting. He was new. Unknown. Quite a few of the other students were familiar to Harry, even if he couldn’t place their names. But Harry didn’t remember a Tom Riddle from anywhere. Ron didn’t, either. Last night in their dormitory they had spent admittedly quite some time theorizing over where the short boy could have come from.
So maybe it hadn’t made much sense to interrupt Malfoy when he had asked Riddle about his blood heritage. Harry was curious. He wanted to know as much as Malfoy and Ron did.
But, oh, the lengths he would go to piss off Malfoy. It wasn’t like he actually hated him. Malfoy was more like a peculiarly stuffy cousin Harry hoped to burn off the family tree as soon as he got the chance.
He had always gone to great lengths to annoy the Malfoy heir, and he knew the sentiment was mutual. So maybe he didn’t actually regret it. Besides—
“Malfoy, shut it. Your father isn’t going to apparate you home.”
Harry hadn’t even listened to the specificities of Malfoy’s complaints this time, but he was certainly no stranger to them. My father this, my family that, blah, blah, blah. Whatever.
“Riddle, you never answered the question before, where are you from?”
“Oh, that.”
Riddle looked like he wanted to make a snarky comment, but he paused instead. It seemed the boy had something of a superiority complex, though Harry wasn’t sure why he hadn’t seen it shining through until today.
“That’s quite a story.”
“Tell us,” Harry said as they trudged along. “It’s not like we don’t have time.”
Malfoy had actually shut up now, curious.
Riddle let out a dramatic sigh.
“Well. If you insist on knowing. I’m an orphan, Harry Potter. I don’t know about this world like you do. It’s because—” Riddle let out another unnecessarily dramatic sigh, “—when I first came into this world, my mother died. But not before she left me on a doorstep with a note carrying my name and a bag of golden galleons.”
Ron stopped.
“Are you serious?”
Riddle glared at him. “What do you think?”
Harry knew what he thought. It sounded like a great big lie.
But when Ron actually said that—“Crikey, are you sure that’s what happened?”—Harry immediately jumped to Riddle’s defense, always the eager contrarian.
“Who are you to say it’s not what happened, Ron?”
The more that he thought about it, the more it made sense; Riddle had presumably been born at the worst peak of the war, unless he was a secret time traveller or had developed a unique addiction to de-aging potions at quite the young age.
Times had allegedly been bad then; wizards had traveled to and fro, not at all monitored by the Ministry. A large portion had apparently died or gone missing.
It wasn’t until Harry had been three that his parents along with Lucius Malfoy, Headmaster Dumbledore, and a couple others had managed to take down Grindelwald. Harry still sometimes couldn’t believe that his own parents had contributed such a great deal in defeating the Dark Wizard. They would be in the history books forever.
A part of Harry wished that could have been him. He thought he would have liked such attention. The fame, the interviews, the ever-constant supply of fan mail.
But then again, one never really knew. Harry’s parents didn’t seem all too happy when people droned on and on about the war for very long. And he had personally seen his mother stick more than a couple fan letters in the fire without even giving them a second glance.
Harry was happy with his life, anyhow. There wasn’t anything he didn’t like about it.
Even if it meant he was stuck in the Forbidden Forest on a Friday night.