Game of Thrones

Warnings: This will be the edited version, minus the graphic details of certain situations. UNEDITED VERSION(the M+ one)will be posted on AO3. AU. Major canon butchery, so expect characters in strange placements and events being entirely different. Tom and Harry's sixth year. Language. Violence. Torture. Adult situations. Suggestive dialogue. Disturbing adult content and themes. Eventual Slash. (boy x boy) Darkish-grey/scheming/intelligent-Harry. Other characters will be OOC as well. Considering Tom's nature, his 'feelings' for Harry, once developed, will be dark. So do not expect declarations of love from him at any point or fluffiness without ulterior motives, you'll be disappointed. Character deaths because once I get going, people will start dying. Un'beta'd!
I have warned you. If you are uncomfortable with any of this, then turn back now.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction and therefore I do not own the characters etc... Yup, we good?
Main pairings: (Top/bottom) Eventual, Tom Riddle Jr./Harry Potter (But not a main theme, more an eventuation of a number of situations than a driving plot of its own.)

For readers of my other stories, no I'm not really back. I'm actually out of the country pretty soon and won't be back for a month or so more (and thus unable to write,) this was the product after reading The Fictionist's Fate's favourite. Plus... I still owe Kreyana a fic. (6 pages in on that, and stuck. I will get there!) Oh and new poll up.

-x&x-

1

From Ashes

Let's dwell here, in the ashes; amidst the falling rain.
Forget about our troubles and tomorrow, try again.
~ D. Genesis

-x&x-

Marko was running.

All around him he could hear the screams of other children—his school mates; some younger, some older, some friends, others not—their cries echoing loudly around the halls, ricocheting from wall to wall throwing him off balance and shit... but could see no one. Not a single bloody thing in the thick shroud of black that threatened his very life. The crackling of fire hissed around him in taunt, filled his nose with acrid fumes and heat licked at his face, exposed flesh and hair and...

Oh Merlin, he was too young to die!

There was so much he had left to do. He had homework due the next day... an assignment he'd left to the last minute. Stupid. He was so stupid. His parents would be so mad... He swallowed, choked, coughed.

His eyes and throat stung and burned and he was growing dizzy... Smoke inhalation?

And, he couldn't really tell if he was going in the right direction to escape the winding, burning halls of the school turned death-trap. What if he was going the wrong way? He thought he was heading in the correct direction, but it was disorientating, this lack of proper sight and he had been turned around once before by someone knocking into him in the fire produced gloom.

Merlin his parents! What would they think?

What would they do? All he could see was darkness, infinitely stretched out before him like his own personal, shadowy walk to the gallows, more than ready to take him and it couldn't end this way. It couldn't—

But, he could picture his mother, stern yet kind. His father with that same stoic glance, but eyes that bellied true pride in his accomplishments, that offered words of praise...

He couldn't die.

He couldn't leave them like that. His mother would be heartbroken, likely have his coffin swimming in flowers—and who even said they'd have a body to mourn? In all likelihood this will be my funeral pyre—all lilies, because she loved them so and they were meant to represent purity, weren't they? His father would disagree, want something a little more... masculine but refined and an argument would ensue but his mother would win it, because she always won it and then... and then...

Abruptly, he was being hauled forward with astounding force. He stumbled to keep up, almost tripping several times over barely tied boots.

Warm, solidness was gripping his shoulder and magic—lush and intense and familiar, why so familiar?—wrapped around him like a blanket, dampening the heat from flesh eating flames and cloying smoke—

Left, right, left, right, left, left... It went on for what seemed an eternity. He lost count of all the turns he took.

Then he was outside.

The cool Scandinavian air attacked his burning, gasping, damaged lungs. The occasional flash of spell fire being exchanged a little further away barely registering in his mind, though it lit up the sky like fireworks, adding a strange beauty to the backdrop of dancing, golden-red flames. He was alive!

Air!

He gulped down large mouthfuls of oxygen, choked as it stung his smoke-ruined throat and lungs, then fell to his knees as his head swam in his greed. Not used to the glut of oxygen suddenly invading his previously starved airways. The solidness—fingers? A hand?—at his shoulder vanished.

"Can you stand?" The voice was hurried, but smooth and calming in a way he'd never believe possible.

Glancing up, head still muzzy and eyes stinging, he tried to nod at his saviour, froze and did a retake.

Harris Peverell.

Eyes the same shade of instant death—a vivid, beautifully poisonous green—stared back at him from an inhumanly angelic face. His ivory skin painted a bloody scarlet by the flickering firelight and shadowed by streaks of soot. The boy looked like something from a horror—or a romance—novel, just another of Lucifer's fallen angels, ready to tempt one to the very cusp of sin and abandoned them there.

He smelled of fire but not smoke.

Marko owed a life debt for this and for once, the proud boy didn't mind. Didn't care that he'd just played the damsel in distress... it wasn't often that Peverell paid attention to anyone outside those of his selected group, 'The Elite' of Durmstrang. And to think that at one point he'd dubbed the Peverell heir 'The Angel of Death.' It seemed fitting at the time, if childish, but of course he'd been jealous of the other boy, for a while—how could he not be?—and now he'd been saved by that same boy. The irony.

Shame filled him but more than that, was relief. He was so terribly relieved that he found himself trembling, almost unable to stop the hysterical laughter on the verge of bubbling up his seared, raw throat.

Euphoric. That's what he was.

His fingers convulsed, dug into the ground, dirt embedded itself beneath his nails and blades of sooty grass, soft yet sharp prickled against his palm. His lips moved, sincere and relieved and awed and so many other emotions all at once.

"...Thank-you." His voice was gravelly. It hurt. That didn't matter. At least he still had the capacity to speak, to breathe, to live.

Admittedly he wasn't sure what to expect next. Should he say something else? Was he meant to wait? What? He wished he knew or had some sort of prompt... After years of anonymity he was being noticed by the one person everyone longed for some form of acknowledgement from.

Harris Peverell was the leader of the Elites—a Sect of the most powerful, influential or talented students in the school—and as such, virtually untouchable by anyone else. Not that Peverell himself enforced such, but rather, the inner circle of his Sect jealously guarded him and their positions, making it impossible to get near the green-eyed teen unless he approached first or, one got lucky enough to encounter him alone.

Next to impossible.

The boy was always surrounded by his adoring Sect-mates.

Briefly, he wondered why the boy wasn't being crowded by his overzealous Sect-mates now. In this situation, shouldn't they be looking to him for guidance?

Besides, another part of him questioned, shouldn't he have been in his dorm with most of them? His eyes swept the other, finally taking in some vital details. Peverell was fully dressed. Not partially clad in his pyjamas like practically every other student Marko could see staggering around.

He ignored the way his mind pointed out that he, himself, was also fully clothed.

"Don't thank me," the other murmured, voice like liquid sex and Marko shivered, spellbound but didn't dare move.

Then a wand was drawn, pressed to his neck and Marko didn't even think to flinch at the speed nor the fact it was pointed at the vulnerable flesh beneath his Adam's apple. A whisper fell from the other boy's lips and he closed his eyes, waited—For what?

His throat tingled, warmed and breathing didn't hurt so much anymore. His eyes opened, perplexed.

The dark-haired boy nodded at him, satisfied. "You should be fine," he added, wand vanishing up a sleeve.

Marko blinked and was helped back to his feet. Embarrassment surged within him and he felt his cheeks heat. Right. What had he been expecting, anyway? A kiss or something equally moronic? He wasn't interested in other boys. He was very much straight, and had a girlfriend he loved but...

Being around the other student confused him.

There was this intensely hypnotic draw that went beyond physical attraction—although there is that, he concluded with some unease—but rather something deeper, infinitely more... that reached into him and pulled, refusing to let him go. If he didn't already have a fair idea of the other's background, he'd swear the boy possessed traces of some creature. Veela had their allure, vampires their thrall and various others possessed something of the like and Harris—

Harris? He inwardly shuddered, delight and... something darker warring for dominance. Peverell, he corrected himself, silencing his internal battle. I'm not familiar enough to use his first name.

Something inside him crumpled. A bit.

He shook his head, clearing it and swallowed, relishing the fluidity—ease—of something as normal as saliva passing through his throat without the sensation of dragging sandstone or glass rubbing against the sensitive inner tissue of his oesophagus.

Peverell didn't have to cure him of the smoke inhalation but had, just like he'd dragged him from the flames.

Opening his mouth, he intended to say something but stopped, it seemed he'd been forgotten already. The other's gaze darting from the vision of their burning school to the duelling that was going on down near the forest in contemplation. His face had shifted, blanked and the temperature around them plummeted.

Marko shivered in the sudden deathly chill and he felt the beginnings of fear once more. It passed as quickly as it came.

Wait... he thought, brows creased and watching the sky flash different colours. Duelling?

What was going o—an attack. He straightened, jaw clenching and mind clicking sharply into focus. The school had been attacked? Was still under attack. Who the hell attacks a school? Dumb question, even if it was internal.

"Grindelwald?" he queried, needing confirmation.

Startling green eyes flashed back to him, intense, considering—and Marko felt his breath hitch at being the centre of this boy's attention. Under that, assessing, soul-searing gaze which made him feel both bizarrely thrilled at the accomplishment and terrified in a way he didn't understand—then away.

"Would appear so."

Marko let out a shaky breath, his muscles unknotting once those eyes left him. Gods, he was both envious and pitying of those Peverell had close to him. It felt like his soul was stripped and laid bare for all to see with that one look alone... and he wanted it again.

"Why attack the school?"

The other's mouth twitched. "Grudge," the other boy informed him, musingly. "Statement, target, threat. All of the above, none of the above. Take your pick."

Okay, fine. He got it. So the other boy didn't have any theories or if he did, wasn't sharing. Although, a... "Grudge?"

"Grindelwald was expelled from here," the boy drawled, impatiently. Apparently he'd decided he was done with the subject. Typical. Certain subjects seldom held his attention long. But at least Marko was being answered, he recalled several red-faced individuals who'd tried to gain Peverell's attention—from his own Sect—and were blatantly ignored.

"If you see any of the younger students, you know where to take them," the other added.

Marko couldn't stop himself. He gaped, the boy couldn't be serious... "You can't mean—"

"Harry!"

Both boys turned as Damon Tresler—the Demon of Durmstrang—appeared, face soot blackened and smelling of char, his expression was one of complete and utter relief. He looked like he was about to grab Peverell—and hug him or some such thing—and only just stopped himself before contact was made.

Marko felt sympathetic of the older boy, he'd only been in Peverell's presence less than ten minutes and he'd been forced to fight off the irrational urge to snap at Tresler to back off. Still, the way in which the German boy was staring at Peverell was making Marko uncomfortable, like he was intruding on something he had absolutely no right to see.

Ludicrous!

They weren't lovers. If Peverell ever took a lover it would be all over the school and beside, all his Sect-mates looked at him like that.

It was ridiculous and he contemplated, briefly, if he was simply going mad with the sudden stress. But... hadn't he heard, in the deepest, darkest corners of Durmstrang, that Peverell could perform powerful wandless magic? It was never verified. Simply rumours but they went a long way into explaining this pull.

Peverell's gaze promptly swept the German boy's form in kind. Assessing?

"You are alright... We could not find... We are being so worrie—" Tresler went on in his broken English.

"Where are the others?"

Tresler halted. "I was sending them to deal with younger years. Not Kresten. He was looking for you..." he trailed off, clearly noticing that the Danish boy, Kresten Nordskov, wasn't with their esteemed leader and yes, he may have been just a tad bit jealous he'd been so carelessly dismissed out of mind.

"He must have just missed me as I was exiting the castle," the green-eyed teen theorised, tilted his head in query. "Injuries?"

"Taken care of."

Peverell nodded, twisted around, took a step back toward the burning school.

"No!" Tresler exclaimed, and again barely stopped himself from seizing Peverell's shoulder, Marko noted with intrigue. Wasn't the guy meant to be Peverell's third? Not his right hand, certainly, that place went to the missing Kresten Nordskov. But was he not allowed to... touch Peverell at all? No, that couldn't be right. Marko had seen them exchanging pats on the shoulder... hadn't he? "Let me go and—"

But the other boy had already marched off—singed robes flaring out behind him, almost like the great shadowy wings of a fallen angel he strongly resembled—back into the inferno with complete disregard for his own safety.

Tresler followed behind instantly, rigid but resolute.

And abruptly, Marko felt strangely bereft. The scent of smoke was beginning to overpower him again as it wafted from the burning castle and the night air descended, chilling him in a way that wasn't as comforting as it had been mere moments before but more than that, he felt Peverell's magic depart and it was like a physical blow to his system. Like being submerged in a steaming bath only to step out into the snow.

Was it really that compelling? Because a large part of him was very tempted to run back into the castle after the boy just to feel that calming weight settled around his shoulders once more and that... that really couldn't be healthy.

Marko was utterly dumbfounded. He was coming to... almost... understand the strange loyalty Peverell evoked in his little gathering of—acquaintances? friends? Something else?—now and it clearly wasn't for simple reasons. It was obviously more complex than he'd initially concluded...

How unsettling, he conceded, inwardly.

He seriously needed to rethink many of his previous assumptions. Indeed, he had plenty to keep his mind occupied, but first... he had to find his girlfriend, to make sure she was safe. He turned and forced himself to walk away.

-TMHP-

Healer Clary wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of her wrist, beginning to feel the pressure of the situation getting to her.

Only she had any real qualifications at healing, her colleagues had limited knowledge at best and there were so many students wounded. So many suffering the ill effects of smoke inhalation, cuts, bruises, spell damage...

She shuddered. It was her worst nightmare come to life but there was only so much she herself could do without falling flat from magical exhaustion and she'd already failed some of the poor mites already...

Unable to stop herself, she turned, catching a glimpse of a bowed head, shadow-dark hair falling forward and obscuring the deathly pale face from sight. It made her heart ache to see the boy like that. Even when he'd stumbled into the infirmary as a first year with broken bones, blackened eyes or suffering from some spell or another, Harris Peverell had never looked so utterly dejected.

The boy was... an enigma.

He'd been raised predominantly by muggles, from what she knew of his history. Bounced from an orphanage to a family and back again repeatedly. That had to have some sort of impact on a growing child's psyche but for all intents and purposes, he was remarkably well adjusted.

And intelligent.

Perhaps not as bright as his little... friend, Azel Dalca, the school genius but seldom seemed to matter in relation to their school work and for all his brilliance Harris never bragged, unlike many of his peers with less competence. He was always polite and helpful with an unrivalled charisma that drew everyone around him in but more than that, he was a hard worker. Driven.

And powerful. The boy was powerful. His instinctual grasp on magic phenomenal. Of course, she'd only seen it herself a handful of times, and heard about it more often than not from her colleagues at the standard teacher meetings. Amongst her peers, he was considered a prodigy and she was hard put not to agree.

But for all that she knew about the boy—the standard, inconsequential things—there was infinitely more about him that she didn't know and just as with everyone else, it filled her with a certain curiosity.

The boy belonged to a Sect now—one of his own founding, since the age of thirteen—and sat at the top of the school hierarchy. A place that was near impossible to keep and yet, there had been no challenges. None obvious at least and no surprise visits from students in opposing Sects and three years on, his place was not usurped.

For the more naïve of her peers, this meant nothing but for her it showed much and even the boy's angelic appearances couldn't always assuage her fears of what could happen if—

"I'll go with you to inform his parents."

The words were softly spoken, but blankly and something about it made Clary's heart squeeze painfully in her chest. How could I possibly think the boy a monster? She turned away, unable to watch the boy grieve. Maybe I am reading too much into this.

Beneath them, the wooden floor of the Durmstrang ship swayed gently.

"That will not be necessary, Peverell—"

"I will go with you," the boy insisted and it made Clary's insides squirm. "His parents will require explanations. Only I have those to give."

Dierk Vann—High master of what once was Durmstrang Institute—inclined his head very slowly, as though not willing to concede. Both males were impossibly proud but old Dierk often gave way with sound reason.

"Very well," the man said, tone firm but not entirely unkind. "I'll summon you once we have landed in safety. Preparations must be made..."

He strode purposefully to the door, Clary following behind, the stasis wards on the young Luka Arrats' body already in place.

"You are not at fault here," Dierk added, pausing. "We owe the many lives that continue to your fast thinking. Be grateful and do not make a mockery out of Arrats' sacrifice by assuming he didn't know exactly what he was doing when he took that curse meant for you."

Clary turned at the sharp sting of magic curling around her and caught glowing green eyes peering out of a too handsome face.

"May the other's be allowed in?" Harris questioned, quietly. "To say their goodbyes?"

The headmaster hesitated a moment, then nodded. "They may," he granted, "but only for a few moments. Then I expect you all to return to your quarters to rest. The next few days will be quite trying."

Harris stared a moment longer then sighed. "Of course."

"Clary," Dierk said, barely sparing her a glance. Understandable, given when in the presence of Harris it was hard to look away. "If you could?"

"Certainly, High master," she assured and watched him leave. Her eyes darted briefly to the only other occupant of the room, but he was staring at the still figure of Luka again. She had little time to wait before more boys entered the already too crowded room and, as if reading a silent cue, spread themselves out around their fallen Sect-mate. But instead of looking at him, their eyes were focused on Harris.

"He will be remembered as a hero," Kresten Nordskov guaranteed, his usual placid expression fierce. "We will see to it."

"We will," the typically silent Azel Dalca reaffirmed, a moment later. "And so much more."

At that, the Peverell heir's face tilted upwards, his gaze locking on Azel's with a concentration that was paralysing. Nothing was said for many moments in which the rest of the group—and Clary, included—shifted in an uneasy quietness, until Harris smiled and the restlessness dispersed.

Clary wasn't sure what to make of all the boys' expressions at that but didn't give herself time to ponder the meaning. It wasn't her business, after all and if she thought to question the reason she put up no fight as Harris politely asked if she'd mind exiting the room a few minutes, she put it all down to the boys wanting to say their goodbyes without an outsider of their Sect as a witness.

Not once did her mind wander back up that questionable alley of dark possibilities which emanated from Harris Peverell like a sinister halo.

And not once did she realise that she had already fallen under his spell.

-TMHP-

Harry subtly cast his eyes around at the castle that was to be his new... home, he supposed, for the next year and a bit and found himself reluctantly impressed.

Hogwarts was much more expansive than Durmstrang's four-levelled castle. Though the grounds were much smaller and the students here seemed rather... pampered in his opinion. Certainly more than they'd ever been back at his old school which was more likely to breed soldiers as opposed to scholars. He detested the new curriculum, though. He'd be dropping several classes since Hogwarts didn't offer them.

Still, he found the place more than acceptable, poor syllabus aside. It wasn't like he was unable to teach himself. He'd already replaced everything that hadn't been saved during the fire, his books included and was already a year or two ahead in several of the subjects... No, it wouldn't be a problem at all. If worst came to worst, he could always send a letter to his old teachers. They'd be more than willing to assist him, he knew.

His gaze shifted... falling upon their appallingly attired host, of sorts.

Dumbledore.

Deputy headmaster and Transfiguration professor. He was an oddity to Harry but also noticeably very powerful. Also rather visibly uneasy. However if this was due to the sudden intake of students from Durmstrang, the students themselves or the attack which took out an entire school, Harry couldn't say.

How very curious, Harry reflected, keeping his expression one of polite disinterest. Certainly, as he had caught several aborted glances in his direction from the man. Well, it seemed that he was the main cause for the man's wariness, or, at the very least piqued curiosity.

The Peverell pondered the reasons for those looks, having done nothing to warrant such scrutiny. At least, nothing that his old Headmaster, Vann could disclose. So what was it...

My childhood, perhaps? He paused, deliberated. Now that held some merit. His childhood was one unfortunate chain of events littered with death, which had earned him a rather regrettable moniker by his peers. Until they had gotten to know him in which case, it had been dropped.

Unfortunate, really. Still, he was nothing if not a product of his unique circumstances, determination and drive. He refused to mope over a lost childhood if it also meant its survival would equate to him developing a different character. He'd never have gotten as far without it.

"What do you think?"

His eyes settled on the wiry form of Azel, the one to pose the question.

"Not now," Roman growled at boy, and Harry felt the boy's eyes fall upon him, as though seeking approval.

Really, the way they acted sometimes wore on his nerves. They were young men, soon to be adults—or in Damon's case, already there—their bickering for his attention was infantile. As such, he ignored the desperate, probing glance as the group waited for their official guide to show them around. Fortunately, class was still in so there would be no additional hassle of gawking students just yet.

He'd cross that bridge once he reached it. Personally, he wasn't much looking forward to that. Being paraded around like an exotic pet wasn't really to his tastes.

The soft tread of someone approaching caught his attention and he turned to study who he presumed was to be their guide for the afternoon.

Well, that's interesting. Harry was momentarily taken aback.

The newcomer was tall, roughly of a height with Damon, the tallest in their group—Sixth year? Seventh?—Slim with a handsome, chiselled face and penetrating eyes that looked grey one moment and almost indigo the next.

"Good afternoon Professor Dumbledore," the teen greeted pleasantly after a minute pause.

The auburn haired man smiled in return, his unease gone. "Why yes, good afternoon Tom. If you would please show these young men around the school? I'm certain Headmaster Dippet has given you all the details?" he asked, kindly.

The boy, Tom apparently, straightened slightly. "He has, Sir."

"Good, good," Dumbledore said, eyes... twinkling? Harry's own cooled in suspicion. "Right, I shan't take up anymore of your time. But remember boys, my office door is always open," this seemed more aimed at the Peverell than anyone else. "If you ever need anything or simply to talk."

Harry watched the man go, contemplative.

Definitely needed Azel to dig into the man's past... But those parting few moments had seemed almost hopeful. Why though, when only moments before he'd been wary? A ruse? Or did it have something to do with the arrival of their escort? His eyes shifted back to the teen in question.

"My name's Tom Riddle," the boy announced very precisely. "Sixth form prefect for Slytherin house as such, if you need assistance with anything you can come to me. I must admit, I was only given a very brief explanation as to the circumstances of your arrival... It is most unfortunate what happened to your school. A loss, I am certain you must still feel keenly."

"It is not something we have comfort speaking of," Damon said as the oldest and stand in Sect-leader while Harry assessed their new situation. Despite his words, he didn't look the least bit uncomfortable. "You understand."

Riddle nodded, looking solemn. His eyes however, were glittering darkly.

"I am Damon Tresler. This," the seventh year gestured, "is Roman Sewick, Azel Dalca, Harris Peverell and Kresten Nordskov."

Harry didn't appreciated how that smoky-indigo stare settled on him longer than the rest of his group.

Surname. It had to be his surname. All purebloods knew of the Peverells; a powerful old family that predated even Hogwarts' illustrious founders' time. Many of the prominent pureblood lines claimed ancestry to the Peverells, which meant Riddle was a well-learned muggleborn when it came to wizarding lineage or the boy was a halfblood.

Or a pureblood. The odds were against this. But he may have been adopted by a muggleborn or halfblood. He may even have changed his name for safety precautions. Doubtful but still a possibility and everything was to be taken into account.

Riddle smiled. "A pleasure. Now if you'll follow me?"

He promptly turned on his heel and led them down the spiralling stair and out into the main part of the school. Harry followed along silently listening to the boy as he gave brief explanations of everything the other part of his attention split between the silent conversation he was holding with his Sect-mates.

'That was without point,' Damon signed. His fingers flashing rapidly in their unique sign language. 'It seems he already knows you lead, Harry.'

'Stick with the plan,' Harry returned just as swiftly. 'It could have been my name.'

'He looks a little like you, Harry,' Kresten signalled, fingers jerking in quick, erratic movements. He almost seeming affronted. Probably was. The silvery-eyed boy took offense to any perceived slight against him.

Harry and Damon exchanged glances. The latter smirked. 'You could be cousins,' he signed lazily. 'By looks.'

Yeah, actually. Harry had considered the same. They were eerily similar looking. Same dark hair, although his was longer and straight not wavy or combed back like Riddle styled his. Nor were his features as sharp as the Riddle's.

'Maybe we are,' he conceded. For all he knew, the boy could be a relation. However distantly. He'd never truly bothered looking for family members it seemed pointless even after spending the first few years of his life bouncing between the orphanage or another stranger's home wondering and hoping...

He wasn't that naïve anymore.

'Halfblood then,' Roman contributed, his focus clearly more on Riddle than them. He wasn't even trying to hide the glower that had formed on his face as he stared at the boy. 'I was thinking muggleborn with the surname.'

Of course. Despite that he'd been teaching them, considering blood status was still instinctive. He supposed he should be glad Roman hadn't outright sneered in Riddle's face.

The tour ended some time later in front of a damp stretch of wall, deep beneath the castle and through a labyrinth of dungeons.

"And this," said Riddle, " is our common room—Fatali."

The wall suddenly moved, ground back, opening enough to form a doorway. The prefect stepped through.

The walls inside were darker stone than outside and dappled, ghostly green light filtered in from various windows. A large fireplace took pride of place in the room, it's mantelpiece elaborately decorated with skulls and above which lay etched the image of a great serpent. Comfortable looking sofas of deep sable leather and tables of equally dark wood were scattered around the room. It brought to mind the image of a shipwreck.

Beautiful and eerie.

Riddle stood aside, folded his arms and offered a sharp smile. "Welcome to Slytherin."

My First Tom/Harry ever.

Just a note: Harry is not OMG-super-powered! His magic is equal to Tom's. Nor is Harry impossibly intelligent. He is smart, but not as smart as Tom or Azel. Harry's intelligence is more... intuitive? with strokes of true genius. Harry is NOT dark. His affinity is grey, that somewhat straddles darkness on occasion.

EDIT: Harry's excessive attractiveness... (Thanks for the question!) Anyway, he is about as hot as Tom. Just not as... sharp around the edges.

So, like it? Hate it? Please let me know. Seeing feedback on what I could do better or what's already working is great.