Harry's new dorm mates weren't particularly fond of him. Eli Goldstein, Tate Brocklehurst, and Caiden Wright were all half-bloods so they lacked the cruelty and sense of superiority that most purebloods had, but he'd heard them sharing whispered complaints of having to share a dorm room with 'the cursed boy'. They'd barely uttered a word to him since he'd joined their room, and had seemed content keeping as much distance from his as possible.

Harry couldn't even be angry, because it wasn't just them giving him a wide berth. Throughout the welcoming dinner the previous night he had felt eyes on him, and hushed words followed him as he passed people by. He knew—or perhaps hoped—that something serious would happen to somebody else and they would become the talk of the school. Those thoughts were always followed by guilt, because generally when something serious happened to one of the students it was because they were a half-blood who'd angered the wrong pureblood.

Until something eventually happened, however, Harry was the odd thing that the other students stared at and gossiped about as though he wasn't right in front of them. It didn't upset him, but rather he found it quite irritating and off-putting. He'd barely eaten five spoonfuls of his porridge before he grew weary of the pointing, and as his breakfast felt like tasteless mush in his mouth, he chose to forego breakfast altogether and head to his first class early.

The first lesson of the day was Dark Arts, Harry's worst class. He was good enough at the theory portion of the class, but he refused to take part in the practical side because even though it resulted in punishment for him, he couldn't bring himself to cast a harmful spell against an innocent human being. Being half-blood was crime enough to be tortured by other students though, apparently, and Harry's refusal to partake meant he received a failing grade no matter how excellently he could write about the different torture techniques.

Harry did wonder what had happened to Professor Travers, their previous Dark Art teacher. He, like all of the other professors, was a loyal Death Eater with a passion for violence. Traver's particular interests lay in experimentation, and Harry had always suspected he was somehow involved in the horrors of the Department of Mysteries.

He wasn't going to miss Travers by any means, but at least Harry knew what to expect from him. Riddle was a complete mystery, though given his good looks and relatively young age, Harry reasoned he must have done something very impressive in the Dark Lord's eyes to land him a role at Hogwarts.

Naturally, Harry was the first one to arrive at Dark Arts. He leaned against the stone wall, the cold, sharp points pressing into his back, and had just dropped his bag to the floor when the door opened and Riddle appeared. His unusual, different coloured eyes jumped out at Harry immediately, their strangeness as attractive as they were unnerving.

"Hello, Harry," Riddle said smoothly. "Please, come inside."

Harry hesitated; though Riddle had given him very little concrete evidence that he was a sadist, it never boded well for Harry when he was left alone with professors. However, he realised they were alone together in the corridor regardless, and if Harry refused him then Riddle would have an excuse to punish him if he wished—not that it was unheard of for the professors to make up excuses, but at least Harry could retain his honour if he knew he'd actually done nothing wrong.

Reluctantly Harry pushed off the wall, picking his bag up as he made his way into the classroom.

He'd barely stepped through the doorway when Riddle's hand slammed into the frame, narrowly missing Harry's head and trapping him right up against Riddle. Harry had to look up to see into Riddle's eyes, truly appreciating for the first time just how tall Riddle was.

"I know you have, shall we say, an attitude problem," Riddle said sharply, his voice cutting through Harry like a hot knife slicing through ice. "However, I want you to be aware that I am not your enemy, Harry. Unlike Headmaster Lestrange, I see potential and power in you, but it is your prerogative to accept my support rather than writing me off as yet another authority figure you hate."

"I can do well with magic," Harry agreed, heart thumping heavily in his chest though he refused to tear his gaze from Riddle's. "But I believe in Light magic, not Dark. I refused to torture other students for Travers, and I'm not going to do it for you, either."

Riddle's lips curled in amusement, and his hand moved back from the doorframe, allowing Harry to enter the classroom.

Harry pushed past him briskly, his arm brushing Riddle's firm, warm body as he went. He slammed his bag down on a desk at the back of the classroom, the force of his action spilling quills and inkwells across the tabletop.

"Shit," Harry muttered lowly as he reached for his wand to clean up the spilled ink, but his fingers had only just closed around the wood when the black stain on his desk vanished.

Harry glanced up to find Riddle with his wand in hand, tilting his head curiously as he looked down at Harry.

"You're mistaken about Dark magic, I hope you're aware," Riddle murmured softly, turning his back and retreating to his own desk. "It can be used for torture and suffering, yes, but it can also be used for everyday spells such as simple cleaning charms. In fact, Dark magic is so efficient that the Ministry centuries ago feared its power and banned it, spreading propaganda about its usage."

"Oh?" Harry argued. "Forgive me, Professor Riddle, but I don't remember Travers teaching us how to tie our shoelaces with Dark magic. What he did teach us was how to split someone open from neck to belly, and how to force someone's mind to be confronted with hallucinations of their biggest fear."

Harry knew it was incredibly foolish of him to argue with a professor, but the words were spilling from his lips regardless if Harry thought it was a good idea to say or not. He braced himself for a harsh reprimand, but rather than snarling, Riddle's lips simply turned up into a bemused smirk.

"My, the Headmaster was certainly not understating your attitude." Riddle beckoned Harry towards him with two of his fingers. "Move to the desk at the front; I think it might be best that I keep a close watch over you."

"But I-" Harry began to argue, but it seemed that Riddle's patience had finally expired.

"I told you that I'm not your enemy," Riddle snapped. "But if you turn me into one then I will have no choice but to indulge your wishes, and trust me when I say that I am not somebody you want as your enemy. Now do as you're told, Harry, and move to the front desk."

Harry scowled, but silently obeyed Riddle's command, mostly pissed off and—rather shamefully—a tiny bit aroused. He couldn't help it; he was an eighteen-year-old bisexual boy faced with an exceptionally attractive man who spoke with a charmingly smooth voice.

"There's a good boy," Riddle purred, and Harry felt his heart flutter—along with another, more prominent part of his body. "Don't disappoint me, Harry; as long as you follow my wishes, I believe we can make a great wizard out of you."

After classes had finished for the day Harry found himself heading to library. He wasn't especially studious, but he had nothing else to do and at least focusing on his school books would keep his mind off the loneliness which was already starting to eat away at him.

The current seventh years were a lot more compliant than the year group that Harry had originally been a part of. He and Seamus, along with Susan Bones, Sue Li, and Terry Boot, had all been more outspoken about the unfair treatment which the half-blood students suffered. Now, however, Harry was not just seen as the boy who'd managed to curse himself with some Dark object, but also the boy who made trouble for himself by arguing with professors, and it would be a wonder if he actually managed to make any friends. Most of the half-bloods would probably be too afraid of getting punished simply through association with him.

Harry had been reading—or rather staring blankly at his book—for what felt like very little time at all when he felt somebody sit in the chair opposite him. He glanced up, unsure if he was expecting a curious kid or a pureblood out to cause trouble. It ended up being neither.

It was a petite girl with dirty-blonde hair and large, icy blue eyes which were rather striking against the pallid tone of her skin. Harry vaguely knew her as a pureblood named Luna, but he'd never spoken to her, and often got the impression that nobody else did either.

"Hello," Luna said, smiling as she reached into her bag and placed several strands of brightly coloured yarn on the table. "You're Harry; I'm Luna."

"Er, hi," Harry replied, his book quickly forgotten as he watched Luna effortlessly begin to twist the strands of yarn together.

"I hope I'm not intruding in your moping," Luna murmured seriously. "But I thought you looked lonely and might be pleased for some company. I often find myself alone with my thoughts, and though it sometimes means I'm able to come up with wonderful ideas, other times it can be dreadfully sad. What's your favourite colour?"

"Uh, silver," Harry answered, stomach twisting as his mind flew to thoughts of the diadem and, for some horrific reason, the silver-tongued Professor Riddle. "Er, you're welcome to join me, if you like, but I didn't think you were supposed to associate with half-bloods if you could avoid it."

"Oh, I don't believe we're different at all," Luna stated confidently, fingers working a piece of silver yarn. "What is blood purity when we're all magical regardless?"

Harry smiled despite himself. Luna was certainly peculiar, to put it lightly, but she had a character about her which Harry found rather endearing.

"Try telling that to the Death Eaters," Harry muttered darkly, shaking his head. Luna laughed, covering her mouth with her hand before she returned her attention to her yarn project. "What are you making?"

"Who, me?" Luna asked, as though she wasn't the only one with him. "It's a piece of jewellery that the Muggles call a Friendship Bracelet; see, I've nearly finished." She held it up to demonstrate. "I had to guess the size of your wrist, but I think it will fit you nicely."

Harry's heart jumped hopefully in his chest. "You made a friendship bracelet for me?"

Luna nodded. "Oh, yes. I have a feeling that you and I are destined to be very good friends."

Harry could feel somebody following him.

He didn't turn around, and simply picked up his pace as he returned to his dorm room. He had stayed at the library too long, and darkness had already fallen outside meaning the only light in the corridors came from measly scones on the walls.

Harry wasn't much in the mood for a fight, and he hoped that as long as he didn't bite, the person or persons following him would lose interest and they could go their separate ways. Unfortunately, luck was not on Harry's side.

"Oi, Potter!" a voice shouted out, snarling.

It was a youthful voice, meaning a student rather than a professor, but while professors were far more sadistic and technically skilled, students tended to be more impulsive and lacking in restraint.

Harry stopped in his tracks and turned around slowly, because if somebody was going to attack him he'd rather they had to look in his eyes than giving them a defenceless target of a retreating back. He found himself facing Yancy Rowle and Garrett Avery, pureblood seventh-years who each had an uncle who served as two of Voldemort's most loyal Death Eaters.

"Is there a problem?" Harry ground out, scowling. "I'd like to be back in my dorm before curfew."

Garrett smiled nastily. "Yes, wouldn't do someone like you any good to be caught out of bed after hours. Luckily we don't have that problem."

"We've come to give you a warning, Potter," Yancy spat. "I don't know how Malfoy and Nott ran things, but they're not in charge any more; we are. And you-" Yancy jabbed his fingers into Harry's shoulder-"you filthy little halfie, are going to show us respect."

Harry rolled his eyes before he could stop himself, and instantly two sets of wands were drawn on him.

"I told you to show respect!" Yancy hissed. "Looks like we'll have to teach you some manners."

Though, logically, Harry knew the smart thing to do was run, he couldn't bring himself to flee like a coward. Damning the consequences he drew his own wand, his split second of hesitation enough to give the other two the advantage.

He hissed as a charm hit his face, slicing into his cheek with a sharp sting of pain. Warm blood dripped from the wound, the tang of copper hitting his tongue.

"Expelliarmus," Harry cast, reaching out to catch Yancy's wand only to have his arm slashed with the same spell as before by Garrett. Harry pulled his arm back to his body with a hiss of pain, Yancy's wand clattering to the floor.

"You dare try to steal my wand?!" Yancy screamed, scrambling for it on the ground. "You'll pay for that, halfie. You-"

"What," a cold, smooth voice uttered darkly behind Harry, "is going on here?"

Harry froze; Riddle's voice was distinct enough, but even without seeing him Harry could somehow sense Riddle's power.

Riddle stepped into view, tall and handsome as ever, and Yancy and Garrett grinned wickedly.

"Potter attacked us, Sir," Garrett said quickly. "We were trying to teach him a lesson."

Harry didn't bother to argue, because no teacher would defend a half-blood over a pureblood, even if they knew for a fact that the pureblood was lying.

"Oh?" Riddle drawled. "Be that as it may, you are all out of bed after hours."

The grins on Yancy and Garrett's faces vanished at once, their mouths falling open in horror.

"But-" they both began to argue, but Riddle held up a hand to silence them.

"Rules are rules, and as children you are to respect your betters," Riddle hissed. "You may be at the top of the school hierarchy, but in the real world you're nothing and so you'll do as I say. Now get out of my sight."

Harry could have laughed at the mortified expressions on Yancy and Garrett's faces, if only he didn't know worse would be coming for him. Yancy and Garrett were aware of that too, because despite their own shock they each sent him a nasty smirk as they barged past him.

"Come with me, Harry," Riddle ordered, setting off at a brisk pace without looking back to see if Harry was following.

Harry sighed, resigning himself to his fate as he stepped after Riddle.

Riddle eventually led Harry to a room in the dungeons of Hogwarts.

Harry had only ever been to the actual dungeons once before, when he was fifteen and had spat at Headmaster Lestrange's feet for Crucio-ing a half-blood first-year who'd done nothing wrong but ask a pureblood to please move out of her way.

Harry had been strung up from the ceiling with his wrists in shackles for an entire day while Rabastan struck him over and over with a variety of floggers and canes.

Riddle finally glanced back at him, having been silent the entire walk, and simply inclined his head before he turned forwards once more and opened the door.

Harry followed him into the room, blood turning to ice in his veins. Rather than stepping into a dungeon like he had expected, Riddle had led Harry to his private quarters, decorated in shades of dark green and black. Harry's eyes landed on the four-poster bed and his knees turned to jelly, nausea bubbling in his stomach.

He'd heard rumours over the years, of course, that some of the professors took students to bed once they reached seventh-year, but he'd desperately, desperately hoped that even the Death Eaters wouldn't be so cruel as to-

"I'm not going to force you into my bed." Riddle's voice cut through Harry's horrifying thoughts. "Really, Harry, is that the type of person you take me for? Nothing more than a filthy, rabid rapist?"

Harry shrugged, feeling starting to return to his previously frozen body.

"I don't know you at all," Harry admitted. "How can I know what type of person you are? But I am here so you can punish me, aren't I?"

To Harry's surprise, Riddle shook his head, smirking.

"Only with a safeword," Riddle quipped, and Harry's eyes widened, not quite sure he hadn't just imagined it. "Actually, I don't believe in harming the undeserving. You may be a half-blood but you're still graced with magic and it's a waste to spill such precious blood."

Riddle reached out his hand, brushing a finger against the cut on Harry's cheek. Harry squirmed at the pressure and Riddle pulled back, looking down curiously at his blood-stained fingertip.

"Sit down," Riddle commanded, gesturing to the edge of his bed.

Harry hesitated for just a moment, but despite the mystery to Riddle's character, his words about not being a rapist had sounded sincere. He obeyed the order, and Riddle smiled down at him.

"Good boy," Riddle purred, and Harry's stomach twisted pleasantly.

Riddle conjured a wet cloth and began dabbing gently at Harry's face.

Harry held his breath, never having had a teacher heal his wounds before—usually they were the ones causing them. Riddle was being considerate, too; not pressing down too hard, and using his fingers to gently turn Harry's face where he needed to.

"How did you know I didn't deserve to be hurt?" Harry asked curiously as Riddle turned his attention to the wound on Harry's arm. "Garrett told you I started the fight."

"Avery and Rowle are liars," Riddle snapped sharply. "And they're also fools if they haven't realised there are more eyes on the students than just the ones they can see. Besides, I have the impression that your problem lies with authority figures rather than other teenagers."

"I don't have a problem with authority figures," Harry argued. "I just don't believe that being in a position of authority means you're entitled to respect; you have to earn that."

"And you've yet to find a professor you've considered to have earned your respect?" Riddle enquired, lips quirking. "Oh, I understand where you're coming from; you're a half-blood who only sees your own oppression rather than the bigger picture, and that's perfectly natural at your age."

"Are you suggesting I'll somehow see the value in the Dark Lord's violent regime as I get older?" Harry raised a brow.

"Perhaps not," Riddle agreed. "However you may learn the skills to pretend you do, which will certainly make life far easier for you. Things don't have to be as difficult as you make them; half-bloods can lead pleasant lives as long as they respect the Dark Lord's ruling."

Harry tilted his head, looking up at Riddle with a new-found intrigue. The way Riddle was talking almost bordered on treason, or encouraging treason at the very least. Harry had assumed Riddle was a Death Eater, but perhaps he wasn't; he glanced towards Riddle's arm, but the black fabric of his shirt hid the skin where the Dark Mark would be.

"Do you play chess, Harry?" Riddle asked suddenly.

Harry's eyes snapped back to Riddle, finding Riddle's odd-coloured eyes fixed on him intently. "Chess? I, uh, a little bit. I know how to play, I guess."

"Excellent," Riddle said, flashing his perfect teeth in a dazzling smile. "I'd like you to come here every evening after dinner and we'll play together. Chess is a game of patience, logic, and strategy, and these are all skills which you could do with learning. If you refuse, I'll simply make it your punishment for fighting pureblood students."

Harry found himself smiling somehow. "I won't refuse."

Riddle was too intriguing to Harry for him to turn down the opportunity to spend more time with him. Riddle was full of contradictions; cruel but kind, powerful but gentle. He was also the only professor who'd ever treated Harry like a real person and not just as a half-blood nuisance, and more than that, there was just simply something about Riddle that drew Harry to him, like a moth to flame, or a parched man to water.

The question was, would Riddle burn Harry or save him?