Where's Our Savior?
“Slytherin!”
Tom grinned happily, standing with the ease of someone who could begin running at a moment’s notice. McGonagall lifted the hat from his head, and he put his hands into his pockets as he sauntered easily to the Slytherin table.
It was clear, from the way he walked and moved, that he was not a pureblood. Or, at least, that he didn’t have the traditions of one. He moved with an ease and slight slouch of someone with total confidence in himself, unlike the perfectly controlled movements of someone trying to hide themselves from the world. He may want to keep his cards close to his chest, but his competence was practically radiating from him whenever he moved.
Malfoy and his minions had already been sorted into Slytherin, along with Bulstrode, Greengrass and Tracey. He sat across from Malfoy and his cronies, and next to Greengrass. She glanced at him, eyes unreadable, but she didn’t dispute his decision.
Tom wondered if they even knew that they were subconsciously dividing themselves exactly how he had expected them to. Tracey was on Greengrass’s other side, and Tom already knew that Zabini would sit with them. Parkinson, though, would go with Malfoy.
Tom wondered if Nott was clever enough to notice the divide, and, if he was, which side he would choose.
He drummed his fingers once against the table, before picking up the spoon before him with a thoughtful look. Bulstrode gave him a look that clearly indicated he was crazy, but Tom read what he wanted to the second he saw the silverware.
Or, rather, non-silver ware.
“...Huh.”
“What is it, Morningstar?”
There was mocking plain to hear in Malfoy’s voice, as if the name was some kind of insult. The only problem being that Tom would never be insulted by his name, since he had chosen it.
And he rather liked it, thank you.
“Just… a sudden puzzle has revealed itself to me, and I’m wondering how to solve it. And if I should.”
Malfoy gave him another you’re crazy look, but Greengrass looked down at the silverware with a furrowed brow. Tom smiled slightly.
Already, the sides were dividing. It was clear Malfoy hadn’t gotten the message despite the fact that Zabini had had optimal time to give it to him.
And so, it was war. And Tom would be Zabini’s general. Tom wasn’t foolish enough to think Zabini trusted him, but he was optimistic enough to hope that, at some point, he would grow to.
“Nothing seems to be wrong with the silverware, Tom. What is it?”
Tom grinned inwardly. Tom. It was clear that Greengrass wasn’t one to fall into blood prejudice.
“Really, Gr- Daphne? You’re more observant then that. Haven’t you read Hogwarts: A History?”
Greengrass’s expression made it clear she hadn’t, but Tom left her to stew over the issue as Nott was sorted into Slytherin without a hitch. He walked over and, without a thought, set himself one down from Tom, leaving a space between them for Zabini.
Well, the more the merrier.
As the sorting continued, Tom let his gaze wander to the head table, and drift lazily down the row of teachers.
One of them was short and excitable, practically bouncing on his seat. Tom thought he could see a bit of goblin blood in the sharp teeth, and that would certainly explain the shortness. Another appeared to be rake-thin, with large, luminous eyes hidden behind massive eyeglasses. There was an empty seat, as well, presumably for Mcgonagall as it was right next to the headmaster’s seat. And, directly to the left of that empty seat, was a man in a purple turban. He turned to Tom with an oddly anxious expression.
And that, of course, was when his scar lit fire.
Tom tried to repress the sudden urge to slap a hand to his forehead and scream. He managed to catch most of it, but he couldn’t quite stop the slight flinch and twitch of his fingers.
Nott turned to him worriedly, and even Greengrass glanced at him with a pensive expression. Tom remained silent, though, as the pain vanished as easily as it had come. Tom shook off the sensation, filing it into the back of his mind for later, and returned his gaze to the head table.
And saw the face he was looking for, just to the left of the twitchy turban-wearer.
...Well, I guess Malfoy was telling the truth.
It wasn’t his first sight of the potions master - he had seen plenty of photos of him in potions journals and books delving into the history of potions. Of course, the photos couldn’t quite depict the way those black eyes hollowed with perfect expressionlessness, and the subtler details you could only notice in person. Things like the length of his fingers, and the sharpness of his cheekbones.
Tom thought he might even be attractive, if it weren’t for that God-awful hair.
He turned easily back to the sorting when Snape finally noticed the burning gaze piercing him. He watched pensively as Zabini finally stepped up, and was sorted without a hitch into Slytherin.
Zabini sauntered from the stool, and slipped into the space between Tom and Nott. Tom followed the example of the purebloods as they all turned expectantly to the Headmaster.
The man in question stood up, and Tom really inspected him for the first time. His hair was bright white, with a beard hanging low enough to be tucked into his belt. He was wearing eye-watering lavender robes, and his eyes twinkled brightly behind half-moon spectacles.
“Before we dig in, I have a few words to say. And here they are; Nitwit, Blubber, Oddment, Tweak!”
“Thank you!”
Raucous applause.
Tom decided to forego asking anyone why the hell they would applaud at that. Any answer he could possibly get would be unsatisfactory, and it was honestly far more fun to stew over the mystery of it himself.
Albus Dumbledore, crazy headmaster.
Tom decided, right there and then, that Dumbledore was someone to keep an eye on. The man was one of the most powerful wizards of all time, worked with a world famous alchemist, and had defeated the last dark lord, Grindelwald, in a one versus one duel. And yet, he seemed like a perfect, grandfatherly harmless old man. Slightly senile, but heartfelt.
The mask truly was one of the best Tom had ever seen, purely because nobody even seemed to realize it was on.
His jaw didn’t drop when he saw the food on the table. There was a tiny moment of the slightest surprise - he hadn’t expected it to come quite so quickly - but he had long since read about the tradition of using house elves to cook the food and send it out.
He resolved to find the kitchens as quickly as he could. House elves would make useful allies - all the more so because no pureblood ever seemed to realize that.
He picked up the longest, sharpest serrated knife and began to cut up a steak with perfect manners.
“So - Morningstar. What family is your mother from, then?”
Malfoy’s tone was as kind as ever.
“Not one you’ve heard of, Malfoy. I’m muggleborn.” He responded, not unkindly but with just a bit of sharpness. As if daring Malfoy to question him on this.
He saw Greengrass stiffen next to him, just a little. The corners of his lip turned up a bit, in a facsimile of a sharp smirk, and he sent her a glance. He would like to have Greengrass as an ally, of course - but the girl had clearly thought he was halfblood at least, which meant that the reveal of his less than stellar parentage came with just the smallest risk of Greengrass defecting.
Greengrass didn’t return his glance, though. Tom assumed that it was a sign of acceptance.
Malfoy sneered slightly, clearly not having expected this answer either. Nott blinked, his wide, baby blue eyes still a bit too large. Zabini didn’t react.
Bulstrode, though, sent him a glare so fierce that the phrase if looks could kill popped into his head for the first time in at least three years.
“I knew you were a filthy mudblood.”
He couldn’t help his blink. Malfoy, too, sent Bulstrode a slight glance.
Tom reached up with a napkin and sedately dabbed some of the spittle from his face.
“Malfoy, could you keep your dog leashed? It’s slobbering on me.” He said politely, turning to the blonde in question without even a hint that his request was anything other than polite.
He got his first reaction from Zabini, then. His mask cracked for just the smallest, barely noticeable moment. If Tom hadn’t been looking for it, he probably wouldn’t have even seen it.
Malfoy sneered at him strongly - but he knew, as well as Tom did, that Bulstrode had toed the line of what was acceptable. No matter his blood status, he had been accepted among the Slytherins - and this was the public table. Snakes showed no weakness, especially not infighting.
“Bulstrode.” The blonde growled quietly, malice seeping into his tone as he glared at Tom - but he still wrapped a hand around the girl’s shoulder.
Bulstrode clearly didn’t want to back down - but a glance from Malfoy was clearly law among their little pack.
He could already see gossip spreading, among the older students, looking for potential among the new ranks.
Tom resisted the smirk tugging at his lips.
He was spreading.
His potential was spreading.
And nobody knew that Harry Potter sat comfortably beneath his skin, as different gossip spread among the other tables.
Where’s our savior? Was the question the voices whispered.
Here. Tom wanted to answer.
I’m here.
But he couldn’t be Harry Potter anymore, could he?
He was Tom now.
And there was so much fun to be had while it lasted.