Chapter Text
Tom Riddle was the pinnacle of perfection, and somehow, Harry adored him anyway. And he shouldn’t have, really. It made no sense.
Harry had been born a troublemaker; it’d been in his blood, after all. He hadn’t just inherited messy hair and bad eyesight from his father, King James Potter, but also a perpetual penchant for chaos. Harry loved to run amok and wreck havoc, causing many a maid and butler to roll their eyes with exasperation when he wasn’t looking. Harry climbed trees when he was told not to, dueled with wooden swords until his palms blistered, and played knight with Ron—the son of a poorer duke—whenever they could escape their lessons. Harry was always the knight, Ron the princess that needed saving from the dragon.
In contrast, Harry hated law and order. He understood why politics existed, and his father had told him many times he would grow out of his brash, troublemaking ways, just as he had before him, but Harry just couldn't seem to sit still. He hated snobs—and so he hated all of his academic tutors—and so, by principle, he should’ve also hated Tom Riddle.
And yet, he didn’t.
Tom was everything in contrast to him. Straight-laced and well-mannered, intelligent and academic, and so well-spoken that it had originally made Harry’s skin itch.
And…yet.
They had met when Tom was nine, and Harry eight.
Or actually, Harry had met Tom in person when he was eight years old, but he’d listened to the whispers of the boy for a month prior. The palace staff had been nattering about the boy, hushing and shushing one another if they saw Harry pay too much mind to their conversation. This had gone on for several weeks, and Harry often eavesdropped behind large pillars.
About a month later, he received more information in the form of two dawdling maids.
“The Lord Chamberlain is sponsoring him,” murmured one of the maids. “He’s from some village up north.”
“No family?” another maid asked.
“None worth mentioning.”
“What business does he have in court?”
“We’ll find out this evening,” the maid said. “But I heard—just rumors, of course—he’s some kind of, well, prodigy. Extremely intelligent, that boy. They probably want to—”
The maid stopped talking, upon noticing a shadow shift to the right. Harry’s shadow. She shared a look with the other maid.
Harry knew instantaneously, even at the young age of eight, that whatever this boy sponsored by Albus Dumbledore himself was doing in court, it concerned him.
Harry felt a bit excited at the prospect. Some intelligent boy, they had called him, was coming to dinner in the evening. From a village up north, without any ties or family. Sponsored by Dumbledore, the royal chamberlain. Harry was automatically intrigued and looking forward to meeting him. Harry could always use extra playmates; all the sparring with Ron and Draco got tedious after a while, once Harry had bested both of them countless times…
And so, that night at dinner, Harry cocked his head left and right, searching for the boy who’d been dubbed an extremely intelligent prodigy, and he was surprised when his attention was snagged, and he quickly found him, seated at a lowborn table.
The boy was unnaturally…beautiful.
Not in the way Harry typically thought about beauty, in the pictures of maidens in his fairytale books, or how the orange-gilt sunset coated the courtyard on the nights Harry snuck out through the singular window in his room.
This boy’s beauty was different, but it still snatched the air out of Harry’s lungs.
Dark hair, with the slightest curl to it, neatly pressed back. Eyes so dark it was a bit like staring into the night, but Harry could see his intelligence through just his eyes. His skin was pallid for a boy from the countryside, and oddly enough, without blemish or marks.
Harry felt automatically out of it in comparison to the prodigy boy, with his scars on his legs from tree-climbing and the beginnings of childhood acne on his face. The boy in front of him, who could only be around his age, at most a year older, looked infinitely more regal and polished than Harry, even though he only wore a nondescript page’s uniform with dark fabric and a plain cut.
He was so beautiful it almost hurt.
Like one of those baroque or classical paintings that Harry would trace his fingers with, when the adults weren’t looking.
Instantly, the boy saw Harry staring at him from where the royal family was seated at the larger, more ornate table. He didn’t blink, a sign of respect perhaps, and instead, subtly directed his head in a nod. His eyes never left Harry’s.
Something, like the wind in his lungs, was knocked out. Harry’s heart was a wild, galloping horse in his chest. He swallowed and looked away, wondering why on earth the boy, who had to be the genius the palace staff spoke of, was here, in his abode at his dining room.
Other boys, of a similar age, some his age, others a few years older, were seated next to him, people Harry hadn’t clocked immediately but who he undoubtedly recognized. Draco was among them, other sons of dukes and barons Harry had spoken to present as well. He knew all of them, except the new mystery boy with the plain tunic and dark eyes.
Food was served: lamb chops, pheasant roast, and treacle tart, Harry’s personal favorite. Finally, his father stood up, grabbed a spoon, and gently hit the metal on his glass a couple times. The sound reverberated and instantly stopped every conversation within the room.
“Dukes and duchesses, barons and baronesses, my friends and allies,” James started, his voice booming but gentle, “I must welcome you all today to a very special dinner.” He gestured at the table of boys. “I have brought in some very talented young boys, one of which will be picked as my son’s page.”
“As many of you know, my son Harry has just turned eight, and as per tradition, we intend to find him a page who will serve the crown. Whoever will be picked will offer my son the utmost companionship as we shape him to be the next king of Gryffindor!”
The room of people clapped.
Harry looked over at his dad, with a face to which any stranger would look normal, but Harry’s eyes were squinted with annoyance, as if to say, Why didn’t you tell me, Dad…?
Lily put a hand on his shoulder, warningly.
Lily also stood up, looking at the room full of people, split into three tables: one for the page candidates, the others for the royal family and important members like Lord Chamberlain Dumbledore, and the third table with dukes, duchesses, and other miscellaneous but powerful figures. “And so, as per tradition, we will let our son pick his new page. But before that, we will handle introductions. Every boy at the page table, please stand and deliver your name and a little background about yourselves. In alphabetical order, if you please.”
Around the circle, boys went. Harry heard so many names echo around the room, but he was waiting for the dark-eyed boy’s introduction. Harry wanted to hear that voice—
It took a bit. The boy was situated toward the end of the table. Finally, it was the boy’s turn.
“Your Majesties,” the boy said and stood up, addressing Harry and his parents, “it’s a pleasure to be in court, speaking to all of you today. My name is Tom Marvolo Riddle. I stand before you, nothing more than a commoner from a small village in Little Hangleton. Your generous Lord Chamberlain, Albus Dumbledore, found me when I was a scribe’s apprentice, and seeing my potential, he decided to sponsor me today. Without him, I would not be here.” There was a stretched-out quality in the boy’s smile, Harry thought to himself. Something a bit off. “I have, for so long, wanted to meet my prince and future king. I have heard stories of his bravery and potential from even my small village…”
Tom’s eyes found his, and they were as searing as they were dark. “I intend,” Tom said carefully, “to serve him to the best of my ability. Thank you.”
There was no prepubescent stutter in his tone. No nervous laughter and broad smiles. Just simple declarations, a confident introduction, and him settling back in his seat, immobile again, just another statue among the boys seated. Yet, for a moment there, when he talked, Harry saw glittering, intelligent dark eyes, he heard a tone as smooth as glass…
He wondered what kind of tone the boy had when he laughed—would it be wild and unrestrained, or clipped and mild-mannered?
Harry was right. That boy was the same boy the maids had been gossiping about, from a village up north: Little Hangleton. Harry’s interest was already piqued. What did they do in Little Hangleton? Did they run around and climb trees until dawn? What did freedom from the crown taste like? Harry wondered to himself. Could the boy teach him?
Harry softened his thoughts, trying with his utmost might to give the other boys a chance, the ones who stuttered and laughed, the children of nobles, some of whom smirked, others who bowed like toadies. Draco’s hasty declarations of “I’ve known Harry since we were both babes… I can teach him, I’m already teaching him,” while staring at him with an intense glare—Harry couldn’t see Draco as his page, no matter how much his friendly childhood rival wanted the position.
Harry thought the concept of a page was unnecessary, a bit senseless even, only upheld based on tradition. Sirius Black, Harry’s godfather, had been his father’s page, and Harry looked at his godfather, situated several seats to the left of him. He was smiling at Harry. But Harry just didn’t understand the purpose of the pages.
Yet, somehow, part of him warred with this thought. Somehow, after a month of hearing about this mysterious, genius boy, after seeing him in person, Harry did want a page.
He wanted Tom Riddle.
When his parents asked him if he needed time to think, Harry replied right away: “No, I don’t think I need any more time to think.” The boys all stood up, attention rapt, anxiety hearty and thick in the room. Harry wasted no time crushing many of their hopes. “I want…I want Tom Riddle to be my page.”
The room fell into a wave of silence.
People’s eyes darted around, unsure of what to say, or think, or respond. Then a chipper clapping sounded from the far side of the table, where Dumbledore sat and brought his hands together, a benign expression on his face, eyes blue and alight.
Then the rest of the room also erupted into a series of claps that were almost clipped, if claps could be such a thing.
“Stand up, my boy,” James said, as he walked to Tom. Tom did instantly and bowed his head with respect. “We intend for you to sit next to Harry at all times, all right? You will begin your page duties tomorrow. For now, we will find accommodations for a room for you tonight.”
“Thank you, Your Majesties,” Tom said politely.
There was a glimmer in his eyes; Harry wanted to reach out and hold the shine in them, like it was a penny he’d stolen from a wishing well.
Then Tom looked at Harry—and Harry’s heart almost beat out of his chest—and said, his tone softening, “I look forward to serving you, Your Highness.” And he inclined his head in a low bow, making a rising blush dust Harry’s face.
Harry didn’t even know how to form words, so he just nodded in the most elegant, regal way he could summon. “I as well,” he said, when the silence grew tenuous.
And Harry inclined his head shortly.
Tom’s lips formed almost a smile.
That night, Harry was sleepless in his royal chamber. And all he could think about was his new page.
Tom had been given a bed chamber one floor below his, an abandoned one, but eventually, Tom would be moved to Harry’s bedroom once they moved a bed and accommodated for a second person in the space. Harry couldn’t wait, though part of him was nervous at the thought of sharing his room with another person.
Either way, after the dinner, he had followed his parents and asked them why they’d decided to suddenly put Harry on the spot like that, making him choose a page without his knowledge of the dinner’s purpose.
“We told you already, months prior,” his mother said. “And Slughorn and Binns mentioned it this morning.”
Harry swallowed, recalling that he had evidently not been at lessons this morning. “You’re right,” he said after a pause. “It must’ve slipped my mind.”
James put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “We’re happy with your pick, son. We just wanted you to know that.”
Lily smiled, a bit strained. “You know that we find the aristocracy and blood all very outdated,” she said. “Your pick, this Tom Riddle, seems bright and charming. He will make a good page.”
“And maybe act as a good influence too,” added James with a crooked grin.
“And yet—we want you to know that the dukes and their duchesses, the higher nobility, they will talk, Harry. You picked the most lowborn child at that table, and we do not fault you for it. But you must ignore their comments, all right?”
“I’m the prince,” Harry said with a laugh. “What gossip I hear has no bearings on my choices.”
“That’s my boy,” said James, and he clapped him on the back and sent him off to sleep.
Harry now sat there, in a bed triple his size, feeling without a doubt, he needed to see the boy he picked as his page. And so, hoisting himself off his humongous bed, Harry slid to the grand glass window that was as ink-black as the night behind it, and unlatched the glass (Harry was always grateful that it could be opened and closed; part of him wondered if James knew but purposefully allowed him such a luxury, nostalgic of his own trouble-filled childhood).
Outside, Harry saw the encircling, musty-green moat around the castle. Harry was about three stories above, and although a fall into the deep moat would not kill him, it would probably injure him severely.
Harry instead climbed the perimeter of the castle, along the rickety, thin ledge, holding onto the railings for dear life. The first time he’d done that, Ron had been practically crying from anxiety as he watched from the inside of Harry’s room.
“Harry, please, don’t do this—” And when Harry’s shoe slipped against the ledge, Ron nearly whimpered. “If you die, they—they’ll think I bloody killed you. Harry, no—”
But Harry had been five and small then, and he was just as lithe with double of the experience now. He scaled the castle like he was put on earth to do so. It was the only way to sneak out at night—the front of his room was surrounded with five guards, who often grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and dumped in his room if he tried to exit from the front. Harry had to resort to sneaking out of the window.
Harry scaled the castle, holding onto the water sprout and slowly positioning him downward, slow and nimble as a spider. Finally, he made it to the second floor, where he and his parents had dropped off a very grateful Tom Riddle in the room. Harry tapped on the glass, while holding tightly to the sprout, feet digging into the ledge.
He hoped Tom wasn’t asleep. He really wanted to see him.
Harry tapped again, light but firm on the glass.
He peered in, searching for Tom Riddle in the room, eyes roaming. Tom wasn’t…anywhere, it seemed. The room was smaller than Harry’s, a simple bed in the corner and a table and closet to the side, as well as a red and gold rug decorating the floor. It was very empty—empty of furnishings, empty of Tom…
Harry swallowed nervously.
What happened?
Where was Tom Riddle?
“Are you looking for something, my prince?” came a voice.
Harry startled. Luckily, his grip was firm, and he didn’t fall.
Harry looked around and saw Tom sitting by the window, at the one blind spot Harry hadn’t been able to see from his angle. Half of Tom’s face was smothered by darkness, the other half mildly lit by moonlight filtering in.
“Tom!” Harry said excitedly. “Would you open the window for me?”
Tom sat there calmly, hands clasped together. For a moment, nothing was happening, and Harry was tempted to ask if Tom had heard him.
“Is that a royal command?” Tom asked.
Huh?
“Uh, yes,” said Harry glibly. “I order you to let me in.”
After several long seconds of eye contact, Tom stood up slowly, moved to the window, unlatched it, and offered a hand to let Harry in.
Harry stumbled in, and losing his balance, he almost fell on top of the other boy. Tom pushed a hand out to grab Harry’s arm and steady him, preventing full-on collision.
“Thank you,” Harry said, out of breath.
“Of course, Your Grace,” Tom said, releasing his grip and taking a step backward. He inclined his head out of respect.
Tom was now wearing worn though comfortable-looking sleepwear. His hair was a bit more tousled than it’d been at dinner, but he was almost ghostlike in the darkness, hauntingly beautiful.
Harry took a look around the room, where the bed was completely untouched and made. Everything looked clean, but so…cramped in comparison to his own room.
“I’m sorry,” Harry said, “for the accommodations. I didn’t know my parents would’ve put you in such a small space.”
“You’re mistaken, Your Grace. The accommodations are…perfect.”
“You—you’re not sleeping,” Harry said. “You haven’t even…” Harry gestured at the bed, unsure of how to phrase the fact that the boy hadn’t even touched the bed, and it had to be past midnight.
“You are also not asleep,” Tom said calmly.
“I—I wanted to see you.”
“Did you?” Tom said, and his dark eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“I’m curious about my new page,” Harry admitted, feeling heat rise to his cheeks. “I picked you, but I don’t know anything about you, and I wanted to meet you!”
Tom’s lips formed a smile that was humorless.
“We have the rest of our lives to be acquainted, my prince,” Tom said. “I suggest you safely leave my room and sleep. Proper introductions can wait till the morning.”
“You talk so…funny,” Harry said.
Tom’s throat bobbed. “I do?”
“All posh and perfect…” Harry clarified. “Like a prince. Well, I’m a prince, but you know what I mean. It sounds better than me, and I’ve got a billion tutors. Does everyone in your village talk like you do?”
“No, but I suppose I have worked on my speech for a while.”
“They—they, the maids, whisper about how you’re a genius. Are you a genius?” Harry asked, his green eyes bright, and moved closer to Tom, circling around him. “Maybe that’s why you talk like that, if you are. Do you…do you like swordfighting? How about racing? Do you climb trees in your village?”
Tom kept quiet for several seconds, as if digesting Harry’s words. “I’m your page. I live to serve you, Your Grace. Whatever you enjoy, I will enjoy as well. I hope we can become…aligned. I follow your demands.”
“I demand you come with me to the moat!”
“The moat…” Tom said, his eyes narrowing.
“Yeah, the moat!” Harry said brightly. “It’s not too far down from here… I can show you the way.”
“My prince, why—”
“Why not?” Harry said. “Are you not my page? That’s a royal command. Let’s go.”
Harry grabbed the other boy’s hand, making prim and proper Tom Riddle almost stumble. Then he gestured at the moonlit window with a grin in his eyes. Tom looked like he couldn’t believe what was happening; there was a haunted look in his eyes.
“Are you ‘fraid of heights?” asked Harry, as he popped his head out the window, feeling the night air whip at his skin.
“No. I am not.”
“You look afraid—”
“It’s unsafe to traverse from such a height. If you fall…”
“My mother and father aren’t here, don’t worry,” said Harry. “I won’t get you in trouble, promise.”
“That’s not what I—” Tom began, but Harry was already out the window and climbing down, holding both railings and bricks and whatever he could shove his hands in. Tom peered downward, pupils dilated.
“Come on, Tom!” Harry shrieked into the night.
And for some reason or another, hesitantly, Tom opened the window and followed Harry down, step by careful step. Quietly, gently, as careful as some predator—until they finally reached a patch of grass at the back of the palace, a private section where Harry knew his parents hadn’t installed guards. Right by the grass was a snaking, thin moat.
Tom stood there, looking out of place. Harry smirked, his green eyes ablaze. “Thank you, Tom.”
Tom stared, looking confused.
“For taking a chance, for doing something a bit…out there,” Harry said and laughed. “Not even Ron could stomach it.”
“I can see why your…friend couldn’t stomach it,” Tom said. “It’s uncharacteristic for a prince to be sneaking out at night. It’s unsafe to scale castle walls just for recreation.”
“I’m not your typical prince.”
And Harry offered him a crooked grin. Tom looked at him calmly back, with a benign smile that made Harry’s skin itch a bit. It felt odd.
Harry sat down by the moat, gesturing for Tom to do the same.
“Do you even want to be my page?” Harry asked. “Or are you just trying to escape Little Hangleton?”
“I want to be your page, Your Grace.”
“Don’t call me that,” Harry said with a snort. “I’m…just Harry. That’s what everyone in the palace calls me.”
“I call you that out of respect, my prince,” Tom said. “I’m acknowledging your status and position, as your page.”
“You’re not my inferior. Pages are supposed to be…well, equals,” Harry said. “Or, at least, that’s what my dad says. He and his page, Sirius Black, are closer than brothers. I want to be that close to you.”
Tom blinked at him.
“I want us to be close,” Harry said. “Just like dad and Padfoot are. So you can’t call me titles. Just Harry. Just Harry will do.”
“Just Harry,” echoed Tom.
“Or, well, Harry,” said Harry with a small laugh.
“Harry.”
It sounded like honey on toast. Treacle tart with a faint drizzle of maple syrup. Sugar and sweetness and even bright thing in the world poured into two syllables. An ear-splitting grin arrived on Harry’s face like an exodus.
“Tom,” Harry said. “I’m happy you’re my page.”
Harry offered his hand.
Sitting by the moat, Tom blinked and brought his own hand up to shake Harry’s.
The other boy said, soft as a midsummer’s night: “Harry, the pleasure is all mine.”
They sat like that until early dawn, in silence, watching the water in the moat curdle and flow.