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At ten years old, Thomasin Riddle’s lie detector was already perfect. She knew exactly when someone was lying, their body language and speech dead giveaways.
She was good at pretending to be nice about it, pretending to not see the barely disguised false smiles and lies, good at smiling and saying nice things in such a sweet tone to make people pliable. In a minority of the time, people at least tended to sweeten to her. Most of the time, though, it was as if they could sense the wrongness within her, and kept their rudeness.
Thomasin did not understand why it didn’t work. She had studied the older girls in the orphanage, had taken their personalities and grabbed the best bits to claim as her own; in theory, she should be as beloved as Dorothy, Alice or Louise, and yet… Nothing. People all but recoiled at the sight of her.
Therefore, she did not feel bad when she took things from people, nor when the mysterious power that was within her made things catch on fire. Similarly, if snakes heard her complaints and attacked people, it was not on her conscience to bear.
If she couldn’t rule by love, very well: by force it would be. After all, it had worked on Dennis and Amy, and that little sliver of power had been intoxicating to her.
It was that sharp instinct that made her know very well that the man in front of her was not her father. Thomasin stared at the stranger - Harry Potter, so distant from the surname that her mother had given her - and knew that he was not whoever he claimed to be. Maybe his name was the only true thing about him, but she doubted it very much.
Thomasin, though, didn’t know why he’d be interested in her. She had been the perpetually ignored child - even when she was young and cuter, more adoption-ready than her old self, couples would fawn over her for a moment, then look into her eyes and sense that she was not the sweet child presenting herself to be. Sure, she had been childish and dreamed of her father rescuing her a few times, but she was too grown for such fantasies.
She squinted at the man and then made her face into a mask of pleasantness. He’d give up on her soon enough.
“I’m glad father has finally decided to come find me,” she said, earning an undisguised glare from Mrs. Cole. “Would father like to help me pack my things?”
He looked at Thomasin as if she was a puzzle, and she stared at him back, trying to keep her good-natured smile. It was a lot of work to look polite, but she found people did not bother her as much if she was at least seemingly polite and fawn-like; no one had bothered her too much when she faked tears and said she’d been scared after the cave.
The difference, and what made her superior, is that she “overcame” her burden, unlike her peers, still affected by it. Really, to be bothered by a bunch of corpses? She had only threatened to throw them in. It had been their noise who had called them up after Thomasin had thrown that stone in.
“Yeah, sure.”
Informal, this mysterious man. He gave a nod to Mrs. Cole, who muttered something about papers that Thomasin didn’t care about, and followed her when Thomasin walked away to her room.
It was small, and anyone who looked in would not think anyone lived in it: the bed was pristine, and Thomasin refused to let her trinkets be out, since they were all stolen goods. From her wardrobe, she took out the small travel suitcase given to them all for the once a year travel they did, and put it on the bed, before starting to pick her meager amount of clothes.
“You can leave those,” he hummed, and Thomasin squinted at him. He did not look particularly well off, his clothes too simply and shabby.
“Why?” It was a simple question, but she did her best to look curious. She was, of course, but in the way a snake analyzed its prey, rather than the sheep-like way other girls looked like. “Surely you don’t mean to make me walk in rags, father.”
“I’ll buy you new ones,” he said, looking around, glancing at her wardrobe. “And you can leave your trinkets behind, too.”
She froze - a split second reaction, before Thomasin assumed the facade of a clueless idiot again.
“I’m not sure what you mean, father,” she hummed, going back to her wardrobe, checking if her things were there, counting them: nothing missing.
“You don’t have to play games with me,” he hissed, in that soft language only spoken by snakes, which made her freeze again, not bothering to disguise it. “I know you’ve been stealing.”
He couldn’t have known that. He wasn’t around. She left her place in front of the wardrobe, calling that mysterious force within herself, and staring into the man’s green eyes.
He spoke the secret language of snakes, though, the one only Thomasin knew. This meant this man was just like her, and thus - she could trust him.
But not that easy. Thomasin was not an idiot.
“Tell me the truth of who you are,” she commanded, and the man kept a smile. Usually, during this, people’s minds would part like warm butter on bread, open for her picking.
Harry Potter’s mind did not. A shield - not something she was used to finding - bounced her off, and Thomasin did not lose her footing in her real life, but mentally, absolutely.
“That was good!” He said, smiling brightly. “You really are a genius.”
Thomasin enjoyed the praise, but that didn’t matter right now.
“You felt that.” It was no question, but an affirmation: the first to know what she was doing, to not cower when she brought to surface their darkest fears and worst secrets - the first to not have that happen.
“I did,” he nodded, and rose, offering her a hand. “Pack your things. Whatever you want to bring, really. I’ll take you somewhere where you can hone that stuff.”
Thomasin eyed the wardrobe as if it would spontaneously catch fire.
“Nothing stolen,” he said gently, and she gave a vicious sigh. “Come on. There’s got to be something you want to take.”
“Would you take anything from a place people hated you?” She shot back, too truthful, and quickly closed her mouth.
Harry Potter - perhaps her father in truth. Only a man able to evade her usual mind reading like this would have been one part of the equation that had made her. And, besides, he spoke the serpent’s language. He had to be the one.
Right?
“Nothing stolen,” he repeated, not answering her question. She didn’t dare try again, but she was definitely curious.
“You should go get ahead on paperwork, then,” she said, and he nodded. Too good natured. If his mind was open, she’d be manipulating him.
It wasn’t, and thus, Thomasin would need to see where he would lead her.
As soon as Harry left, Thomasin packed her clothes, putting everything in the suitcase as well as she could.
The only thing she left behind, as requested, was the stolen things.
Harry didn’t ask her to say goodbye or be polite to Mrs. Cole, but she did anyway, because she knew Mrs. Cole would freak out. He did not give her a disappointed glance, nor do anything but gently guide her outside.
She saw no car, nor carriage, which was a bit of a silly thought to have - and as they walked away, he didn’t seem to give any glance at any of the vehicles parked. Had he come on foot? Did they live close by? If so, why hadn’t he come earlier?
“How are we going to your house?” She asked, following him. Harry had picked up her suitcase, at least, which was nice.
“Magic,” he replied, and Thomasin scoffed.
“Don’t be childish.”
“I’m sorry, you’ll be the adult between us,” Harry replied, and took a sharp turn into an alleyway. Thomasin stood in front of it, watching him go deeper into it.
“Surely this is not your home.” She said, the tinge of horror barely disguised in Thomasin’s voice.
“Maybe,” he replied, stopping in the middle of it. “Come on.”
“You’ve adopted a kid to make it homeless?” She said and stepped forward. “How did Mrs. Cole even let you take me out of there?”
“I used a little spell on her, obviously,” Harry said, patiently waiting for her. Thomasin squinted at him again. “Come on. I’ll show you something nice.”
Famous last words. Thomasin stepped forward and let him put a hand on her shoulder.
The next thing she knew, she was being passed through some sort of tube, tightly clinging to her, for a brief second before they both landed on a plush rug. Well, he landed; Thomasin fell in an unelegant splatter of limbs.
The world turned around her, and she looked at the heavily decorated ceiling, full of people and fantasy creatures running amidst grassy fields of flowers. She sat up, and looked around at what was definitely classified as a small palace: hardwood floors, high ceilings, walls painted in soft colors, paintings that moved, velvet seats, and -
She stared at one painting: an old man blinking at her, as confused as Thomasin was.
“Welcome home,” Harry said, offering Thomasin a hand. “Magic is real. Did you know that?”
“It seems obvious now,” she replied, still staring at the old man, who just up and left the painting. “Where did he go?”
Harry looked in the direction she was looking at, and saw the empty frame.
“Oh, old man Potter? Probably to his other painting,” he said, nonchalant, and Thomasin looked at him - really looked at him, at his emerald eyes, unruly hair, the odd shaped scar on his forehead.
He was old enough to be her father, probably in his early thirties, but he had something off about him - as if he didn’t quite belong amidst this opulence either.
“You’re not from here, are you?” She gestured at the surrounding house. “This isn’t your house.”
“This isn’t even my time,” he said, shrugging. “Come on. I’ll show you your room.”
Her room was nice, but plain. Harry stood at the doorstep, and let Thomasin walk into the room alone.
“I didn’t put anything because I wasn’t sure how you’d like it,” he said, and Thomasin nodded. “Well?”
“How did you get this house?” Thomasin looked at the ceiling: plain white, with some crown molding shaped like leaves and flowers as the sole decor.
The rest of the room was similarly plain: wooden furniture in light colors, a vanity, a writing desk, a bed too big for her, a nice rug. By the open door leading to another room, Thomasin guessed she had her own private bathroom.
“I talked to the owners of the house, claimed I was a cousin in dire straits, got to take a blood test and take an oath, and here I am,” he replied, and Thomasin cocked her head. Too simple an explanation. Nothing in life was that easy.
“And they believed you?” Thomasin shot back, and Harry put a hand to his heart.
“You wound me, truly. Of course they did. I’m a Potter,” he said, and Thomasin stared at him. He then took a thin stick of wood from his pocket, giving it a tiny wave. “I swear on my magic I am a Potter.”
A thin sliver of light flew from the wand, and then settled down again, as if satisfied. Thomasin marched towards him, grabbing the stick - a wand? - and staring at it.
“How did you do that?” She asked, looking at Harry, and he grinned. “Tell me. Now.”
“You’ll go to school next year and learn some stuff,” he said, as if that was enough.
She stared at him, but he did not give up his ridiculous notion she’d have to wait.
Thomasin held each end of the wand between her hands, and started to slowly bend it.
“Don’t - don’t do that!” He said, and Thomasin grinned, not even bothering to make it look sweet.
“Teach me.”
She could see the panic in his eyes. Thomasin kept bending it, the wood groaning in her hands.
“Fine, I’ll teach you a spell or two.” Thomasin stopped the torture of the wand, and handed it back to Harry, who looked at it as if looking to see the tearing. “You’re something else.”
“You’re my father now, whether you want it or not, so you must put up with me,” she replied, too cheery, and Harry sighed.
“I suppose I do. How about you settle in and then we can have lessons?”
“Lessons now,” Thomasin said, and Harry sighed. Thomasin molded her face into the most pleasant expression she could make. “Please?”
“Don’t do that,” he said, and Thomasin let her face fall into its neutral expression. “Genuinely, Thomasin. Go take a nice bath, I’ll prepare some food, we can eat and I’ll give you some books to read. Okay?”
Books - a place this big probably had an enormous library. Since magic was real, and this place was ancient, it meant it probably had something akin to those corpses in the lake she’d seen. Would they have a way to make more of those? Could she turn any pond into a lake of revenants under her spell?
She nodded eagerly and ran off, and heard Harry sigh loudly.
Over dinner, Harry gave her a basic rundown: magic was real, she had magic, he had magic, there was a school just to learn how to use and wield it. Thomasin was excited until Harry told her it would only happen next year, and then regained her excitement when he said that, meanwhile, she could have full reign of the house.
That meant no dealing with stupid kids, no one to bother her. Just Thomasin and, hopefully, a lot of reading.
For a few weeks, he let her explore. Thomasin walked the length of the gardens, noticing every flowerbed had a small placard with what it contained. There were names she recognized, and names she didn’t. Thomasin jotted these down, and explored further.
Inside the house, there was a library - floor to ceiling shelves of ancient books, in all subjects Thomasin could think and more: potion making, spells old and new, charms and transfigurating items into another. Thomasin read old diaries and books about magical history and politics, and was content.
Every day, Harry made a nice meal - hearty and homemade, and significantly better than anything they’d ever fed her -, and Thomasin let him answer her every question about the things she’d read.
Lately, it had been spells, but Harry was not forthcoming with answers about that. He had hummed an answer, and that had not been nearly enough as an answer; therefore, Thomasin was to take matters into her own hands.
When she finished eating, she put her hand out, palm up, and he sighed, handing her the wand. She gave it a experimental wave, and then tried to recall the movement he’d done.
“Lumos,” she said, voice soft, and a small ball of light appeared at the tip of the wand, much to her surprise. “It worked.”
Thomasin hated the wonder in her voice: childish and nearly vulgar, as if it enchanted her. She would not debase herself so low.
He looked at her with something unascertainable behind his eyes, and Thomasin focused for a moment, trying to summon again that mind reading power silently, as so not alert Harry and grab his mind unaware, but he tutted.
“Reading people’s minds without their permission isn’t exactly polite,” he said, and Thomasin hissed a curse word a snake had taught her. “That is - where did you learn that?”
“Teach me another spell,” she demanded, and Harry rose from the table.
“I can teach you another spell, or I can take you out tomorrow to somewhere full of magic,” he said, and Thomasin tried to get his mental defenses down unsuccessfully. “What did I just say?”
“Are there more people like us?” Thomasin knew, logically, that the answer was yes: if there was a school, it meant a study body, professors, and graduates. The people in the portraits were wizards, but they were dead, and thus, didn’t count.
He grinned.
“If you wake up early tomorrow, perhaps,” he hummed, and Thomasin rose from her seat at the table.
“I will do it, but if it’s not good, I am going to make you regret it,” she said, and he smiled all too warm.
“I’m sure you will,” Harry said, and Thomasin left.
Her bedroom was spacious and hers, but she still locked the door: habits did not die easily. She rooted through the wardrobe, looking at her meager clothing inside, and stared at the mirror within, who offered no answers.
Thomasin cocked her head, undid her hair from its neat braid, and mussed it a little. That way, she almost looked related to Harry.
Look, he was obviously running up a scam: he probably had come to the owners of this house, faked the test, said he needed money and housing for himself and his daughter, and had picked Thomasin because of it.
Of course, her logic ran into some faults: namely, he’d picked Thomasin by name, as if aware of who she was, and second, he had never seen her before. Therefore, it couldn’t be by the similarity of their appearances.
Which meant Harry Potter had some obscure motive to raising her, although Thomasin couldn’t quite grasp what. What design could he have on some nameless orphan? The odds of her belonging to a rich family were low, and she was not a child to still entertain that as a possibility.
He knew things, obviously, but she didn’t know what.
Thomasin closed the wardrobe and threw herself into bed, staring at the ceiling. She rose a hand and tried to recall the wand movement for Lumos.
Harry had called her a genius before, when she’d first tried to read his mind. She sat up abruptly - perhaps somehow he’d found out about her intelligence, and planned to nurture it? If so, then she needed to master things fast.
He did not comment on the dark bags, and Thomasin ate her porridge and bacon in silence. When she was finished, Thomasin stared intently at him, and Harry looked at her for a moment, as if reading her mind.
“You know, I never thought it’d be like this,” he said, as if to himself, and Thomasin cocked her head.
“If fatherhood is too much for you, I’m sure Mrs. Cole will love to have me back,” she replied, and Harry broke out of whatever sentimentalism he’d been holed up in.
“Oh, no, sorry, I’m not going to give you back. Unfortunately, you’re stuck with me,” he replied, rising from his seat. “Shall we go?”
Thomasin did not reply. She followed him in silence, staring at the back of his head.
He definitely had some sort of design on her, but Thomasin didn’t know what, and she couldn’t guess either. Her best bet was still him wanting her to be a genius, but for what purpose laid beyond her reasoning capabilities.
Diagon Alley was huge, bustling full of people, magic so thick in the air she could smell it, and Thomasin could barely believe it existed within London, so close and yet so far.
“Do you want a pet?” He asked, strolling with the familiarity of a man who’d been there thousands of times. “A cat would suit you.”
As if.
“A snake, and nothing else,” she demanded, and Harry sighed.
“You know, I’m not sure why I asked,” he said, and waved at the pet store, with cages lining up its walls. Thomasin’s eyes shined. “Lets get you some robes first, though.”
“With what money?” she scoffed, and Harry winked at her as he took a bag from his pockets. “Stolen money? Do you have no shame? Were you not the one telling me to not bring stolen things with me?”
He hid the bag again, and they stopped in front of a small store: Madam Malkins, Robes For All Occasions. Inside, a few women milled around, sewing things, and Thomasin stared at it for a moment.
There was no way that bag had enough money for that finery. All the fabrics looked heavy and expensive, too much for a poor orphan and her destitute adoptive father.
“The Potters are very generous with their poor, destitute cousins,” he said, grinning, and she couldn’t believe the audacity of this scammer. “That’s a joke. I was given some money when I was sent here.”
“Sent here from where?” She asked, opening the door, and Harry followed her. His English had no foreign candor, therefore, he was British - and yet, he was someone who’d had to ask the Potters for housing?
It made no sense. Harry was a mystery Thomasin had little hope of unveiling.
“That’s a complicated answer,” he replied, and smiled charmingly at an attendant, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Hello there. My daughter needs a few robes.”
One attendant rose, lazy, obviously looking at them and their clothes: shabby and clearly not fitting in with the rest of the people outside. She clearly expected a small sale, and, frankly, so did Thomasin.
“How many robes, sir?” She asked, visibly wishing they’d be fast about it. Thomasin grit her teeth; there had been no expectations of people judging them for their appearances, but it seemed a magical and non-magical society were as alike as ever.
Harry, though, seemed unphased. He took out the bag from his pocket and deposited it into the nearest table, the noise of coins settling heavily against wood making the attendant’s eyes widen.
“Full wardrobe, summer and winter,” he said, sitting on a couch. The woman all but swiped the bag, as if afraid it’d sprout legs and run away.
Thomasin watched her open the bag, widen her eyes further at the sight of whatever quantity lay inside, and then have the most obviously false smile planted in her face, as if it was the royal family in front of her, rather than an orphan and the man who’d adopted her not even a full day before.
“Yes, sir, of course,” she said, sickly sweet, and Thomasin felt rage course through her body. So they were not worth the time until they had money, was that it? Infuriating. “Come along, miss, please?”
Thomasin glared at Harry, and he made a soft, hissing noise, as if to remind her what was at stake. She huffed and marched forward.
She was going to find the biggest, most expensive snake, and own it.
The snake selection at the store was poor, to say the least: a handful of small snakes, and one sleeping boa constrictor. Harry looked at the cages carefully, scratching at the head of an albino corn snake.
For a place claiming to be a magical menagerie - which it was, full of animals she’d never heard or seen before, mythical creatures from fairy tales -, it seemed they neglected a sector of it; the one sector that mattered to Thomasin, at least.
Thomasin fidgeted under the weight of her new robe - clothing that looked much more similar to what others wore, and that diminished the looks she and Harry got.
“Most people can’t speak Parseltongue,” he explained, in the soft hiss of the snakes, and the corn snake nodded along.
“Parseltongue,” she repeated in the same hiss, and the snake looked at her.
“It’s what they call our language,” it said, and looked at Thomasin. “I’ve never spoken to a human before, let alone a pair of them.”
“Me neither,” said another snake, and a third chimed in, distantly, in agreement.
“Is it that rare?” Thomasin asked Harry, looking up at him.
“Somewhat,” he replied. “Pick one.”
A chorus of pick me, pick me, echoed around Thomasin. She stared at them, but none seemed menacing, like the snakes in the fields she’d grown talking to. Wizards, it seemed, preferred soft, cute snakes.
Terrible taste, really.
“Can’t I just go on a field and catch one?” She asked, ignoring the wide eyed look of a shop attended who definitely did not understand a lick of what they spoke. Thus - it was a much rarer ability than what Harry had said, and not able to be learned.
The snakes visibly deflated - except for the albino snake Harry continuously pet, who seemed content to still be receiving attention.
“These are animals allowed to go to Hogwarts, so no. No wild animals.”
Thomasin huffed. No wild animals - he’d see the wild animals she would bring home. Snakes could be found anywhere, and she’d make that house crawl with them.
She wasn’t sure Hogwarts, a place where one of its houses was represented by a snake, did not allow wilder beasts. What fear did they have?
“Then that one will do,” Thomasin said, and the snake all but purred. “I hope you’re a fierce thing.”
“I’ll be vicious when I grow, miss,” the snake hissed, and Harry opened the cage, letting it slither into his hand before handing it to Thomasin.
“I’ll go pay, and you can get acquainted with it,” Harry said, and Thomasin nodded. She held the snake at eye level, and it flickered its tongue at her.
“You’re small,” Thomasin started, slow, and the snake cocked its head at her. “Non-threatening. Not poisonous. Frankly, a shame to all snakes.”
“And?” The snake hissed. “Isn’t that good?”
“Not at all. People need to fear you.”
Because when people feared you, they didn’t mess with you. Thomasin was not a weakling, and she wouldn’t let anyone think that of her.
Not even those snobby wizards at stores who didn’t even look at them until money was presented.
It had happened in every store so far: the clothing store, the Quidditch store where Harry had bought her a broom, the owlery where Harry had looked sadly at a white owl before buying a black one. Everywhere, they judged the two for their clothes, and Thomasin was irritated with it.
She was fine with not fitting in between people without magic: she was a superior being than them. Thomasin was not fine with people judging her for her clothing.
“People need to not notice you until it’s too late, miss,” the snake said, having fun. It jerked its head towards Harry, who was chatting with the attendant, the two not looking at them. “I’m sure your pockets are deep, and no one would miss a bunch of snakes from here. And no one would look at you, too. Because you’re small, non-threatening, and not poisonous. Right, miss?”
Thomasin eyed the snake cages: tiny, terrible things. All snakes were small enough, except for the boa constrictor, to fit in her pockets.
“Perhaps you’re right”, Thomasin said, reaching for the first lock. She put the snake in its cage again. “Help me before he’s back.”
The snake hissed, content, and set to work alongside Thomasin.
Harry let her go into the bookstore, let Thomasin browse the shelves, and noticed the attendants did not even look at them, nor approach them. Again. Harry, carrying a pile of books Thomasin deemed interesting, looked like he could use some help - and yet, they did nothing.
“Shouldn’t they be worried?” She asked Harry, looking over a book full of runes, and Harry shrugged.
“We are dressed like Muggles,” he said, as if it explained anything. Thomasin made an inquisitive noise.
“People without magic,” supplied the boa constrictor, mid-yawn, and Harry looked at her.
“What was that?”
“Nothing,” Thomasin said, face carefully neutral, and Harry stared at her for a moment too long. “So just because we don’t look like we have magic…?”
“Not that we look like we don’t have magic,” Harry said, and passed a hand through his hair. “It’s more complicated than that.”
Thomasin put the rune book back in, but took note of its name. She did not understand its contents yet, but she would.
“Explain it, then,” she demanded, walking to another shelf, Harry following dutifully.
He did not say anything, though. She looked at him, and could see the way his green eyes were conflicted, weighing information hidden away beneath that horrid shield in his mind that Thomasin could not break.
And in the hissed tones of Parseltongue, he did.
“So your blood determines your worth, and so does money,” Thomasin said dryly, understanding the indifference in the attendants, the way they only looked at them in that clothing store when the coins were shown.
How revolting.
“Just like in any other society, I suppose,” Harry hummed, as if this was not a major issue. People would not respect her, ever, because she was not of a pureblood line - Thomasin was an adopted Potter. she was a Riddle, and that damn surname would forever taint her.
She let the anger build within her for a moment, and then settled the fire. It would wait. It had to wait.
She looked at the books, and decided to venture into the politics sector. The books the Potters had on history were mostly focused on pureblood antics, and Thomasin wanted to know how it looked like for Muggleborns.
When they got home again, once more through that odd feeling of being compressed through a tube, Thomasin regained her bearings and turned, on the center table, her pocketfuls of snake.
Harry only spoke up when Thomasin took the boa constrictor from her neck, the creature sleepily slithering into the table, curling into itself again.
“When did you…?” Harry started, and let himself drop into the couch, realizing that the voices supplying her information had not been merely mishearing people speaking elsewhere. “What happened to no stealing?”
“They weren’t being treated well,” Thomasin said, and the snakes all murmured in agreement. “The grounds are big enough to sustain a dozen corn snakes and a boa constrictor.”
“Thomasin…” He sighed, and Thomasin ignored his sigh, walking over to the window and opening it, gesturing for the snakes to come.
“What?” Thomasin asked, irritated, helping the small snakes go towards the garden. “What offends you so? Do you regret taking me in? Is that it?”
“Definitely not that,” Harry snorted. “I’m not sure what to say about this, though.”
The boa constrictor was the last one to pass, and Thomasin closed the window behind it. She marched to sit at his side, staring at the man. He was tired, but it was not because of her: it was something bone deep, ancient, from long before he’d ever stepped foot into her life.
“You could say something about the fact you allowed these people to walk all over us today,” she said, hands balled into fists. “They did not look at us until you flashed money, and then, suddenly, coincidentally, you were the best man to be around. Are you going to let them walk all over you just because you don’t look like they want you to?”
“Are you?” Harry asked, and then slammed his mouth shut. Thomasin grinned.
She had not let it happen before, had she? When her fellow orphans had tried to get one over her, Thomasin had ruled over them with an iron fist. Fear was a great benefactor to change of one’s treatment.
Thomasin betted she could do the same on a societal scale, if given time.
“No. I’m going to make things change. I’m going to force them to change.” Thomasin grinned, and Harry seemed taken aback. “You say name matters, so if I change mine to Potter, I should have some advantage over these people.”
Her mind ran ahead of her mouth: the Potters obviously had enough money to be purebloods, and thus, with their surname, she’d be able to have influence.
With the name backing her, Thomasin could have influence with the Muggleborns in Hogwarts into siding with her - the good pureblood, the one who cared about them and their rights -, and then, with their mass and numbers, Thomasin could change things by force.
No revolution had ever been won in peace. This much she knew, from classes and history books considered too advanced for her. Therefore, the idea of coming from the lowest ranks of public office was absurd - surely there was a government she could take over, considering Diagon Alley seemed organized and functional.
She’d rule mercifully for those who gave in to her, and for those who didn’t -
Harry laughed, hoarse, passing a hand through his hair, and interrupting Thomasin, who glared at him.
“What’s so funny? It needs refinement, but it’s a plan.”
“Nothing, just… You’re always the same, aren’t you?” There was wonder in his voice, but it made no sense to her.
“You’ve met me for a couple of days. What does that mean?”
“Nothing that matters to you,” he said, and Thomasin hissed. “But I suppose I should have expected it.”
Thomasin stared at Harry, and took a deep breath. He was hiding things from her. She needed to find books on those damned mental shields, and find a way around them.
“Tell me the truth,” she said, putting no magic towards it, and he smiled softly at her, messing up her hair.
“What, that I think you’re ten and already priming yourself up to become a dictator with a silly name like Voldemort?” Thomasin glared at him.
He was not taking her seriously at all.
“I’d not kill people,” she lied, and Harry’s smile told her he saw through it.
“I’m sure you wouldn’t,” Harry lied back, and Thomasin huffed. “Alright, alright, since it seems I can’t stop fate, at least I can help you. I won’t allow you to fall into a dark path. That’s what I came here for, after all.”
She didn’t tell Harry she was already in one - but she had a feeling he knew.
“I’m sure,” Thomasin replied. She didn’t understand his words, but it didn’t matter. Harry would back her, and she’d rule over them all.
Although, ruling under Thomasin Potter didn’t sound too powerful. She’d need a title. Something to strike fear into people’s hearts.
Lord Voldemort - that odd word choice in his earlier phrase -, though, sounded exactly like what she needed.
Thomasin smiled, and pretended to not see the shiver that ran through Harry.