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“Now, class,” Professor Llewelyn intoned in her smooth, creamy voice, sweeping between the tiny two-person tables and settling at her desk, which was situated on a dais in the very center of the room. “As NEWT-level Divination students, I’m expecting quite a bit more from you than just reciting the symbolism from the book. By this time, you all should have developed your own unique approaches to the art of tessomancy, shaped by your relationship with the leaves and your own intuition. Let what you see in your cup serve as a channel between you and the hidden truths within your partner, not a cheap prediction found inside a tabloid horoscope.”
Around the small, stuffy classroom at the very top of Hogwarts’ South Tower, the dozen or so sixth years nodded seriously and set to work, brewing cups of tea with charms for boiling water, many of them using their own personal blends and painted porcelain sets. Even Walburga Black, who had dropped Herbology in third year because she couldn’t abide getting dirt on her robes, had reserved a small corner of Greenhouse Eight to grow her own bushes from imported seedlings.
Meanwhile, Harry Evans, the school’s newest transfer student who’d only tested into this class by the skin of his teeth and a string of incredible Quidditch League predictions, grabbed his chipped cups borrowed from the kitchen elves and the leaves he bought in Hogsmeade last week, and prepared to undertake the improvisational role of a lifetime.
One of the things Harry had anticipated most about last year’s OWLs, even more than proving the merit of his work with the DA or potentially getting one step closer to his dream of being an Auror, was the chance to drop useless subjects like History of Magic, Astronomy, and most of all, this cursed discipline and spend his sixth year focusing on his strengths. And while getting timewarped back to 1943 from a broken hourglass in the Department of Mysteries had upended his plans in a multitude of ways, including but not limited to getting him sorted into Slytherin and sharing a dorm with Tom Riddle, he had not intended his class schedule to be one of them. Defense, Potions, Charms and Transfiguration was a full enough lineup; the rest of his time would surely be dedicated to stopping the teenage Dark Lord from opening the Chamber of Secrets and unleashing unholy terror upon the school. But then, just a week into his new fake identity as Harry Evans, the Muggleborn son of two Belgian diplomats tragically killed in the Second World War, he’d learned a very inconvenient fact: Tom Riddle, the future Lord Voldemort, put an insane amount of stock in the dubious practice of Divination.
Really, he shouldn’t have been so surprised; the whole reason he was here in the first place was because the madman redirected the substantial resources of his entire terrorist network into retrieving a single dodgy prophecy. Still, it was more than a little bizarre to watch Riddle (who was once again every bit the handsome, picture-perfect model student Harry’d seen in the diary) take time away from his prefect duties, twelve NEWT courses, and full slate of extracurriculars to do ridiculous things like laying out a full tarot spread at dawn each morning. Or staying two extra hours after every Astronomy lesson to update his star chart. Or harass farmers in Hogsmeade for fresh sheep knucklebones, so that he might better foresee any coming health complications.
The man was mad for any insight into his supposed future, was the point. And thus Harry—who ironically knew more about the futures of half his new Housemates than Professor Llewelyn on her best day, despite having not a whit of Seer ability himself—saw an opportunity.
If he could establish himself as a talented scryer…gain a modicum of Riddle’s trust, or at least put on a convincing show…could he possibly dissuade him from making some of his most consequential mistakes? Warn or frighten him away from delving too deeply into Dark magic, setting the basilisk on Myrtle, murdering his Muggle relatives? It was worth a shot, Harry figured. Professor Trelawney had always seemed impressed by his bollocks foretellings of death and chaos.
…Then again, Professor Trelawney was a delusional spinster perpetually half-drunk on sherry, and Tom Riddle, he’d quickly come to realize, was a magical prodigy with a mind sharp as a blade and eyes that missed nothing.
And yet today—the first day he’d managed to get partnered with Riddle for this class (Professor Llewelyn chose the pairs randomly each day, to prevent students from colluding with each other)—the older teen regarded him earnestly, respectfully even, from across their table, as he sipped from his own teacup cradled like a fragile bird’s egg in his large, pale hands. His long legs were crossed elegantly at the knee, and his foot kept brushing against Harry’s shin whenever he shifted position.
”Take your time, Evans,” he said pleasantly. “Every mage has their own Seeing process. I’m actually rather looking forward to seeing what new techniques you’ll apply, what with being raised abroad.” With a final long sip and sigh of contentment, he finished his cup and gazed at Harry through dark, hooded eyes.
Uncomfortable as ever under the weight of that not-yet-crimson stare, Harry quaffed his serving in a single gulp. It was still scalding, and he had to bite down on his scorched tongue to keep from crying out in agony. “Right. No time like the present to read the future, yeah?” he said thickly.
Riddle nodded, and with that they both began to slowly swirl the dregs, using their left hands as was custom. Harry had to switch hands and almost dropped the cup; Tom had no trouble at all, as that was already his dominant side.
Maybe there’s something to that Muggle myth about lefties being the devil’s children.
After three full rotations, they simultaneously overturned their cups onto the saucers and waited while the last of the liquid drained away, Harry rapidly trying to recall every page of Unfogging the Future relating to tessomancy that he’d ever vaguely skimmed back in his own time. Hopefully the actual forces of the universe would be kind to him for once and put a dagger, several bones, an upside-down cross and maybe a Grim in Riddle’s cup; give him something to work with, so he wouldn’t have to wing it entirely.
Before Harry could speak again, Riddle levitated both cups with a simple wave of his hand and swapped their positions, like a streetside charlatan playing a shell game; Harry refused to be impressed by the display of wandless magic. “Would you like to go first?” he asked. “I didn’t read my own leaves this morning in anticipation of this lesson, so I’m fairly eager to see what—“
”Yes,” Harry said immediately. The sooner he could just do this and cut the uncomfortable small talk, the less time he’d have to overthink it and muck everything up; he always performed best under pressure. He picked up the cup and flipped it back over, setting it down on the table with a hard thunk, and peered in at the slimy dregs. There was…there was…a kind of jagged streak-thing that wrapped around one of the edges. Several blobs of varying sizes clustered in the middle. And a squiggle in the upper right corner, almost like a small child had signed their name on their nursery-school masterpiece. In other words, an extremely typical collection of leavings at the bottom of a teacup.
His face fell. How was he supposed to alter the course of a man’s destiny with this? Somehow he didn’t think it would work to say The fates predict that you’ll live a long, peaceful life, enjoying many more satisfying and perfectly ordinary cups of tea. Unless you try and become a Dark Lord, that is; then you’re doomed. He was gaining respect for Trelawney by the minute; she had to have some sort of gift, to spin epic yarns from stuff like this day after day.
Trelawney…well, she did have a flair for the dramatic, didn’t she? And what was Harry doing right now but trying to put on an award-worthy performance? Maybe he needed to stop trying to channel “the truth of the leaves” and start channeling his former teacher instead…
Hunching over slightly and letting his hair fall into his eyes, he squinted into the cup, trying to imagine that his glasses were the size and thickness of Butterbeer-bottle bottoms. He deepened his slight frown into an expression of true concern, muttering some nonsense words under his breath to stall for time, then abruptly gasped and clapped a hand over his mouth. “Oh!” he said, jerking his head up and staring into Riddle’s eyes, widening and unfocusing his own as much as possible. “This is…!”
”What? Did you See something? Is there danger?” Riddle leaned over with his forearms on the table, brow furrowed.
Perfect tee-up, thanks. “Danger!” Harry repeated, starting to warm to his role a little. “Yes, exactly, something bad is coming—and, uh, imminently, too! You must correct your course now, before the hour grows too late…”
”Really? Where? Show me, show me where it says that!” The other boy scooted his chair over so he was right next to Harry, peering into the cup himself with round, anxious eyes. Merlin, was he really buying this? Only one way to find out.
”There!” Harry pointed at the jagged line, making his finger tremble a little for effect. “See, it’s, er, a lightning bolt! Lethal force coming at you fast, so now’s not the time for any bold maneuvers. You have to take shelter, play it safe for a while.”
Riddle nodded rapidly. “You’re right, I see it,” he murmured. “That’s very ominous. And what about these larger shapes?” He reached out and took Harry’s shaking hand in his own, guiding it slightly to the right so it was pointing at the blobs.
”Um, y-yes.” He didn’t even have to fake the slight stammer; the skin-to-skin contact—and how warm Riddle’s hands were, such a contrast to Voldemort’s frigid touch—had knocked him genuinely off balance. “It’s pretty clear—to me, at least—these are…dark clouds, for trouble brewing on the horizon. A skull—that’s death, obviously—and these smaller ones, see, they’re teardrops. Your current path will only bring you sorrow!” He let his voice hitch and break a bit at the end, as if he were about to start sobbing himself.
Amazingly, Riddle still seemed to be eating this up. He tilted Harry’s chin up with his other hand, turning his face away from the teacup so their eyes met again. With their faces mere inches from each other now, the older boy’s were a deep, liquid brown, darker than the strongest tea; more like the kind of rich dark-chocolate cocoa that could warm you to the bone after a full day in the Scottish winter snow. That must be why Harry was feeling so hot right now. After a lingering moment, Riddle moved the hand to join his other one, so he was now cupping Harry’s much smaller fingers entirely. For one wild moment, Harry wondered if they were going to switch from tea leaves to palm-reading now.
“You don’t have to continue if you don’t want to, Evans,” he whispered. “I would never, ever push you to the point where you might strain yourself or damage your Sight. But if you’re able—if you’re up to it—the final curved line, what could it…?”
”No, I can finish.” Like I’d throw away the best shot I’ll have all century to stop Voldemort. Harry tore his eyes away from Riddle’s and looked back down at the squiggle. His first thought was snake, but the obsessed Slytherin would probably see that as a good omen. “It’s…it’s a rope,” he declared. “Not a noose—not yet. But it’s twisting into that shape. You’re…you’re trying to climb upward, but you’re only hanging yourself.” He was really rather proud of that last turn of phrase; he chanced a glance up through his eyelashes at Riddle’s face, and was pleased to see he looked properly alarmed.
“Truly disturbing symbols…and quite an intense reaction from you as the diviner, Harry. Tell me, do you have any Seer blood in your family?”
”Oh yeah, loads,” he said, happy to use another of Trelawney’s favorite tactics, before mentally kicking himself as he remembered he was supposed to be Muggleborn. “Um, I mean, I think so? My great-great-grandmother on my mum’s side, Delphi Papadopoulos, she was this famous Muggle fortune-teller—you know, maybe she was actually some sort of Squib savant, and that’s where I get my magic from—“
”Delphi?” Riddle perked up noticeably at the name. “Like the Oracle of Delphi, counsel to the Greek god Apollo?”
Score, I knew I’d seen that name somewhere in the Unfogging book. “Yes, exactly! Her parents might’ve had a little Sight themselves, and that’s why they gave her such an appropriate name. Anyway, she foresaw this huge earthquake in her hometown, and thanks to her everyone evacuated and there wasn’t a single casualty. It became pretty legendary in the area.” Why was it so easy—and enjoyable—to make up these lies? Surely his month and a half in Slytherin hadn’t been that bad of an influence on him.
Riddle nodded yet again, his face grave, his hands now squeezing Harry’s just the slightest bit. “Just as I thought,” he said. “Evans, I think…I think it must be fate, that you read my leaves at this exact moment. Though there’s no way you could have known, I am currently at quite a consequential point in my life, with multiple important decisions to make about my future. Just like Apollo as he was coming into his glory”—Harry had to strain not to roll his eyes at the sheer ego of this man—“I may be very much in need of a trusted Seer to ensure I choose correctly. And, if you can believe it, ‘Delphi’ is a name I’ve always been fond of. I’ve often thought of bestowing it on my future daughter.”
Once again, Harry didn’t need to feign his open-mouthed gape. Tom Riddle, picking names for his children? Until this exact second, he would’ve bet every Galleon in his vault that the Dark Lord would sooner kill any potential heir in the cradle, like that awful painting of Saturn Devouring His Son. Was he lying too, to try and win Harry’s sympathy? Or was there a much bigger difference between this boy and Voldemort than he had ever imagined?
”That’s, uh, nice,” he finally managed, lamely.
Riddle flashed a brief smile then, one that reached all the way to his eyes and even showed a hint of dimple. “It is, isn’t it? It means ‘Dolphin’.” He grew serious again. “But I might not live to sire and name heirs if I fall prey to the great danger you’ve foreseen for me. So, Harry Evans, I’d like to offer you a proposal.” Scooting his chair even closer, he lowered their joined hands to rest on their knees that were now touching. “I want you to continue reading my leaves, just like this. At least once a week—more, if necessary; I’ll make room in my schedule especially. We’ll observe how the results change over time, and see if you can’t guide me safely through this highly volatile period. What do you think?”
What did Harry think? Merlin, he thought for a moment that he must’ve fallen asleep in this overheated classroom again just like he did in fourth year, and was even now dreaming that he’d gotten such a huge break in his quest to prevent the rise of Voldemort. Tom Riddle, all but stating that he trusted Harry’s wisdom, and outright asking him for regular advice on ‘important decisions’? It couldn’t actually be this easy. Well, it probably wouldn’t be; the arrangement would entail being around Riddle a whole lot more often, for one thing, and he’d have to learn way more about tessomancy—and acting—if he wanted to keep being convincing. But he could work with that, Riddle wasn’t so bad when he wanted to get on your good side, just look at how charmed a twelve-year-old Harry had been by that stupid diary…
”I’m not asking you to do this out of the kindness of your heart, of course,” Riddle assured him, apparently taking the silence for reluctance. “In exchange, I’d also happily tutor you at these sessions. I know the Hogwarts curriculum can take a bit of getting used to, especially entering at NEWT level like you are. I can partner with you in our other shared classes, show you shortcuts around the castle…”
Merlin. A lot a lot more time together, then. But time Riddle spent tutoring Harry and showing him secret passages he definitely already knew was, inevitably, time he wouldn’t be spending looking for the Chamber or recruiting baby Death Eaters. And better he partner with Harry than some poor innocent who he’d just manipulate or take advantage of.
“I think I like the sound of that, Riddle,” he said, seamlessly shifting roles from the melodramatic prophet to the earnest, slightly demure newcomer. “I mean, if I really do have latent Seer talent, I’d want nothing more than to really help someone with it. And, Merlin, Dumbledore’s assignments are tough as nails…” That last part was the kernel of truth buried in the lie; the future headmaster made McGonagall seem like a soft touch when it came to Transfiguration. “I—I’ll accept your offer.”
”Excellent.” Riddle shifted the position of their entwined hands one last time, giving a firm shake, before finally letting go just as Harry’s palm began to grow slick with sweat. He wiped it surreptitiously on his robes, relieved but also feeling strangely vulnerable at the loss of contact. “I think this will be the start of a beautiful partnership, Harry. And don’t you spare another moment worrying about Dumbledore—I know how to handle him.” He flashed the dimpled smile again.
”Mister Evans, Mister Riddle.” Professor Llewelyn appeared suddenly behind them, causing even Riddle to jump and Harry to nearly fall out of his chair before the other caught and steadied him. “Do you ever intend to finish the other half of your tessomancy reading, or would you rather continue to chatter like a pair of dying Jobberknolls until I give you both a zero for today’s lesson?”
”Dying—?” Harry blurted, shocked all over again by the large, broad hand now gently holding the small of his back; but Riddle just slipped on the same polite, remorseful mask he’d used in the past (in the future? The maybe-not-future-anymore?) when telling Dumbledore that he didn’t know anything about Myrtle Warren’s death. “My apologies, Professor,” he said. “The fault is all mine; I became truly fascinated by Harry’s expert reading, and I’m afraid I rather monopolized his time. I’ll get to my half of the work right away.”
”See that you do.” Llewelyn gave him a playfully stern look and walked over to interrupt Walburga’s fifteen-minute monologue on Lorelei Greengrass’s future marriage prospects; it would never cease to amaze Harry how effortlessly Riddle kept every single teacher here under his nimble thumb.
”Now then...” With one last steadying touch on Harry’s shoulder, Riddle stood up and magicked his chair back over to its original position, where the other teacup remained upside-down on its saucer, steadily growing cold. “I believe I owe you a few predictions of my own, don’t I? I don’t possess any Seer heritage that I know of, but I’m sure you’re aware I have more than a passing interest in all types of Divination. Let’s see what the future has in store for you, Harry Evans—besides more time in my company, of course…”
*
Settling back into his chair and straightening his robes, Tom allowed himself a contented smile and a moment of self-congratulation on another plan coming together perfectly.
Since the end of last term and all through the summer, every method of Divination he’d practiced had been pointing to a single outcome—the long-awaited arrival of his soulmate, his equal in power and other half, the person who would complete him and ensure they rose to greatness together. His daily tarot spreads repeatedly turned up the Lovers, the Lightning-Struck Tower, and minor arcana in the suit of cups, representing emotion and relationships; Venus had not shined so brightly in the House of Capricorn in over two centuries, the centaurs themselves confirmed it. His prized sheep knucklebones fell onto the scrying board clinging to each other in pairs, like jigsaw pieces slotted perfectly together. Even the animals he’d quietly killed in the Forest to examine their entrails had shown rare, auspicious traits: two hearts in the same body, wombs pregnant with twin young, pure lungs and livers without a speck of damage. When preparing potions ingredients his usually-sure hands had slipped, slicing his palm and leaving a thin, silvery scar that extended his heart line by a full inch.
And then, in September, Harry Evans had arrived at Hogwarts like a bolt from the blue; with eyes like emeralds, a magical core Tom could feel from across the Great Hall when the boy was Sorted, and—of all things—a literal lightning scar emblazoned on his forehead. Tom had been captivated, utterly.
Six weeks’ worth of observations of his new obsession only confirmed what the infallible fates had already told him. Harry was unpredictable where Tom was calculated, unafraid when all others were cowed, the most interesting challenge to his settled worldview since he’d learned about magic itself. He felt a pull around him that could only be called destiny.
Most importantly of all, Harry was just as enamored of him in return.
Oh, he tried hard to hide it, the clever darling. Avoiding Tom in the hallways, always looking away the moment their eyes met, even when he’d obviously been staring for long minutes at a time. But one couldn’t out-Slytherin the Heir himself. Tom could read that lovely, expressive face and body like a rare runic manuscript, and Harry Evans wanted desperately to get closer to him.
He all but confirmed it when, a full week after the class schedules were set, he practically begged Dippet and Slughorn to add him to the NEWT Divination course, only after noticing Tom’s passion for the subject. He’d even managed to test his way in with perfectly accurate Quidditch predictions that could only have been achieved by genius-level statistical analysis or highly illegal match-fixing.
He certainly couldn’t have used any actual scrying method, since he was by all accounts the most terrible Seer Tom had ever encountered.
From the first day Evans showed up in the South Tower with an incomplete tarot deck and no knowledge of his own moon sign, he was clearly only there to be in Tom’s presence and establish a shared interest between them. Tom considered ending his suffering right then and there by simply asking him on a date, but he was rather enjoying the tension that built between them with every day of unacknowledged attraction. They had their entire future lives to spend together; a little anticipation was a fine spice.
But finally, today, Llewelyn’s damnably random pairing system had finally seen him and Harry working together. It was utterly charming to watch the boy blunder his way through a tasseomancy reading when he had, at best, two pages’ worth of knowledge on the art; even moreso when he began making dire predictions of peril, in a flagrant attempt to gain Tom’s admiration and attention. How adorable—yet flattering—that he thought he had to go to such great lengths to win over his own destined partner!
And especially when the truth had been quite literally staring him in the face! That jagged lightning bolt in Tom’s cup was a Sowilo rune if he’d ever seen one, representing both spiritual fulfillment and Harry as a person, with his unique scar. A ring, a flower, and a handful of grapes, to stand for partnership, eternal love, and prosperity. And finally, a sinuous line—serpents, Tom’s heritage, the great line of Slytherin continuing, and possibly even the fabled Red String of Fate itself. Harry truly was oblivious to the invisible forces of the universe; yet another way that they were equal and opposite, perfectly balanced.
Unable to bear the pining any longer—he was already showing a pronounced weakness for his green-eyed boy, he’d have to keep an eye on that—Tom had capitulated at last. Acting cunningly to spare Harry’s pride, he’d pretended to believe the wild-eyed amateur prophecies and claims of ancestry, and offered a convenient pretext for them to spend plenty of time together going forward. Time in which they’d be walking the corridors, and discussing the many subjects for which Harry had an actual aptitude, and—most pleasantly of all—drinking an abundance of delicious hot tea. Tom’s heart had nearly broken when he’d seen that cheap prepackaged tin of dry leaves; Divination talent or no, it was a crime for anyone to be so ignorant of the plethora of magical brews available to the wixen palate. He would have to introduce his darling to a new one at each ‘reading’; starting with his own curated set, then moving on to the gorgeous hybrid bush in Greenhouse Eight that wasn’t warded near as well as Walburga thought, and finally—by Valentine’s Day at the very latest—a trip to Madam Puddifoot’s for a more traditionally intimate cuppa…
Yes, their future together was bright indeed; but right now, Tom had a reading of his own to perform. He was highly confident of his skill in this area, being in the habit of studying his own leaves each morning over breakfast (the superstition that one shouldn’t read their own tea or cards was just that, a myth to dissuade weak wixen incapable of objectivity). Flipping Harry’s cup in a single smooth motion, he peered within and couldn’t help but smile again at the distinct shapes he found there.
A tower; a new beginning. A triangle—a fortunate meeting. Cups, yet again; joy overflowing, a need finally met after long deprivation. And finally…
Well. One certainly didn’t require the Oracle of Delphi for that one. Even dear Harry, with an inner eye as blind as his two outer ones were bright and vibrant, could probably divine the meaning of the heart that sat in the topmost and most important position; full and rounded and near-perfectly symmetrical, a hint of pomegranate or hibiscus in the blend even tinting it a deep, rich crimson red.