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“Please, go out with me!”
“A-ah, I’m sorry, I’m with someone…”
It’s not the first time the same exchange has been overheard here, and it’ll certainly not be the last, but somewhere within the echoing halls of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, a group of teens have had enough.
Tracey Davis, in particular, has had it up to here with the lie.
Because that’s what it has to be, a lie, a fib, a goddamn excuse given by none other than Gryffindor’s Golden Boy, Harry Potter.
Of course, Tracey doesn’t blame Harry, not really. The Golden Boy has a golden heart, as they say, and Tracey can hardly begin to imagine just how many propositions Harry must get on a daily basis. It must be hard, having to turn down people gently time after time simply because he doesn’t have the heart to be anything but a perfect gentleman.
With that perspective in mind, a fake lover is practically the perfect excuse.
After all, for all their sins as rambunctious magical teenagers, most people know to back off when someone’s in a committed relationship. Indeed, when news of Harry’s supposed partner had first started floating around nearly a year ago, the amount of love confessions he’d get on a daily basis had plummeted. Though the number never really went down to zero, most people took the hint and let Harry be, choosing to peacefully ogle him from the sidelines instead or to stop pining after him altogether.
Most people, but not all. Tracey, in particular, refused to stop.
She’d never been so blatant as to ask Harry out directly, of course. She’s seen and heard of far too many girls, and even guys, trying such straightforward confessions, only to get shot down immediately. No, she’s much too cunning for that, preferring to plot and scheme as opposed to make a fool of herself like the many before her.
Except their 7th year is nearly coming to a close, and she still hasn’t managed to get Harry to fall for her.
Granted, she’s done little beyond the minimal requisites of trying to sit near him during joint Slytherin-Gryffindor classes, asking him for DADA help, and offering Potions help in return. She knows plenty of stories of people tripping head over heels trying to worm their ways into Harry’s life, only to be met with excruciating awkwardness when their fumbling plans don’t work.
Tracey, of course, had always been smarter about it, taking things gradually as she tried to make her presence known more and more. For one, associating with known friends of his has always been her best bet. Hermione Granger’s perhaps the most bearable Gryffindor she’s ever met, their group study sessions always ending up remarkably productive, and even Luna Lovegood had been tolerable the few times they spoke.
It’s not enough, though.
She’s quickly realizing that her attempts have left her little more than an acquaintance—not even a friend— of a friend in Harry’s eyes, and nothing more. Certainly, house prejudices don’t work in her favor at all here either. Harry doesn’t have the same open disdain for Slytherin like many Gryffindors do, but he’s also not overtly fond of them, especially considering his strong rivalry with Draco Malfoy.
Figures, a Malfoy would be the one to dampen Tracey’s chances with Harry. The whole family’s got a vendetta against half-bloods, after all.
Merlin, she wants to scream her frustrations out to the world.
It shouldn’t be this hard, she thinks, to snag a man’s attention. She’s fairly attractive, she thinks, has been since she grew out of her awkward, gangly prepubescent years. Sure, it’s hard when the target of her affections is a school celebrity, one who gets gawking stares and elaborate professions of love on the daily.
But still!
Resisting the urge to tear her hair out, Tracey sighs. It’s easy to get lost in her own irritation, but she knows that won’t help her now. She’s coming so close to the end of her time here at Hogwarts, and Harry Potter still barely knows her name, let alone feels anything for her.
And above all, there’s still that pesky “partner” situation.
Harry’s lying, plain and simple. He has to be, as far as she’s concerned. There’s not a single person who knows who Harry is supposedly dating, though a few have tried and failed to claim it’s themselves. Tracey fed off the embarrassment of the whole situation, off of watching some of her hopeless classmates flaunt their supposed relationship, only to be very publicly rebutted by Harry himself just days later.
Ah, the delicious cringe.
It still leaves the glaring problem of who Harry’s mysterious lover really is, though. Even some of Harry’s closest friends seem to have no idea who it is, if Tracey’s informants are to be believed. And she knows they are, because she enlists the help of only the best and brightest in all of Hogwarts when she needs dirt on someone.
Really, in Tracey’s opinion, it's all just one grand scheme. Harry’s just come up with a made-up partner to tide off some of his more aggressive pursuers without the awkwardness or discomfort of declining them outright. It hadn't gone past her attention that news of Harry's supposed lover popped up just a few days after one of his upperclassmen in Gryffindor had been found rummaging through his trunk. Surely, that trauma could push someone to do anything— even concoct a hair-brained scheme to throw people off his tracks altogether.
No, not hair-brained, but clever. Really, it's far more clever than Tracey ever could have given Harry credit for. After all, everyone knows that, for all his good qualities, Harry's not particularly known for having a sharp wit or being particularly conniving. Maybe he had help from Granger or one of his other friends, who must just be pretending not to know anything to go along with the scheme.
It's a bit of a long-haul strategy, but it dissuades even his most persistent, sometimes downright creepy admirers, and gives him some of the privacy and personal space he so desperately craves. Thinking on it, Tracey can understand the appeal of the whole plot. It's a good way to get people to leave him alone 'til he's out of school, and maybe even after. Once people start pestering him about when he's getting married, whether it's a few months or a few years after graduation, he'll stage a sort of fake break-up that'll get people off his back in an instant, and everyone'll be none the wiser.
It’s a smart strategy, she’ll admit, but an utterly infuriating one to say the least.
It’s exactly what brings her here now, to the Gryffindor table, one fine Saturday afternoon. Quite frankly, she’s had enough, and her already thin patience has snapped. Her cousin Maribeth, a dumb, trusting Hufflepuff, had just become the latest in a long list of students let down gently after confessing to Harry. She, like Tracey, doesn’t believe in Harry’s supposed lover, but she hadn’t had the guts to call him out on it when he rejected her. Instead, she’d run to Tracey with tears in her eyes, sobbing out her regrets like a goddamn child.
Tracey hates how much it affected her.
So she’s here, stomping up to the Gryffindor table, to Harry Potter, because for all of his strengths, he’s absolutely clueless about the effect his lie is having on his admirers. And yes, Tracey realizes that confronting him about it might very well be the nail in her metaphorical coffin when it comes to her chances with Harry, but she just doesn’t care enough anymore.
After all, she’s spent well over two years pining after the dumb Gryffindor Seeker with a tragic past and beaming smile, chasing after him to no avail. Now, with barely a month left at Hogwarts, she has no misgivings about her already low chances at getting together with Harry before graduation. The very least she can do now, then, is reveal his deception for what it is, even if it means embarrassing him in the process.
And maybe, just maybe, she allows herself to indulge in another line of thinking.
Perhaps, with her brazen, almost Gryffindor-eqsue outburst, she’ll finally catch Harry’s attention like she’s wanted to for so long. It might not be entirely positive at first—she is going to be exposing his lies—but it’ll be attention nonetheless. Perhaps it’ll start out as raging contempt that’ll eventually morph into a passionate obsession even Harry can’t resist.
Hate and love are two sides of the same coin, after all.
Mind made up, she keeps her pace steady and stops right behind where Harry’s sat, nibbling on some bread as he desperately tries to finish a Charms essay he’s put off to the last minute. His friends have already noticed her presence, glancing up at her in confusion and curiosity, while a few others around them whisper to each other. Harry’s still blissfully unaware though, and he almost jumps in his seat when Tracey finally brings her hand down to tap on his shoulder.
Whipping around faster than a bullet, Harry blinks for a second before visibly relaxing.
“Oh, hello,” he says pleasantly. “Davis, right? What can I do for you?”
Swallowing heavily, Tracey resists the urge to squeal at the fact that Harry knows her, knows her name and face well enough to put it together in just a second. She composes herself, though, clearing her throat with a small cough before speaking loudly and clearly.
“I know you’re lying.”
Silence. She’s met with utter silence, as Harry just stares at her as though expecting her to continue. His friends nearby look bewildered, too, and it takes a good minute before Harry’s finally finding the words to reply. Or, well, trying to.
“I… what?”
Tracey rolls her eyes, absently fishing through her robe’s pockets as she talks.
“About dating someone,” she explains impatiently, huffing when the puzzlement doesn’t fade from Harry’s face. “I know you’re not actually with anyone, that it’s just a story you made up to get people off your back.”
“Uh…”
“Oi,” someone—Ron Weasley, Tracey thinks lightly, one of Harry’s best friends—speaks up. “The bloody hell are you going on about?”
“Right, yeah, what he said,” Harry tacks on, his face twisting into discomfort at Tracey’s hard gaze on him.
Vaguely, she wonders if he feels a little intimidated with her looking down on him like this. She knows she’s a little taller than him even when he’s standing, but with him sat down, the difference is all the more noticeable. She practically towers over him in a way most girls don’t, though to be fair, Harry’s not exactly the tallest bloke around either.
“You aren’t dating anyone,” she repeats, slowly like she’s explaining it to a kid.
Harry finally seems to have gotten a hold of himself now because his eyes narrow into a sort of half-glare. Only half, because he’s too kind to glower at someone right off the bat, if he doesn’t think they deserve it.
“Uh, listen, Davis—”
“Tracey.”
“—right, Tracey. I, uh, I don’t know what your deal is, but I’m not lying. I am with someone.”
“No you’re not,” she retorts immediately, eyes glinting when her fingers touch the item she’d been looking for. “And I have proof.”
Harry’s eyes go wide at that, watching as she pulls the object out from her pocket slowly, dramatically.
“A…mirror?”
“An enchanted mirror,” she corrects, tutting slightly. Honestly, she knows that Harry grew up without magic, but he’s been at Hogwarts for seven years now. One would think he’d be smarter about these things by now. “One that shows you any face you ask for.”
“…Right.”
Harry looks incredibly skeptical, but he doesn’t seem to know what to say. Luckily for him, his friends decide to pitch in, ever ready to come flying to his defense and aid.
“And why the hell should we listen to a snake?” Weasley says with a scoff.
“It could very well be fake,” Granger points out, and Tracey shakes her head.
“I'll happily swear on my magic that it’s genuine right now, if you don't believe me,” she says proudly. “I haven’t tampered with it at all.”
That makes Harry’s lot simmer down quite a lot, though Harry himself still seems dumbfounded.
“Look, that’s all well and good, but I don’t see how this is proof of anything—”
“Oh, Mirror of Nägu,” she chants, letting her magic imbue into the mirror as it glows slightly.
There are plenty of onlookers now, and quite frankly Tracey’s surprised she hasn’t been interrupted yet. None of the teachers are in the hall, seeing as it’s just a Saturday lunch, but no one else, not even any of the other Harry-admirers, have jumped in to stop her.
Looks like they’re all just as curious to see the results as she is.
“With my casting, I command thee. Show me the face of Harry Potter’s girlfriend…” She trails off, pauses, and then grins. “…or boyfriend.”
The mirror glows.
The magic exuded from the shimmering mirror feels like a heavy blanket covering over her or anyone in the nearby area, so obviously there that no one could dare deny that it exists. A moment passes like that, the gentle presence of its magic laying upon all their shoulders in a comforting fog.
But then it slowly fades, and when Tracey looks down to the mirror once again, she grins.
Empty.
“Like I said,” she says triumphantly, showing the vacant reflection in the mirror to Harry and anyone else nearby with a haughty smirk, “you’re lying.”
Chaos erupts.
Whispers and murmurs flood the room, so much so that it doesn’t even matter if anyone’s trying to be quiet, since their muttering’s all anyone can hear anyway. Harry looks shell-shocked, eyes wide as saucers and mouth gaping as he simply gawks for a good minute before finding his voice again.
“I’m not—this isn’t, look, I, let me explain—”
Poor thing, he looks so flustered. Tracey can hardly blame him given the situation, and she slowly creeps a hand up to lay comfortingly on his shoulder. He might be upset now, but surely, if she comforts him now while the shame is still fresh, he’ll, he’ll—
“What exactly is going on here?”
A chill falls down Tracey’s spine, her fingers curling up immediately and hand dropping out of an instinctive fear. She doesn’t need to even look to see who’s just approached—she’s all too familiar with that low voice, with a lulling cadence yet sharp tone.
Tom Riddle.
Very little actually frightens Tracey. She's not afraid of the dark, of spiders, of any of the simple petty things that absolutely terrify many of her classmates. But even she can admit that Riddle puts her off, unsettles her, makes her skin crawl. Her friends would call her crazy for it, seeing as on the surface, he’s the most perfect gentleman anyone can possibly be.
Slytherin prefect since fifth year and Head Boy now, Riddle embodies the concept of ‘star student’ better than anyone else in the school, perhaps even better than anyone in Hogwarts history. He has some of the highest grades in their entire class, excels in every form of magic imaginable, and has the social connections to get him practically anywhere.
It certainly helps that he’s the heir of Salazar Slytherin himself, despite being a half-blood, and that he’s infuriatingly handsome.
He has a sort of classical beauty, with his stone-chiseled features and his piercing gaze, and it’s no surprise that he has the whole student body wrapped around his finger. Anyone who isn’t harboring crushes for Harry is likely head over heels in love with Riddle. Hell, even those who do like Harry can’t deny being attracted to Riddle, not when he walks around looking like that.
Not like Harry’s any less easy on the eyes, but there’s more to him. Unlike Riddle, Harry’s open and friendly and kind. Riddle’s cold and calculated, reserved and reproving, and it makes it unbearably difficult to ever approach him. Most settle on gazing at him from afar, rather than ever daring to go up and talk to him.
Slytherins, in particular, stay wary of Riddle.
Or well, the Slytherins outside of Riddle’s personal circle, that is. None of Tracey’s friends in other houses understand it, but she can’t tell them. She can’t dare to spill the secrets of her house, to tell them that there’s something far darker than what they see lurking beneath Riddle’s skin. He rules the Slytherin house with a silver fist, an imposing figure that no one would dare to defy unless they wanted to leave Hogwarts more hated than Nargle bile, or worse—with their minds thrown into a metaphorical muggle blender and shredded to pieces.
“Tom?”
Harry’s voice is soft, but it pulls Tracey out of her stunned reverie with an abrupt jolt. Tom? It’s a curious sort of familiarity, and Tracey watches with unveiled surprise as Harry looks up at Riddle with a tilt in his head.
“Thought you were still in the dungeons with Snape,” he comments.
“Finished early,” Tom says with a light wave of the hand, and Tracey’s once again stunned by the casualness of their conversation.
Harry Potter and Tom Riddle have nothing to do with each other, as far as the whole student body’s concerned. They’re on completely opposite ends of the social spectrum, and while they’re both extremely popular, they never interact. Different houses, different social groups, different lives altogether. Where Riddle sits perfectly poised in the library, spilling over ancient tomes about banned ritual magic from the Restricted Section, Harry blitzes around the Quidditch pitch with rowdy shouts and a carefree mind. Hell, Tracey’s fairly sure she’s never seen them speak before, save for perhaps the few times Riddle had to break up Harry and Malfoy’s fights ever since he became a prefect.
“Thought I’d grab some lunch,” Riddle continues, his eyes slowly dragging away from Harry and towards Tracey, “and then I saw all this commotion.”
“I, I was just—”
“It’s nothing, Tom,” Harry cuts her off, placing a hand gently on his arm with a small smile. “I had it handled.”
“I don’t consider this to be handled, Harry.” Riddle quirks an eyebrow, looking pointedly at the object in Tracey’s hand. “An Identification Glass, really?”
Tracey nearly the drops the mirror in her surprise, fumbling a little as a flush builds up on her cheeks. Riddle’s judgment feels terrible on any normal day, but somehow this just feels so much worse. Maybe it’s because she can feel so many people watching, everyone’s attention drawn to them by the sudden flash of light from just minutes ago.
“Nothing to do with you, Riddle,” she snaps, but immediately simpers at the sharp look she gets in response. She continues, meeker this time, “It’s not banned in school, y’know—”
“I know that,” Riddle says coolly, entirely unamused as he reaches his hand out. “Now hand it over.”
“W-what?”
“C’mon now, give it here.”
“But I—it’s not against the rules, you can’t just—”
“I can, if it’s causing a disruption or general chaos in an open setting.” Riddle pauses, pursing his lips when Tracey refuses to listen. “But just for your information, I’m not confiscating it. I have no interest in petty artifacts.”
“Then, why…?” she asks, trailing off as she finally hands the mirror off to Riddle.
“Think of this as a teaching moment,” Riddle says cryptically, examining the mirror with vague interest.
“A… a teaching—?”
“Tom,” Harry interrupts, eyebrows furrowed and hand braced on the table as though readying to get up. He looks perturbed, suddenly more off-put than before, as he tries and fails to catch Riddle’s eye. “What are you going to—”
“As I’m sure anyone here can tell you,” Riddle interrupts, looking up from the mirror to watch Tracey blankly, “artifacts can be particularly tricky to work with. You’re familiar with the muggle concept of genies, correct?”
“Y…yes?” Tracey replies after a moment, not really sure if Riddle had asked that rhetorically or not.
“A precautionary tale, for many: in their stories, genies carry incredibly powerful magic but will twist your words to make your self-fulfilling wishes do more harm than good. While it's just a muggle myth, it certainly emphasizes a very important, very real rule. When using any magical artifact, you must be careful to be incredibly specific, or else you won’t get the result you’re so hoping for.”
A loud rustling, and suddenly Harry’s standing up, wide-eyed and a little frenzied as he clasps a hand on Riddle’s wrist.
“Tom,” he says frantically, eyes flickering nervously around him at the rest of the room. "Don't, this is—"
"Sit down, Harry."
“But, but you said, I mean, I thought you didn't want to, that you were—”
“I changed my mind,” Riddle says simply, barely sparing Harry a glance. “About time as well, I suppose. All those bumbling confessions have been grating on my nerves.”
“Tom—”
“What are you—”
“Mirror of Nägu,” Tom cuts both of them off, copying Tracey’s intonation and words perfectly as he repeats the incantation, “With my casting, I command thee—”
“W-wait, this is—”
“Show me the face—”
“I don’t think—”
“—of Harry James Potter’s—”
“Tom!”
“—fiancé.”
Light shines through the room again, far brighter than even before, and the magic that falls over the room is a decidedly warm one, stronger than anything Tracey could have ever produced herself.
But it only lasts a second. Just as quickly as it comes, the magic and light disappear, leaving nothing but murmuring voices surrounding them and a blank mirror. No, not blank, not this time. The light’s disappeared, but in its place, there’s a figure in the glass this time, and it’s, and it’s—
“Surprise.”
The Tom Riddle in the glass is just as smug, if not more so, than the Tom Riddle standing before Tracey right now.
“H-how…?”
Harry groans loudly, and Tracey risks a small glance in his direction to see that he’s sat down again, buried his face in his hands, and curled in a little on himself. The tips of his ears are red, and Tracey has a hinting suspicion that that blush extends down into his face too. His friends are gawking at the whole scene, seemingly just as shocked as Tracey is, as the whole damn Hall is, save for Riddle.
No, Riddle isn’t shocked at all—just arrogant and condescending as always.
“Now you know,” Riddle says, blasé as he hands the mirror back to her. “So I would greatly appreciate if you stopped ogling my beloved at any given moment.”
Bristling in indignation, Tracey throws her shame and her sense of self-preservation out the window to outwardly scowl at Riddle.
“Tom, don’t be like that,” Harry whines slightly, and Tracey vaguely realizes he’s coming to her defense, but she can barely pay attention to that past her own outrage. “I’m sure she never—”
“I don’t believe you,” Tracey interrupts, squaring her shoulders as she stares dead into Riddle’s eyes. She’s trembling, and she knows it, but she’s in too deep to pull out now. “You’re not, you can’t be…”
Riddle raises an eyebrow again at her, and the very sight of it is enough to freeze her in place and make her trail off. It feels like the words are backed up in her throat, choking her with no escape as Riddle stares her down with that measured, calculated gaze.
“Harry,” he says eventually, outstretching his hand towards Harry without once breaking eye contact with Tracey.
She can’t resist the temptation though, glancing down at Riddle’s open hand, unsure of what’s to come. Harry seems to know exactly what Riddle wants, though, judging by his loud, resigned sigh. Tracey’s eyes widen as Harry reaches up and slots his hand in Riddle’s, letting long, lithe, pale fingers gently wrap around and cup his own.
Riddle holds Harry’s hand as though he were a noble readying to kiss the back of a princess’s hand. For a second, Tracey thinks he might—Riddle certainly does have a sort of regal aura around him all the time—but instead, he simply raises his other hand and waves it. A wordless spell, she realizes belatedly, but her surprise at silent, wandless casting is quickly overshadowed by shock at what she sees.
Materializing seemingly out of thin air, rests a heavy, golden band, inset with a black jewel and an undoubtedly familiar insignia engraved into its surface.
The Slytherin family crest, on a ring, coiled delicately around Harry's ring finger.
“I do hope this will suffice as your proof,” Riddle says dryly, seemingly unperturbed when Harry yanks his hand away.
“Prick,” he spits, but there’s a certain fondness to his words that even Tracey can’t deny.
He brings his hand down to settle on his lap, and it only takes a second for him to start toying absently with the ring. His blush from earlier is still fully painted across his face, but his lips are quirking up a little bit as he looks up at Riddle. He's entirely oblivious to anyone around him. Tracey, his friends, the rest of his classmates in this hall— none of them matter, except for Riddle.
It'd be sweet, if Tracey didn't feel like her stomach was turning over.
“Happy, now?” Harry asks, as though that needs an answer when he looks at the satisfaction painted over Riddle’s face. “Jealous git.”
“Indeed,” Riddle says, as though that’s anything to be proud about, before continuing, “No need to remove it or waste magic on glamours anymore, either.”
“I still have to take it off for Quidditch games, asshole.”
“That’s what Permanent Sticking Charms are for, my dear,” Riddle waves off before bring his hand down to grip loosely at Harry’s arm. “Now come on.”
“Huh?”
Harry’s visibly confused, but he allows Riddle to gently coax him into standing up.
“Grab your things,” Riddle demands, “we’re leaving.”
“Wha—why?”
“Darling,” Riddle drawls, and Tracey can’t deny the way a shudder runs up her spine at Riddle’s tone, “do you really want to try and finish that essay here? Now?”
Harry blinks, following Riddle's gaze to look around the room where everyone—everyone—is staring directly at him.
“Oh.”
Still stunned and rooted in place, Tracey can only watch helplessly as Harry quickly packs up his things, ignoring all the boisterous catcalls, the hissed questions, and the booming congratulations from everyone around him. She can’t even move when Harry brushes past her with a quiet “sorry” before rushing out the door, half-finished meal still left on his plate.
Riddle lingers a moment, though, and Tracey goes stiff as stone as his lips curl upwards into a sinister, predatory grin.
“I suppose I should thank you,” he hums, “for giving me such a perfect opportunity.”
He steps forward, placing a gently hand on her tense shoulder as he leans into whisper.
“So I’ll spare you this time,” he whispers, nearly inaudible amongst the chaotic rumble of voices around them. “But mark my words—you cause him trouble ever again, and I’ll show you no mercy. Understood?”
Nodding mutely, Tracey wonders how many ways Riddle knows to hide a body.
“Very good.”
Probably too many.
She doesn’t relax even as Riddle saunters past her, cruelly satisfied like a cat proudly boasting its recent kill. It’s not until he and Harry are both long gone, and the chatter around them has mostly subsided, does she even attempt to move.
Her limbs feel like jelly, shaky as she makes her way over to the Slytherin table with pitying eyes on her from the other houses. Her own housemates don’t show her any sympathy—public pity is far from anything a proper Slytherin would engage in—but if a few extra pumpkin pasties end up on her plate that lunch period, no one says anything.
As she bites into the sweet with a regained resolution, she vows to never even look at Harry Potter for the rest of the semester if she can avoid it.
Crushes are overrated anyway.