My Dark Lord

Chapter Seven: A Dangerous Understanding

There are two types of alliances at Hogwarts.

The ones built on trust.

And the ones built on necessity.

Tom Riddle and I had both decided we could stomach the latter.

By the second week, whispers had already begun about the two of us—about our names, our grades, our growing circles. There was no official title to what we were becoming, but every first-year Slytherin knew it: Tom Riddle and Layla Grindelwald were the ones to watch.

We kept our enmity behind locked lips and perfected smiles.

At breakfast, we sat near each other, trading occasional comments across Mara and Lestrange. In the library, we nodded in silent acknowledgment as we passed each other between ancient texts. In the common room, we held court on opposite ends—his boys, my witches, with the fire burning between us like a line neither dared cross too soon.

It was a performance.

A delicate illusion.

A chess game where every word was a pawn and every silence a queen.

One evening, in a quiet hallway after History of Magic, Tom fell into step beside me.

"You handled pretty-boy Diggory well in Charms today," he said, glancing at me without turning his head.

"He talks too much," I replied. "But he listens, which is rare."

"And dangerous," he murmured.

"I've noticed you've collected quite a few listeners yourself."

He smiled faintly. "The trick isn't collecting them. It's making sure they believe they're leading."

We walked for a few paces in silence.

"To the rest of them," he said, "we look like rivals."

"Aren't we?"

He stopped then, just briefly, eyes flicking to mine.

"Perhaps," he said softly, "but even rivals can smile."

I returned his gaze, cold but curious.

"Smile then, Riddle."

He did.

But his eyes never warmed.

Then, I wondered. Why should he not wish us to look like the rivals we are? How would that benefit his position? For once, his subterfuge had me stumped. And I did not like this feeling. 

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It was on the damp green of the Hogwarts lawn that I first saw him falter.

We were gathered outside on a misty morning for our first Flying Lesson with Madam Runcorne. The brooms were old school-issued models, some of them still splintered from prior years. The kind of magic that tested reflexes-- not reading.

Tom stood a few students down from me, tall and poised, his expression blank as always.

Madam Runcorne barked instructions, and the first command was simple:

"Up!"

My broom snapped into my hand instantly, as though it recognized me.

I allowed myself a small, elegant smirk.

Eileen's broom hesitated, but eventually complied. Mara and Dahlia both managed theirs. Across the line, Diggory's broom shot up with maddening ease. Of course.