Harry Potter & The Hand God

Tom Riddle is not as perceptive as he thinks he is. He thinks his eyes all-seeing, his mind all-knowing, would think himself God if he did not know any better. 

He is perceptive, don't get me wrong. His observation skills are uncanny. A quirk of the lip, a tilt of the read -- Tom sees this, sees what this means, and, in a moment's notices, adapts. 

But he also... not overestimates himself, per say, but estimates himself in a vacuum. It's like he can't see things not right in front of his face. His prejudices mark people under labels, most of which just mean "worse than him," and blocks out anything not matching that, because how could he ever be wrong? Cearly, they're the one misjudging someone.

Not him. Never him.

His flaw here , though, is agreeing with an assumption that isn't is. His second flaw is then sticking to it. 

Case and point: Tom, before his seventh year, does not think he and the rumored "living ghost of Hogwarts," Harry Potter, have ever had an interaction. This is broadly true. But there was once, during Harry's third year and Tom's fifth, that made the biggest impression not to Tom, but to Harry, and Tom didn't even know it.

Didn't even observe that Harry Potter was in the room. (He cannot see beyond his face.)

They're making amortentia. Potions' class. Harry's cauldron has been cleared because, as Snape said, "It is impressive; you've made something wholly harmless to brew release dangerous fumes. I did not even thing this level of ineptitude feasible." Harry wants to say that it's not his fault, memory issues and all!! -- but he knows that this time, that's not true. He's just pants at Potions. And apparently a hazard.

He's giving encouraging hand signals to Neville Longbottom when the door swings open. Not many others look up, too engrossed in their potion, but Harry, as established, has his cauldron empty. It's Tom Riddle, Slytherin Prefect, total arse. 

He's got the reputation of Pureblood Politics oozing out of him. Harry can almost smell it. He resists the urge to pinch his nose shut.

"Professor," he greets, voice smooth as fucking honey and Harry hates himself for liking it, hates Tom more for having it. "I've the ingredients from the green house."

"Good," says Snape. "Set them there." He pauses then adds, for the hell of it, "Ten points to Slytherin."

One of the Gryffindors groans and Tom looks toward them, a pleasant smile on his face. He gives a little wave, just as politie. The Gryffindor flusters a little and, to Harry's absolute disappointment, waves back.

Spine of fucking steel.

A Hufflepuff, done with their potion already, a vial clean and capped sitting on their desk, something Harry cannot relate to, calls out, no malice at all, "What do you smell, Tom?"

There's giggles and Tom gives an awkward smile, like this is embarrassing for them. "Nothing?" he says, chuckling. Chuckling like there's any reason the classroom would smell any different than it normally does. He walks back out the classroom, waving goodbye to the class without looking at them, the polite smile ever resting on his face.

The class break out into whispers -- saying that Tom doesn't want the knowledge of the girl (or guy, Harry adds mentally, angrily) in question to get spread around. 

Harry doesn't see it like that, though. He's not an idiot. Well. He might be, sometimes, not that that's always his fault, but not now. Now, he's the one with the worst vision here seeing everything they cannot.

He writes in his journal. Category: People. Ranking: Very Significant. Subject: Tom Riddle.

Tom Riddle doesn't know how to love. 

In the Tom Riddle subject group, it rests amongst "Tom Riddle is friends with Draco Malfoy. Fuck this guy," and "Tom Riddle's getting in contact with the Ministry? I think I'm looking at the future Minister. Double fuck this guy," but this one? Yeah. It's at the very top of his list. 

The best part is, Tom doesn't even know it.

... For a while, at least.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Harry Potter loves and hates in equal measure. For him, they go hand in hand. He hates because he loves and when he loves, he loves hard. Poppy tells him he gets it from his parents. He tells her he got it from himself.

He meets Hermione Granger crying in the bathroom, her third year and Harry's first. Harry knocks a gentle hand against the stall door. The sniffling comes to a halt. "Hello," Harry tries. "I'm Harry."

"Go away," she cries. The sobs resume.

"You're in the boy's bathroom," he tells her. "Thought you should know. I can lock the door for you, though, if you don't want to leave just yet."

"... That would be nice."

He locks the door and then sits with his back to. A precaution. He sits and lets her cry for a minute before saying, "Do you need anything?"

"Like what?" Her voice is hoarse.

"Water," Harry says, shrugging. "A snack? Hot chocolate?"

"No thanks." 

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asks, gently.

"I'd like to just cry, if that's alright."

"Yeah," he says, leaning his head against the door. "Yeah, that's alright."

When he steps out of the stall, eyes red and irritated but all tear stains dried, she tells him that her name is Hermione Granger. She looks at his robes -- black and yellow, worn with pride so full it fills his lungs -- and asks if he can do one thing to make her feel better.

"Sure."

"Let me sit with you at lunch."

Harry smiles. "Sure," he says again. She is the first drawn to Harry's corner of the Hufflepuff table, the first of Harry's friends, but not the last.

Blaise joins not long after. Then Ron. Then Neville. And he loves them all, with every once of blood and magic in his body. He doesn't tell them this, because he knows they would not like to hear it, but he would kill for each and every one of them. Without hesitation. Each and every time.

He's fought for them before, not yet killed. His knuckles have come away red and bruised -- he'd show them Mudblood -- and he's lost more House points than he knows what to do with, but it's worth it, each and every time. There's no deliberation about it. His little melting pot, a swirl of every house sitting in a sea of yellow, is worth everything he does for them.

So, yes. Harry Potter has just as much adoration in his heart as he has anger -- there's enough room for the both of them, isn't there?

And then there is Tom Riddle, smelling nothing in the face of amortentia, heart full of greed and hate. There is no room for love. His top note in Harry's journal is a strong rejection of it. Tom Riddle sits at the Hufflepuff table one day. Sits at Harry's corner of the Hufflepuff table.

And Harry... Well, Harry just doesn't know what to do about that.

Except be a massive dick, of course.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

"Are you serious?"

Tom resists the urge to roll his eyes, again, securing his tie around his neck. "Yes, Malfoy. I'm very sure."

"But they're Hufflepuffs!"

"I'm well aware of what they are, Malfoy. Must you repeat yourself?"

Draco's face drains of color. "I'm-- I'm not -- I mean.." he sighs, loud and dramatically. "I don't know why you're doing this! Everyone's going to think you're crazy!"

"Will anyone that matter?" 

"I mean -- no, I guess--"

"Will it to you?" He glances at Draco out of the corner of his eyes. 

"No." He deflates. He tries once more, out of obligation, "You've got a reputation to uphold."

"Yes. That of 'polite Headboy,' I presume."

"Inner circle stuff, what about it? What the teachers and new students do not know? What about that reputation?"

"I am entirely in character, Malfoy. I am not as open about my political beliefs as you." He swing his bag over his shoulder. "As far as everyone else is concerned, I am just friends with a lot of people. I am just smart. I am just interested in joining the Ministry, and who isn't really?" He tilts his head. "It's just sitting with some Hufflepuffs. What is the worst that can happen?"

"Famous last words, I'll bet on it." He rolls his eyes and huffs. "But I do believe in you."

"But of course." He kisses Malfoy's cheek. "Talk later, yes?'

"But of course," he echos.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Tom stand behind Hermione and Ron, casual stance, pretty as ever. Hermione blinks at him. "Riddle," she says.

"Hermione." 

"What, ah, brings you to our humble establishment?" Ron snickers at her side and she flicks his nose.

"I was wondering if I could sit with you for breakfast?" He gives a nervous smile. "If you don't mind?"

Blaise looks incredibly uncomfortable, leaning into Harry's side. "I thought you favoured green, Riddle."

Tom glances at him. "Zabini. It's been a while."

"Not long enough," Blaise mutters. If Tom heard him, he showed no sign of it. 

"I was under the impression you all favored nothing?"

Harry finally pipes up, though he sounds unhappy to interrupt his breakfast for it. "For your information, we favour everyone."

Tom perks up. "Great, then. I do hope I'm included in that." He gestures to the empty seat beside Hermione and Ron. "If I may?"

Hermione and Ron glance at Harry, as if to say well, may he? Harry raises his eyebrow. The decision is theirs. He's not their boss.

"Let them see the journal, Harry," Neville suggests. He coughs into his hand. "So they can make an informed decision, or something."

"Journal?" Tom asks. He is ignored.

"Great idea, Nev," says Ron. Neville beams at the praise, to which Harry's remaining resolve promptly melts. He sighs, grabs a red and gold journal out of his school bag and hands it to Hermione.

Tom shifts on his feet, feeling oddly out of place and like they are making a little too big of a deal out of letting him sit with them, but he makes no move to leave. He's already committed. 

Hermione purses her lips, a rancid expression overtaking her. "Do you remember what this says, Harry?"

"The fuck do you think?"

"Taking that as a no, then." 

He takes another bite of toast. 

"Would you," she clears her throat, "like to see it?"

"If you want."

She holds the journal out to him, Tom Riddle's page open.

Tom Riddle doesn't know how to love. 

"Huh," Harry says, trying to sound indifferent and failing. Tom wants to see what he's seeing, wants to know everything, but restrains himself from ripping the book right out of their hands. All in good time. "Well, it certainly is unsettling."

"You're saying he shouldn't... well, you know?"

"I'm not saying anything. He can sit here if you want him to."

Tom's smile tightens. He's never been a fan of being talked about like he is not standing right next to him.

Hermione glances at him. The evidence against him, it's... circumstantial, at best. So he's friends with Malfoy. Not great, but his involvement does not make him a carbon copy of him, does it? He can still be a good person, separate from his friends, can't he? And though Harry would beg to disagree, it is not like everyone interested in the Ministry is a terrible person.

And the love thing. It's not something he can very well help, can he? 

Hermione's in the same year as his, shares classes with him, even, and knows him to be perfectly polite. Above that, even.

But Harry doesn't want him sitting here, even if he won't say so, and that's gotta mean something. It always does. Until she figures out what it does, she sees no harm in letting him sit with them.

It's only breakfast. No biggie.

"Take a seat, Riddle."

Riddle smiles and Harry buries himself deeper in his food, leaving quickly afterwards, hand in hand with Blaise, who is equally in a hurry to leave. All attempts in conversation Riddle tries are shot down.

When he passes him later in the hallways, Harry grabs his arm tightly. He did him the favour of not turning his friends against him, because Riddle isn't a bad guy, he just might be a bad guy, and though that's enough for Harry, it's not enough for his friends. He respects that.

But his friends aren't here right now. "You are not welcome at our table again," Harry tries to tack his name onto the end of it, but he cannot for the life of him remember who he's talking to. 

"I thought you favored everyone."

"You're not like everyone," he says. "You're tainted."

"On what grounds? What did I do to warrant your hatred?" He sounds hurt. Harry isn't buying it.

Harry doesn't know what Tom did but he knows that he used to, and, on Merlin, that's fucking enough for him. "You did enough. If I see you again, I will hurt you."

It is a shame that Harry doesn't write that down, though, because he forgets and during lunch, when Tom asks to sit with them again and Harry, surprisingly, allows it, Tom is not eager to remind him. 

Tom feels a little evil for it and revels in the feeling.