The Fearsome Name of Riddle

Mixing Trouble

A permanent tightness held Tom Riddle's posture rigid. Squared shoulders with a neutral expression that warned off strangers. He wouldn't change who he was friends with for comfort but being around the rich made him feel out of place. After years and summers of being looked down on by the richest and some of the poorest, Tom knew how the world viewed orphans, with pity and disgust. He would hold himself tall to try and match the way they walked. The way they talked. The way they held themselves. He didn't feel any less than them because he grew up without money and a family, but he didn't want others to think he had no place next to them. Victoria's vouching for him had given him a chance to prove himself amongst the purebloods, and after three years he had managed to climb up to stand beside her at the top. 

"Can you pass the chizpurfle fangs?" Obsidian Lestrange asked him, breaking his train of thought. When Riddle didn't answer, his eyes glazed over in a haze, Obsidian nudged him in the shoulder. "Tom."

"Hm?" Tom turned his head, frowning a little as he looked up at the dark brown eyes of the rich boy who had never questioned him about where he lived in the summer or about any of his second hand things. 

"The fangs Tom," Obsidian repeated, pointing at the small jar next to Tom, "we need seven." 

The boy turned his head to see a mason jar beside his hand, a golden lid sealing in the small black fangs. 

"Right, of course," Tom nodded, taking the jar into his hand and twisting off the top, "lost in my own world there, I apologise." 

He dropped seven sharp teeth into the pestle and mortar and began to grind them into a fine powder. The small stone pillar was cold in his hand as it crushed the fangs against the stone bowl. 

"No need, I've lost count how many times we've made wiggenweld potions," Obsidian sighed quietly, making sure to check Slughorn wasn't right behind them, "honestly, I can do this in my sleep so it's no wonder you're bored." 

Tom laughed without meaning to, it wasn't practised or planned like it usually was. A small chuckle that surprised him. He quickly composed himself and made a small cough to reconfigure his carefully put together behaviour. 

"You know, if you want to do something a little more interesting, we can get a bit inventive," Obsidian smiled, eyeing the spare ingredients that sat on the shelf across the room, "pick something at random and see what it does?" 

"And what if it blows up?" Tom asked in a drawl, feeling his shoulders relax. 

"Don't be prissy like Victoria," Obsidian complained as he made a disappointed expression, "You're not some girl. Now, pick an ingredient and I will be your most loyal servant." 

Tom let out another chuckle as he brushed the dusted fangs into the pewter cauldron. A loyal servant. He liked the sound of that. And he could blame Obsidian for all of it should they get into trouble. 

"Fine," Tom smiled as he craned his head to look at the shelf. There were jars and bottles of rat tails, newt eyes, and more. Slughorn kept an exquisite collection, Tom had to admit. "Tentacula leaves." 

"Tentacula leaves," Obsidian repeated, giving an approving nod as he stepped away from their brewing station, "impressive choice sir." 

As Slughorn glanced over in their direction, Tom became suddenly deeply interested in his potions book, pretending to read over the instructions carefully. Obsidian stirred the cauldron aimlessly as he peered over Tom's shoulder. The moment the professor turned away, Obsidian stepped out and crossed the room quickly. He pretended to look around the different jars before covering the tentacula leaf jar with his body and taking a few out. Dashing back to Tom, Lestrange successfully evaded getting caught before they had begun.