Chapter 2
The first time Tom Riddle met Harry Potter, he wanted.
He wanted the easy camaraderie that the green eyed eleven year old already seemed to have with the other first years in his compartment.
He wanted the surname 'Potter', and the pureblood power that came with being even a much-loved bastard in such a line, rather than being Riddle and thus, nobody at all.
He wanted to claw at that the smile which suggested everything was fine even as the flicker in the other's eyes suggested that everything really wasn't.
He wanted to be the type of boy who was friends with Harry Potter.
He wasn't any of those things.
The first time Harry Potter met Tom Riddle, he had a vague sense of unease in his chest and the feeling that he'd seen him somewhere before.
He had nightmares of scarlet eyes, just as quickly dismissed for inviting the boy into his compartment because he didn't think anyone should have to make such important first journeys alone.
He had a sense of pity at how cold the boy was, how stiff his shoulders were in his second-hand uniform, and how he couldn't seem to relax into simply being friends with people.
Maybe he had too many expectations shoved onto his shoulders, since he'd been discovered as a Potter a few months ago, wandering Diagon Alley with no memory of how he'd got there, and Tom Riddle seemed like freedom.
Maybe he just wanted a friend.
Harry scrubbed his eyes, jolting awake on the chair he was sitting on, face white.
He didn't know when he'd fallen asleep, but a quick tempus charm told him it was around five in the morning.
And his shoulder and neck felt stiff for falling asleep in such a bad position, his mind murky and clouded with old memories he hadn't been able to shake.
"You alright?" tendered a quiet voice behind him. Harry didn't jump out of his skin, finding Hermione behind him. She'd been in their year at school. He'd always got on well with her, though they'd never spent much time together.
Sometimes she'd just give him the oddest, saddest looks and he hated it.
He swallowed, forced a smile.
The headaches kept coming, in and out, before fading again.
"Always," he said, briskly, standing up. "Reports?"
She continued to stare at him for a moment longer, fists clenched at her sides, a smudge of dust on her cheek. He raised his brows, pointedly. "Hermione."
She cleared her throat, seeming to dismiss it. He knew she meant well looking out for him, he just sometimes wished she wouldn't.
"Voldemort has started rebuilding the factories we've destroyed, and he's had to channel money in rebuilding Diagon Alley after the mess the Aurors made chasing us." Her voice dropped a little then, subdued, and he grimaced.
They'd lost some good people there – friends, talented witches and wizards. Their numbers were pretty much down to nothing.
He tried not to sigh heavily, wondering if they even had a chance. He wondered if he should have taken Tom-Voldemort up on his offer of immunity for the rest of the resistance. It had probably just been a lie. The man had only been stalling so his Aurors could toss him into Azkaban or something.
But he still couldn't even think about it without something catching horrendously in his throat. And what recruits he did have certainly weren't happy with him.
Of course, there'd always been rumours. It was hardly a secret among the resistance that he used to bloody well date the enemy, but for a long time it had been squashed down as an uncomfortable thing that should never come up.
But everything seemed to become an issue when they were losing, especially when he'd come face to face with their notorious lord and master, and lived to tell the tale. Apparently that was rare enough that anyone who hadn't been close to them, back then (and most of the people in that category were dead or in Tom's inner circle) thought that was surprising enough despite his own reputation for them to at least consider foul play.
For years, he'd taken an alias simply because he couldn't stand the questions and the assumptions.
He'd once, in a weak moment with firewhiskey, joked to Hermione that it was like a stereotypical bad divorce but worse. Tom had taken his friends, his money in funding this bloody opposition, his hope in humanity and the country too just to rub salt in.
She hadn't been all that amused, but it was enough to stop Harry feeling like he was choking under the pressure.
He just didn't know how long they could keep this up.
At least not in the sense of civil war and rebellion. They were too outnumbered. He was currently working on trying to get some support from the other countries, France perhaps, because Voldemort was going to end up turning on them too and it was so familiar to the bombs he half remembered.
A house on fire, his mother's voice pleading…it all buzzed to dust in the back of his mind. Unattainable memories he'd never quite got back.
And for crying out loud, Tom-Voldemort had even taken his life ambitions, because the bastard had finally ended up dragging him into national and world politics too.
The git always had been a leech. Such insults seemed even sourer now than they did back then.
There was a truce dinner coming up. It seemed absurd to him to go to a fine dinner in Paris, merging with an international magical conference, but he needed help. He needed to dress up nice and make a good impression and fantastic arguments on why the world should step in and take Voldemort down and interfere, whilst his friends were dying around him and he lived in in a warded camp and set of tents in the middle of the forest.
It just seemed ridiculous. But he couldn't do this alone. Not anymore.
Some of the resistance had tentatively suggested that they just leave – flee England and start up a new life somewhere else, the battle lost.
Harry knew better.
If they stopped now, it was just a matter of waiting and hoping Voldemort didn't occupy whichever country they chose, whilst they still lived.
If he'd had any doubts that Voldemort would settle for Britain, they were gone.
He could feel a headache building, gave Hermione a reassuring smile.
"It will work out okay," he promised. "In the end."
Maybe he was an idealistic idiot despite it all and sort of hoped he'd still get through to Tom.
When he was sorted into Slytherin, Harry had to admit that he was a little nervous and could feel something nagging at his mind. Maybe the Sorting Hat's chuckles ringing in his head and the relishing smirk when it asked 'are you sure? Not going to argue are you?'
It seemed a bit weird; even for a talking hat.
Still, there was nothing wrong with ambition and Lady Dorea Black-nee Potter had been a Slytherin, so it wasn't like he was going to get booted out of the Potter family for it.
He'd been lucky they'd accepted him in the first place, but apparently he was a Potter because Goblin-run blood tests didn't lie, and he shared a remarkable family resemblance certain details aside.
He'd sat down, been a bit disappointed when Charlus had swaggered his way over to the Gryffindor table because now he didn't know anyone, and whilst he may have been a Potter, apparently the Slytherins could be a bit picky on their blood purity.
Certainly, Walburga Black was giving him a disdainful look down the table, and looked about a split second from hissing 'filthy little bastard' in his direction.
He probably clapped the loudest when Tom became a Slytherin too.
It was nice to have a familiar face.
There'd never been any doubt as to which house he would end up, in of course. He could talk to snakes, and so the House of the Serpent simply had to be fitting for him.
He could see them in their expensive robes, and he kept a cold, blank face as he made his way over, taking a seat next to Harry. He didn't let himself smile at the other, or at any of them.
There was a muted, somewhat awkward clapping. He didn't understand it. Was it because he was poor? He refused to be unnerved, tipping his chin up in defiance.
They made pleasant enough small talk to him. And he thought, for a second, that he'd imagined any sort of hostility.
Then, in the common room, he'd heard the word 'mudblood' hissed at him.
He didn't know what a mudblood was, but he certainly vowed to prove himself better than that. He would gain power, and then he'd show them – because he'd seen that look of circling him before, like he was a startled deer stuck in a snare around wolves.
He squared his shoulders. No. He wouldn't allow himself to be picked on this time. He'd put a stop to it in the Orphanage, he wasn't going to tolerate it here. He opened his mouth to say something withering, but the second after that Potter had smashed his fist right into the pointed face of Abraxas Malfoy.
There was a ringing silence, and the boy gave a winning grin over his cracked knuckles.
"I don't like that word."
It was unfortunate that their Head of House walked in at the same moment.
Tom couldn't describe his home as anything other than elegantly indulgent.
His sheets were the finest Egyptian cotton, and he had art in the walls straight from the National Gallery.
It was everything he'd always deserved and never had.
If there was spare guest bedroom, never mentioned by the House Elves who kept it spotless, or anyone else, with fresh sheets and an emerald green duvet, books on the shelves and an old Cleansweep in the closet…it didn't bear thinking about it.
He'd just got out of a PR meeting with Abraxas regarding their presentations in the upcoming Truce Dinner.
He didn't know if Potter would show up, but considering the other nations had made it clear it was an open invite, and it was under a truce, he suspected the other would just to stab at him further and make things difficult.
Maybe the man's hatred of politics would keep him at bay, but he doubted it. Harry always had been infuriatingly stubborn and defiant, from the first moment he met him.
It would be…interesting, either way, or he refused to give any due consideration to the man further. The traitor had been haunting his thoughts for too long already, especially because of the previous week's incident.
He'd been so close to having him…and he wasn't examining himself too closely on that regard either. Harry Potter was a threat, one that needed to be neutralized by whatever means necessary.
He told himself he was merely acknowledging that if Harry worked with him, instead of against him, his utopia would be set up far more quickly. Not that he didn't have the time to spare, but nonetheless.
God, he hated Potter so much.
He felt he could be consumed by his hatred, if he allowed himself to feel it, burning beneath his skin.
No, he had more important things to talk about, like the meeting with the quarterly meeting with the Werewolves he now had to attend to, and pretending he gave a damn about the children his 'friends' were suddenly so disgustingly insistent over creating.
…Maybe he'd get Harry a cactus for next time he saw the man.
He could stab it in his pretty eyes, and maybe that would stop old memories cluttering his sleep.
Either way, he had a lot to do before the dinner next week.
Being world leader was supposed to be more fun than this.