Set in 1945. Let's pretend Tom's eighteen years old (Seventh Year) and Dumbledore's in his mid-twenties—so, not underage.

Enjoy!

Tom narrowed his eyes as Dumbledore once again praised and awarded ten points to some Gryffindor student for turning his red parrot into a chipped, unappealing wine glass. He glanced at his own perfect glass, having gotten the transfiguration down on his first try… twenty minutes ago…

And when he'd met Dumbledore's gaze after finishing the task, he'd simply been rewarded with a cool gaze and nod of acknowledgement. Barely a sign of approval.

Tom, in turn, had transfigured the wine glass into an elegant vase holding realistic red roses. His peers next to him had gasped. Organic transfiguration – everyone knew how difficult it was. Beyond NEWT-level.

He slid his gaze over to Dumbledore again.

Nothing. The bloody bastard simply continued to ignore him, even deigning to hum a familiar tune Tom could've sworn he'd heard back at his disgusting muggle orphanage.

At this point, Tom had given up on showing off his magical prowess and simply taken to glaring intimidatingly at his Transfiguration professor, who was now cheerfully chatting with two muggleborn Gryffindors about their plans to travel over summer vacation.

Dumbledore's blue eyes twinkled wildly as he laughed at something one of the pair had said to him, auburn hair gleaming in a low ponytail. He had recently defeated Lord Grindelwald, earning himself an Order of Merlin. Young and delightfully charming , the newspapers had called him, displaying a picture of him basking in the shining glory of his fame, lights dancing across his handsome face like phoenix flames…

Tom looked back down at his perfect roses.

Truthfully, he had never understood the hype around the older man.

He clenched his fists, teeth gritting as he fought back righteous fury. The Slytherins had warned him about Dumbledore's House prejudice, of course. But the way Dumbledore treated him went far beyond such general dislike.

This was personal.

The bell rang, and as the class emptied out, Tom made up his mind to go and confront the man. As he approached Dumbledore's desk, a churning feeling returned to his stomach… one Tom barely recognized. Nervousness? Fear?

He shuddered, angry at himself for letting the man control him in such a way.

Emotions, as he'd learned long ago, were a weakness.

Professor Dumbledore looked up from the papers he'd been grading as Tom approached.

"Yes, Tom?"

Tom opened his mouth, intent on confronting him about his prejudiced behavior. He'd been intent on challenging him, demanding to know why he insisted on giving Tom E's when they both knew he deserved O's.

Instead, what came out his mouth was, "Did you not like my roses?"

His tone had been quiet and slightly offended. Almost vulnerable. Tom's eyes widened before narrowing abruptly, his mind racing to come up with some way to amend his sense of dignity…

If anything, Dumbledore looked just as caught off guard. His sapphire eyes had stopped twinkling, his glistening mouth just the slightest bit open…

"What… roses?" Dumbledore asked, weakly, his voice faint.

They both knew he'd seen them. What a liar, Tom nearly snarled.

Instead, he placed both his hands palm-down on the Dumbledore's desk and leaned forward menacingly, his eyes level with the seated professor. To his credit, Dumbledore didn't lean back, continuing to hold his gaze.

Two powerful wizards, the magic sizzling between them as they let the silence speak for them before Tom broke it.

"Give up," he drawled, his voice smooth and suave, confidence restored, "Give up on trying to lie to me. You noticed my roses. You noticed how I got that wine transfiguration down on one try. Because, Albus Dumbledore," and here, his voice dropped to a raspy whisper, "I know that you always notice me."

And it was true. Because despite the hatred that existed between them, Dumbledore had always been able to see through him in ways others couldn't.

"That," Dumbledore began imperiously, voice colder than ever, "is hardly an appropriate way to talk to your professor."

But it was a risk Tom had been willing to take. Because just after he'd finished speaking, there was a flash of something strange and different that Dumbledore never showed in class, and Tom knew he was getting somewhere…

Tom sneered. "Handing out twenty points to a student who achieves the task twenty minutes into class is hardly appropriate when the student who gets it on his first try barely gets any acknowledgement, sir."

Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, nonchalant. "Ah, I see what this is about now. Your need for recognition, your need to be adored by everyone. Your need to feel special."

Tom nearly flinched as Dumbledore's tone turned mocking on the last word, perhaps hitting a little too close to home. Both wizards were remembering an eleven-year-old Tom as he realized magic was real, his reaction…

Eyes gleaming excitedly, Tom had smiled at his soon-to-be professor. "I always knew I was special."

Tom scowled, restraining the urge to Crucio Dumbledore right there and then. "I have no such needs, Professor. Everything I need, I have always achieved and acquired myself."

He paused after that, the distinct feeling of putting his foot in his mouth hitting him. It was only after he'd said such a statement that realized how untrue it shuddered. Everything—his dress robes, his shelter, his tuition—depended upon the charity of Hogwarts. Indirectly, the charity of Dumbledore.

But once he was out of Hogwarts, Tom vowed, he would be independent and strong and powerful. Unstoppable.

Dumbledore had continued onwards, ignoring Tom's fallacy-ridden argument as he brushed a stray lock of auburn away from his eyes. "But it's completely understandable for you to feel that need, Tom. After all, having grown up in an orphanage…"

Dumbledore's eyes narrowed, his voice turning crueler, "…having grown up unloved will always psychologically impact an individual to a certain extent."

His voice turned blatantly cheerful again, all innocence. "Of course, if you'd like me to… compliment you, stroke your ego a bit, you only have to tell me, Tom. There is no shame in students having their own… learning methods that motivate them."

By the overly innocent, subtly sarcastic way Dumbledore had spoken the words "learning methods," it was clear that he thought them anything but shameless in relation to Tom.

Tom leaned off the table, pinching the bridge of his nose before crossing his arms. Subconsciously, he realized that all he wanted was some sort of genuine approval from Dumbledore, perhaps to bring some closure to his experience at Hogwarts.

And now, Dumbledore was offering his approval, but it was fake—both a mockery of what Tom wanted and an unspoken promise of what he would never get.

Once again, Dumbledore had seen through him. Manipulative bastard sure knew how to play.

At least now he knew what the man thought of him. Tom scoffed. Psychological impact?

He quirked an eyebrow, his palms still on Dumbledore's desk as he leaned forward. "Do I look like a basket case to you? Perfect grades, head boy, decent looks," he wasn't ashamed to admit hard truths, "And all the other professors love me. Perhaps… it's just you."

This time, Dumbledore stood up, leaning forward, his mouth a straight determined line as his deep blue eyes blazed. "Oh, Tom. You hide it well, I'll admit…" His voice dropped a couple notes, growing colder, somber, "But you certainly look like a basket case to me."

That's when Tom knew that Dumbledore was set in his beliefs. And he would never, ever forget the strange, vulnerable, snake-speaking boy who thought that magic made him special.

A fire burned through his chest, his mind… those ever-elusive emotions that he tried so hard to control attacking him.

Tom, breathing harshly at the rejection he'd received, felt tears rising up, his heart rate getting faster and faster.

He conquered his tears, eyes blazing, shining when he met Dumbledore's eyes. "Basket-case me this."

Tom lunged at Dumbledore over the table, sliding his hands roughly into the Dumbledore's ponytail and pulling him forward before ravaging those cruel, manipulative lips, sliding his tongue over them, biting them, wanting to devour that bookish, lemony scent Dumbledore always radiated…

And he felt high because Tom didn't know how long he'd been waiting but he was finally tasting this man, this hateful man who was stunning in every way. Intelligent enough to see through him. Subtle enough to return Tom's remarks. Passionate underneath that cool, collected veneer...

"Tom…" Dumbledore's voice was lower than usual, and Tom suppressed his shudder this time.

Wordlessly accioing a rose from his transfigured vase, which lay on the table where he'd left it, Tom placed the rose on Dumbledore's desk.

"Keep it," he whispered harshly, before turning around and walking out the door…

.

.

"... Tom?"

Tom jerked, blinking his way to reality... only to see Dumbledore staring right at him in utter bewilderment. His blue eyes were wider than he'd ever seen them before.

He resisted the nervous urge to brush a hand through his (perfectly combed) black hair and cleared his throat formally. "Yes, sir."

Dumbledore continued to stare, causing Tom to frown.

"Sir. Are you well?"

"Are you well?" Dumbledore replied, in a light, airy, still-bewildered voice. Then he seemed to snap himself out of it, correcting himself awkwardly. "Well, you were spacing out and... ah, never mind. I must have been imagining things." He smiled weakly, turning back to his papers and dismissing him without another glance. "Go on then, boy."

This time, it was Tom who stared at him. After a few seconds of prolonged silence, he left.

.

.

Out of the corner of his eye, Albus watched the door Tom had walked out by, fingering his lips in guilty reminiscence of a non-existent memory.

When he realized what he was doing, he froze his fingers and closed his eyes—finally allowing the flood of horror and countless other unspeakable emotions to overcome him.

Oh, Tom.