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Published:
2021-09-22
Updated:
2021-09-22
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1,899
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2/?
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I can't turn your soul on

Summary:

Tom motioned toward Eleanor Evergreen at the Hufflepuff table. “Take her, for instance. A bit of a plain esthetic. And those teeth aren’t doing her any favors... But with the right potions regimen, better posture, a worthy suitor… she could easily be a contender for the Leavers' Ball Royal Court.”

Malfoy chuckled. “Well, how about a chance to prove your theory, then?” He had that malicious glint in his eyes, like right before he fouled in Quidditch when the referee was turned the other way. “What do you say, Tom? Are you up for a friendly wager?”

---

A cracky Tomarry time travel with a She's All That twist featuring Tom as Freddie Prinze Jr. and Harry as Rachael Leigh Cook

Notes:

I'm still chugging away at Steep Woods, just had this plot bunny holding me at gunpoint until I did something about it. So here's something completely self-indulgent that could not be helped.

Chapter 1: Prologue

Chapter Text

“I’ve got to go back, haven’t I?”

“That is up to you.”

“I’ve got a choice?”

“Oh yes,” Dumbledore smiled at him.  “We are in King’s Cross you say?  I think that if you decided not to go back, you would be able to… let’s say… board a train.”

“And where would it take me?  To the afterlife?”

“If that’s what you wanted.  Where would you like to go, Harry?”

He thought about it. 

All the regrets of past failures. 

All the dreams that would never come to be. 

All the disappointments of a life half-lived.  

Everything that had run through his mind thrice over as he had marched to his death. 

Was he ready to see his parents again?  Sirius?  Everyone else that he’d let down because he had been too slow—too witless—and just plain not good enough? 

“I don’t know,” Harry began.  What did he want? 

He should go back, surely.  Finish what he started.  Fulfill that accursed prophecy. 

But the mere idea was exhausting, and a bitter thought rang out clearly in his head, he’d done his part, hadn’t he? 

So he answered the question, more honest and more shameless than he’d ever been:  “I think I’d like to go somewhere no one knows the name Harry Potter.  Somewhere I can actually graduate from school.”  He smiled.  “Meet someone.  Fall in love.  I’d like to go somewhere I can live.”

“Then, my dear boy, you shall have it.”  The twinkle in his eyes was so familiar it was painful. 

“What—just like that?”

Dumbledore smiled.  “Just like that.”

Chapter 2: The Bet

Chapter Text

“Pardon?”  Tom was certain he had misheard.

“I got engaged over Christmas,” Druella repeated.  “To Cygnus Black.”

The news took him unawares, and Tom found himself wrong-footed and off-center for the first time since that unfortunate broom incident in Fourth Year.  It was the only excuse for his juvenile response.  “Cygnus?  What kind of name is that?”

“What kind of name is Tom?”  Druella spat back.  “Okay, Cygnus is a Black—as in the Noble and Most Ancient House of?”

“I know who the Blacks are, Druella.  I go to school with five of them,” Tom said, racking his memories for which one Cygnus was.  “Cygnus Black… I think he asked me how to spell ‘orange’ once.”  He’d graduated a couple of years ago, most assuredly on the coattails of some sizeable donations to the school, if his academic performance were any indication.

“Whatever.  His family owns half of Diagon Alley.”  She flipped her hair back and smirked, as if that were the hallmark of a good marriage candidate.  Maybe that was all it took for these medieval purebloods with all their fetish for wealth and power.

“So that’s it, then?”  Tom possessed no strong feelings for Druella one way or the other, but losing her this far along in the courtship would be a considerable setback.  And the fact that a degenerate like Cygnus Black—who, on multiple occasions, had been caught huffing Murtlap Essence behind the greenhouses—was behind it proved the affair all the more odious.

“Oh, Tommy.  Did you honestly think that we’d stay together after Hogwarts?”  She cupped his cheek in a familiar gesture.  “Merlin, you did.  That is so sweet.”

Tom buried his irritation and smiled.  “Well.  Best of luck to you and Cygnus, then.”  He would just have to make some adjustments, explore other options for ingratiating himself to the upper echelons of pureblood society.

He had already mastered death.   Everything else was a cakewalk in comparison.

---

News traveled fast at Hogwarts.  Doubly so when it involved the who’s who of the dating circuit.  

So by lunchtime, the entire student body had caught onto the break-up of the Slytherin House’s power couple. 

Tom glowered through his meal, enduring the post-split jibes and condolences from his year mates as politely as he could.  It wasn’t often that they got the opportunity to revel in the schadenfreude of the King of Slytherin, and Tom, being the generous ruler that he was, conceded to his subjects enjoying themselves for the time being.

“Well, if anyone was going to do it, it’d be Druella.  She’s basically Tom, but you know—with breasts,” Abraxas said, miming lewdly, and the table burst with laughter.

Tom drew the line there. 

Druella was insignificant.  As replaceable and superfluous as the next nameless pureblooded witch with a halfway acceptable demeanor and an inheritable Gringotts account.

“Druella Rosier, gentlemen, is an illusion.  A myth,” Tom opened.  “Strip away the appearance-enhancement charms, the luxurious garments, the insipid gaggle of her so-called friends—all that remains is a barely-graduating schoolgirl whose peak life achievement will amount to playing broodmare to an inbred illiterate.” 

Then to Black, he added, “No offense.”

“Oh, come off it.  You’re just bitter,” Malfoy complained.

Tom ignored him and motioned toward Eleanor Evergreen at the Hufflepuff table.  “Take her, for instance.  A bit of a plain esthetic.  And those teeth aren’t doing her any favors...  But with the right potions regimen, better posture, a worthy suitor… she could easily be a contender for the Leavers' Ball Royal Court.”

“Merlin, he’s serious,” Nott breathed. 

“And clearly delusional,” Mulciber added.

Malfoy chuckled.  “Well, how about a chance to prove your theory, then?”  He had that malicious glint in his eyes, like right before he fouled in Quidditch when the referee was turned the other way.  “What do you say, Tom?  Are you up for a friendly wager?”    

Before Tom could respond, put your money where your mouth is on the tip of his tongue, Lestrange chimed in, “Wait, wait, wait—come on, Abraxas.  This is an emotionally charged time for our dear friend.  You really shouldn’t be taking advantage.”

Then, Avery, smiling:  “No, no.  Let’s play it out.  We could all do with some proper entertainment to take the pressure off of NEWTs prep.”

Tom quickly revised the mental rankings of his social group.

“Unless you’re too heartbroken…?” Malfoy taunted.

Unfortunately, this blond bastard was already occupying the bottom of the list.

“Name your terms,” Tom ordered. 

And while he knew better than to debase himself with these inane, unsavory games—he had a reputation to uphold, after all—he found it utterly reprehensible to back down from the challenge. 

One of these days, he was going to learn how not to let his pride get the better of him.

“I pick the target.  You have the remainder of the year to get them elected to the Royal Court, just as you said.  If you succeed, I’ll give you an afternoon with the Malfoy family grimoire I know you’ve been eyeing.”

Credit to the pointy son of a bitch—after all their years together, he’d finally gained an understanding of exactly what made Tom tick.

“And if I fail?”  As if that even entered the realm of possibility.

“We can keep it simple—I’ll be owed a favor from the illustrious Tom Riddle.”

Tom didn’t think twice about what Malfoy might ask of him, his mind already straying to what new dark secrets he could glean from the written record of a centuries-old lineage.  He offered his hand for a shake.  “I accept.”

“Well, then,” Malfoy mused as he gripped his hand, “shall we review the candidates?”

The next ten minutes passed by in a repetitive blur of the Slytherin seventh-years calling attention to the most exceptional undesirables of their class.

“What about him?”  Nott gestured to a pudgy blond boy at the Ravenclaw table.  He had gravy on his chin.

“Nah.  Smart is the new sexy these days,” Malfoy said, dismissive.  “Way too easy.”

“And her?”  This time it was Avery, pointing to the Gryffindor table at a mess of bright red hair.

And again, Malfoy voiced his displeasure.  “You must be joking.  Prewett could make Court all on her own.  Any girl on a broom is hot.” 

“Hey mate, I don’t see you coming up with any bright ideas,” Lestrange protested. 

“Yes, well—” Malfoy cut himself off with a boisterous laugh, mouth still half-full of roast chicken.  “Gentlemen, I think we have a winner.” 

Everyone, Tom included, turned to look in the direction of Malfoy’s gaze.  At the sight, Tom felt his heart fall into his stomach. 

It was the new kid, ambling into the Great Hall looking as if he’d just woken, despite it being past noon.

“Oh, come on.  That’s not fair,” Tom groaned, eyeing the Gryffindor with distaste.  “He’s got glasses!”  There was Spellotape wrapped thickly around the bridge.  “And look at his scar!”  It was ghastly and hideous.  “And he’s got treacle on his robes!”  At least, Tom hoped that it was treacle.

“A bet’s a bet,” Malfoy declared, looking ever the cat that swallowed the canary.  It probably came from the new kid’s hair, by the looks of the disheveled heap.

Tom didn’t know much about him—Porter or Painter or some other undistinguished profession along those lines.  The Slytherins only had Potions and History of Magic with the Gryffindors this year, and Tom had been less than impressed from what he’d seen so far.

Packer was lazy and messy, always inexplicably sporting ink somewhere on his face and smelling like owl droppings.  Plus, he was a Muggleborn, which automatically relegated him to the bottom rung of the social ladder.

At Tom’s continued silence, Malfoy goaded, “Come now, Tom.  The clock’s ticking… Are you sure you want to spend your precious time sulking?”

It had been a while since Tom had snuck a snake into Malfoy’s bed.  Maybe tonight.

Appetite long lost, Tom left his lunch half-eaten on the table and stood, straightening his robes.  He smiled in that practiced, dangerous way most tended to find unnerving and announced, “You men are in for a treat.”  Then he strode toward the Gryffindor table, relishing in all the eyes that followed him.

He approached Plumber with his usual confidence, casually settling into the empty seat beside him.  He could feel the other Gryffindors staring at the unfamiliar intrusion, but they didn’t dare object to his presence.  Tom ignored them, all the same.

Planter didn’t even appear to notice the change in surroundings.

“Hello,” Tom opened, employing the cloying voice he’d cultivated specially for these occasions.

Postman looked up, and his tired green eyes seemed to flash through a number of emotions all at once—alarm, anger, anxiety—before finally fixing on annoyance.  Then he turned back down to his lunch and continued to spoon soup into his mouth.

Well, it wouldn’t be the first time the object of his affections tried to play hard to get.  And that never lasted long.

“I’m Tom Riddle,” he tried again, feeling a bit ridiculous.  He was Head Boy.  The top of their class.  The Heir of goddamn Slytherin. 

He hoped that the nest of Boomslangs in the Forbidden Forest he’d discovered last year was still there.  Malfoy wouldn’t know what hit him.

Proctologist—okay come on, you know that can’t be right—sighed into his bowl.

“I was wondering if you might—”

Before Tom could finish his invitation to Hogsmeade, the Gryffindor got up from his seat, soup bowl and spoon still in hand, and left the Great Hall, abandoning Tom to the rest of the remaining lions.  They were still staring at him with their mouths agape. 

Tom smiled at the onlookers, charming and unperturbed.

It was fine.  It was just a matter of time.