Birds of a Feather (Stick Together)

The hotel ballroom was a vision of opulence. Chandeliers cast a golden glow over the crowd, their crystals refracting light that danced across the polished marble floors. The air buzzed with the murmur of journalists, politicians, and prominent figures mingling before the event. Large banners adorned the walls, bearing Tom Riddle's campaign slogan: "Strength Through Unity, Progress Through Leadership."

Harry stood near the back, his transfigured clothes blending him into the crowd of well-dressed attendees. A sharp-cut suit and neatly polished shoes had replaced the worn trench coat and scuffed boots he'd arrived in. The faint shimmer of his wand's magic clung to the fabric—a silent reassurance that he could vanish if things went south.

His green eyes darted across the room, picking out faces, studying expressions. He was here to observe, not engage, but the weight of the room pressed heavily on his shoulders.

Then the crowd quieted.

The ballroom doors opened, and Tom Riddle entered, cutting a striking figure as he strode toward the podium. His dark hair was slicked back, and his tailored suit emphasized his commanding presence. Cameras flashed, and the murmurs of the crowd hushed into an expectant silence.

Harry's stomach twisted.

There he was. This world's version of Tom Riddle—viscount, politician, and father.

Tom stepped behind the podium, his grey eyes sweeping across the room with practiced ease. There was no mistaking the power in his gaze, the way it seemed to command attention without effort. For a moment, Harry thought those eyes lingered on him, but it was fleeting—gone too quickly to be certain.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Tom began, his voice smooth and authoritative, amplified by the microphone. The room seemed to hold its breath as he spoke. "Thank you for joining me today. I wish it were under better circumstances."

His tone shifted, growing somber. "Yesterday, an attack was made on my life. An attack not just on me, but on the principles I stand for—integrity, progress, and the future of this great city. I am grateful to those who acted swiftly to ensure my safety and, most importantly, the safety of my son, Sirius."

At the mention of Sirius, the room buzzed with curiosity. Cameras tilted, journalists leaned forward, pens poised. Harry ignored it all, surprised at the boy's name. It took him a couple of seconds to regain his thoughts.

"—kept my private life separate from my public duties," Tom continued, his voice steady. "But the events of yesterday have made it clear that transparency is not just a choice, but a necessity. And so, I wish to introduce to you someone very dear to me. My son, Sirius."

A collective murmur swept through the crowd as a young boy stepped out from the wings.

Harry's breath caught as Sirius appeared. He was dressed in a finely tailored suit, his dark curls neatly combed, but his small hand clung tightly to Tom's as they walked to the podium together. His wide grey eyes scanned the crowd nervously, and Harry's chest tightened with guilt.

This was the same boy he had shielded in the alley, the same boy who had clung to him in terror.

Tom placed a hand on Sirius's shoulder, grounding him as he faced the room. "He is my pride," he said, his voice softening just enough to show a glimmer of warmth. "Sirius is my reason for everything I do. He is my hope for a better future, not just for my family, but for this city."

The words were calculated, Harry knew, but there was something genuine in the way Tom's hand lingered protectively on Sirius's shoulder.

"My late wife, Bellatrix Black, gave me this gift before she passed," Tom continued, his tone respectful but devoid of deep emotion. "She was a woman of strength and conviction, and through her, Sirius carries a legacy of resilience and courage."

Harry watched, his jaw tightening. He could hear the questions bubbling up from the journalists, see the hunger in their eyes as they scribbled notes.

"What about the attack, Mr. Riddle?" one journalist called out.

Tom's expression hardened, his gaze sharp as he addressed the question. "The attack is under investigation," he said firmly. "But rest assured, I will not be deterred. Those responsible will face justice, and I will continue to fight for the future of this city."

The crowd murmured in approval, the tension in the room easing slightly.

Harry's eyes stayed on Sirius. The boy stood still, his small frame dwarfed by the grandeur of the room and the weight of his father's presence. But there was something in his posture—a quiet strength that reminded Harry of himself at that age.

Another journalist raised her hand. "Mr. Riddle, why reveal your son now? Why not earlier?"

Tom's jaw tightened, but his answer was smooth. "I wanted to protect him," he said simply. "But I believe the people of this city deserve to know the truth. Sirius is not a secret."

The crowd erupted into polite applause, though Harry noticed the flicker of discomfort in Sirius's eyes. Harry kept listening with half an ear as Tom went about his policies. His attention was drawn to Sirius, trying to find any resemblance to his godfather. However, other than the grey eyes, he couldn't identify anything as this boy was too small for him to recognize the similar features they could have shared. 

Though considering his mother was Bellatrix, maybe it was one trait of the Blacks and not anything to look into. Besides, even if this Sirius was the parallel self of his godfather, it's not like he would ever remember anything.

As the press conference wound down, Tom's gaze swept the crowd once more. This time, Harry was certain his eyes locked onto him. The moment was brief, but it sent a shiver down Harry's spine.

Did Tom recognize him?

The applause grew louder as Tom concluded his speech, stepping back from the podium with Sirius by his side as the crowd thinned. Harry slowly edged toward the exit, but didn't go yet to not look suspicious, keeping to the shadows at the edge of the opulent ballroom. The press conference had gone as smoothly as Tom Riddle could have hoped, and now the event was transitioning into the charity ball. The mood shifted, with waiters beginning to circulate with trays of champagne and hors d'oeuvres, and the hum of polite conversation replacing the clatter of journalists packing up their equipment.

Harry adjusted the lapels of his transfigured suit, his eyes scanning the room one last time. He'd seen enough. Tom Riddle was as charismatic and calculated as ever, a man with an agenda and a sharp tongue to defend it. Sirius, though—Sirius had been a surprise. Vulnerable, young, and innocent in a way that tugged at Harry's chest.

Time to leave, he thought. He turned toward the exit, keeping his head low. Apparating directly out of the ballroom would be reckless—too many eyes, too much risk of exposing himself. He'd slip outside and find a quiet alleyway to disappear.

He was halfway to the door when he heard it.

"Hey, you!"

The sound of the small voice stopped him dead in his tracks. He doesn't know why he stopped. It wasn't calling to him, specifically. However, for some reason, Harry turned his head just enough to see a blur of movement weaving through the crowd, heading straight for him. His stomach dropped.

It was Sirius.