Birds of a Feather (Stick Together)

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the city as Harry made his way from the orphanage to Tom's address. The streets around St. Ignatius were familiar by now, their worn cobblestones uneven underfoot, their alleyways lined with peeling posters and half-emptied bins. The clatter of vendors hawking their wares and the hum of buses passing by were constant companions, blending with the muted laughter of children playing in the distance.

Harry pulled his coat tighter around him, the chill in the air biting through the fabric as he turned onto a busier thoroughfare. It wasn't long before the scenery began to shift, subtly at first—a cleaner pavement here, a freshly painted storefront there.

As he walked further, the differences became impossible to ignore. The grit and grime of the working-class streets gave way to pristine sidewalks and polished stone facades. The sharp tang of exhaust and street food was replaced by the faint, pleasant scent of trimmed hedges and blooming flowers.

The transition was jarring, the divide as clear as a line drawn across the city.

Harry paused at a corner, glancing around. The buildings here were taller, grander. Rows of elegant townhouses with wrought iron balconies stood side by side, their windows glinting in the fading light. The cars parked along the street were sleeker, newer, and far removed from the rattling buses and clunky vehicles near the orphanage.

A man in a tailored suit passed by, his polished shoes clicking against the pavement. He barely spared Harry a glance, his nose slightly upturned as if Harry's presence were an unwelcome intrusion.

"Bit obvious, isn't it?" Harry muttered under his breath, resuming his walk. Luckily, he had transfigured his clothes to something more decent. He wouldn't like to imagine how others would have reacted if he was wearing his normal set of clothes.

When he finally reached the address Tom had provided, his steps slowed. A wrought iron gate stood before him, its intricate design flanked by two tall stone pillars. Beyond it lay a sweeping driveway leading up to a modest-sized mansion—modest by aristocratic standards, anyway. The house itself was an elegant blend of old-world charm and modern sensibility, its white stone exterior glowing faintly in the evening light. Neatly trimmed hedges lined the pathway, and the faint trickle of water from a fountain in the courtyard reached Harry's ears.

He stood there for a moment, taking it in. This wasn't like the grandeur of Malfoy Manor or the gothic weight of Grimmauld Place. It was stately but calculated—like everything about Tom Riddle seemed to be. Every detail, from the perfectly symmetrical windows to the carefully manicured lawn, spoke of control and precision.

Harry stepped forward, and the gate opened with a quiet creak, as if expecting him.

As he walked up the drive, he noticed small touches that gave away Tom's influence: the sleek black car parked to the side, its polished surface gleaming; the brass door knocker shaped like a serpent; and the faint glow of lanterns lining the path, their light casting soft, flickering shadows.

When he reached the front door, he hesitated. There was something about being here, in this place so far removed from the orphanage, that made him feel out of place.

Harry raised a hand and knocked, the sound echoing in the stillness.

The door opened moments later, revealing a manservant dressed in a crisp black suit. His expression was unreadable, his posture rigid as he stepped aside to allow Harry in.

"Mr. Potter," the man said, his voice low and formal. "You're expected. Please, follow me."

The interior of the house was even more striking. The floors were polished wood, their surface gleaming under the warm light of a chandelier that hung from the high ceiling. The walls were lined with framed paintings—landscapes, portraits, abstract designs—and the air smelled faintly of fresh lilies.

Harry followed the manservant through a wide hallway, his footsteps muffled by a plush Persian rug. The sound of soft piano music drifted from somewhere deeper in the house, blending with the faint crackle of a fire.

It was warm, inviting even, but Harry couldn't shake the underlying tension that seemed to permeate the air. This was Tom Riddle's domain, after all, and nothing about it was accidental.

The manservant stopped at a door and gestured for Harry to enter. "The viscount will be with you shortly."

Harry nodded, stepping into what appeared to be a sitting room. It was as tastefully furnished as the rest of the house, with a pair of armchairs set near the fireplace and a low table between them. A decanter of amber liquid and two crystal glasses sat waiting, their presence feeling almost ominous.

Harry moved to the window, glancing out at the neatly maintained garden beyond. As much as he hated to admit it, this place was beautiful. But it wasn't home.

The sound of footsteps behind him made Harry turn. Tom stood in the doorway, his sharp grey eyes locking onto Harry with an intensity that made his skin prickle.

"Mr. Potter," Tom said smoothly, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him. "I'm glad you could make it."

Harry's posture stiffened, but his voice was steady. "Didn't think it was much of an option."

Tom's lips curved into a faint smile, the kind that sent a shiver down Harry's spine. It didn't reach his eyes. "No, I suppose it wasn't."

"Though I'm surprised you've got the time to see me," Harry added, his tone light but pointed. "You must be busy."

"Ah, yes. I admit I've been working," Tom replied, his voice unhurried as he moved to the desk and poured himself a glass of dark amber liquid from a crystal decanter. "But nothing I couldn't step away from. Besides, you intrigue me. I have a conundrum I've been mulling over, and I'd appreciate your perspective."

Harry crossed his arms, wary. "I don't know anything about politics."

Tom waved the comment away, his movements deliberate. "This isn't about politics. Not entirely. It's about perspective—a fresh point of view. Would you indulge me?"

Harry hesitated. He knew this was a test, though its purpose eluded him. After a moment, he nodded.

Tom set down his glass and leaned forward slightly, his hands resting on the edge of the desk. "Imagine this: You're in charge of allocating resources in a crisis—medicine, for example. Supplies are limited. You have a hundred doses and a thousand people in need. Do you distribute them equally, knowing it won't be enough? Or do you prioritize those who could contribute the most to society?"

The question hit Harry like a hex, and his brows furrowed deeply. "You're asking if I'd choose who lives and who dies?"

Tom inclined his head, his grey eyes gleaming. "In essence, yes."

Harry's answer came swiftly, almost instinctively. "You find a way to get more medicine."

Tom's lips curved into a sharper smile, amusement dancing in his eyes. "An idealistic answer. But let's be pragmatic, Mr. Potter. There is no more medicine. The situation is fixed. What then?"

Harry's jaw tightened, and he met Tom's gaze squarely. "Then you do the best you can for everyone. You don't play God. You don't decide that someone's life is worth less just because they don't fit your idea of what's useful."

For a moment, silence stretched between them, taut as a bowstring. Tom's expression didn't falter, but something flickered in his eyes—curiosity, perhaps, or something darker.

"You truly believe that, don't you?" Tom murmured, his tone thoughtful.

"Of course I do," Harry said, his voice steady. "What's the point of power if you don't use it to help people?"

Tom leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled as he studied Harry. The smile on his lips was faint, but it carried the weight of unspoken questions. "You're either very naive or very principled, Mr. Potter."

"Or maybe both," Harry replied, his tone edged with defiance.

Before Tom could respond, the sound of small steps coming was heard. It didn't take long for the door to burst open, and Sirius bounded into the room, his curls bouncing as he skidded to a halt beside Harry.

"There you are!" Sirius said brightly, his wide grey eyes flicking between Harry and Tom. "I knew you'd come! I was waiting and waiting, and now you're here!"

Harry's lips twitched into a small, genuine smile despite the unease still lingering in his chest. "Told you I'd be here, didn't I?"

Even if he couldn't shake the feeling that he'd just passed—or failed—a test he hadn't even known he was taking, the smile Sirius wore was enough for him to ignore whatever game Tom was attempting to pull him in.