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It’s a normal Monday when Tom walks past Potter and his merry band of troublemakers in one of the second floor hallways.
He knows about the illegal polyjuice, of course. Everyone does. And about the dragon, and about the gillyweed, and the roosters, and the animagi, and the paramilitary-
Honestly, Tom’s own misdeeds almost seem benign in comparaison. Almost. Under a certain light, through a specific point of view, at a relative angle.
Anyways, it’s as Tom is pretending to listen to Lucius' rant about hair potions that he hears Potter groan loudly. He turns his head slightly to the right, unintentionally catching the boy’s gaze.
“Riddle,” Potter exclaims, with both hope and despair shining in his emerald eyes. They are very green. “Thursday at eight after transfiguration, take me out.”
“Of course,” Tom answers agreeably, and continues walking.
Next to him, the bottom of Lucius’s jaw drags on the stone flooring.
Later that day, Tom sits straightbacked in a particularly roomy leather armchair in the Slytherin common room, homework and extra-credit work completed for the day.
“Why are you reading A Thousand Spells to Inconspicuously Get Rid of Your Enemies ? I thought you knew it by heart.”
Walburga’s unpleasant voice is uncomfortably close as she sneers down at him. But although it may grate him, Tom is gracious enough to pretend she isn't there and thus does not look up from his book.
Two whole minutes later, she's still waiting for an answer. Tom sighs. Might as well get this over with.
“Potter asked me to take him out on Thursday.”
“On a date ?!” Walburga screeches. Tom’s ears ring unpleasantly. “On Valentine's ?! Merlin and Morgana, courting so little time after Imbolic, those muggle holidays are bringing perdition into our world-”
She goes on for a while. Unhearing, Tom returns to his reading. He takes note of an especially interesting fire spell- he wonders if Potter would like it. After a minute, Walburga emits one final huff and hurriedly leaves to gossip with her yearmates.
If she trips and faceplants in the middle of the common room before getting there, it's only that the heels of her shoes are too high.
Of course.
“What are you planning for your date with Potter ?” Draco asks warily on Tuesday, joining him at the Slytherin table for lunch. He is followed closely by Pansy.
Tom turns the magazine towards them so that they may see the pictures more clearly. “Kalachnikov, AK-47. A bit old fashioned, but a classic, wouldn't you say ?”
The two look at each other for help, but find only mirroring cluelessness.
“How about flowers ?” Pansy tries with a too large smile. “Flowers are a nice start.”
On Wednesday, the news has reached the seventh years. Tom surely knows it, as Druella has been grilling him for twenty minutes now.
“How would you feel about a nice late evening flight under the stars ? Potter’s pretty good at Quidditch, isn’t he ?”
Tom nods. “I could make him crash his broom.”
“Something more traditional then,” she sighs, crossing another idea off her list. “Tea at Madame Puddifoot's ? Dinner at Rosmerta’s ? There’s always a special menu for the holiday.”
“Maybe I'll set a giant snake against him. Or organise a tournament and duel him to the death.”
(Daphne and Astoria, sitting nearby, follow the exchange like a tennis match. Not that they would know what that is. Theo endeavours to ignore them.)
“A walk ! A nice long walk, just the two of you. Nothing to disturb you as you get to know each other ! Wouldn’t that be nice ?”
She looks at him expectantly. Tom smiles charmingly at her.
“Indeed, less witnesses.” He blinks as an idea strikes him. “Where do you think I can find a serial killer ?”
Druella gives him a deadpan stare.
“Abraxas told me to go for chocolate,” Tom tells his compatriots two hours later, as they get ready to duel in an open field. A requested summer sky stretches above them in indefinite blues.
The Room of Requirement became exponentially more useful once he discovered that it wasn't just a dump. Figures.
“Poison ? That’s so cliché,” Regulus disapproves, stretching his arms above his head. “You should drown him- it will be long, painful, and you'll get to watch the light leave his eyes. It's a sure bet.”
Tom is slightly swayed, but he wrinkles his nose at the idea of going anywhere near the lake in the middle of February.
“I liked the bomb a lot,” Alphard adds helpfully, “Very flashy.” He deftly flicks his wand between his fingers, flipping it from one hand to the other. “But realistically- from what you explained- there’d be too much collateral damage.”
“You could always set him against a creature from the Forest,” Barty suggests as they all get into position, spreading across the field with nowhere to take cover. “But then again I hear he once survived an encounter with a hoard of acromantulae.”
Tom hums thoughtfully, and attacks.
"Tom," Abraxas repeats for the hundredth time. "It's a date. 'Take me out' means for a date. You're really the only one who would take it otherwise."
"I appreciate your input," Tom lies as Abraxas drags him through Hogsmeade. Looks like they're adopting Pansy's suggestion after all. How original. "But I truly don't believe you're right."
At least he gets to choose what kind.
On Thursday, once he crawls out of the portrait hole, Potter squints at the flowers that are presented to him. “Are these poisoned ?”
Tom squints back. “What did you mean, exactly, by ‘take me out’ ?”
Potter stares at him with wide eyes, as if questioning his intelligence. Rude.
“Uh, murder ? Death ? Definite unalivement ? I thought you of all people would understand.”
“Oh well, if that's the case,” Tom throws the flowers away, “Those were poisoned, but you would have to eat them. All of them. Both unnecessary and impractical.”
Next he pulls a sleek black gun from his robes, a ritual atame engraved with golden markings, and a corkscrew.
“Nice,” Potter says appreciatively, leaning back against the wall, emerald eyes attentively tracing the items. They are still very green.
“Thank you,” Tom answers in kind. “I just couldn’t choose, so I brought some of my favourites. Although your eyes would look lovely under the light of the killing curse.”
Blushing a little, Potter shrugs helplessly. “Well I’m down for anything, really, as long as it gets me out.”
Tom blinks, perplexed.
“Out of what ?”
Potter groans again- he seems to do that a lot. He slumps further against the wall. “We have an essay due tomorrow for Snape's class. Ron and I just barely started. I’m so screwed.”
At that very moment, Tom has never felt so cheated. His chest heats up with sheer affront, mind going blank with rage. But Tom is no animal, he takes a moment to smoothly place the items back into his robes.
Floating the bouquet to his hand, he throws it right into Potter’s uncomprehending face. It hits with a satisfying smack.
“Go kill yourself,” Tom spits out pleasantly.
He walks away in a fit of pique, footsteps loudly echoing in the hallway, determined never to be used again in such a way.
In the empty hallway outside of the Gryffindor common room, Harry stands around, dumbfounded still. Then, a slow clap echoes. Harry turns around towards the end opposite where Tom left, and there-
Snape looks back, hands aloft, and raises a single eyebrow.