Tom noticed, Slughorn also and so did Lily.
She looked up just in time to see James stirring in the wrong direction.
"James—!" she hissed.
Too late.
A sharp pop! Echoed through the dungeon. James's cauldron let out a violent hiss — then exploded into a billow of bright purple steam and goo that rained down on him, splattering half the front row.
The class burst into laughter. Even Slughorn cracked the faintest smile.
"Mr. Potter," she said dryly, flicking purple paste off his robes with his wand, "try not to impress the ceiling next time."
James coughed, blinking through the mist. "Point taken."
Lily rolled her eyes and muttered, "Idiot."
But when James glanced her way, she offered the smallest smirk.
Just enough to say she noticed.
Tom watched all of it — the chaos, the attention, the recovery.
Once again, he understood why Potter thrived.
Because even when he failed, he made it look like a game.
After class, the corridor outside the Potions dungeon was quiet — until Tom heard laughter.
It wasn't the harmless kind.
Rounding the corner, he spotted James Potter and a few of his friends — Sirius Black among them — standing in a half-circle around a hunched figure near the wall.
Severus.
His robes were being magically hoisted up around his knees while Sirius shouted, "Careful, Snivellus, your legs might blind someone!"
Snape had his wand out but clearly wasn't fast enough against the group. One spell knocked it from his hand, and it clattered across the floor.
James raised his wand again. "Let's see if he twitches when he's upside-down—"
"Enough."
The voice cut through the air like a blade.
James turned — surprised.
Tom Riddle stood still, but his wand was already in his hand. Not raised. Not threatening.
Yet.
"You've had your fun," Tom said quietly.
Sirius raised an eyebrow. "Didn't think Slytherins cared about each other."
"I don't," Tom said flatly. "But I don't like wasted magic."
James stared at him. A flicker of challenge in his eyes — then a small smirk.
"Right," James said, lowering his wand. "Didn't know you were collecting strays."
He turned and walked off, Sirius trailing behind, still laughing.
Tom approached Severus, who was now straightening his robes, red-faced but silent.
Tom handed him the wand without a word.
Severus took it. Their eyes met — briefly.
"...Thanks," Severus muttered.
Tom only nodded.
He looked at Severus again — really looked.
"Are you alright?"
Severus nodded stiffly, brushing dirt off his robes. "I've had worse."
Tom did not move. "How long has that been happening?"
Severus hesitated, and then muttered, "Since the train. James and Sirius... think I'm fun to mess with."
Tom tilted his head slightly. "You never hexed them back?"
Severus gave a bitter half-smile. "Not yet. I'm better with potions."
Tom handed him the wand properly this time. "Then maybe it's time you learn."
Severus looked at him — and for the first time, not with suspicion, but something closer to trust.
The corridor was still.
Severus had slipped away without a word, his footsteps swallowed by the stone.
Tom remained, his hand lowering slowly from where his wand had been — the only sound now the faint dripping of water from the dungeon ceiling.
Then a weight shifted in the air.
He turned.
At the far end of the hall, half-shrouded in darkness, stood Professor Dumbledore.
No movement. No sound. Just presence.
His robes did not sway. His hands were folded calmly. However, his eyes — pale, sharp, almost colorless in the torchlight — were fixed on Tom.
Watching.
Studying.
Measuring.
Tom straightened, instinct tightening in his chest. He did not blink.
Neither did Dumbledore.
Seconds passed, cold and slow.
Then, without a word, Dumbledore turned and disappeared into shadow — robes brushing soundlessly across the stone.
Tom stood frozen.
Not afraid.
But not untouched.
A strange chill lingered where the man's eyes had been.
He did not follow.
He did not speak.
But as he walked back toward the common room, one thought clung to him like a mist:
He saw everything.
And he said nothing.
Tom stood alone in the dungeon corridor long after Dumbledore vanished into the dark. The cold stone pressed against his back, but it wasn't the chill that unsettled him — it was the silence.
Why didn't Dumbledore intervene?
He watched. Measured. But did nothing.
Was he testing me?
Judging me?
Waiting for something worse?
Tom's fingers curled around his wand. For the first time since arriving at Hogwarts, he wasn't afraid of who was watching him.
He was afraid of what they expected.
Later that night, Tom didn't sleep.
While his roommates breathed slow and deep behind their curtains, he sat at his desk in the dormitory, candlelight flickering against the dark walls. The notebook lay open.
This time, he wrote.
They all play games. James plays the hero. Dumbledore plays the wise man. Lucius plays the prince. But I see through it.
Even Lily Evans — kind, curious, careful. But careful isn't harmless. She's not afraid of me. That makes her dangerous.
And Dumbledore... I don't know yet. But I will.
I need to learn faster. Not just spells — people. How they move, how they think, what they fear. I'm not going to be the shadow in the room anymore.
He paused.
Then, slower:
No one else will decide what I become.
The next morning, as sunlight filtered through the green-tinted lake windows, the atmosphere in Slytherin House was tense.
News had spread — not just about the scuffle between James and Severus, but who had ended it.
Tom Riddle.
The boy with green eyes. The boy no one really understood.
Some whispered. Some stared. A few older students even nodded at him in the hallway — small acknowledgments, subtle signs that he had gained... something.
Respect? Fear? Influence?
It didn't matter.
It was more than he had yesterday.
Lucius caught up to him on the way to Defense Against the Dark Arts, panting slightly.
"Did you hex Potter?" he asked, wide-eyed.
"No," Tom said simply.
"But you were there?"
"I stopped him."
Lucius fell quiet, clearly waiting for more — an explanation, maybe a justification. He didn't get one.
After a moment, he chuckled. "You know, you're not like the others. Even the professors don't know what to do with you."
Tom said nothing.
Lucius leaned in. "I think that's why they'll start to respect you."
Tom finally turned to him. "I don't care about being respected."
Lucius smiled. "Then you're lying to yourself."
And for once... Tom didn't argue.
The Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom was perched on the third floor, a long chamber lined with dusty glass cabinets filled with sinister-looking relics: a cracked crystal ball still swirling with smoke, a pair of cursed shackles, and a withered basilisk fang mounted behind protective wards.
Tom entered quietly and took a seat near the middle. Lucius sat behind him. Severus took the end of the row.
The rest of the class shuffled in, buzzing with rumors — about the incident in the dungeons, about the strange boy with the green eyes, about James Potter's exploding cauldron earlier that day.
None of it mattered now.
Because Professor Merrythought had entered.
She was older than any of the other professors Tom had seen. Her grey hair was tied in a high knot, and her wrinkled face was surprisingly sharp — not frail, but keen, like a dagger too long kept in its sheath.
Her eyes swept over the class.
"Wands away," she said, her voice firm. "Today we're not practicing spells. We're learning names."
There was a pause.
"Names," she repeated. "Because some names are curses in themselves."
She turned to the blackboard, and with a flick of her wand, a word scrawled itself in sharp white chalk:
THE GAUNTS
Tom's breath hitched.
Merrythought didn't look at anyone in particular — but for a split second, Tom swore she glanced at him.
"Tell me," she said, walking slowly across the front of the class. "Who here has heard of the Gaunt family?"
No one raised their hand.
Even Lucius looked puzzled.
"The Gaunts," Merrythought continued, "were one of the oldest pure-blood families in wizarding history — descendants of Salazar Slytherin himself. They could speak Parseltongue. Some say they were once noble."
She paused.
"But their pride rotted into madness. Centuries of inbreeding, obsession with blood purity, and dark magic drove them to ruin. They isolated themselves from the world, hoarding relics and curses like trophies."
She tapped the board again. A second line appeared:
"Blood above all else." — Gaunt Family Motto
Tom stared at the writing, his hands tightening beneath the desk.
"They were cruel," Merrythought said simply. "They tortured Muggles for fun. They hexed entire villages into silence. They believed their bloodline made them untouchable. And they were wrong."
She turned.
"The Ministry dismantled their estate in Little Hangleton after several... incidents. Some Gaunts were arrested. Others disappeared. The line, as far as anyone knows, is extinct."
A few students murmured. James Potter leaned sideways to whisper something to Sirius. Tom didn't catch the words — but he caught the glance they threw his way.
He said nothing.
He didn't blink.
He just stared at the name on the board.
Gaunts...
Merrythought's voice softened now — not with sympathy, but gravity.
"Let this be your first lesson in defense: Darkness doesn't always come wearing fangs or breathing fire. Sometimes it comes as a name — a history — a bloodline. And sometimes... it comes from within."
Tom's heart beat louder than he liked.
From within.
He felt it then — the eyes on him. Not many. Just a few. As if they'd caught the way his jaw clenched, the stillness of his hands.
He looked straight ahead.
"You may speak freely," Merrythought said, scanning the class. "Thoughts?"
A girl from Ravenclaw raised her hand. "Professor... do you think some people are just born dark? Because of their family?"
Tom didn't turn, but his ears rang.
Merrythought gave a long look before answering.
"I think some people are born with shadows," she said. "But only they decide what becomes of them."
Professor Merrythought continued to pace slowly before the board.
"Now, there was one feature," she said, "that the Gaunts were said to share — something that made them unmistakable, even before they spoke a word."
She paused dramatically.
"They all had... vivid green eyes."
Tom's head lifted slightly. Not sharply — just enough.
His breath stopped in his throat.
"They say they were like emeralds soaked in poison," Merrythought added. "Brilliant. Piercing. Unnerving."
Laughter rippled through the classroom — the way it always did when something felt safely distant. The past couldn't hurt you. The Gaunts were dead. Long gone. Just a story.
But not for Tom.
Then, casually, James Potter turned in his seat — just enough to make sure the whole class could hear him.
He looked straight at Tom and grinned.
"Well, that explains a lot."
A few students laughed — not cruelly, but with that easy, confident humor James always carried. Even Sirius chuckled, muttering something under his breath.
Tom didn't react.
Not on the outside.
But his mind was spinning.
What did he mean? Why say that?
Why look at me?
He reached up instinctively, touching his temple — as if he could feel the color of his own eyes burning through his skin.
James wasn't finished.
"Maybe we should check if Riddle hisses in his sleep," he said, smirking. "Or if he keeps cursed rings in his trunk."
More laughter.
Even Lily Evans gave James a disapproving look — but she didn't say anything.
Professor Merrythought didn't stop the class, either. She raised an eyebrow, but allowed it to pass — perhaps because she thought it harmless.
Tom looked at no one.
But the coldness in his chest spread like ink in water.
He didn't understand why the words struck him so hard — but they did. Deeply.
And somewhere, beneath the confusion and humiliation, something else took root.
Fear.
What if they're right?
After class, Tom didn't leave with the others.
He stood in front of the cabinet at the back of the room, staring into a case holding a dark ring sealed under glass. A note beside it read:
"Item recovered from the Gaunt ruin. Do not touch."
His reflection shimmered faintly in the glass — pale face, black hair... and unmistakable green eyes.
Who am I?
He didn't know.
But now, he had to find out.
And if James Potter wanted to joke about shadows —
Tom would show him what they looked like up close.
NESSGEEORIGINAL