Chapter Text
It’s not the first time that Harry’s had his stance corrected in Professor Riddle’s practical Defense classes—the professor frequently advised students on making small adjustments during his class, shifting a foot back here, correcting a wrist swish there—but it’s the first time that Riddle has wrapped his entire hand around Harry’s, adjusting the angle of his wand movement for an Alohomora.
All of a sudden, a frisson of warmth runs up Harry’s arm—just like the first time he had grasped his phoenix and holly wand in Ollivander’s shop—and a shower of golden sparks shoots out the tip.
He gasps in surprise. “What was that?” he asks, instinctively taking a step backwards and bumping up against Riddle standing behind him. Riddle’s hand is still wrapped around Harry’s, and his whole arm—his whole body, actually—feels so nice, buzzing with pleasure and warmth and the feeling of pure magic, exactly like the moment that he knew instantly his wand was his.
Riddle releases Harry’s hand and steps back.
The pleasant, warm buzz quickly fades away from Harry’s limbs. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a few of his classmates watching their interaction with curiosity.
“Your wand seems remarkably compatible with my magic,” Riddle murmurs thoughtfully, dark eyes flicking over Harry’s face, studying him closely. His gaze is focused and intense, and Harry wonders if Riddle had felt the same warmth and glow and connection as he had. “What else are you, child?” he adds, barely moving his lips, in such a soft tone that Harry’s not even sure if he’s heard him at all.
Harry wants to ask him what it means for them to have compatible magic, but in the next instant, Riddle turns on his heel and walks down the line of students, continuing the lesson as though nothing had happened. He doesn’t single out Harry for the rest of class.
--
A week later, Riddle still hadn’t commented on the special connection that had happened when he’d gripped Harry’s wand, and Harry was starting to think maybe it didn’t mean anything.
Harry doesn’t think he’d ever forget that moment—and how amazing it felt to have that rush of magic sparking through him when Riddle’s hand closed around his—like a bright golden firework bursting inside of him.
But maybe it was one of those things that happened all the time in the magical world—like talking paintings and moving staircases—and there was, in fact, nothing remarkable about it.
Besides, Harry had bigger problems to worry about that day, as he limps into his Thursday Defense class with an aching chest and ribs.
It had started this morning at Quidditch practice, when he banked a sharp right trying to dodge a bludger and then immediately got hit with another bludger on his other side. At first it felt like a twinge that he could easily walk off, which is what Oliver Wood had told him to do when he staggered off of his broom at the end of practice. But over the course of the day, the twinge had deepened until he could barely move without wincing in pain and curling inwards on his left side.
It didn’t make a difference in Magic of History, where Harry fell asleep. In Potions, Harry got berated by Snape for stirring the cauldron in an unacceptably crooked circle. But in Defense, where Professor Riddle had them pair up that day and demonstrate the proper pre-duel sequence of bows and stances that they were supposed to have practiced as a homework assignment, Harry was asked to stay after class.
The sinking feeling in his stomach distracts him through the rest of class. Harry doesn’t know why he’s gotten in trouble. He hasn’t fallen asleep in Riddle’s class, or gotten into fights with Malfoy, or otherwise acted up. Riddle is the toughest grader—tougher than even Snape—but Harry’s written assignments have been pretty good. He’s gotten mostly E’s, sometimes O’s.
When the door clicks shut behind the last student to leave, Riddle folds his hands on top of the desk and regards Harry from behind his desk.
Harry squirms under that stern, cold gaze.
As always, Professor Riddle looks nice. But not nice as in kind, nice as in... proper. Put-together. Perfect. Not a single line or imperfection on his face, his dark hair settling in perfect, neat waves around it, his robes always pressed and impeccable.
“Do you know why I asked you to stay behind?”
Harry shakes his head. He’s been bursting to ask Riddle about the wand connection he’d felt last week, but he decides not to say anything until he knows why he’s been kept after class.
“Your practical demonstration in class today did not reflect an understanding of anything we’ve covered in lecture over the last week. The lack of progress -” he tsks lightly, “- is disappointing, to say the least, considering the amount of potential of you’ve shown up until now.”
“I’m - I'm sorry, sir,” Harry says with an uncomfortable twist in his stomach. He very much likes Professor Riddle, even if his expectations are unreasonably high. He’s quite strict with his students—sometimes even harsh—but very fair. Unlike Snape, he doesn’t blatantly favor the Slytherins and let Malfoy get away with anything.
Riddle remarks, after a moment’s pause, sharp eyes fixed on Harry’s face, “Your bow is too shallow, but more critically, you’re favoring your right side in your pre-duel stance, even after we covered, quite extensively, in last week’s lecture why you should not leave the side with your wand arm more exposed to attack.” His gaze is dark with a deep reddish tint—intense, imposing, and serious.
Harry straightens unconsciously, trying not to wince with the movement. The ache in his side has only gotten worse since class ended, and all he wants right now is to go back to his dorm room and lie down in his bed for the rest of the day.
“I see promise in you, Harry Potter,” Riddle continues. “But only if you take this class seriously. That means coming prepared to integrate the theoretical with the practical.”
“It was Quidditch practice,” Harry offers in a quiet voice, twisting his hands in his lap. He really hadn’t meant to disappoint Professor Riddle. “I got hit this morning at practice. Right in my side.”
Riddle gives a low hum, crinkling his brow. A thin line appears between his eyebrows, but his face remains completely smooth otherwise. Harry has the oddest thought that Professor Riddle looks just like a marble statue, like the ones he saw in the art museum once on his third form field trip.
“You carry yourself like it’s an old injury,” Riddle murmurs, studying Harry carefully. Harry feels like his professor’s piercing gaze can see straight through his eyes to the deepest part of his soul. “Like you’ve a broken rib or two that’s never healed properly.”
Harry’s scar suddenly twinges, sending sharp pangs pinging around the inside of his skull. It’s done that a few times since starting the year. He ignores it. It’ll go away if he ignores it for long enough.
“Do you have a headache?” Riddle suddenly asks, peering at Harry curiously.
Harry shrugs. “Um, a little bit.”
“Do you get them frequently?” His gaze flicks up at Harry’s forehead for a brief moment.
“I... don’t know,” Harry stops to think for a moment. “A few since the start of the school year.”
Riddle nods, lowering his voice to a sympathetic pitch. “It’s quite a big adjustment, isn’t it, being in a new place away from home for the first time? The castle can be quite overwhelming to take in.”
For the first time since he’d gotten injured that day, Harry breaks into a small smile, a genuinely happy one. “Hogwarts is absolutely brilliant,” he declares. “It’s even better than I had imagined. It’s my favorite place I’ve ever lived.”
“Is it,” Riddle says softly, studying Harry closely. He adds, after a long pause, almost like it’s an afterthought, “It’s always been mine too.”
Harry nods, feeling relieved that at least one professor here gets it.
“Now, about your injuries,” Riddle says briskly. “Did you get injured as a child, maybe while playing sports or a spot of roughhousing, and injure your side?” He’s still staring at Harry with his piercing gaze.
Harry shifts a little bit. He’s not quite sure what to say. Would getting the crap beaten out of him by Dudley and his gang on a weekly basis count as ‘roughhousing’?
“Were you ever taken to a healer?”
“Is that like a doctor?”
“Yes. It’s like a doctor. When was the last time you visited the doctor, Harry?”
“Erm, I don’t remember,” Harry says. “Aunt Petunia said it was fine,” he quickly adds. “She told me I can walk it off.”
“I think what’s causing your stance imbalance is more than just a recent Quidditch injury, Harry,” Riddle presses. “I’m going to need to take a closer look. No one in your family has ever taken you to the hospital?”
“No,” Harry says, not sure why he feels like he said something wrong. “I’m, um, I’m not really their kid,” he adds in a rush, hoping that’s enough to explain.
Riddle nods slowly. “Well, you’re at Hogwarts now, and we can have specialty healing potions brewed for you to treat old injuries. Come back here at 8 on Friday night, and we’ll see about running some diagnostic tests and getting you the right treatment.”
Harry looks up at his professor with wide eyes. He got injured all the time while he was growing up, and no one had ever taken a second look at him. Mostly, his aches and sprains just kind of went away after a few days, and he never really thought about it.
But now, for the first time, someone - a teacher - actually seems to care. Riddle did mention that his magic was compatible with Harry’s. Maybe he had seen something special in Harry? Did that mean there was actually someone in Harry’s life that had finally taken notice of him - someone that’d want to look out for him?
“It’s important for you to have the correct dueling stance in order to pass my class,” Riddle says crisply.
Oh. Harry turns his gaze down again. For a moment, he had thought Professor Riddle might have seen something in Harry—he had gotten his hopes up—
He shakes the thought off.
Of course. His professor’s only concern is that Harry doesn’t fail his class.
And that’s—that makes sense, he tells himself. That’s what the professor are here for. They have to make sure their students all have a fair shot at learning the material and don’t fail class.
“In the meantime,” Riddle says, and waves his wand at Harry, who immediately feels a wave of relief wash over him, the pain in both his side and his head fading, “that should help dull the pain.”
Harry looks up in surprise. His face breaks into a grateful smile as the pain relief charm erases the minor aches and dull pains he’d gotten so used to living with his whole life that he didn’t even notice they were his constant companions.
--
Harry knocks on the door to the Defense classroom just before 8 on Friday night.
“Come in, Harry,” he hears a voice say, and he pushes the door to the classroom open.
Inside, the classroom is all dark, except for a sliver of light from a door that he’s never seen before left slightly ajar at the side of the classroom.
Harry approaches the door tentatively.
“In here,” the voice calls out from behind it as Harry creeps closer.
Harry opens the door into what must be Professor Riddle’s office. Other than a writing desk, there’s a fireplace, two armchairs, and a low coffee table. Books spill out on every surface, and Harry looks up to see that even more books are crammed onto the tall shelves lining every wall and tucked into nooks all around the room.
Riddle is sitting in one of the armchairs by the fire, with one leg perched over the other. A tea service sits on the coffee table in front of him.
“Have a seat, Harry,” he says casually, waving a hand at the empty armchair next to him.
Harry sits in the high-backed armchair. He can’t decide if he’d rather perch uncomfortably on the edge so that he can keep both his feet solidly on the ground underneath him, or if he’d rather scoot his bum back until it touches the back of the chair, but that would mean his feet would be dangling a few inches off the ground.
He settles for perching uncomfortably on the edge.
Riddle sets his book aside, observing Harry for a moment.
“This isn’t a detention, Harry,” he says, sounding slightly amused. “You’re allowed to relax.”
Harry feels tense for some reason, but he does force himself to relax just the slightest. Maybe if he sits more comfortably, it would help, so he starts to scoot back closer to the back of the chair, even if it does make his feet dangle off the side.
For the first time, he sees the frozen, carved marble expression that Riddle always wears soften, just the tiniest bit.
“Tea, Harry?” Riddle asks.
“Sure,” Harry nods. “Thanks, sir,” he adds as an afterthought, remembering his manners.
Riddle waves his wand at the tea service, and Harry takes the chance to take another look around the room as his tea is being prepared. The shiny trinkets and instruments inside the display case gleam and twinkle prettily at him, as though tempting him closer to examine them.
His professor hands him a steaming cup. Harry takes a sip. It’s milky and sweet. Riddle hadn’t asked him how he wanted his tea, but to Harry’s surprise, this is exactly how he would have flavored his tea had he done it himself.
Harry knows he was called here to discuss his performance in Defense class, but to his surprise, Riddle does not immediately dive into talking about fixing Harry’s dueling stance.
Instead, Riddle asks Harry about his other classes, how he’s been adjusting to school, how he’s getting on with his dormmates, how the other students are treating him.
No teacher had shown Harry this level of individual attention and concern before, and at first, he’s not really sure how to answer, or if Riddle even cares to hear this level of detail about Harry’s other classes.
But gradually, reassured by Riddle’s encouraging prodding and follow-up questions, Harry’s one-word mumbled answers gradually morph into longer chattier sentences, and he is warmed both by the sweet, rich tea he’s drinking, as well as by what seems to be his professor’s genuine interest in him.
“Tell me about your life before Hogwarts, Harry,” Riddle says, with a touch of warmth in his voice. “Where you grew up, who you live with, what was your favorite subject in school?”
Harry’s stomach tightens. Would his professor go and tell the Dursleys about how Harry’s doing in class?
There was one teacher a long time ago at Harry’s primary school who had tried to do just that, bringing up concerns about Harry’s reading level, and Harry just got yelled at more by his aunt and uncle for being called in to talk to Harry’s teachers about him.
“Keep your head low, boy, and stay out of trouble!” Vernon had screamed at him. “I don’t want to hear another word from any of your teachers about you!”
Which reminds him... “Am I in trouble?” Harry blurts.
“Do you think you’ve done something deserving of getting into trouble?” Riddle asks him, taking a sip of his tea.
“N-no,” Harry says. “It’s just—my aunt and uncle, they—” he takes a deep swallow and decides to just say it, hoping his professor would understand. He surely must have encountered other students who were from families that didn’t like magic, and if Binns’ lectures about witch-burning were anything to go on, plenty of witches and wizards faced hostility from the muggle communities they lived in. “They don’t—they don’t like magic...” he mumbles nervously, gripping his hands around the sides of his mug. “So it’s best if they don’t hear about...” he trails off, hoping his point came across.
“I understand.” Riddle’s fingers twitch, as though he’s about to do something, but he instead takes another sip of his tea. “Everything you say will stay between us. I promise.”
Harry nods, relieved.
“So you never knew about magic before getting your Hogwarts letter?” he asks shrewdly, eyes boring into Harry’s head.
“I didn’t,” Harry says. “I mean, Uncle Vernon always punished me for any funny business that happened, but I just thought it was all accidents, you know, I didn’t think—I didn’t realize it was magic.”
One side of Riddle’s mouth quirks up. “I’ll tell you something, Harry, something that I haven’t thought about in a long time,” he says. “I didn’t know about magic either when I started Hogwarts.”
“Really, sir?” Harry’s eyes widen, and his heartbeat speeds up.
Professor Riddle is so knowledgeable—everyone says he’s the smartest professor at their school except for maybe Professor Dumbledore—that Harry can’t imagine Riddle starting out at Hogwarts not knowing anything either.
Riddle nods and muses thoughtfully, “Hogwarts was a challenging environment at first. I knew nearly nothing about the magical world when I started. There were other students that did not take kindly to someone who was muggle-raised. Eventually, I made friends. I excelled in classes. I discovered my true heritage, that my mother was a witch descended from an ancient and somewhat notable wizarding line. My father, however, was a muggle.”
“You didn’t know?” Harry asks, a bit awestruck. He’d never had a teacher who had talked to him about their personal life before, who took Harry seriously enough to want to share.
A brisk shake of the head. “Like you, Harry—” Riddle says in a soft voice, staring intently at Harry, “—I didn’t know my parents. I grew up in an orphanage in the middle of London.”
Harry nods silently. He feels like Professor Riddle had just entrusted him with something momentous, something meaningful, and he doesn’t want to mess up the moment by saying something dumb.
“But that’s enough about me. Tell me about, hmm, what was your favorite subject in primary school.”
Harry brightens and starts talking about geography. He tells his professor about all the wondrous and fantastical sights and places he had read about in books and how much he couldn’t wait to grow up and see them with his own eyes.
Once in a while, Riddle interjects and tells Harry about something or other he had seen on his travels in his own youth, and Harry’s eyes widen with amazement, his imagination lit up from hearing about all the incredible things that were out there to be explored, discovered, in the magical world as well.
Harry’s having a good enough time talking with Professor Riddle that he hardly notices a dull headache starting to creep its way across his head, starting from his scar and working its way around his temples, until his professor points it out.
“Headache again?” Riddle asks. Then he leans over and tips a few droplets from a sapphire blue vial into Harry’s tea, darting his hand out so quickly that Harry doesn’t have a chance to react.
“What’s that?” Harry asks, his stomach tensing and clutching on emptiness. Too late, he remembers that he had skipped dinner that night, since he was still full from lunch earlier that day.
“Just a headache potion,” Riddle says soothingly. “Madame Pomfrey distributes extras from her stores at the beginning of the school year. Pepper-up potion, calming droughts, and the like.”
Harry doesn’t know what those potions are, but it makes sense that professors would have their own stock on hand. Like how every classroom back at his primary school had a first-aid kit.
As he sips at his tea, his headache starts fading, and his shoulders gradually untense.
Riddle watches Harry finish the tea. He reaches over with a graceful hand and plucks the empty teacup out of Harry’s hand and sets it back down on the tea service.
“It’s been very nice getting to know you, Harry,” he says, with a surprising warmth in his voice that Harry had not heard before. “It’s getting late, and I wouldn’t want to keep you past your curfew, so we should get started.” He motions for Harry to stand up.
Harry scoots down to the end of the armchair and plants his feet on the ground. As he rises to his feet, Riddle puts his hand on the small of Harry’s back. He guides Harry to his writing desk and clears the top with a sweep of his wand.
“Hop up, Harry,” Riddle says, patting the top of his desk.
Harry looks over at the desk. It comes up to halfway up his chest. He’d need a chair or a stool to climb up. “That’s too tall,” he says. “Do you have a chair or—?”
Riddle doesn’t answer. He sweeps forward and encircles Harry around the chest with both of his hands, and in one deft motion, lifts Harry up and deposits him on top of his desk.
“Oh, er, thanks,” Harry says. He thought that was nice of Riddle to help him up, so he’s not sure why he feels a bit awkward from getting picked up. He chalks it up to never having had any grown-up that bothered to show him any care or notice before. Dudley would probably still get carried by Aunt Petunia everywhere, if he hadn’t gotten too heavy to be picked up by anything less than a forklift.
“Now, let’s get a look at you,” Riddle says, voice low and soft.
Harry’s headache has gone, but the slow clenching in his stomach has come back.
“You should have gotten a full medical exam before you were cleared to play on the Quidditch team,” Riddle tsks. “Unlike the heads of house, I tend to stay out of House Cup and school Quidditch rivalries, but it is simply irresponsible of Minerva to let you on the team without completing this step first,” he says, reproach in his voice.
Then seeing Harry’s stricken expression, he adds, “Nothing to worry about, Harry. I won’t say a word to her—your spot on the team is secure. Your treatment will be confidential. We’ll fix any lingering injuries, and you’ll be as good as new in no time. I expect you’ll be able to complete the practical requirements for my class at the top of your year.”
Harry nods with relief. As long Professor McGonagall didn’t find out and come to regret putting him on the Quidditch team, he would be fine with whatever treatment Riddle decides he needs. He couldn’t bear to get kicked off now.
Riddle swishes his wand, and Harry’s school robes vanish and then reappear in a neatly folded pile on the desk next to him. Another swish of the wand strips Harry of his Gryffindor-trim jumper, button-down shirt, and house tie, again reappearing in a folded pile on top of his robes, leaving Harry only in his trousers and shoes.
Harry shivers as the chill air of the Defense office hits his bare chest.
Professor Riddle’s fingers are even cooler than the air in the office. He brushes his fingertips across the top of Harry’s chest, skimming along his collarbone and dipping under to brush right over Harry’s heart. Harry tries to hold as still as possible as Riddle ghosts his fingers over ridges and bumps along his ribcage, the healed-over marks from the edge of Uncle Vernon’s belt and, one time, Ripper’s sharp and vicious underbite.
Something flashes in Riddle’s eyes, and they narrow the slightest bit, but it disappears as quicky as it came.
Harry’s flesh starts developing goosebumps in the chilly air, and he brings his arms up to hug against the front of his chest and rub his palms along his forearms to warm himself up. But Riddle gently pries Harry’s hands away from his forearms and brings them back down to rest by his sides.
“I need to be able to see your injuries, Harry,” he explains in a light tone.
Wand in hand, he runs the thin tip of his distinct white wand over Harry’s ribcage, each bone visible and sticking out over his thin stomach, tracing along the top of Harry’s stomach and then up his sides.
Harry squirms as the tip of the wand scrapes over his skin, the feeling of it much sharper than it looks.
“’s uncomfortable,” he mumbles, but tries to hold himself still, even as the sharp tip digs into his skin.
“Just a little while longer, Harry,” Riddle murmurs, “Then we can move onto the next bit. Try to relax a bit, can you do that for me, Harry? It’ll be much better for you if your muscles are relaxed and not tensed up.”
The tip of Riddle’s wand glows golden, then red for a little bit, then golden again. A burst of what feels like pure energy races through Harry’s body, and he lets out an involuntary shudder.
“You’re doing so well, Harry,” Riddle murmurs. “Just a few more minutes.”
He casts another spell silently. Some type of soft hum starts from the ends of Harry’s toes and the tips of his fingers, and moves up through his arms and legs, ending in his torso in a warm buzz.
“See, that wasn’t that bad, was it?”
Harry shakes his head.
A nice, comforting trail of warmth is left on Harry’s skin where the glowing tip of the wand had traced patterns, and it doesn’t take long for Harry to warm up again despite having no shirt on, the surface of his skin buzzing and glowing rose-gold everywhere the wand has traced over his skin.
“Does that mean you found something?” Harry asks.
“We’ll need to run monitor your progress over time, Harry, but my initial assessment appears correct.” Riddle presses the flat of his palm to the center of Harry’s back as he’s talking, his fingertips tracing cool patterns along Harry’s spine. “You have three stress fractures in your ribs that have not healed properly and some old injuries that had caused scar tissue to grow around your fractures. These will continue to cause you imbalances and affect your stance unless we treat them, but you don’t have anything to worry about, I know just the right potions protocol for you.”
Riddle has circled around the desk to Harry’s back and cups his hands around Harry’s side, just under his armpits. He is standing very close to Harry.
Without asking, he lifts Harry into the air again, and Harry can feel the rise and fall of Riddle’s chest against his bare back, before he gets set down on the ground again.
“Come back in a week from today.”
Harry nods.
“Thanks, sir,” he says, a warm, glowy feeling bubbling up inside his chest as he hurriedly throws his shirt and robes back on, with a secret trill of happiness that Riddle had finally seemed to show a special interest in him. None of his teachers in primary school had ever paid him any special attention before or said they saw promise in Harry and wanted to help him improve.
Harry rarely sees Riddle smile in class, but he offers Harry a rare smile, playing about his lips for a brief moment, on Harry’s way out.