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Summary
Seventeen and not a hair missing from his head, patrician nose on his face, dark eyes focused on the parchment paper laid out in front of him: Tom Riddle was looking as human as Harry himself did, as he leant forward to scribble another line of his homework. And perched on the sofa's armrest, balanced on four furry feet, was his daemon, a–well.
Harry didn't actually know what she was.
A Daemon AU.
