Chapter Text
“I have a problem,” Harry announces.
The majority of the students in the Gryffindor Common Room ignore him, as they’re all quite used to Harry Potter and his problems by now and would like to remain as far away from them as possible, because they tend to result in near-death or serious property damage or both. Unfortunately for Ron and Hermione, they’re his friends and thus obligated by contract to pay attention to him.
(While many have heard of this supposed contract, Fred and George remain the only non-parties to have ever laid eyes on it. Neither of them were very impressed.
“This is just a blank piece of parchment,” Fred had said with a frown.
“Is not!” Ron had protested, flushing. He’d snatched it out of Fred’s hands and vowed to hide it better next time. “It’s got dirt and blood and stuff on it.”
As Fred looked at the hand that once held the contract in horror, George had snorted and promptly decided that whatever nonsense his littlest brother had gotten himself into with Hermione Granger and Harry Potter, the less he knew the better.)
“What’d you do this time?” Ron asks, not looking up from where he’s thoroughly trouncing Hermione at chess, “Does it involve close contact with any piece of Malfoy’s anatomy?”
For a moment, Harry can only stand there, mouth hanging open in disturbed shock. “No!”
“Oh, good.”
Harry turns to Hermione instead, but she’s similarly unsympathetic. “I’ve seen the way Malfoy looks at you, Harry,” she tells him, “it isn’t that odd of a question.”
“For Merlin’s sake,” Harry says, “will you please look at me.”
Ron squints up at him. “Nice tiara, mate.”
“Honestly, Ron,” Hermione says with a huff, “it's a diadem. Tiaras are half-circles.”
“Oh, sorry, Harry,” Ron says, as if Harry cares at all what it’s called, “Nice diadem.”
Harry glares down at his friends, his hands planted firmly on his hips. “Seriously?”
“What?” Ron asks, and Harry can tell he’s trying very hard not to laugh.
“Aren’t you going to ask me why I’m wearing a diadem?”
Hermione finishes her next move then turns to look up at Harry. In her most patient voice, which just so happens to double as her most condescending voice, she asks, “Why are you wearing a diadem, Harry?”
Deciding that’s probably the best he’s going to get from them, Harry drops to sit beside them on the floor before the fire, pulling uselessly at the diadem’s band. “I can’t get it off.”
“What do you mean?” Hermione asks, narrowing her eyes at the diadem, as if it might tell her all its secrets if she glares hard enough.
“Exactly what it sounds like,” Harry says as he gestures toward the headpiece, “No matter how hard I try, it won’t come off.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“You’re welcome to see for yourself.”
Before Hermione can try anything, Ron gives it a go, grabbing the band and tugging as hard as he can. All he succeeds at doing is pulling Harry half into his lap, a move that results in a round of catcalling when the rest of the Common Room takes notice.
“Oh, fuck off,” Ron says, though he’s laughing.
Harry just buries his face in Ron’s shoulder.
Hermione chooses this moment to strike, wrapping her hand around the band and pulling as if she might achieve a different result from when Ron tried the same thing only a moment ago. To Harry’s complete lack of surprise, this doesn’t work either. Instead of diadem-free, Harry finds himself flat on his back with his head in Hermione’s lap and Ron between his splayed legs. Chess pieces dig into his spine.
“You guys are the worst,” he says as he stares up at the ceiling.
Soon enough, what feels like the entirety of Gryffindor House gets involved, everybody leaping at the chance to try and remove the stubborn piece of jewelry from Harry’s head.
“Why the fuck did you even put it on?” Angelina demands breathlessly as she pulls at the band with both hands.
Harry, who is almost parallel to the floor with the twins pulling at his feet and the rest of the quidditch team anchoring Angelina, has no good answer to give.
“It seemed like a good idea at the time,” he says in the moment before Angelina’s hands slip and he finds himself crashing face first to the floor, his legs still held aloft by Fred and George. He groans. “You can let go of my feet now.”
They do so, and he lets them thunk to the floor, the dull thud offering a pretty decent representation of his mood at the moment.
“You know,” Fred says as he crouches down beside Harry’s head, “There is one spell we could try.”
“Of course,” George continues, “it might make all your hair fall out.”
Harry rolls to his feet and springs away. “Oh, wow,” he says, a fake smile plastered across his face, “I’m suddenly very alright with having a tiara stuck on my head for the rest of my life.”
George scoffs at him. “Coward.”
Harry glares, but Ron swoops in before he can attempt to start something, grabbing him under his arms and dragging him back across the common room. As he goes, Harry lifts both his middle fingers in the air, and Fred snorts with laughter as George only blows him a kiss in reply.
Eventually, they give up on trying to remove the diadem.
Feeling very much like a failure, Harry falls asleep with the stubborn, over-friendly jewelry still firmly attached to his head.
When he next wakes, he’s no longer alone in his bed, and there’s a hand pressed flat against his mouth. “You know, Harry,” a distressingly familiar voice says, right against his ear, “You were trying so very hard to be rid of me, earlier. That hurt my feelings.”
With his heart in his throat, Harry jerks his elbow back, striking his assailant in the ribs. The arms holding him loosen just enough for him to roll atop his captor.
When he does, he thinks he might be sick.
Tom Riddle smiles up at him with his distressingly handsome face, looking far too smug for anyone's peace of mind.