Harry didn't know that this many children were interested in learning the most effective way to beat people up. He'd considered himself an outliner in that way, his willingness to throw hands at the slightest opportunity. Having to fight to survive will leave you a taste for it. He is the boy who lived and would like to stay that way. But it seems that most children, boy who lived or not, take to feralness with a surprising degree of candor.

In the core of every student is a small ball of anarchy. In the core of Harry, the ball is not small but all consuming. If these kids want violence, then they will get violence. Who better to nurse that ideal than Harry Potter?

His legacy does not end with killing Voldemort and will not end now that he has transferred -- for lack of better word -- to another universe.

He takes to the library after what can be best described as a taxing but exhilarating first day of teaching. He reads through modern history book after modern history book, looking at newspaper clippings after newspaper clippings. Legal documents.

Everything, personally, in Harry's past he can look back on with skewed amounts of pride. There is minimal regret even in the most regrettable actions. He makes his choices with his heart on his mind and so he makes his choices with perfect clarity -- his emotions have led him wrong only as many times as he can count on one hand.

He has hurt people that, in hindsight, he probably shouldn't have ( Sorry, Sirius). But he has always acted in the moment, with everything he'd known, to the best of his ability -- so what use , he thinks, is regret?

And Harry wonders if Tom Riddle can say the same. If Tom Riddle should.

He will flip through them, these slices of Tom Riddle's life in both the public and private eye, in the morning. He will sleep soundlessly and awake in a cold sweat to dreams he does not understand nor remember.

One of the most surprising surface level observations made, all without the necessity of further research, of prodding for thinly veiled evil, was that Tom Riddle was not appointed Presidency at eighteen -- an unbelievable proposition as it was -- but at sixteen, following immediately the death of his father.

And though he is angry at this Ministry's incompetence, caught in a web of pure disbelief, confused... he's also curious. If Tom Riddle can become President at sixteen here, then what all can Harry do at fifteen?

...

Harry wakes late. His alarm clock appears broken and tampered with and Harry would be shocked that he'd made enemies so quickly if it was not so completely in character... and if he hadn't already.

Severus Snape. He is not the type to let a slight go unpunished. And snakes, Harry's discovered, don't punch back.

They bite. Harry guesses this is Severus' first -- and not at all final -- attempt of what they call 'payback.'

It is fun. The start of a beautiful rivalry with an ugly man, the likes of which remind Harry vividly of Draco Malfoy. Like godfather, like godson.

Well, two can play at that game. And two will. (Violent children are good like that. Easy to send toward violent adults. What good are fangs in the face of fire?)

Harry arrives at the Great Hall late. He will have barely any time to eat -- and maybe that's a part of it, Snape's revenge. Noticing that someone tends to like eating... and then preventing them from eating. Rude and subtle and delightfully fucked up. All the things he's come to expect of Severus Snape.

"You're late," notes Snape. His tone is neutral. Face blanket. A good, impartial observation to the untrained eye, but Harry knows better. He knows better because he knows Snape. The thing about hiding your emotions is that it gives away the act that you have them -- and here, they are all but unkind.

"And your hair's soaked in olive oil," says Harry, smoothing over his robes as he lowers himself into his seat. "But it's a bit rude to state the obvious, isn't it?"

Snape takes a sip of his tea, unbothered (or appearing so -- either way, the lack of a reaction is a loss) by Harry's sarcasm. That's alright. The word rebound is in Harry's blood.

"What would you do, Severus," asks Harry between swallows, "if all those kids you hurt... Well, no. That's not the right place to start, is it? Have you ever watched the movie Looper, Severus?"

"I," says Severus, stoically, but firmly, "do not watch movies."

But it is the protest of a man whose roots are considered poisonous. Harry thinks that for people like him... change is not just a good thing. It is a lifeline. As is the fact that the past is, sometimes, a thing so easily overlooked and forgotten.

It is the voice of a man who is pretending to be a pureblood, who wants, so bad, to be one, and cannot escape the fact that he isn't.

Harry has seen that face before because he has seen the face of Tom Riddle from the diary. Prone to attack just muggleborns because if he only provided sanctuary for purebloods, he would very well be damning himself.

"Has any ever told you you're a really bad liar, Severus?"

"No."

"Oh," says Harry. "Maybe they should, though, maybe they should."

Severus scoffs. "Get to your point, child. I have no time for games."

"Sure, sure. In Looper, time travel exists. And not in the limited, sub par way we have it -- it's the real deal. And so people are able to hire assassins, all throughout the timeline. If someone is set to be killed, they'll be sent back to the past to one of these assassins, who will kill them, collect their payment, and move on. After so many years of service, their future self is sent back and they're set to kill them, too. The movie is based on the premise of a future self that does not want to die -- a fascinating concept, a good watch, I assure you."

"When I say 'get to the point,' I do mean it."

Harry huffs, rolling his eyes. "All in good time. But it's funny, isn't it? That one would be so resistant to a fate they agreed to ? He reaped what he sowed. He chose to kill people in exchange for fifty years of rich retirement and then an untimely demise... and that is exactly what he got."

"Are you threatening me?"

"No," yes, "but I am warning you, friend to friend. When you choose to hurt someone, it should not be so unbelievable that, one day, they'll choose to hurt you back."

But it is to him. Severus scoffs and rises from his chair, scowl on his face, like Harry is not a threat. Like Harry's warnings are just theatrics. He acts like self defense, like retribution and the possibility of it, is unbelievable.

Harry shugs the rest of his juice down. Well, so be it. A man whose arrogance is their downfall had nothing to be arrogant about in the first place. Harry is not exactly used to being underestimated, but it once did happen.

And you know what they say. Old habits die hard.

...

Before dinner's start that night, Harry receives an owl. Harry does not recognize the bird -- as expected; that is another loss of coming here. No more Hedwig. -- but he does recognize the handwriting.

It is Sirius'. He has not been abandoned. The darkness in his soul (both figuratively and literally) has not scared him away.

Harry feels so silly, having nurtured an unsound worry. Sirius is his family. What Sirius knows about Harry is limited to the savory parts. There was no need for concern, for such anxiety. It is all fine. (He feels so silly. But old habits die hard.)

The first part of the letter contains, written in that familiar neat scrawl, an update on Sirius. He has been released from jail and has taken to Auror training with exceptional pace. The work is nice. The food is better. The boarding is not ideal, but having access to Harry's bank account makes everything just a bit easier.

He's sorry, he said, to not have contacted him the moment he could, but he was distracted, busy, and...

And, added in thick, messy strokes, he has found Remus.

And, okay, he's no carbon copy of what Sirius knew. His laugh is a pitch or two off and he refuses, continually, to recuperate any sort of feelings Sirius expresses. His favorite brand of chocolate is not even that good.

But it's okay, the fact that he's different. It's okay because Sirius is not planning on staying and it's okay because he did not expect this Remus to be the same. The fact that they are even similar is a miracle worth appreciating.

Similar. Sirius is good with similar.

Sirius loves him. Looks forward to working with him. And is sorry, again, to have been so late to respond.

Harry leans back in his chair with a soft smile. Remus. It's good that Sirius found him, that he isn't alone. He seems to be recovering fairly well from the rehash of trauma that being in jail must have brought on.

"What's got you in such a good mood?"

Harry throws a glare at his side. "Is it really so odd that I'm happy, Severus? It's a normal human emotion, don't know if you've heard of it. Then again, you seem more of the broody type, I'd think."

If he is not used to fifthteen year olds insulting him all day, then he's one hell of an actor. "The letter. Who's it from?"

"Sugma," says Harry simply.

"Sugma who?"

"Suck my momma's toes." Oh my god, he can't believe that worked. He has to tell Sirius. He'll never let him live it down.

Severus gives no outward reaction. Unfair. But expected, and a reaction in it of itself. "He was right about you. A child ."

Oh, so Tom's been talking, huh? Spies in Hogwarts. It's called privacy for a reason. "Don't know why that fact is so surprising to you all," says Harry, grinning. "I've said that I'm fifteen, like... a million times now, I'm pretty sure. It's called acting your age and it's why I'm so much cooler than you."

"Cool does not win elections, Potter, and it does not keep jobs."

"Well, it does win something, doesn't it?"

Snape snorts. "So are you really not going to tell me what's in that letter?"

"Depends," says Harry. "Asking for yourself or Tom?"

Snape's jaw tightens. Good. He's getting to him.

"I'll take that as a 'Tom,' then." Harry rolls his eyes. "Tell Tom to keep his -- and your -- nose out of my business. And then tell Tom that it's nothing he probably doesn't know already. I'm just glad Sirius has found his lover. That's it."

Snape blinks at him. "Sirius?"

"Sirius Black, the one and only. Dunno if he's considered a mass murderer over here or not, but--"

"No," says Snape slowly. "He is not."

"Shoot, then, all the merrier."

"But I am not... so sure he has found his lover."

Harry waves the letter around in the air. "Hate to disappoint you, Sev, but it says so right here. He's come in contact with Remus."

"Remus Lupin?"

"That's the bitch." Harry grins fondly.

"Remus Lupin is not Seveurs' lover. At least," he adds, as an afterthought, "not here."

"Yeah?" Harry laughs. "Then who is?"

And then Snape locks eyes with him. A single word spills out of his mouth, unknowingly damning: "Me."

...

Harry is still in shock by the time Tom picks him up for the weekend. He shuffles, absently, a suitcase from hand to hand. It is filled with the most casual un-casual robes he could find. His wand -- his poor fucking wand -- is out of commission. And his prophecy -- and it is his, he fought for it and all spoils of war are well earned -- is dead. He sould not bring himself to throw it away. It is stowed in the bottom drawer of his classroom's desk.

It's weird, having no personal belongings. Even with the Durselys, he had something. Broken or somehow salvageable toys dug shamefully out of the trash. Hand me down stuffed animals. And, yes. Spoils of war.

Here, he has next to nothing. He as a bank account to his name, a room and board all to himself -- but these things, though they legally belong to him, are not his. This wardrobe is fitted for his body but not his taste. The room and bed are nice -- too nice. It is nothing like his bedroom in Grimmauld or even the old Gryffindor dormitory. His money here is not inherited; it's practically stolen. Ripped out from under the other Harry... who, to his credit, sounds worth stealing from.

He is a stranger here. A stranger everyone but himself seems to know.

Harry leans against the Hogwarts gate, right outside the apparition (or, as they put it here, teleportation) wards. Tom arrives right on time.

Tom looks him over immediately. "You're... exceedingly casual today," he notes, a small frown on his face.

"Thanks," says Harry, standing up straight. "As I am every day."

"Some of the outfits I picked out for you--"

"Are worth the same amount that feeding a starving family for a year is?" Harry snorts. "Yeah, I know."

Tom huffs. "Some of the outfits I choose for you others would kill to have, Harry."

"Interesting wording, Tom." He sticks out his arm, already knowing far too well that is in no mood for hand holding. Harry is an object to him. His opinion is valued only when it is convenient for him. "Shall we?"

Tom grabs his arm. "So eager, Harry, one might even say you want to hang out with me."

"You wish."

"Every time," says Tom. They disappear with a pop, leaving Harry to ponder the insincerity of his words on his own time.

..

"I had thought, " Harry says, bordering on laughing, the absurdity of this situation having him worrying that the Veil did something to his head, "that being an advisor meant doing some, you know. Advising . Sirius and I worked on the same field, not the same ballroom."

"And I had thought that you would wear something more fitting for a dinner party," says Tom, shrugging. "Alas, not everyone can get what they want."

"I am going to beat you to a pump."

"Not before my next photo op, okay? One can only appear with bruises in public so many times before people start asking questions." Harry can think of a handful of questions that people should be asking Tom Riddle and none of them have to do with his personal safety. Questions like Why are you letting a fifteen year old teach at Hogwarts? and Isn't it a bad idea to let an untrained child be your personal advisor?

But, you know. Bruises are a much more pressing matter.

It is a lunch-to-dinner party at Malfoy Manner. Meaning Harry would be rubbing elbows not just with Draco Malfoy, pristine heir of Lucius Malfoy, but also a bunch of people like him. Rubbing elbows with the very people he hates and the very people Tom so very obviously wants to show him off to.

Harry had asked, repeatedly, what this party was even for. And Tom had just smiled and shook his head, so Harry knows that this is a party that doesn't need to be a party. This is a party of bragging and subsequent sycophancy the likes of which Harry does not participant in. The likes of which Harry loathes.

He's not like these people. Corrupted by money. Corrupted by power. He is not like these people and does not get along with these people.

As they're waiting for the doorman to take their overcoats and Harry's suitcase, Harry wonders aloud, "What's stopping me from going feral in there? I could rip some of these guys a new one, you know. A slice of humble pie or two would do these fools some good."

Tom smiles. Harry wonders what about his threat was endearing. "Before you go fist fighting my closest associates, do consider that that bracelet of yours is still in effect."

Harry frowns at it on his wrist. "So?"

" So, " explains Tom, nodding to the doorman, "you're strong, I admit. But you are not stronger than magic, and this is a room full of wizards well trained in it."

Harry flexes his forearm. "You heard of that pureblood kid I arm wrestled?" Harry's sure he has. Tom Riddle has been keeping track of him. Spies and all. "I'm not stronger than magic, but, here, I'm stronger than all magicians."

"Yes, well, a duel with these people will not be an arm wrestle."

Harry sighs. "If I look like I'm going to start to lose it, then get me out of there. Cause, otherwise, no promises."

"Alright," says Tom, replacing his grip on Harry's arm. "That I can manage."

Walking through the door to the ballroom, it hits him fully how underdressed he is. These people are not his people. They're like Tom. All dressed up and nowhere to go.

Acting civilized, for Harry, is a ticking time bomb. So he does not act. He does nothing. He lets Tom guide him through the crowd, greeting couple after couple -- a few of which Harry recognizes -- and Harry says the minimum. He does not need to bow because Tom does not bow. Harry, he'll say his name is. Harry Potter. I'm accompanying Tom to dinner. No, I'm not his date. I'm his plus one.

Tom rolls his eyes every time, claiming him to just be so humble and Harry thinks that it wasn't the people he's meeting that would send him raging, but the one he's met already.

Draco Malfoy shakes his hand, maintaining eye contact, and tells him that he's dressed very well tonight. Harry squeezes his hand so hard it hurts.

When Tom tears him away from the crowd, Harry mutters angrily, "You should've told me we were going to a party. I'm dressed for fighting."

"The notice was rather last minute, Harry."

"Bullshit. Malfoys don't do last minute and sure a shit neither do you."

Tom tilts his head, that curious look in his eyes. "What are you suggesting?"

"That you wanted to make me stand out." Harry grits his teeth. "Wanted to claim me, draw attention to me so it could be reflected back at you. Now that you've noticed him, notice who's with him, right?"

"Yes," Tom admits. There is not even a hint of shame in his voice. "That was precisely the idea. It's working out rather well so far, isn't it?"

"Why do you act like you care what I want?"

"I am not acting--"

"No," interrupts Harry. "I'm not buying that. You give me an ounce of freedom because you know I want it. And then you take so much of it away -- by doing this, by holding me like this, " he moves the arm Tom's hand is attached to. "By discounting my privacy and my consent. And I'm supposed to be, what? Grateful ?" Harry laughs a hollow laugh. "I don't think so. And I don't get it."

Tom says nothing for a moment. "So you did get my letter."

Harry is off put by the change of subject. "What?"

"My letter. The one I sent you. What did you think of it?"

"Nothing," says Harry blankly.

"Nothing?"

"I thought it, and your press conference confessing you respected my privacy and asked others to do the same, was a blatant manipulation tactic meant to vie for my affection so, no Tom," Harry says sweetly, smiling. "I didn't think anything of it."

"But you liked it," pesters Tom. "The idea of it. Did you like it?"

"I literally just said no."

"I meant," says Tom, exasperated, "outside of the idea of me."

"Did I like that you didn't go spewing details of my personal life everywhere?"

"Yes. That."

Harry laughs right in his face."Of course, you dumbass. Are you stupid? Why would you even think I would answer no? Are all questions in need of asking? Aren't you supposed to be smart ?"

Tom frowns. Harry's anger stings sharply in the air but he ignores it. Somewhere along the line, Harry has been taught that the most effective form of communication is violence, is anger. It is hardly his fault. And, mainly, it means that Harry is trying to communicate. Tom glances at his hand, wrapped tightly around Harry's bicep. Possessive. Harsh.

This, he decides, is not the grip of a lover. It's a grip of an owner. And Harry Potter can't be owned. And Harry Potter doesn't want to be.

So Tom Riddle slowly releases his hand and holds it out to Harry. An offering. Close to a truce. He clears his throat. "Would you rather hold hands?"

Harry stares at him. He chuckles a little, like Tom's joking. He frowns when he realizes he isn't. "What?" Harry asks. "Are -- are you serious?"

"Yes," says Tom. "You... do not like it when I touch you like that."

Harry just keeps staring at him like he cannot believe Tom would be so -- what's the word, kind. And it's Tom's fault. It's Tom's fault his kindness is suspicious.

Tom takes a deep breath and lowers his hand to his side. "Or... for now, you can just go talk to whoever you like. I have business to attend to regardless."

Harry skitters away hesitantly at first, before quickly melting into the crowd. He was given freedom and does not trust it.

Tom takes himself a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. Harry Potter is a difficult character. It will take time to understand him, to adapt accordingly. From the looks of it, all they have is time.

Tom plasters his winning smile back on his face and begins conversing the practiced way he does once more. He is a politician in love. But a politician nonetheless.

...

Harry finds Draco Malfoy in the corner, leaning against the wall. Dressed as a proper pureblood heir, he blends into the scenery with ease. This is very much his home. "Willing coming over to me," notes Malfoy, raising an eyebrow. "I hadn't thought you the type to hang out with your enemies during parties."

Harry sighs, leaning against the wall beside him. Night and day. Not a bit alike. "Well, I came here with Tom Riddle, didn't I?"

"Mhm. That is true."

Maybe Draco is thinking of the last time they talked. Insulting each other, rolling around in a blur of fury on the ground, then... getting food together.

Harry certainly is. "Do you remember what you told me?"

Draco cocked his head. "You'll have to be more specific."

"You said he'd get bored of me. And it hasn't happened yet. So who's the real winner?"

Draco grins. "Hardly anyone, Harry. It hasn't even been a month yet."

"Oh, I wouldn't hold your breath if I was you."

"Really? Care to make a bet on that?"

Harry pops his finger in his fist. "Last time I made a deal with a politician, I was duped."

"Is that a no?"

Harry smiles then shakes his head, chuckling. Always rising to the challenge. "Of course it ain't."

"Good," says Draco brightly. "I didn't peg you for a coward."

"How long are you giving him?"

Draco hums. "Two months. Tops."

Harry whistles. "Damn, Draco. Not even three?"

" Two. I bet ten galleons on it."

Harry is not of the same opinion. He has seen the way Tom fixities on him. His obsession with him and... in his own, Tom Riddle way, Harry's body. His willingness to not exactly adapt but pretend to, to try to. He does not know this Tom Riddle like he knows his Voldemort. But he knows him well enough.

"I raise you twenty." Harry runs his fingertips over his bracelets. The silver is cold against his hand and wrist. "Though I'd say it'd take less for me to get bored of him ."

Draco eyes the bracelet too. Perhaps he knows what it means. Harry would eat his shirt if he didn't. "Not the perfect spouse the media makes him out to be," he says, quietly, "Huh?"

Harry looks toward the crowd of people, all so unlike him, with Tom Riddle the unofficial center. The most unlike him. "Not at all. I don't know if you know this, but Gryffindors don't take fondly to rules."

"Nor do Slytherins," Draco says. "And your... relationship... with him. Does it have a lot of those?"

Harry snorts. "It's fascinating how possessive a man can be one second... and how normal he seems to everyone else the next. His... smile. It's different, too. When not aimed at me. Less than two weeks from my sixteenth birthday and this is the present I get." Harry laughs, mostly to himself. "It's incredible."

"Your birthday, eh?" he says under his breath. Draco watches Tom Riddle with him too. "We can make a separate bet," he says.

Harry turns toward him. "Hm?"

Draco faces him. "For how long it will take for you to get bored of him. I'd like to bet... ten minutes."

"Dicey," says Harry, sort of impressed. "May I ask why?"

"Have you two kissed before?"

Harry raises an eyebrow. Purebloods and their subtly. Oh, where, oh where does it go? "No," he says. "I don't kiss."

"You don't?"

"No," says Harry.

"Well," says Draco, shifting on his feet. "Would you like to?"

Harry laughs. "What? With you?"

Draco shrugs. "Why not? Maybe Tom," he points to him, "will see. I reckoned that'd get the 'break and abandon you' cycle started pretty quick."

"Right," says Harry. "But I'm on the betting side that doesn't want that to happen."

"Is your trust in him really so little that he'd be done with you over one paltry kiss?"

Harry's lips draw into a tight line. "I don't know. It'd be a roll on the dice on other matters, though."

Draco smirks. "Oh, yeah? And what are those?"

"Your safety," admits Harry. The words I'd punish her for her indolence if you hadn't beaten me to the punch come to mind. "He's yet to hurt anyone on my behalf yet, but..."

"But you wouldn't put it past him," finishes Draco.

"And, besides," Harry says, laughing, the absurdity of the conversation catching up to him, "I don't kiss. Like... ever."

"You don't want me to be your first kiss," jests Draco, leaning toward Harry. "Is that it?"

"Sort of," says Harry, tilting his head up. "I'd doubt I'd be very good at it anyway."

Draco's face is close. Close enough that Harry can feel his breath on his lips. Dracos' face is warm. He knows this because he can feel it. Harry takes a step back. "Sorry," says Harry. "You're Draco Malfoy. And I don't kiss Draco Malfoy."

"Nor do you hang out with your enemies during parties," says Draco. "Yet here we are."

"Careful," whispers Harry.

"What?"

"Tom's watching." And, very well, he is. Knee deep in a conversation regarding foreign affairs with what must be a very important person, Tom's mouth is moving. He's saying, surely, all the right things. But above this man's head, Tom's eyes are locked onto them.

Harry wonders where the hesitant, nearly considerate man he'd talked to just a moment ago went. Tom had let go of his arm, asked if he wanted to hold hands, and then let him run off. Where had that passiveness gone?

Tom Riddle, he thinks, is passive and jealous. He is both. Harry doesn't know where that kind man has gone because he's still here. Now he's just... not alone.

Draco stands up straights, sticks his hands in his pockets, and sighs. Tom Riddle looking evil as all fuck is his obvious cue to leave. "Do keep in mind, Harry," he says before taking his leave. "My offer still stands."

"As do our bets?"

Draco rolls his eyes but he says still, "Yes. As do our bets."

"One last thing, Draco." Draco pauses, looking over his shoulder at him.

Harry walks up to him and, swiftly, and without further notice, punches Draco hard in the arm. Draco bites his lip to subdue a yelp and scowls, holding his arm close to his chest. "What the hell was that for?" he hisses.

Harry tilts his head toward Tom, shrugging. "So I can say I beat him to the punch," Harry explains. It helped someone once, even if I didn't mean it to. Maybe, now, it'll help you, too.

Draco stares at him before chuckling once, softly. He ducks his head, rubbing his aching arm absently. "Still a good punch," he says. "Thanks, Harry Potter." He leaves and Harry is left staring across the ballroom floor, making eye contact with a more than furious Tom Riddle.