Chapter Text
Tom’s first class had been cancelled.
He was in his sixth year now, and everyone in his year was busy preparing for NEWTs. Every corner of the castle seemed to echo with never-ending talks of due dates, apprenticeships, letters of recommendation, and general plans for the future. The library and the hospital wing were at peak capacity handling near-catatonic students. Hogwarts had turned, truly and fully, into academic hell.
Amidst this chaos, Tom Riddle—Slytherin Prefect, Top of his Year, and voted ‘Most Likely To Be The Youngest Prime Minister’ on the school gazette—had decided to spend his precious, unexpectedly acquired free time…
On orchestrating an accidental meeting with his favorite staff member.
It was the perfect way to start the day.
Tom loitered along the Defense classroom corridor with a lightness in his step. He went through various conversational topics in his head and cackled at random bursts when he imagined Professor Potter’s responses.
(‘Good morning, sir.’
‘No. I haven’t had a cup of coffee yet.’
‘We can share mine–’
‘I’d rather fall asleep while teaching and get sacked by the Board of Governors.’)
He spent about ten minutes doing just that (during which he had made a complete end-to-end pass of the hallway thrice) before he noticed that he was beginning to attract attention. Third-years on their way to class were giving him a wide berth, side-eyeing him with open curiosity and nervousness.
It might be partly because he was a sixth-year in a third-year class corridor, or partly due to his erratic maniacal laughter. Either way, he doubted he looked casual enough to convince the Professor that he was there by chance (which, again, he was definitely not), so he took a book out of his bag and nestled himself into an alcove beside the classroom entrance.
Waiting there with his face buried in a thick book only made him stick out like a muggle spy hiding behind a newspaper. Tom, fortunately, didn’t know this useless bit of reference, so he was quite content alternating between pretend-reading and surveying the passersby.
Was his hair in place? Yes. Uniform impeccable? Of course. Expression relaxed, unassuming, and clear of scheming? Only when asleep. But this was as close to guileless as he could get, so it would have to do.
At around seven minutes before class, the last of the stragglers had gone. There was still no sign of the Professor, but that was not uncommon; Harry Potter was occasionally known to run into class with the morning bell at his heels. Some might call it almost late, but Tom recognized it as exact punctuality accentuated by theatricality. A clever power play to keep them on their toes. As expected of the Professor.
Tom tidied his things. There was just enough time for one last sweep of the corridor—
A loud wooden clack resounded from inside the Defense classroom, followed by muffled arguing.
"Is that the Sorting Hat? "
"Shhh, we're about to do something awesome."
"How did you even steal it? It's supposed to be locked up—"
"We didn't steal it, we’re just borrowing it for a while—"
"You boys are going to get the whole class in trouble—"
“Please, what’s the worst they could do?”
It sounded like something Tom, as Prefect, was scholastically obligated to investigate. But it was so early, and bothersome, not to mention he already had plans…
“They wouldn’t expel us for messing a bit with Potter —”
But Tom was nothing if not adaptable. He slammed the door open, and the wood clunked against something heavy.
"Merlin —!" cried a male voice, atop a… stepladder?
For a terrifying second, it seemed like the boy would fall. Tom drew his wand at the same time two students—another boy, and a girl—rushed forward to steady the legs of the ladder.
The whole room seemed to hold its breath. Tom peered at two Gryffindor boys and one Ravenclaw girl as they regained their balance. They peered back, pale and silent. Carefully, Tom reholstered his wand, and the movement seemed to snap them out of reverie.
“H-hello,” stammered the one atop the ladder.
Tom stared not at his eyes, but at the ratty hat he was unsuccessfully hiding behind his back. “What’s your name?”
“It’s, uh. Erik. Sir.”
“Erik,” Tom repeated, pleasant. “Did the Headmaster authorise this?”
“Not exactly …”
“Then why, exactly,” Tom asked, less pleasant now, “do you have the Sorting Hat?”
None of the three students in front of him, or their safely seated classmates, said anything. They all seemed to focus on the gleaming Prefect’s badge on Tom’s robe (A fact that secretly made him preen. He spent a great deal of time polishing that blasted badge. It had better be noticed).
“We could either resolve this here, or in the Headmaster’s Office.” Tom shrugged, and the badge glinted at the movement (Look at it shine! He could laugh. All that polishing was worth it after all). “The choice is yours. Now, I’ll ask again: why do you have the Sorting Hat?”
Erik gripped the Hat to his chest. “We get the rules, Prefect Riddle. But could we please be punished after this class instead? We’re so close—”
It was an odd request, and Tom had developed an interest in odd things in the past years. This boy was clearly afraid of him, but his commitment to whatever it was they were planning seemed to override that fear. Tom narrowed his eyes. "What is this about?"
The boy steadying one side of the ladder answered for Erik. “We want to drop the Hat on Professor Potter."
Tom’s brows nearly touched his artfully styled fringe. “And you are?”
“Simon. Simon Penbrooke.”
The fact that Tom wasn’t yet hauling them to the Headmaster’s Office seemed to embolden Simon. He leaned in conspiratorially.
"Professor Potter's mentioned in passing that he's not an alum. So we asked him, 'Professor, which House d'you reckon you belong in?' But he wouldn’t say. Wouldn't even consider it hypothetically! So we thought we should look into it.”
"Naturally," Tom commented, not the least bit sarcastic. People were naturally curious about the Professor. It was just how things were.
"Right,” Erik nodded, relieved that Tom was still listening. “Then it kinda went downhill from there. Now, there's a huge bet going on—"
"Very huge bet—"
"HUMONGOUS bet, here in our class, and we're all very invested in it—"
"Aside from Myrtle."
"Hey!" the Ravenclaw girl squeaked, head popping behind the ladder. It was the first sound she’d made since Tom arrived.
She seemed vaguely familiar. Tom had the faintest recollection of maybe seeing her somewhere with… mirrors? But she ducked her head back behind the stepladder before he could place her face.
"...and the suspense is killing us, so here we are."
Erik and Simon were looking at Tom like they were prepared for any punishment if it meant they could go through with their plan.
"Are you telling on us, Mr Prefect?" Simon hedged.
Frankly, Tom didn’t need to be persuaded. They already had him the moment they mentioned “Professor Potter” and “House”.
Tom opened his bag and took out his coin pouch. “How much to enter?”
The boys grinned, Myrtle facepalmed, and behind them the class cheered.
Tom stepped out of the classroom in time to see a disheveled Professor Potter at a near run towards him. With every grace he could muster, the Slytherin Prefect sidestepped and gestured to the door.
“Hello, sir, you might want to—”
“Too early, Riddle. Save it for later.”
Then he was opening the door, and the morning bell, as if just waiting for the Professor, started its slow metal ding.
Harry’s voice boomed into the classroom, “Another day, another morning of you guys expecting me to be late, and me disappointing everyone—“
The bell was still on its first ding, the class was buzzing, a heavy swoosh of cloth sounded from above and—
“GRYFFINDOR! ”
Madness ensued.