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Chapter Text

There isn’t much that can be said about Harry Evans, the sixth year transfer who gets Sorted into Ravenclaw. The only memorable things about him are that he holds the record for being the longest Hat stall in Hogwarts history, according to Avery, and has eyes that shine like the Killing Curse. Tom doesn’t see him much outside of the few classes that they share, nor does he seek him out either. He has no reason to anyway.

Evans is a muggleborn who performs slightly above average magic. His potions skills remain to be seen, but are no doubt abysmal, and he doesn’t speak unless he’s called upon. He spends his free time in the library, doesn’t comb his hair, and never bothers to smoothen out the wrinkles in his robes.

Even if Evans were remotely interesting, Tom is too preoccupied with locating the Chamber to give him his full attention. When he isn’t roaming the castle at night in search of Salazar’s secret abode, he’s meeting with his Knights. They’ve progressed to dueling each other now instead of using the dummies that Tom conjured up for them.

Everything changes that first fateful Hogsmeade weekend when a squadron of Grindelwald’s acolytes attack the Three Broomsticks. Tom is running on three hours of sleep and still recovering from the slew of dark curses he cast the previous night. Still, he isn’t the reigning dueling champion for nothing. The two wizards attacking are sloppy. The witch in the middle is more capable yet slow. She knocks out an Auror and then points her wand in his direction.

Boom. The explosion comes from behind. It knocks Tom off his feet before he can even try any spells. His wand flies from his hand from the impact or because of a spell, he doesn’t know. Through all of the screaming and chaos, Tom is attuned to the exact moment that it clatters to the ground.

The breath leaves his body next. He’s too weak to move and reach out for his yew. Abraxas groans from somewhere next to him. He’s hurt. But alive. Tom’s ears are ringing. He can’t hear anybody else. Peering into the smoky haze, Grindelwald’s acolytes are lighting up the world with red and green spells.

There’s more screams. Then another explosion. Everything shakes.

Abraxas shifts beside him. “T-Tom…”

Tom opens his mouth to reply but no sound comes out. He’s never felt so useless before. Except he has, hasn’t he? Lying there, on the floor of the Three Broomsticks with something heavy crushing his leg, the smell of smoke and fear and death fills the air. Tom swallows. The memory enters his head unbidden. He’s sequestered in a muggle bunker, knees drawn up to his chest, unable to move or think or breathe as the world gets blown up all around.

Weak, he hisses teeth clenched. Tom hasn’t thought of that day in ages. He doesn’t allow the image to enter his mind, not even when he sleeps. So why now?

“Tom.” Abraxas again. “We… We have to get up…”

Meanwhile, Tom is frozen. Half of his body has gone numb. Every time he swallows, he can taste blood. Accio wand, he tries. Wandless magic has become second nature to him. There’s no reason why it shouldn’t work now. He isn’t that frightened little boy any more. He’s moved past that. And yet his wand doesn’t come to him. Not because the spell fails, but rather because a hand, not his own, has swiped it up.

The person turns and they lock eyes. For a second, Tom believes he’s been struck by one of the many Avada Kedavras flying from above. Any of the air he had gathered in his lungs following the explosion escapes his mouth again. The effect is dizzying.

It’s not going to work, Tom thinks through the haze. They’ve exchanged wands before, he and his Knights, a way for Tom to test their loyalty. None of them have ever been able to use his yew, while he has always been able to use each one of theirs. Ollivander tells him that the tree his wand came from is the most resilient of its species. The yew has been struck by lightning, lit on fire, and remained standing following several wars. His wand is just as unyielding. It only answers to him.

Until now.

Later, Tom realizes that the only reason he didn’t pass out is because watching Harry Evans duel with his wand is like breathing the air back into his lungs. Now he’s just angry. No, he’s furious. None of Evans’ spells backfire. He’s faster than both Acolytes combined, stronger even. His technique is horrendous but he makes up for it by being surprisingly vicious. The yew remains in his hand all throughout as if it never belonged to Tom in the first place. It doesn’t slip from his hand once, not even while he’s held under the Cruciatus for what feels like an eternity.

“Sectumsempra!”

Tom has never heard of that spell before. He’s sure he must have heard wrong. His thoughts come to a grinding halt as one of the two wizards dueling Evans gets sliced open. The rage he feels becomes fragmented in the process. It spills out of him and onto the floor along with the other wizard’s blood. Tom is utterly mortified by the desperate sound that escapes his lips as Evans’ magic finally reaches him. It’s overwhelming and humiliating, yet so achingly familiar.

Mine.

Evans turns around then. He’s breathing heavily, chest rising and falling. Sweat and grime drips down his face. There’s a lightning bolt scar behind his fringe that Tom has never noticed before. It seems he hasn’t noticed many things about him.

Their eyes lock again— a fatal mistake. While Evans is somehow able to dodge the burning red Crucio coming his way, he cannot prevent the large chunk of ceiling from collapsing on both him and the dark witch.

Tom watches unblinkingly. Gone is the weak feeling from before. His anger too has quelled, an unnamed feeling taking its place. Something tells him that Evans isn’t dead. If he is, Tom will personally take it upon himself to revive him just so that he can find out why he was able to use his wand and where he learned to duel that way. If he truly can’t bring Evans back, well, Tom could always start making his first Horcrux early.

“Accio wand.” As the smoke clears, his yew comes. It’s warm in his hand and pulses steadily as Evans’ body twitches. The boy is alive.

Tom hates him.

Never has he been so aware of his heartbeat until now.

Tom wants him.

𓆙 𓆙 𓆙

It takes Evans three days to wake up. Tom stays by his side the entire time, citing his own injury as an excuse. There are a few other students in the infirmary from the attack. Abraxas is there too. His parents arrive the next day. Tom is too busy pouring over books about spells and wandlore to be jealous. He doesn’t find anything about Sectumsempra but the concept of brother wands immediately draws his attention.

That first night, he shamelessly rummages through Evans’ robes in search of his wand but doesn’t find it. Instead, he discovers more scars. Tom still can’t figure out what caused the lightning bolt on Evans’ forehead, but the words on his wrist are clearly the result of a blood quill. The puncture on his forearm is a mystery. There’s a burn mark across his chest as well. Tom can make out the letter ‘S’ if he squints.

The second night, Evans has a nightmare. His magic wakes Tom up before the screams do. It seems to be coming from his forehead. Tom doesn’t know why he reaches out but he does. As soon as his fingers make contact with Evans’ clammy skin, the boy calms down.

Later that same night, Tom is the one who has a nightmare. None of it makes any sense. A woman is crying and then she’s screaming but he can’t find her anywhere. Her wails morph into that of a child’s.

Tom finds himself standing in a strange room overlooking an empty crib. When he looks down at his hands they are no longer human. His flesh is tinged a pale blue and he has talons instead of nails. He catches sight of the serpentine face in the pool of blood on the floor and wakes up panting. Tom hardly dreams but when he does, his mind conjures up memories of his youth. The war he had to endure both inside and out of Wool’s has followed him whether he likes it or not. But this is a different beast altogether. He is the beast. Tom doesn’t understand why he would dream of such a horrible thing. Should he spend another night in the infirmary, Tom will ask for a vial of Dreamless Sleep.

Evans opens his eyes a few hours later. He comes back to consciousness, slowly at first, then all at once. Tom watches silently from the bed beside him. He hasn’t moved since the dream. His hands remain atop the sheets where he can see them. It’s early morning now, pale sunlight peeking through the curtains above. They are the only ones left in the Infirmary.

“Careful,” Tom finally speaks, his voice raspy from disuse. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

“What—” Evans turns around and his eyes go comically wide. Any of the color that had been in the process of returning to his face is quickly drained again as he sees Tom.

“According to your chart, you received a traumatic blow to the head and are suffering from extreme magical exhaustion,” Tom explains. It's quite a feat to speak and think at the same time when Evans’ eyes are focused on him. They truly are as green as the Killing Curse. “But what Healer Marwood doesn’t know is that you were also kept under the Cruciatus for quite some time.”

A flurry of different emotions flicker across Evans’ face. Tom has a hard time keeping track of them all. He isn’t even sure that he can.

“How do you know that?” Evans asks eventually. His own voice comes out as a rasp as well.

Tom should offer him water but he doesn’t. “Some memory loss is to be expected,” he says instead.

“Grindelwald attacked the Three Broomsticks.”

“No. The Dark Lord wasn’t there. Had he been I doubt any of us would have survived. Although...”

Evans scrambles off of the bed. “Oh my god.” He stumbles. “Myrtle! Is she okay?”

“Myrtle Warren?” Tom swallows down the displeasure in his tone. “Yes. She’s come by a few times to see you.” More like she’s come around to see Tom. Her crush on him is painfully obvious. Tom has come way too close to hexing her because of it. He can’t stand her high pitched exclamations whenever she claims they have something in common or the way she bats her eyelashes at him after he says her name.

“Um, why are you here?” Evans asks.

Tom blinks. “I was hurt.”

“Oh.”

“I’m also a prefect,” he adds following Evans’ silence. “It’s my duty to ensure the safety and wellbeing of our students.”

“Well, yeah. But we’re in different houses and you don’t know me.”

A mistake, he thinks, then extends his hand. “Tom Riddle. It’s a pleasure, Harry Evans.”

Evans doesn’t take it. Instead, he pretends to cough into his hand. “Right. I’m fine though. You can go now and do your more important prefect things.”

Tom’s hand drops, the faux smile he wears doesn’t. “I can’t imagine anything more important than being here with you.”

Evans says nothing. He seems to sway a little. Some of the color has returned to his face but only on his cheeks. Tom immediately reaches out. His fingers skim the edge of Evans’ shoulder before the boy draws back. “Are you feeling okay? Should I call Healer Marwood?”

“No. It’s fine. I’m fine.”

“How did someone as reckless as you end up in Ravenclaw?” Tom finds himself thinking out loud.

“What?”

“The way you jumped into the battle was so Gryffindor and yet you’ve been playing us for fools this entire time.” Tom should be angry about it. Perhaps he is, but more with himself for failing to notice Harry Evans. “Is that why the Sorting Hat took so long with you? Because it was stuck deciding between houses?”

“I haven’t been doing anything,” Evans says, but he avoids Tom’s eyes while he talks.

“See that’s just it, Evans. Your performance in Defense is mediocre at best and yet you managed to hold your own against one of Grindelwald’s acolytes. You might’ve even won if the roof didn’t collapse when it did.”

Evans blinks a few times before he responds. “It was a fight or flight response. Anyone would’ve reacted that way if their life was on the line.”

“Ah.” Tom smiles again. “Self-preservation. Yes. Quite the Slytherin trait.”

“I’m a Ravenclaw.”

“Except your life wasn’t on the line. Not directly at least. You could’ve gotten away. You could’ve ran. Warren did. Now there’s a true Ravenclaw. You, on the other hand, picked up my wand and fought.”

Evans’ mouth drops open. “Wait, your wand?”

Tom’s smile grows. He stands up and makes his way toward him in three short strides. “Though I suppose it felt no different to you given how effortlessly you seemed to cast.”

Normally he’d feel annoyed at having to recount things. But it feels good knowing that Evans has no choice but to rely on him when he clearly doesn’t want to. I’d very much like to see him on his knees, Tom thinks suddenly, begging for answers only I can give him.

Evans instantly goes rigid. His magic rises up around him defensively. “Wizards can use other wizards’ wands. I didn’t do anything special, Riddle.”

Special. Now there’s a word Tom knows all too well. “Perhaps a few spells,” he agrees. The books had said similar things. “Weak ones at best though. And only for a little while.”

Evans shakes his head. “It was your wand then. It gave me the strength I needed to fight. Take that away and I go back to being mediocre.”

“Why lend you that strength in the first place?” Tom moves closer. His voice drops down to a whisper. “What are we to each other?”

“Nothing,” Evans nearly shouts. He takes a step back, putting as much distance between them as possible. His eyes flicker over to the door and then back to Tom. “You’re a prefect. I’m a regular student. It’s your duty to ensure our safety and wellbeing like you said. Your wand probably sensed that I wanted to help.”

“Hm. You’re creative, Evans. I’ll give you that. Unfortunately, you’ve given me no reason to believe anything that comes out of your mouth.”

“Give me your wand then.” Evans lifts up his chin. “Let me prove you wrong.”

“You mean lie?” Tom asks with a raised brow. He can't deny, however, the way his pulse begins to race at the thought of Evans challenging him. They will duel each other soon. Tom will make sure of it.

“Actions speak louder than words.”

“Then we should exchange them more often, don’t you think?”

“No,” Evans says.

“No?” Tom echoes. Surely he heard wrong. No one ever refuses Tom Riddle.

“I’m really busy with exams and stuff.”

“And stuff?” Tom’s laugh is hollow. He did not hear wrong. Harry Evans has just refused Tom Riddle. “How eloquent.”

“Take the bloody hint and sod off, Riddle.”

The sudden hostility is unexpected. Tom has to take a moment to recover, lest he show Harry what lies behind his mask. “Sorry. Have I done something to offend you, Evans?” He’d remember if he had of course. This is the longest conversation they’ve ever had. It’s the first, in fact.

Maybe that’s why Evans is so upset. Tom has never given him any attention before. He wouldn’t be the first to resent him due to that. Some of his own Knights come to mind.

“No.” Evans runs a hand through his hair, messing it up even more. His fingers tremble. Tom tracks every movement hungrily. “Look. I’m sorry.” He doesn’t look or sound apologetic. It’s a wonder he managed to hide from Tom for so long if he’s this bad at lying. “I’m tired and my head hurts. Your questions aren’t helping. I dunno why I was able to use your wand and honestly I don’t really care. So if you could leave me alone now that would be great.”

Tom nearly scoffs. As if he would ever do something like that. “Perhaps you should’ve thought of that before you took my wand,” he says without moving.

“I didn’t know it was yours! I could barely see anything because of the explosion.”

“What is your wand’s core?” Tom asks, hoping to catch him off guard.

“Unicorn hair.”

His answer is quick. Too quick. It sounds rehearsed. Tom has no doubt that Evans is lying about this too.

“Don’t lie.”

Evans lifts up his chin again. “Or what?”

“You cast lots of spells with my wand the other day. I didn’t recognize one of them. Sectumsempra, was it?”

“Are you… Are you blackmailing me?"

Tom smirks. “Now, Evans. Wherever did you get that idea from? I never said I was going to tell Headmaster Dippet about the incredibly dark spell you used.”

“What do you want?”

“I want to get to know you.”

Evans looks away, arms crossed and jaw set. “I’m not as interesting as you think, Riddle. All of this… it’s just a coincidence. None of it means anything.”

“Do you believe in fate, Harry Evans?” Tom asks, resisting the urge to grab his chin and tug his face back toward him. Look at me. He grinds his teeth together instead. You are mine.

“No. Absolutely not.”

A predictable response. Tom still finds it disappointing.

“How about soulmates?”

When Evans finally turns toward him again, he looks alarmed. “God.” A weak laugh escapes his parted lips. “You can’t possibly think that you and I—”

“Would it be so bad if we were?”

“Trust me. We’re not.”

“Such certainty,” Tom breathes out. He’s become aware of his heartbeat again. None of the books he read said anything about soulmates. Tom doesn’t even know where the idea came from. Something about it just feels right. And yet the way Evans is looking at him right now is all wrong.

“Soulmates aren’t real,” Tom hears him mumble.

“Maybe so. But you can’t deny that you and I are something to each other.”

Before Evans can respond, a banshee-like shriek pierces through the air. Tom grinds his teeth together. Myrtle Warren has arrived.

“Harry!” The girl dives toward Evans and practically throws herself on top of him. Tom grips his wand in his pocket. “Oh my god. You’re awake. You’re alive. You’re… You’re such a friggin’ arsehole!”

“Ow!” Evans reels away from where she nudged him roughly on the shoulder. Tom is ready to intervene, his most painful and agonizing Bat Bogey Hex on the tip of his tongue, when Evans’ face splits into a grin. “I'm glad you're okay."

He's glad? Tom is unable to stop himself from frowning. Evans said no such thing to him after Tom mentioned his own injury. It's aggravating.

Warren shakes her head. It isn't long before she’s burst into tears. “You almost died! You were going to sacrifice yourself for poor Myrtle. No one’s ever… no one’s ever done that before. No one’s ever cared that much.”

Evans’ face softens. Tom feels his chest ache. He finds himself gripping his wand even tighter, unsure what the sensation could mean.

“You’re not allowed to die okay?” Warren commands in between sobs. “So don’t ever do that again.” She wraps her arms around Evans much tighter than before, burying her snot-covered face into his neck. Tom wrinkles his nose at the disgusting display. He’s sure Evans will shove her off of him. He's wrong.

The ache in Tom’s chest turns into a swirling sensation in his stomach. He doesn’t like it. Not one bit. “Ahem.” Tom loudly clears his throat once it becomes clear that Warren isn’t going to let go any time soon.

The girl lets out a squeak and instantly pulls away. Her face turns a violent red and she wipes at the snot dripping down her nose. “R-Riddle! I had no idea you were still here. How are you feeling?”

“Much better thank you for asking. And please. Call me Tom. A friend of Evans is a friend of mine.”

“Alright,” she answers with a giggle. “So long as you call me Myrtle.”

Tom grants her a tight-lipped smile. “Sure.”

“I’ve been telling everyone about your heroic deeds, Harry!” Warren turns toward Evans. “How you saved all of us." Her eyes light up with unshed tears and awe. It's decided. Myrtle Warren must die. "Rumor has it we might even get points from the Headmaster."

Evans looks panicked again. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Warren rolls her eyes and flicks him on the forehead near his scar. “You’ll have to forgive Harry, Tom. He's rather dull when it comes to, oh, pretty much everything. A real stick in the mud too. I’m afraid he would have faded into obscurity if none of this ever happened.”

“Yes,” Tom agrees, “that would’ve been most unfortunate.” Evans peers up at him suspiciously. Tom smiles back.

There isn’t much that can be said about Harry Evans, the sixth year transfer who gets Sorted into Ravenclaw. But Tom has always been fond of filling in the blanks. He owns a diary after all.

Chapter Text

The stillness of the infirmary following Tom’s departure sets Harry on edge. His eyes keep darting back to the door wondering when Tom will walk back in, because there’s no longer an if is there? Harry’s gone and screwed it all up. Just like he screwed up two months ago at the Ministry.

They were supposed to be looking for Salazar’s locket, but Harry ends up finding a Time Turner instead. It’s there, sparkling temptingly within the confines of a drawer in Umbridge’s nauseatingly pink office. Hermione tells him once that bad things happen to wizards who mess with time, but bad things are happening already.

They’re wanted fugitives. Undesirables. Voldemort has control of the Ministry and soon the entire Wizarding World. If they don’t find the locket soon, things will go from bad to worse. With the Time Turner, they can try again as many times as they want. They can win.

Harry doesn’t count on Thicknesse walking in before he can activate it. Rather, the Minister catches sight of the now treacherous gleaming Time Turner seemingly hovering in the air, and shoots off a random spell in Harry’s direction.

Their duel is quick and ends just as swiftly. Thicknesse hits Harry with a Stunner at the same time as he activates the Turner. The combination of the Stunner and Harry’s own accidental magic must be why he’s sent farther back than he intended. Much farther back. Otherwise, Harry can’t find a reason for ending up in 1942.

The Sorting Hat places him into Ravenclaw because it’s knowledge that he seeks. Being brave or cunning won’t help him much this time. Harry practically lives in the library. Hermione would be proud, Ron outright horrified. He can’t wait to tell them all about it. Because he will be going back.

Harry is determined to fix the Time Turner. He still has hope, even though every book he finds either leads him to a dead end or claims that fixing his situation is both improbable and impossible. He’s planning a visit to Knockturn soon after overhearing some of the Slytherins mention a dark bookshop. That is, it’s what he would’ve done had he not agreed to take Myrtle to Hogsmeade.

“Harry, are you listening?” Myrtle asks with a huff. “I asked if you wanted to go to Hogsmeade with me.”

Harry turns another page without glancing up. He’s charmed his book to look like it’s one of their assigned texts for class. Myrtle has an annoying habit of peering over his shoulder. She likes to comment on how slowly he does his Charms work or how much more she’s written on her parchment about a certain topic than him even though they’re in different years.

“Didn’t you want to go with Riddle?” he asks.

Myrtle huffs again and then stomps her foot. “Of course I do! But everyone wants to go with him.”

“Not everyone,” Harry mumbles, the words slipping out before he can stop them. He isn’t really in the mood to hear about all of the reasons why he’s wrong or worse, all of the reasons why Tom and her would make the loveliest couple in school.

Luckily, Myrtle continues prattling on as if he hasn’t said a thing. “That doesn’t mean it’s going to happen.” As usual, she doesn’t seem to mind that Harry barely answers her. For a Ravenclaw, Myrtle only really listens to the words that come out of her own mouth.

“Riddle rarely goes and when he does he only ever takes his friends,” Myrtle continues with a wave of her hand. “Plus, all of the girls who ask get rejected. The last thing I need is to give that Hornsby bitch another reason to come after me.”

Harry sighs. “Sorry, Myrtle. But I can’t go to Hogsmeade with you.”

“Because someone already asked?”

“No.”

“Because you’d rather go by yourself?”

“No.”

"Then?”

"Because I don’t want to go at all.”

Harry has tried his best to stay away from her, but the little fourth year has stuck to him like glue. Out of everyone in Ravenclaw house, he’s the only one that doesn’t bully her. Myrtle has started sitting with him in the library whenever his Disillusionment Charm wears off.

“What?!” Myrtle whisper-shrieks. The group of Hufflepuffs at the other table shoot them annoyed looks. Harry mouths them an apology. “But it’s Hogsmeade. Surely you’re curious. You’ve never been!”

“Yeah. I’m just more curious about…” His voice trails off and he winces when he realizes what the fake title says. “Er, the Goblin Rebellion.”

Myrtle’s eyes narrow. “Oh. I see how it is. You’re just like the rest of them aren’t you?” She wags a pudgy finger in his face, her volume rising with every exaggerated breath. “Getting poor Myrtle’s hopes up by being nice and then treating her like rubbish.”

Now the Slytherin table is glaring. Tom isn’t there, but Abraxas is. Lestrange too. Part of remaining anonymous has involved avoiding Tom as much as his Knights. Anyone in Slytherin really. They’re all loyal to Tom until proven otherwise.

Harry sinks deeper into the chair. He can’t cast a Muffliato when they’re looking. “Myrtle, we’re in the library.”

“I don’t care! And clearly you don’t either. How could you play with my feelings like that?” The next time she blinks, her eyes are shining with tears. Bloody hell. Harry has never been good at figuring out what to do when other people cry, let alone girls. “How could you be so cruel? You’re just like Olive Hornsby and her lot. No… Harry Evans, you’re worse!”

Abraxas is furiously whispering to Lestrange now. Lestrange is whispering back. His glare, however, remains fixed on Harry.

“Myrtle, please.”

“I wish I’d never met you,” she loudly cries. “I wish you’d never transferred to this school. I wish—”

“Fine! Okay. I’ll go with you. Just please lower your voice.”

“Oh, Harry, of course I’ll go to Hogsmeade with you,” Myrtle gushes. “I thought you’d never ask.”

“But I didn’t—” Harry begins to protest and then stops.

Myrtle bats her suspiciously dry lashes up at him. “Yes?” she asks sweetly.

Harry shakes his head, resisting the urge to drag a hand down his face with a groan. “You should’ve been in Slytherin.”

And he should’ve said no. But the lack of sleep and proper meals are finally getting to him, it seems. Harry has no way of knowing that the day he and Myrtle venture into Hogsmeade is the same day that Grindelwald will attack the Three Broomsticks either. Just like he has no way of knowing that the wand he grabs from the ground following the explosion doesn't belong to him. It belongs to Tom.

Harry's stuck dealing with the consequences of his actions anyway. Tom has noticed him. No, he wrinkles his nose. Noticed is an understatement. The boy has become unhealthily obsessed with Harry seemingly overnight.

Avoiding Tom feels just as impossible now, if not more so, than fixing the Time Turner. Tom thinks they’re soulmates, for Merlin’s sake. Harry doesn’t know what to make of that yet. Being soulmates wouldn’t explain his mysterious connection to Voldemort. It shouldn’t. Soulmates are supposed to work with each other— love each other— not try to kill the other person. And Tom isn’t capable of experiencing love anyway.

After he’s spoken with the Aurors and gets discharged from the infirmary, Harry wants nothing more than to go back and continue ignoring him. He decided early on that he wouldn’t get involved or try to change anything. He’ll take his chances with Voldemort and the remaining Horcruxes back in his time.

Except he can’t. His wand is missing. The Aurors couldn’t find it either. Tom must’ve taken it. Harry wouldn’t put it past him. Not after their early morning conversation. He’s sure the other boy swiped it while he was still unconscious. Why else would Tom spend three days in the infirmary with him?

“Riddle.” Harry stops a good few feet away from the other, stance ready in case he needs to flee. Tom sits at the edge of the Slytherin table, alone for once.

When he turns toward him, Tom's eyes light up in interest betraying the otherwise neutral expression on his face. “Good evening, Evans. I didn’t expect you to reach out first. And so soon too. Not that I’m complaining.” His voice drops down an octave as his eyes lazily wind up Harry’s frame. “How are you feeling?”

Harry squirms in place. He’s already regretting this. “Give me back my wand… please,” he adds the last word reluctantly.

“I beg your pardon?”

“My wand, Riddle.” Harry takes a step toward him, hand held out. “I know you took it so give it back.”

“You lost it?”

“No. You have it.”

Tom smiles. “Truly, I don’t. I’m more than happy to lend you mine during our shared classes tomorrow though.”

Harry digs his nails into his palms until it stings. “You planned this.”

“I really didn’t, Evans.”

“Fine.”

And then Harry turns around because he doesn’t trust himself not to do something stupid the longer he stays in Tom’s vicinity. He should’ve just stayed away. Headmaster Dippet offered him a replacement wand in the meantime.

“But I might know where it is,” Tom calls out.

Harry stops. “Tell me,” he says without looking back.

There’s no need to turn around. Not when Tom has already made his way in front of him. “The Three Broomsticks. Probably lying underneath mountains of rubble.”

“No. The Aurors checked. They didn’t find anything.”

Tom raises one brow. The same Aurors who lost to Grindelwald’s forces? His almost petulant expression seems to ask. Aloud he says, “No offense to the great defenders of our country, Evans, but I don’t think their Accio’s would be strong enough to call upon your wand given their lack of connection with it.”

“Well I don’t think strength has anything to do with it,” Harry counters. “The attack took us all by surprise.”

“Oh?” Tom raises his other brow. “You still beat one of them.”

“Fight or flight reaction, remember?”

There’s a pause as the two analyze each other. Legilimency. Harry quickly reverts his gaze. Although Tom doesn’t have his wand in hand, Harry has watched enough of him to suspect he’s already able to perform such a spell wandless.

“Of course,” Tom eventually answers. Harry risks a glance and regrets it. Tom’s smile is all teeth. His next few words are just as razor sharp and lethal. “Silly me. How could I forget the way you sliced a wizard open?”

“I heard they aren’t letting anyone leave the castle,” Harry says, doing his best to swallow down his guilt. He knows that if he unfocuses his gaze, he can picture the man again, blood oozing out of him in different places just like Draco back in sixth year. The Aurors asked him about it too. He doesn’t lie well judging by their lingering glances, but without his wand they can’t prove a thing.

Tom nods. “Which is why I’m sure Headmaster Dippet won’t mind us sharing wands until the restrictions are lifted.”

“Thanks… but no thanks. I’ll figure something out by then.”

“Hm. I’m sure you will.”

This time when Harry walks away, Tom doesn’t call out to him. But if he were to turn around, he’s sure he’d find Tom watching. Harry feels his stare all the way until he disappears amongst the throng of students heading off to the Common Rooms. Even then, Harry knows that Tom is still searching for him through the crowd. And find him he does, when Harry sneaks out to Hogsmeade later that same day.

Tom is creepy and evil but he’s undeniably clever. What he says about the Aurors and his wand makes sense. Harry already planned on sneaking out regardless. He needs to visit Knockturn, but sneaking around with his cloak is one thing, leaving the castle is another thing altogether.

𓆙 𓆙 𓆙

Harry can’t imagine how he’d be faring if he wasn’t wearing his cloak when the Time Turner activated. He hugs it closer to his body now while stepping into what remains of the Three Broomsticks. The pub looks unrecognizable with glass and pieces of large chunks of ceiling strewn about everywhere. Harry bends down, eyes squinting as they roam about in search for his holly.

“Accio wand,” he tries. But nothing happens.

“Is this how you managed to hide for so long?” Tom’s lazy drawl calls out to him from nearby. “A Muggleborn with an Invisibility Cloak. Abraxas is going to have a fit.”

“Riddle!” Harry scrambles to his feet, ignoring the painful rocks and shards of glass that dig into his palms.

“Hello, Evans.” Tom stands in what once was the doorway of The Three Broomsticks, arms crossed, posture relaxed. There’s a ghost of a smirk on his lips and a faint glimmer of amusement in his amber gaze. Underneath the shadows of the fallen archway, his eyes appear red.  “You’re breaking quite a few rules by being here.”

“So are you,” Harry says, chin raised and voice leveled despite the fact that they’re alone and he’s wandless.

“Well it’s a good thing I’m not a snitch,” Tom responds with a smile.

As if.

“You’re a prefect. Snitching is a part of the job description.”

“Hm.” Tom assesses him in silence for a few seconds before his smile widens. “You’re right. Convince me then.”

Harry takes a step back even though Tom hasn’t moved from his spot. “What?”

“Go on. Tell me why I shouldn’t report you for being here along with all of your other past transgressions. I’m all ears, Evans.”

And risk drawing more attention to himself than he already has? No thanks, Harry turns away from him with a frown. Harry might not be as smart as Hermione, but he’s learned a lot by being in Ravenclaw these past few months. If only Tom didn’t rile him up so much.

“You could at least make yourself useful and help me look instead of acting like a stalking git,” Harry says before trying the spell again, a little louder this time. “Accio, wand.”

“Accio, wand,” Tom repeats.

Harry stiffens. For a second, he can’t help but believe that Tom might be able to use his wand too. Harry isn’t sure he wants that to be true, even if it means he’d get it back.

“Stop that.”

“I thought you wanted my help?” Tom asks from behind. His breath tickles the back of Harry’s neck.

“My wand would never listen to you.”

He steps away from Tom and moves to an area he hasn’t checked yet. His shoulders never quite deflate. Tom might not be Voldemort yet but he’s still evil. Harry remembers that much from swimming through Dumbledore’s Pensieve memories. He isn’t here to stop him though and he doesn’t want anything to do with him either. Even if a small, traitorous part of himself can’t help but think how being able to use Tom’s wand might carry over to his time in the future.

Harry would’ve never thought he could wield Voldemort’s yew despite their strange connection. Now, he isn’t so sure what to believe. But he can’t deny that the possibility exists now. And an even deeper part of himself is anxious to explore it.

“And why not?” Tom asks, breaking Harry from his warped thoughts.

“You’re too powerful for it, Riddle. The poor thing would break. I’m mediocre, remember?”

Tom is quiet for a moment. The wind howls outside, filling in the silence. A shadow of an owl swoops past the window. Harry foolishly believes he’s finally put him off, that he’s left. But then Tom finally speaks again.

“Oh," he begins. Harry doesn’t even have to turn around to know that he’s smirking. "I see now.”

“What?”

“That’s why you don’t like me.”

“Seriously?” Harry glances up at him.

“I’m sorry for insulting you, Evans,” Tom says softly.

Harry nearly laughs. God, he’s actually serious.

“Obviously I don’t mean any of that stuff now given what I’ve seen you do.”

Harry shrugs. “‘S not like it matters anyway.” The urge to laugh fades away just as quickly as it arrived. His mouth suddenly tastes bitter. “My wand’s gone.”

“There is one more place we can try.”

Harry shakes his head. “Where else could it be?”

“Your wand won’t be there.” Tom speaks in hushed tones as if he’s contemplating something. “But… there are many others to choose from.”

“I don’t want a new wand,” Harry snaps. The look on Tom’s face makes it seem like he doesn’t want Harry to get a new one either. “I want my— oh!” Harry stops suddenly, his own face breaking out into a grin when he remembers. Ollivander will have already made his wand by now. “Riddle, you’re a genius.”

Tom blinks as if taken aback and then smooths his expression into one of smug delight. “Says the Ravenclaw.”

Harry clamps down hard on his tongue as punishment. This time all he can taste is blood. “We should head back,” he grumbles, hands stuffed deeply into the pockets of his cloak. He moves swiftly toward what’s left of the door, stepping under the fallen archway without waiting for the other to follow.

“I’ll be accompanying you to Ollivander’s of course,” Tom adds. He catches up to him quickly, his unfairly long legs giving him the advantage. Harry has never minded his height much. Not until now.

“What? No! You really don’t have to do that, Riddle. Diagon Alley is safe and I can—”

“Yes, yes. You can handle yourself. I’m aware, Evans. But I highly doubt Headmaster Dippet will let you go that far without an escort. You need me.”

Tom says Harry needs him the same way he asked if he thought they were soulmates. Harry wants to scream.

“I’ll just sneak out again.”

“You can try. This time I won’t be so generous and let you get away with it though.”

They’ve stopped walking now. Tom casts a Disillusionment Charm on them. Harry wants to tell him there’s no reason to, that they won’t be out for long, but then he realizes that all of this is going a little too much in Tom’s favor.

“Generous? Wait.” Harry takes a step back, voice rising slightly. “You knew my wand wasn’t here. You did this on purpose!” All of it no doubt a ploy for them to spend more time together just like Tom wanted.

Tom doesn’t deny it either. “Are you always this accusing of others? Or is it just me?”

Harry doesn’t answer. Nope, he thinks, jaw hurting from clenching it so much. Just you.

“Believe it or not, Evans, I was actually hoping you’d find your wand so we could duel.”

“We’ve dueled before.”

“Yes,” Tom agrees. “But you threw all the matches.” His eyes narrow a little. “I should’ve known you were faking it. No one’s that bad at Defense.”

“Well I am,” Harry insists. “Fight or—”

“—flight,” they finish at the same time.

“You’re never going to leave me alone are you?” Harry looks away, face burning. He’s not that predictable, is he?

“You say that as if it’s a bad thing, Evans.”

“Well then I can’t wait to prove you wrong and waste your precious time.”

“Challenge accepted.” Tom makes a sound that could be a chuckle or a huff. Harry is too far ahead to distinguish one from the other and uses that as an incentive to pump his legs harder.

Good.

Harry doesn’t want to figure him out, just as much as he doesn’t want Tom to unravel him. Except… it’s no longer up to him anymore, is it?

Chapter Text

There's no question in Tom’s mind that he will be the one chosen to escort Evans to Ollivander’s shop that upcoming weekend. Putting their connection aside, Tom is the ideal choice as Prefect and the Headmaster’s unofficial favorite. He’s also a shoe-in for Head Boy next year. That doesn’t mean he isn’t taking any precautionary measures though.

Evans is no doubt planning to have Ignatius Prewett accompany him instead. Abraxas tells Tom that when Evans isn’t being flanked by Myrtle or drowning in books by himself, he’s speaking with Prewett. It shouldn’t surprise him given Prewett’s Head Boy status. The two are also in the same house. That doesn’t mean Tom has to like it.

He’s certain that Evans has already asked Headmaster Dippet about it before Tom can offer up himself. He’s even more certain that Headmaster Dippet has already agreed, especially if Professor Dumbledore was with him at the time. That meddling old coot has had it out for Tom since the day he set his wardrobe on fire. He might not know of Tom’s plans involving Evans, but he still seems to live and breathe to disrupt them.

But Tom has always been one step ahead of the lot. The night before the excursion, he slips just enough Sleeping Draught into Prewett’s goblet causing him to oversleep. Headmaster Dippet doesn’t suspect a thing. He is overjoyed at the interhouse relations that Tom is setting in motion by offering to escort Harry rather than a Prefect from his own house. Evans, on the other hand, can’t stop sneaking suspicious glances at Tom as the two walk through Diagon Alley together.

“I know you did something to Prewett,” the boy grumbles.

“Why, Evans,” Tom chides with mock affront. “You haven’t said a word to me all morning and that’s the first thing you choose? How rude.” By the time he’s finished speaking, however, Tom feels the beginnings of a genuine smile forming on his lips. The smile only grows as they step into Ollivander’s shop and the owner greets them.

“Hello. Welcome. Please come in, don’t be shy now. Albus and Armando told me you were coming today. Oh and Mr. Riddle! What a lovely surprise.”

“You remember me, sir?” Tom asks with feigned surprise, the picture-perfect image of modesty.

Evans with his jaw tight and arms crossed over his chest mumbles something under his breath.

“How could I forget?” Ollivander continues to gush. “Your wand left quite the impression. Yew with a phoenix feather core and a staggering thirteen and a half inches in length. I trust it has served you well?”

Tom nods. “You’re the best for a reason,” he compliments with a smile.

“Oh, none of that! What a charming young lad he is.”

“The best,” Evans agrees. His sarcasm goes largely unnoticed by Ollivander but Tom picks up on it almost instantly. How could he have missed such a fiery interior from the boy?

“And who might you be?” Ollivander asks.

“Harry Evans.” Evans perks up slightly. “It’s nice to meet you, sir.”

“The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Evans. Come along now. You’re here to find a second wand, yes?”

Evans nods. “I recently lost the first.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. These are trying times we live in. Do you by chance recall its properties?”

“Unicorn hair. Black walnut wood. Twelve inches exactly,” Evans recites without a stutter. Tom raises an eyebrow at him but remains ignored.

“An unusual combination… and yet the purity from the unicorn hair ensures that the black walnut will not weaken as much as it would should its user experience any inner conflict. Yes. Yes. I see the vision. Such potential! And who was the lucky wandmaker?”

“I’m not sure, sir. It was passed down from my godfather’s family.”

Oh?

“Ah, no matter. What is your dominant wand hand, Mr. Evans?”

Evans raises his right hand and gives a little wave.

“Lovely! Wait here. I will return with a few options promptly.”

“You’re a halfblood?” Tom asks once Ollivander has left.

“Yeah.”

“I am too.”

“Really,” Evans answers with a leveled glare. “I never would’ve guessed, Tom Riddle.”

“What else do we have in common?” Tom wonders aloud.

“Probably nothing,” Evans says, though his ‘probably’ sounds a lot like it could be a ‘hopefully’.

“What happened to your parents?”

“Accident.”

There’s a pesky butterfly in Tom’s stomach again. “So you’re an orphan like me.”

“No," Evans says, but he hesitates a little. "I lived with my aunt and uncle for a while.”

“Muggles?” Tom is unable to hide the displeasure from his tone.

“Mhm.”

“You didn’t like them very much,” Tom guesses correctly judging by the pinched expression that forms on Evans’ face. The displeasure eases up just a bit.

“Actually, you’re wrong, Riddle. We got along really well. When I turned eleven they gave me thirty six presents. My uncle counted each one and I got upset because there was one less than the previous year.”

Tom blinks. “Really?”

“Pfft, no.”

“Your godfather,” Tom demands to make up for the warmth spreading across his cheeks. “Who is he?”

Evans stops laughing to respond. His eyes harden and his expression grows closed off again. “Was.”

Tom silently curses himself. “My condolences,” he replies as genuinely as he can. Rather, as genuinely as he can convince Evans to believe that he is being truthful. In turn, Evans rewards him with another revelation. Even though Tom senses the lie, he is sure part of his statement rings true.

“He never told me his real name. Changed it after Hogwarts. Something about being disowned.”

Must’ve been a Pureblood, Tom thinks. Someone important. He’ll ask Abraxas to investigate it later.

“Here we are!” Ollivander returns with a wand in hand. “Give this one a whirl, Mr. Evans.”

The instant Evans tries a spell, all of the lights in the shop shatter and explode. Tom is standing close enough to see the blush appear on his cheeks.

Ollivander stops the glass from raining on them with his wand. “Hmph. Perhaps a Cedar wood will suit you better,” he suggests, not at all looking upset with what Evans just did. Ollivander then takes the wand back and Accios a couple more boxes from nearby shelves.

They try Cedar wood next. They also try Aspen and Fir with no luck. Tom nearly loses an eyebrow in the process. Ollivander is not so lucky. Part of his fringe has been burnt off. Still, he remains cheerful. “Tricky customer!”

“If it helps,” Tom interjects smoothly, “Evans is very stubborn.”

“Oh?”

“He gets riled up easily too.”

“Know him well, do you?” Olivander asks with a small chuckle.

Trying to. Tom smiles at the boy in question despite his annoyance. “He’s quite the actor. Makes things hard. I can always appreciate a good challenge though.”

Evans frowns. “Gee thanks.”

Ollivander taps his chin a few times while looking back and forth between the two boys. “Hm. I wonder…” He disappears again without another word.

“Stop meddling, Riddle,” Evan hisses.

“The faster he finds your wand, the faster you get to be free of me,” Tom whispers back.

“Except that’s not what you want.”

“I want what’s best for you, Evans,” Tom replies innocently. His response is honest too. It just so happens that what is best for Evans is for Tom to unravel him and keep him by his side forever.

“Then leave me alone.”

“How about this one, Mr. Evans?” Ollivander returns before Tom can respond.

“Oh.” Evans seems to choke up when he sees the box. “Um. Sure.” He recovers quickly but his hands still shake as they open the box. Tom can’t help but feel drawn to it too. The wand Evans pulls out looks nothing like his own, though if he had his eyes closed he wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.

This is it, Tom knows.

“Lumos,” Evans whispers.

Tom suspects he only meant to light the tip of his wand. Instead, all of the lights in the shop flicker back on and are simultaneously repaired as if they never broke in the first place. Tom sucks in a breath. The sparks that begin popping out from Evans’ wand illuminate his face, bringing out the gem-like quality of his eyes.

“Fascinating!” Ollivander declares, hands clasped together. “Just as I suspected.”

“What is it, sir?” Tom asks, heartbeat quickening.

“Well, you see, Mr. Riddle, the phoenix who gave its tailfeather to produce this holly wand also gave another.”

And just like that the moment is broken. Evans goes rigid and tucks the wand away. “We have to go,” he says stiffly. “Headmaster Dippet is expecting us. It’s not safe to be here too long after what happened. Thank you for the wand, sir. It’s perfect.”

“Now you’re concerned about safety?” Tom asks, unable to hide his scoff.

Ollivander shakes his head. “Nonsense, Mr. Evans! These days there is always an Auror or two stationed outside my shop. I’m sure Armando won’t mind if you two stick around a tad bit longer. Surely not after I explain why you two got held up in the first place. After all, it isn’t every day that I get the pleasure of having the owners of a pair of brother wands in my shop.”

Tom’s heart stops for a moment before it starts beating faster than ever. I knew it.

Evans seems to have somehow known too or at least suspected because he refuses to meet Tom’s gaze. “Brother wands? No way. That’s not— no.” His laugh sounds forced. “Riddle and I are nothing alike.”

“I beg to differ,” Tom says, just softly enough to hide the shakiness from his own breath. There is no doubt about it now. Harry Evans is his soulmate.

“The term isn’t meant to be taken literally, Mr. Evans,” Ollivander begins to explain. “It refers to the core of both your wands. Since they originated from the same phoenix we would consider them to be brothers despite their different woods. Though I won’t deny that there should be more than a few similarities between you two. Perhaps you have yet to discover any.”

“Is this why Evans was able to use my wand, sir?” Tom asks.

“Was he? How curious. There isn’t much research out there on brother wands because they’re so rare. It’s even rarer for the owners to be born at the same time, let alone be so close in age! Why one could go as far as to call this a once in a lifetime experience. How fortunate you two are indeed!”

“I’m leaving,” Evans declares before turning on his heel and rushing toward the door.

“Evans, wait,” Tom calls out to him even though he knows there’s nothing he can say or do that will stop the other from going. Well, there is one thing he could attempt.

“I’ll see you back at the castle, Riddle,” Evans says without turning back. Before he reaches the door, he pulls out a few galleons from his pocket and sets them on the counter. “Thank you again for the wand, Mr. Ollivander.”

Tom has never been the impulsive type. Everything he does has a calculated purpose. But if he lets Evans go now, then he might never get the chance to discover the depth of their connection.

“I apologize in advance for this, sir.” Tom turns toward Ollivander before shooting off a spell in Evans’ direction.

“Petrificus Totalus!”

Tom expects Evans to dodge. He expects him to get angry. He wants him to get angry so that he can begin casting back.

“Riddle, what the fu—” Evans dodges just in time.

Tom’s spell hits a box full of empty boxes so he immediately casts another. “Confringo!”

Evans doesn’t disappoint. He springs into a dueling stance just like when he fought Grindelwald’s acolytes. “Expelliarmus!”

Tom doesn’t know what he casts next but it doesn’t matter. The second their spells collide, a golden beam of light explodes from each of their wands. It connects and begins lifting them up into the air. A birdlike song can be heard, followed by a fluttering of wings. Tom refuses to blink. He can’t look away if he tries. Never has he seen a gold so rich, nor heard a song so pure.

Eventually their connection breaks. Evans is the one to do so. He pulls back his arm and the two fall to the ground along with all of the other objects that got pulled into their magical orbit.

Two figures rush into the store as soon as the magic dissipates. They’re Aurors, judging by the uniforms. Tom blinks past the haze. His limbs feel like molasses and his head continues buzzing with the pretty song even though it has long since faded.

“Mr. Ollivander!” the woman cries. She looks familiar. “Are you alright?”

“We saw spell fire and heard an explosion,” the man says, though there is less urgency in his tone and more excitement.

The woman turns toward them, gray eyes sharp as a stone. “You two. Explain yourselves. Quickly.”

Evans scrambles to his feet and nearly falls forward. Tom rushes to catch him. The feeling that passes through him when their bodies connect is like nothing Tom has ever felt before. Every one of his senses lights up. It's like casting a spell for the very first time.

“We— We were just—” Evans opens his mouth but the words die in his throat. He seems to be feeling the same thing as Tom judging by the way his eyelashes flutter and his pupils dilate.

“Oh, everything is positively splendid!” Ollivander exclaims. He was knocked back into a shelf and refuses the woman’s help to lift him up. “These boys are a marvel. There is no need to concern yourselves with me, Auror Lupin."

All three of them turn to stare. Evans makes a distressed sound and pushes Tom off of him before backing into the corner of the room. Tom lets it happen, too loose limbed to move much.

“That was Priori Incatatem wasn’t it, sir?” the male Auror asks breathlessly.

Ollivander’s face splits into a wide grin. “Right you are, Auror Moody. Quite the flashy spell yet relatively harmless.”

“It still doesn’t excuse two Hogwarts students dueling in your shop,” Auror Lupin says sternly. “You boys could’ve set off these other wands, what were you thinking?”

Tom bows his head both in apology and to hide the delight from showing. He can still feel the goosebumps on his arms. “We weren’t. I sincerely apologize for our behavior, Auror Lupin. We got carried away trying to test out the possible connection of our brother wands.”

“Well I for one don’t blame you, kid,” Auror Moody interjects. “They say brother wands grant both users with heightened magical capabilities. Interested in joining the Aurors?” Tom looks up with a jolt from the disgust he feels at such a suggestion. Auror Moody is grinning at him like he just won the muggle lottery. “We could use a duo like you out on the field.”

Auror Lupin frowns. “Moody.”

“What? It’s true. I read all about it in the Ministry’s archives.”

“We don’t recruit children. And half of that stuff is theoretical rubbish.”

“While the other half is a literary goldmine! Nothing like the stuff we had access to at Hogwarts. Not even the Restricted Section.”

“Are the archives open to the public?” Evans asks.

“Unfortunately, they’re not. But I could pull some strings,” Auror Moody adds with a wiggle of his brows. “See what I can do… if you two promise you’ll give the idea of becoming Aurors some serious thought.”

“Deal,” Evans answers quickly.

“Deal?” Tom turns toward him with a raised brow.

“Riddle is the reigning dueling champion at Hogwarts,” Evans rushes to say. “He earned that title as a Second Year. The Wizarding World would be in good hands if he became an Auror.”

For a brief moment, Tom forgets about feeling upset. Everyone knows that Tom became the reigning dueling champion as a Second Year. He knows Evans must have a secret motive, but hearing the praise come from Evans’ mouth makes him feel like he’s earning that title all over again.

“That doesn’t surprise me one bit,” Ollivander says with a smile. “When Mr. Riddle came into my shop with Albus Dumbledore six years ago, I simply knew that he would grow to become capable of great things. Why just the other day I was speaking to Albus himself about…”

“Come on.” Evans angles his head slightly to whisper into Tom’s ear. His breath tickles the side of Tom’s cheek and suddenly the butterfly from before is back. This time it hovers up and down the column of his throat. “Just play along. You want access to those books as much as I do.”

“What’s with the sudden change of heart?” Tom whispers back. He’s glad they’re being quiet, otherwise Evans would’ve heard how utterly wrecked his voice sounds.

“Your name is Riddle… as in Tom Riddle, Slytherin prefect?” Auror Lupin asks, snapping Tom out of his… whatever it is that just occurred.

“Yes.” Tom lifts up his head with a polite smile. “A pleasure, ma’am.”

Auror Lupin nods. “My son Lyall has mentioned you a few times. You wouldn’t know him. He’s a few years younger and in—”

“Hufflepuff. Yes.” Tom’s smile widens in a friendlier gesture. “We’ve met. He’s quite the duelist too.” He’s also quite the nuisance. “But his talent no doubt lies in working with Magical Creatures. I’ve heard only good things from the prefects of his house.” Alongside a myriad of complaints from the prefects of Slytherin.

“Hm.” There’s approval in her citrine gaze but the rest of her facial features remain stony. “And you are?” Auror Lupin turns toward Evans.

“Harry Evans,” he responds almost shyly. “Ravenclaw.”

“Huh. Now the book obsession makes sense. Moody was in Ravenclaw as well.”

“Could’ve been in Gryffindor,” the man declares proudly.

“I thought you said it considered Slytherin?”

“‘Twas a three-way tie, madame.”

Auror Lupin shakes her head. “Well, as… lovely as this has all been, Moody and I have a job to do and you boys have classes to attend. We apologize for taking up so much of your time, Mr. Ollivander.”

“There is no need to apologize!” the wand maker rushes to say. “I am merely blessed to have gotten the chance to witness such a tremendous feat performed by Mr. Riddle and Mr. Evans in my shop here today. Please write to me should you embark upon any more experiments. I will owl you if I find anything of substance on the topic of brother wands as well.”

Tom doesn’t say anything. He simply turns around to look at Evans and smiles. Evans, in turn, looks like he’s swallowed one of Dumbledore’s abhorrent lemon drops. He’s clearly in denial about the situation. Or perhaps he has yet to understand the potential that their connection could bring.

No matter, Tom thinks as his smile grows, I will just have to show him.

𓆙 𓆙 𓆙

Later on that day, a man with curly blonde hair steps into Ollivander's shop. His strides are elegant, yet he moves with purpose. "Good evening, Mr. Ollivander," he greets with a charming smile. "A little Bowtruckle told me there were two boys in here earlier with brother wands. Would you be open to doing an interview about it? My name is Magnus Skeeter, I'm with the Daily Prophet."

Chapter Text

The article comes out on a Monday, taking the last bit of Harry’s sanity and patience with it.

Something’s wrong, Harry can’t help but think. The Great Hall usually isn’t this loud on a Monday, much less a Monday morning. He tries to slip inside without being noticed, but everyone seems to be waiting for him. Myrtle, especially.

“Harry Evans!” she shrieks from her place at the Ravenclaw table.

A hundred pairs of eyes follow Harry all the way to his seat. He’s certain that Tom’s are among them, but Harry keeps his gaze straight ahead even as he walks past the Slytherins. It’s like his name just came out of the Goblet of Fire all over again.

Myrtle is on the verge of tears once he reaches her. “How could you?!” she demands.

For a moment, Harry considers running back out and eating his breakfast in the kitchens. He’s not used to the attention anymore. But he can still remember how uncomfortable it made him feel back then.

Too bad Myrtle doesn’t let him get far. She shoots up from her seat like she’s just seen the Golden Snitch and stomps over to him, cheeks flushed. There’s a copy of the Daily Prophet in her hands. She’s flailing it wildly in his face before posing the question that puts everything into place.

“You’re Tom Riddle’s soulmate?”

Harry trips on the hem of his robes and nearly falls into a stand piled high with figgy pudding. “Excuse me what,” he asks in between coughs.

“It says here you two have brother wands,” she says pointing to the photo of Tom and him standing inside of Ollivander’s shop. Someone must’ve taken it from outside judging by the blurriness.

Harry doesn’t mean to snatch the paper from her so forcibly, but he’s tired and already dreading going into the week even more than he was when he woke up from yet another nightmare that all his friends were dead.

Harry Evans & Tom Riddle: Brother Wands Today, Soulmates Tomorrow?

“Bloody hell.”

Are all of the Skeeters destined to ruin his public image?

“Why didn’t you tell me you were snogging Tom Riddle?” Myrtle demands while yanking the paper back.

Harry is a hundred percent sure that his face has turned the same color as the inside of a treacle tart. “I’m not!” he protests. “We aren’t even friends. This article is complete rubbish.”

Myrtle doesn’t look convinced, nor do any of the other nosy Ravenclaws at the table. Harry has never seen so many of them here at once. Usually they eat, sleep, and breathe their lives away in the library.

“But Magnus Skeeter interviewed Ollivander and he confirmed it,” Myrtle says in between sniffles.

Merlin’s beard, Harry runs a hand through his hair in frustration. “The bit about our wands is true, yes. But soulmates? No way.”

“Statistically speaking,” Olive Hornsby chimes in from where she’s sitting at the other end of the table, “the owners of a pair of brother wands are usually always soulmates. The first recorded couple goes back to the 1300s. Cadmus and Athena.”

The rest of the table murmurs in agreement. Harry picks up a fork just to jam it into some scrambled eggs.

Olive continues loudly enough for the Hufflepuff’s sitting nearby to hear, “It’s widely theorized that when Cadmus got infected with the muggle plague, Athena was able to heal him with a kiss. Because of them, it can also be said that brother wand pairs hold superior magical abilities when together.”

“Sod off, Hornsbitch!” Myrtle snaps. “No one was talking to you.”

Olive whips her head around, expression venomous. “You are now, Moaning Myrtle. And I was speaking to Evans, not you.”

“I, for one, think you and Tom make a lovely couple, Evans,” Rosmetta Edgecombe declares while wedging her way into the seat next to Harry. This is the first time she’s ever spoken to him. She’s never looked his way once, not even when they were Transfiguration partners. “You should tell him that he’s more than welcome to come and visit you in our Common Room as much as he’d like. I might not be a prefect but I am more than happy to give him a tour.”

Harry forcibly coughs into his elbow but Rosmetta only moves closer. Her smile seems to grow with every inch. Harry coughs again and nearly slides off the bench altogether while trying to move away from her. “Er, thanks. But Riddle and I aren’t dating. We aren’t even friends.”

“Typical.” Rosmetta’s twin sister, Henrietta, sniffs from her place next to Olive. Harry has a hard time telling them apart. “Another mudblood trying to take advantage of poor Tom. Someone ought to warn him.”

Myrtle laughs mockingly. “Funny you say that, Henriettass. Weren’t you the one who used to call Tom a mudblood all last year?”

“Why you foul mouthed little girl! How dare you insult my sister? And you!” Henrietta turns toward Arnold Belby, a chubby manicured finger pointed at his face. “Aren’t you going to take off points?”

Arnold shoves a large spoonful of beans inside his mouth and takes almost a minute to respond. Harry coughs again, this time to hide his laugh. Henrietta’s face grows increasingly redder with every passing second of silence.

“Would you rather Ravenclaw lose the House Cup for the third year in a row?” Arnold finally asks. “It’s petty stuff like this that always costs us the win. Honestly, you’d think the house known for creativity and wit would know better by now.”

The twins quickly turn their ire toward Arnold and Harry uses that as his chance to escape. Myrtle is too busy arguing with Olive that she doesn’t even notice him slip away either.

A few people call out his name as he passes by the different tables again, but Harry keeps his eyes firmly trained onto the ground. Almost there, he lifts up his head slightly. Freedom is in sight. Just a few more paces forward. Come on, Harry. You got this.

A few more people call out to him. Some of them even try to get in his way. Harry sidesteps them easily. All he has to do is pretend that they’re bludgers he’s meant to avoid on the field. He hasn’t thought about Quidditch in so long that it’s easy to lose himself in the memory of it all. By the time Harry reaches the hallway, he lets his shoulders fall down—

“Evans.”

—only for them to immediately jerk up again at the sound of Tom’s voice.

“Go away, Riddle,” Harry says without turning around.

The few students lingering in the hallway are doing a very poor job of pretending they aren’t listening in on their conversation. Harry lowers his voice anyway. “You’re the last person I want to be seen with right now.”

He hears Tom shuffle forward. “I just wanted to—”

“Mr. Evans!” Professor Slughorn’s booming voice calls out to him from the other side of the hall. His hair has no streaks of gray in it yet and he’s a bit less rounder, but otherwise, Slughorn looks and sounds completely the same.

Harry shrinks away from him as the man walks closer and nearly bumps into Tom in the process. “And Mr. Riddle. A rather striking pair you two make.” Tom is no doubt preening beside him like one of Malfoy manor’s ridiculous peacocks. “Such a shame you aren’t taking Advanced Potions with me this term, Mr. Evans.”

Harry forces himself to smile. “A shame indeed, sir.” He did that on purpose, of course. The less classes he had to take with Tom, the better. Not that it matters now.

“Perhaps I can put in a good word with Armando and see about having you join us, eh? Bit of a late start but I could always pair you up with Tom and have him catch you up.”

Harry’s stomach rolls at the wink he gives them both. “Did you need something, professor?” he asks before Slughorn can figure out a way to make any of that happen.

“Oh! Yes, yes. I wanted to extend an invitation to you, Mr. Evans. This weekend I’m having a small get-together of sorts, a dinner party, if you will, with a select few students. Tom will be in attendance, of course, and so will a couple of your other classmates. I have also invited a few other Hogwarts alumni and some Ministry fellows as well.”

Harry almost laughs. He doubts Professor Slughorn even knew his name before that bloody interview came out. “I’m not sure I can go, sir. I’m terribly busy this time of year with exams and all of that.”

There’s no denying the flash of disappointment that crosses Slughorn’s lively features. Though Harry has to hand it to him, he’s just as good at masking his true feelings as Tom. “Understandable! Still, I would be delighted to have you and Tom there together, if even just for a few minutes should you change your mind.”

“I’ll try my best. Thank you for the invitation.” Harry gives him a final smile, still very much fake, before turning on his heel and speed walking away. Tom, predictably, follows him after bidding Slughorn a polite goodbye.

“Evans, wait!”

Harry doesn’t stop.

“I had nothing to do with that article,” Tom says.

Harry walks even faster. “I know,” is all he says. He doesn’t really.

“You do?” Tom sounds surprised.

“Not because I trust you or anything,” Harry adds with a scoff. They continue their journey down the hall, Harry with his semi-jog and Tom without breaking a sweat. “I just trust Magnus Skeeter even less.”

“Abraxas says we can sue Ollivander for disclosing private information about our wands without our permission.”

Harry rolls his eyes. Of course he would. “I’m not going to sue anyone, Riddle.”

“Not even Skeeter?”

Now that question does give him pause.

“Good morning, boys,” Professor Merrythought greets, breaking Harry away from his tempting and less than savory thoughts about ruining Magnus Skeeter’s career. They have conveniently ended up right in front of her classroom door. “Thank you for coming to class early. Since you’re both here, I have a request to ask of you.”

Harry can’t help but make a face. He knows exactly where this is going and he doesn’t like it.

“Given that the relationship of your wands to one another is so rare, I was wondering if you would be willing to do a demonstration of Priori Incantatem for the class today?”

And there it is.

“Perhaps next time, professor?” Tom offers before Harry can say anything. “Evans has been dealing with nightmares following Grindelwald’s attack on The Three Broomsticks making it hard for him to get much sleep. I worry that casting even a Lumos will cause a breakdown of sorts.”

“Dear me. I had no idea! Thank you for letting me know, Mr. Riddle. How about you take the rest of the class period off to get some rest, Mr. Evans?” Professor Merrythought suggests. “I can’t imagine that interview must be helping you relax either. Perhaps you can go visit Madame Peppercorn and she can give you some Dreamless Sleep?”

Harry grinds his teeth together to keep himself from saying something that will get them both in trouble. He’s more annoyed than grateful at the possibility of having to spend more alone time with Tom.

“I’m not one to believe in all of that soulmate nonsense but it is quite lovely seeing you take care of one another,” Merrythought adds thoughtfully.

Tom is preening again. “Evans is very special to me,” he says, voice sickly sweet.

Harry wants to roll his eyes very badly, but since he can’t because it will give them both away, he shuts them instead.

“Of that I have no doubt. Feel free to accompany him to the infirmary, Mr. Riddle.”

“Thank you, Professor Merrythought.”

“‘A breakdown of sorts’. Really?” Harry asks once the door is shut.

They head down the same hallway again. This time, Tom leads the way, while Harry lags behind trying to plot an escape. He can’t and won’t spend an entire class period alone with Tom, especially not after that interview came out. A rumor is bound to come out that they skipped class to snog in a broom closet or something.

“What a strange way of thanking me, Evans. Would you have preferred to go through with the demonstration after all?” Tom turns toward him so abruptly that Harry nearly crashes into a column. “We can go back and tell her you changed your mind. I, for one, would love a reprise of what happened in Ollivander’s shop.”

“No thanks.” Harry doesn’t doubt that. He almost gives in to ask Tom what he felt when their hands touched. For Harry, it was like flying on a broom for the very first time and then crash landing on a pillow made of clouds. “And it’s not like you saved me from much. We’re going to have to do it eventually.”

“I’m afraid the same can be said about the Slug Club. If you don’t attend this weekend, Sluggy will keep pestering you with invitations until you show up.”

“Merlin’s beard, I’m not even in his class. How much are you willing to bet he’ll ask us for a Priori demonstration too?”

“Is that a formal wager you’re making?” Tom asks, voice innocent but eyes shining with mischief.

Harry sighs. “Forget it.”

“Think about it this way: the longer you put it off, the more people Slughorn will have a chance to invite. It’s in your best interest to attend now before the news of our brother wands reaches more ears.”

“You’re up to something.”

Tom is the one who sighs this time. “Must I always be in your eyes?”

“Fine. I’ll go. But just this once.”

“A wise choice.” Tom rewards him with what Harry feels like is a genuine smile, none of that charming posh stuff he pulls on the other students and professors. “Now, it’s usually customary for you to bring a guest, but I figure Slughorn didn’t mention it because he assumed that you and I would be attending together.”

“Well then he assumed wrong.”

The smile vanishes. “And just who do you intend to bring with you if not me?” Tom asks coldly.

“Guess.”

Tom frowns. His eyes widen when he finally makes the connection and remain narrowed in obvious displeasure. “You can’t be serious. Professor Slughorn loathes Myrtle Warren.”

“Which is exactly why I should take her. That way I never get invited to another one of his ridiculous parties ever again.”

“Ridiculous or not, Sluggy’s parties can open doors for you, Evans. Tons of high profile wixen will be in attendance.”

“That all sounds well and good for someone like you but I could care less about my future here, Riddle,” Harry says. It’s the first and only time that he’s been completely truthful with him, but his words sail right over Tom’s head.

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Why? Because you don’t think your apparent soulmate would be so different from you?”

Tom is smiling again, but it might as well be a smirk judging by the lazy drawl that escapes his lips. “So you agree,” he says, leaning into Harry’s space slightly. If someone were to round the corner right now, they could easily say the two were about to kiss. “You think we’re soulmates.”

“W-What?” Harry nearly chokes on his own spit. “No. I was speaking hypothetically.”

“I might not know what you’re after Evans, but I know you want it badly enough that you were willing to compliment me to get to it. There’s tons of wixen who can get you into the Ministry’s archives at Slughorn’s party.

“And why stop there? You might not be ambitious, but if it’s knowledge that you crave, you could even find someone who can get you into one of the larger libraries abroad. There is so much more to the magical world than what we have here in Britain.”

There’s a casual lilt to the way Tom speaks now and a looseness to his usual stony expression. It’s as genuine as the smile he gave Harry earlier.

“Take Egypt, for example. You could have access to scrolls dating back to ancient times with spells and potions unheard of. Branches of magic such as necromancy that are illegal here are all fair game there.”

“Careful, Riddle,” Harry warns, but his voice lacks much bite. He blames it on all of the walking they just did. “You don’t want anyone thinking you’re interested in raising the dead.”

“Of course not, Evans,” Tom practically purrs as he repeats the words Harry said to him earlier. “I was speaking hypothetically.”

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” one of the portraits cries out. “Stop flirting and get to class!”

Flirting? Harry goes rigid. He shoots the portrait a glare, then turns back to look at Tom whose cheeks have turned pink. It’s the only sign of exertion he can find on the other boy from their journey up and down the corridor. Meanwhile, Harry remains a sweaty, anxious mess. He forgot about the gossiping portraits.

“You can stop trying to convince me, Riddle. I already said I’d go.”

“I know.” Tom’s voice comes out strained. “I just wanted to make sure you were aware of all of your options after graduation.”

“Right and this has nothing to do with your own plans to eventually go abroad?”

Tom stares at him for a long time without saying anything. Harry can’t help squirm in place. He’s done something wrong, he just can’t tell what it is until Tom speaks again.

“How do you know that?”

“What?”

There’s a slight crease forming in between Tom’s eyebrows. “I’ve never told anyone about my plans to go abroad.”

“You definitely did,” Harry says, trying to keep his voice steady. “That night you followed me to The Three Broomsticks. Remember?”

Tom smiles. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Ah. Yes. Of course. How could I forget how much of an extraordinarily bad liar you are?”

Harry resists the urge to smack himself in the face. Out of all the stupid things he could’ve brought up.

“Tom!” Orion appears suddenly, followed by two other boys Harry has seen Tom hang around with before. “And Evans, hello there. I’m Orion Black, from the Noble and Ancient House of Black.” He doesn’t look all that much like Sirius, not unless Harry takes off his glasses and squints.

“We’ve met,” Harry says. “But you probably don’t remember because you were too busy pretending I didn’t exist.” He’s supposed to act boring toward Tom’s friends, not rude. But Harry is too busy panicking to pay much attention or care.

“Oho.” The tall blonde in the group elbows Orion in the side. “Busted.”

“Must be that Black family madness,” the other boy adds with a slight smirk. “Guess it’s finally starting to kick in, eh?”

Orion’s face turns red. “You’re one to talk, Lestrange. I’m really sorry if I came across as rude during our first interaction, Evans! That was never my intention.”

“Don’t worry about it. I never said the way you acted was a bad thing. Actually if you could all go back to ignoring me that would be great.”

The blonde laughs. “Fat chance of that now, mate. Might as well do introductions if you and Tom are…” His voice drifts off and his eyes wander. It seems like he’s desperately trying to meet Tom’s gaze for some kind of approval or confirmation. Except Tom won’t look away from Harry or respond.

“Pay the article’s implications about us no mind,” he responds eventually, finally shifting his gaze away from Harry too. “Evans and I are simply friends.”

None of them seem to notice that something’s wrong.

“Well in that case, a friend of Tom’s is a friend of mine. I’m Arcturus Nott,” the blonde introduces himself with a smile.

“Emeric Lestrange,” the other boy says in a less friendly way.

“And wherever is Abraxas?” Tom asks, but Harry can tell his mind is elsewhere.

He doesn’t know what’s worse: that Tom spent nearly five minutes staring at him without blinking or that he won’t look at him at all now.

“You lucked out, Tom,” Arcturus responds. “Since Dumbles couldn’t find you at breakfast, he called on him for Prefect things.”

“Hm. I have been rather lucky these days, haven’t I?”

Harry is beginning to regret having skipped out on taking Advanced Sixth Year Potions. He could really use a vial of Felix Felices right about now. “That sounds important, Riddle. Maybe you should head over and see what he wants.”

“Nonsense.” Tom still isn’t looking at him. The creepy smile is back on his lips. “Professor Merrythought graciously allowed me to accompany you to the infirmary and that’s exactly what I plan to do.”

“Um. Is everything okay?” Orion asks, looking between the two of them as if unsure on who to focus on.

“Fine,” Harry and Tom both answer at the same time.

“Riddle just assumed that because he’s been having nightmares after Grindelwald’s attack, I must be having them too,” Harry rushes to say, blurting out the first and final excuse that comes to mind.

When Tom finally looks at him again, his face is full of conflicting emotions. Harry doesn’t stick around long enough to figure any of them out, nor does he want to. He takes off without saying goodbye to any of Tom’s friends and doesn’t feel bad about it.

But the damage is already done. Harry can only hope that he comes up with a good enough cover story to fix things by the time he sees Tom again at Slughorn’s party.

Chapter Text

In all his annoying posturing, Horace Slughorn certainly knows how to throw a party. Most of the guests have already arrived by the time Tom does. Thankfully, they’re not yet too inebriated to hold a worthwhile conversation.

Slughorn’s office has been expanded to be nearly as large as the Great Hall. Curtains of black and gold hang from the ceiling alongside dangling lights with bulbs that resemble golden snitches. Stands have been piled high with at least ten different Hors d’oeuvres from at least four different countries. Paper lanterns hover in place with intricate designs, some of them snakes, others birds.

Flutes of drinks that sparkle and pop are being passed around, alongside goblets full of an obsidian colored liquid. Meanwhile, the kitchen elves make their way through the crowds with trays full of even more assorted goods. Aside from the laughter and occasional clang of silverware, soft orchestral music filters through the air reminiscent of the 16th century. A singular red strand of ribbon seems to be tying everything together, running from one end of the room to the other as if it were one giant present.

The theme of the night is no doubt that of soulmates, specifically Evans and him. It’s a shame that Tom doesn’t walk into the room with the boy on his arm. The crowd seems to think so too. They all turn to look at him, eyes wide, voices hushed yet humming with excitement, only to deflate as their gazes settle on Araminta Bulstrode.

The Bulstrode heir stiffens in his arm. She almost trips on her dress from the shock of being disregarded. Tom suppresses the urge to smirk. He’s been waiting for a way to get back at her for bragging about the vile thing. It’s made from Acromantula silk apparently. Imported all the way from Italy. And with such short notice too.

Araminta Bulstrode is a fool for thinking that Tom would be impressed. He finds her display of pureblood wealth disgusting. It tempts him to drop the glamor and expose his transfigured robes just to see the look on her face in front of everyone.

Even worse, Araminta Bulstrode is an embarrassment to both Slytherin and her family name for accepting his invitation in the first place.

Lyanna Carrow was wiser. Tom asks her to accompany him first. She may not be her family’s heir, but her twin brother Linus is one of his Knights and she herself is of a much more tolerable disposition than most of the other girls in their year. It was clear to Lyanna then, as it is clear to Araminta now, that whoever accompanied Tom tonight would not be elevated, but rather seen as less than.

But Tom doesn’t need a fancy party to know that. There is nobody in all of Hogwarts, other than himself, who could ever hold a candle to the flame that is Harry Evans. The boy who burns so bright that even when he is not present, Tom and all the others, can still feel the way his presence lights up the room.

Tom knows this especially well because for the past week he hasn’t seen Evans at all. But the boy has been on his mind all the same, burning through him like a crazed jet of Fiendfyre. How could he not be after the way they parted ways the last time they spoke?

Right and this has nothing to do with your own plans to eventually go abroad? Evans had said.

Tom can only come to the conclusion that Evans has also been thinking about him, or rather thinking with him. He doubts the boy knows Legilimency, and if he did, Evans would never try it on him without asking first. So that leaves their connection. Such a side effect is unheard of, but Tom welcomes it nonetheless. Because if Harry can get into his mind without a spell, that means that eventually Tom will be able to do the same thing.

“Tom, my boy!” Slughorn is the first person to greet him, eyes sparkling. “Lovely to see you.” His expression dulls a bit when he turns his head to face Araminta. It’s subtle enough for her to notice, but not enough to come off as rude. “Ah, and you’ve brought Miss Bulstrode as your guest. Hello, dear. How are you this evening?”

Slughorn doesn’t ask about the dress. He doesn’t even give it a passing glance. Araminta bows her head. Her greeting is polite, yet clipped. “Fine, sir,” is all she says.

Tom can’t help but grin. “Another wonderful party, professor,” he compliments. “You never fail to impress.”

Araminta tenses up beside him. She is no doubt thinking about her own failings even more now that they have come from Tom’s mouth. Tom isn’t stupid. He knows she’s harbored a silly little school girl crush on him ever since last year. And while he can’t humiliate her with a cruel rejection the way he desires, he figures—hopes— that the outcome of tonight will do.

“Well, I had quite the muse this time. Wherever is your other half?” Slughorn asks slyly.

Tom’s grin widens. “Don’t worry, sir. I’m sure Harry will be here soon.” Tom uses Evans’ first name aloud just for the fun of it. He draws out the syllables and savors saying it for the first time. A shame the boy isn’t around to hear him.

“Already on a first name basis are you?”

“A recent development.”

Araminta makes a strange sound.

“Is everything alright?” Tom turns toward her, with a purposeful furrow in his brows.

Araminta’s smile doesn’t quite meet her eyes. “Splendid,” she assures him before turning toward Slughorn. “I was merely… surprised to hear that Evans would be joining us tonight seeing as he isn’t even a part of your Advanced Potions course, professor.”

It’s clearly meant to be a jab, but the comment goes over Slughorn’s head. Tom hears it loud and clear though. He tucks it away for later.

“Mhm, yes. Quite a shame that is. I spoke to Armando about the manner but he simply refused to budge. Perhaps you could speak to him, Tom? I’m sure he’d be willing to let Evans join the class if you vouched for him. I can’t imagine the kinds of potions you two could come up with together!”

Tom smiles in agreement. “I could think of nothing better than having Harry there with the rest of us.”

“Well if you hold him in such high regard, Tom, then I’m sure I will too,” Araminta says with the same plastic smile as before.

“Excellent!” Slughorn clasps his hands together. “Come now you two. I simply must introduce you to everyone while we wait for Mr. Evans to arrive.”

Half of the guests Tom has already met before. The other half he recognizes anyway. Sometimes it’s easy to figure out who Slughorn is going to invite beforehand based on what’s popular or controversial. Other times, Tom gets access to the guest list days in advance. And on rare occasions, he’s even allowed to make requests. The perks of being Slughorn’s favorite.

He isn’t all that surprised to see Magnus Skeeter amongst the crowd. The man glances his way and offers up a smile but oddly enough does not join the group currently fawning over him. Tom is unable to make sense of the behavior as Slughorn is already throwing someone new in his face.

“Tom, may I present Daffodil Wentworth, world renowned Potioneer? She was unbelievably excited to meet you.”

She looks to be about Slughorn’s age, maybe older judging by the amount of gray in her curly auburn locks. Her robes are a deep purple and match the string of sapphires dangling from her ears. A matching set of stones decorates every other finger. Tom’s lips brush up against them as he kisses her palm.

“A pleasure, ma’am.”

“Forgive me, dear,” Mrs. Wentworth says in a low voice. “I don’t mean to sound too forward with this but I would love to make a little something for you and Mr. Evans.”

“Ah, Mrs. Wentworth is famous for brewing a perfume with the same olfactory effects as Amortentia,” Slughorn offers up helpfully. Tom nods along like this is the first time he’s heard of such a thing. “A perfect gift for lovers, wouldn’t you say, Miss Bulstrode?”

“To tell you the truth, sir, I had no idea that Tom and Evans were so… close,” Araminta answers simply. She has been quiet up until now, only giving one or two-worded responses when spoken to.

It’s another jab, this one less subtle. Tom has to hand it to the girl. She knows how to play pretend. Too bad she’ll never be able to fool the one person she’s so obviously trying to impress.

“Like I mentioned earlier,” Tom begins, “it’s a recent development. Though we are simply friends at the moment.”

Mrs. Wentworth smirks. “It’s only a matter of time until that changes I’m sure.”

Tom lets the corner of his mouth go up just a bit. He refuses to reduce the connection that he and Evans share to something as worthless as love. Soulmates go beyond such trivial emotions. But there’s no harm in humoring the witch about it because she’s rich and it seems to please her.

Araminta has been saying something the whole time apparently. Tom catches the tail end of her sentence and clenches his jaw.

“Honestly, it’s hard to believe Evans had any friends at all.”

“Oh?” Miss Wentworth turns toward her.

“He transferred to Hogwarts rather late and spends most of his time in the library. One has to wonder if the boy ever showers. His hair is always in such a dreadful state. Poor thing…”

The woman on Mrs. Wentworth’s gasps into her palm. She’s from the Ministry and works in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. “Surely you jest, Miss Bulstrode!”

Mrs. Wentworth is still smirking when she turns back to Tom. “Well when it comes to Mr. Evans, I’m sure Mr. Riddle knows all about his scent.”

“Enough about that!” Vulcan Crouch barrels his way through the crowd. There’s a hungry glint in his eyes. “I want to know if the rumors are true. Tell us, Tom. What was it like to cast Priori Incantatem?”

“It’s difficult to put the feeling into words, sir.”

“Have you tried any other spells?” he demands.

“Not yet.”

Mr. Crouch frowns. “Do you believe your magic has grown stronger since then?”

“I have yet to notice much of a change.”

“Tom is the reigning dueling champion and has been since he was a second year,” Araminta rushes to say.

Tom has the sudden urge to pick up the red ribbon and wrap it around her throat until she’s quiet.

“Are you now?” Mrs. Wentworth asks.

“How impressive,” Mr. Crouch says, that hungry glint in his eyes never wavering.

Tom gives them both a smile. “It’s a shame that Harry and I can’t truly duel,” he says wistfully before Mr. Crouch can ask anything else. The man is famous both inside and outside the Wizengamot for his rapid-fire questioning. “He would give me quite a run for my galleons. Though I would never willingly turn my wand against him. I owe Harry my life actually.”

Suddenly everyone has something to say and all at once.

“How romantic.”

“Well now I’m even more curious to meet your other half!”

“What’s this about your life being saved?”

Then comes a gasp from the other side of the room.

“Speak of the dementor and it shall arrive.”

Mrs. Wentworth’s eyes go wide. Araminta’s smile turns more plastic.

“Oh my.”

Oh my, indeed. Harry Evans is a sight to behold. He stands at the entrance, Myrtle Warren at his side. She might as well be a ghost the way Tom barely notices her. He’s too busy trying to remember how to breathe.

The robes Evans wears are nothing special. They’re dark blue, almost black and have golden designs etched on the ends. It’s the way they cling to his body that stands out. They show off his broad shoulders and the width of his legs that are usually hidden with his school robes. A perfect fit.

One might go as far as to say that Evans has a Quidditch player build. Either of the more agile positions— Chaser or Seeker both fit.

Even his hair appears windswept, as if he just came back from a game. Tom tracks the steady rising and falling of his chest, then drags his gaze up along the length of his neck, and finally stops at his face. There’s a slight flush to Evans’ cheeks. His lips are parted slightly.

Tom stops at his eyes. The robes make them appear even brighter. Once again, the Avada Kedavra green paralyzes him. Every swallow is a struggle to perform. Tom’s mouth has gone dry.

Their magic meets before their eyes do. Echoes of the phoenix song play throughout his head. When Tom breathes in, Evans seems to exhale. His yew has grown warm. He can feel its magic pulsating from within his pocket, eager to be used in conjunction with its partner.

The spell breaks when Myrtle Warren opens her ugly little mouth to whisper something in Evans’ ear. He turns away from Tom then to look at her and whisper back. Whatever she tells him has caused the flush on Evans’ cheeks to spread down his neck.

Tom is walking toward them before Myrtle has a chance to say anything else.

Look at me, he thinks with pronounced steps. Only me.

The crowd eagerly parts ways for him. They all seem to be holding their breath.

Tom reaches Evans in what feels like the blink of an eye. Though who’s to say when the last time was that Tom blinked.

There are a million things he could say to him right now. Tom wants to know so many things.

You came, would be a start.

But he really wants to ask, Where have you been?

You clean up well, would also work.

Although he really needs to know, Can you read my mind?

“Dance with me,” Tom blurts out. It’s more eloquent than the jumbled mess of thoughts inside his head. He’d plan to dance with Evans at some point during the night, but certainly not this early.

How fitting. Even when he isn’t trying, Evans has found a way to ruin his plans. Tom should be more concerned about it. He hasn’t thought about the Chamber in weeks. Instead, he’s too busy worrying about whether or not his offer will be accepted.

Evans opens his mouth then closes it. He shakes his head. Something like a laugh huffs out through his nose. “Dance? I don’t think I heard you correctly.”

Behind him and all around, there are at least a dozen people, if not more, waiting to snatch him up. But Tom hasn’t seen Evans all week, let alone spoken to him. He’s never been one to share. They will all simply have to wait their turn. Even then, Tom doesn’t plan to stray from his side. Not for one second.

“Yes,” Tom says, arm outstretched. “Dance.”

Evans looks like he’s about to refuse, but in a surprising turn of events, it is Myrtle who shoves him forward.

“Go already,” she hisses loud enough for Tom, but not the others to hear. “Everyone’s staring.”

Perhaps Tom was a bit too harsh on the girl. She’s only a fourth year. And a mudblood to boot. Life has been harsh to her, just as it was to him before he took control of Slytherin house. She’s still pathetic, that will never change, but she need not perish so soon.

After all, Tom is glad that Evans brought Myrtle as his date and not somebody else. He couldn’t imagine what he would’ve done if it had been Prewett on his arm, or one of the Edgecombe twins.

“Alright.”

This time it’s Tom’s turn to hesitate. “Alright?” he can't help but ask softly.

Evans has no reservations about controlling the volume of his scoff. Tom can tell that he’s trying hard not to roll his eyes at least. “The longer I dance with you, the less I have to socialize,” he grumbles in admittance.

“Ah.” That makes more sense.

But Tom finds that he doesn’t care. Because Evans has just taken his arm. And his magic, oh his magic, it had reached out to him long before Evans did.

Chapter Text

There are many things that Harry never thought he would experience in his lifetime. Accidental time travel is one of them. Dancing with Tom Riddle is another. And as much as he would like to say that the latter is worse, it isn’t. Not really.

Tom is an excellent partner, though Harry would never admit that out loud. He takes the lead but he’s not aggressive about it. Harry is more than willing to let himself be whirled around in hopes that he might not-so-accidentally step on Tom’s foot. The thought of doing so and throwing him off his groove makes the experience even better for Harry.

“Of course you’d take the lead,” he grumbles once they’ve completed one full rotation around the room.

By now, the shock from the audience at seeing them has somewhat worn off. There are a few students and guests who have taken the floor to dance as well. They’ve created a circle, with Harry and Tom remaining in the middle. Harry doesn’t dwell on what it could mean. He doesn’t want to deal with another headache.

“I was the one who asked you to dance,” Tom answers with a ghost of a smirk.

“Yeah, why did you do that?”

Tom’s smirk comes to life. “To save you from socializing.”

Harry can’t help but roll his eyes. “Right.”

“I didn’t think you’d come.”

“I told you I would.”

Tom nods. His eyes briefly flick up and down Harry’s form before speaking again. “The robes suit you.”

“Thanks." Harry just as briefly takes a peak at Tom's robes and silently thinks the same thing about him. Though there isn't any time that Tom Riddle ever looks like anything doesn't suit him. He's the embodiment of perfection. It would be rather unfair if Harry cared about that sort of stuff. Looking at Tom now just fills him with unease knowing what lies beneath that well-crafted facade.

"Prewett let me borrow them actually.”

Harry could’ve transfigured some but the Head Boy had absolutely insisted, especially since he wouldn’t be in attendance due to a previous commitment. That previous commitment being one Lucretia Black.

Nobody knows they’re dating, nobody but Harry that is. He has a feeling that Prewett is being extra nice to him so that Harry keeps his secret. He found out about their relationship by accident. Harry had been looking for new passageways to avoid Tom. Prewett had been looking for new passageways to snog in.

“Who knew we were so close in size—” A painful pressure on his toes tears Harry from his thoughts. Tom has stepped on his foot.

“Ow!” Harry glances up at him with a sneer. “What was that for?”

Tom merely dips his head, as if in mock apology. His eyes are shining with something strangely vicious. “Pay attention, Evans,” he says while leaning down to whisper in his ear. “The music seems to be picking up.”

The last statement is true, the music has picked up slightly. Harry hates him for it. “You did that on purpose.”

“I would never hurt you. But I’m sure you knew that already.” Tom pulls back and it’s somehow worse due to the words that come out of his mouth. “How long have you been able to hear my thoughts?”

This time Harry stumbles.

“Was that on purpose?” Tom asks, one eyebrow raised and lips twitching slightly.

I wish.

“Are you drunk?” Harry counters.

“I don’t drink. Not here at least.” Tom’s lips twitch again. “Are you drunk?”

“No! I just got here. Why are you asking me if I can read your thoughts all of a sudden?”

Except it’s not all of a sudden and Harry very well knows it. Tom has probably been dying to ask him that since last week.

“How else would you have known about my plans to go abroad?”

Harry huffs out a small breath. “I can’t read your thoughts. I can’t,” he affirms in response to the look Tom is giving him. Harry exhales again, this time more for himself. “It’s more like, I look at you and can somehow figure out your intentions sometimes.”

As much as he’s been avoiding Tom, he’s also been thinking a lot about how to proceed during their interactions. Harry can’t hide from him anymore. Tom has sunk his fangs into him like a relentless viper and won’t let go no matter what. Better to let him think they have some kind of special connection than have Tom suspect that Harry comes from the future.

“Your feelings about stuff. Sometimes even your thoughts,” Harry continues. “The rest is me drawing a conclusion and being right. I’m a Ravenclaw, remember?”

“How could I forget?” Tom smiles but he doesn’t sound convinced.

“Fine. Wanna test it? Think of a number between one and fifty. If I guess correctly, then you’re right.”

“How will I know you’re being truthful?”

“You can dose me with Veritaserum after the party,” Harry says, doing his best not to burst out laughing.

Tom’s hands tighten around his hand. “Really?”

“No.”

“Hm.”

“So.” Harry clears his throat, gaze shifting to the other occupants in the room to avoid Tom’s penetrating stare. “Give me the rundown on who’s who.”

That seems to snap Tom out of whatever he was thinking about. Harry is grateful for it, using the brief moment to exhale. “You’re asking me for help?”

“I mean I could ask your date,” Harry glances back toward where the blonde girl is standing, “but I think she’d much rather hex me the way she’s glaring at us right now.”

Tom doesn’t even shift his gaze in her direction, not even when they approach that side of the room. “Pay Araminta no mind,” he drawls in a bored tone.

“Bit of an arsehole move to ask me to dance and not her.”

“I wouldn’t have brought her along if you agreed to come with me.”

Harry reels back. “Oh, so it’s my fault then?”

Tom doesn’t let him go far. His fingers dig into Harry’s shoulder blade, pressing them as close as their waltzing position will allow. “Not if you don’t care. And you shouldn’t. Araminta is nobody to you.”

“That doesn’t make you less of a jerk, Riddle. This is why I don’t like you.”

“Araminta Bullstrode is the reason you dislike me?”

Oh, bloody hell. He would think that wouldn’t he? “Not what I meant,” Harry mumbles.

“Then tell me what you mean. Be transparent. You’ve never given me a chance, Evans. Always so quick to judge me as some kind of villain.” Tom shakes his head. For a moment, he looks and sounds genuinely stumped. Harry didn’t think he’d ever associate Voldemort with such an emotion.

“Why? Before Grindelwald we’d never spoken to each other.”

Harry frowns up at him. “I thought we discussed this already.”

“I don’t know. Did we? It seems like every time I bring it up, you come up with a new excuse.”

“Fine.”

No harm in being truthful about this, Harry figures. “I just see through you, okay? The fake prefect act never worked on me and it never will. You call me out for being a liar while you keep your own mask on. I’d probably hate you less if you took it off around me."

There. He said it. Harry blinks, then frowns again at Tom’s lingering silence. “What? Why are you looking at me like that? I’m not lying.”

In truth, Tom isn’t looking at him much differently than he has been in the past few weeks. But something about the creepy stare is bugging Harry more than usual. He feels even worse when Tom grants him a genuine smile.

“Thank you for being honest with me, Evans.”

”Yeah, whatever. Hey!” Harry protests as Tom spins him suddenly and catches his waist into a dip. He leans down swiftly, lips brushing past Harry’s cheek. “What are you—”

“The woman with the red hair and the purple jewelry wants to make us a perfume made from each other’s scents,” Tom whispers in his ear.

“Bloody hell,” Harry whispers back as soon as he spots her. She’s among the crowd that isn’t dancing. Instead, they all seem to be watching him and Tom.

“Her name is Daffodil Wentworth and she’s a famous Potioneer. She was the first ever wixen to adapt Amortentia into a non-dangerous substance that can be used as a perfume. It was all the rage last Valentine’s and I suspect it will be just as popular next year as well.”

“Good at Potions and she chooses to do that with her talent?” Harry can’t help but ask. He nearly jolts from Tom’s grip at the sound of his laugh. It sounds so normal, so human even. Nothing like the one Harry heard in the graveyard that day.

“If I knew insulting people was the way to find common ground with you I’d have tried it ages ago,” Tom says, and he’s still laughing even as he effortlessly guides them toward the other side of the room.

Harry feels his face go red. He nearly stumbles again and fixes his stance before Tom can grab his waist again to steady him. “It’s not an insult! I’m indirectly praising her abilities. Potions is bloody hard.”

“Is that why you’re not taking the Advanced course this year? I could tutor you.”

“No thanks.”

“Slughorn wants you in the class,” Tom adds after a pause.

“Of course he does.”

“You need Potions if you want to become an Auror.”

“Well good thing I don’t want to do that anymore. I only told Moody I’d give it some thought.”

“What do you want to do after Hogwarts then?”

“Go somewhere as far away from you as possible,” Harry says with a smile.

Tom returns it, appearing undeterred in the slightest. “So you want to travel as well. What country?”

Harry stifles the urge to say something nasty by focusing on the crowd. “Tell me about the man standing next to the weird perfume lady. He looks familiar.”

“Vulcan Crouch,” Tom says without missing a beat. “A recent addition to the Wizengamot and a rather troublesome one at that.”

“Why?” Harry asks, even though he can imagine exactly why after having dealt with the man’s descendants.

“He doesn’t take no for an answer.”

Harry smirks. “Like you?”

“The only thing Mr. Crouch and I have in common is our interest in political affairs,” Tom answers diplomatically.

“Is that what you want to do after Hogwarts?” Harry finds himself asking. He blames his curiosity on the boredom from their dance. The music has slowed to an agonizing pace. It never seems to end. “Become Minister?”

“No. I want to teach.”

Harry nods along. He remembers Dumbledore telling him about Voldemort’s ambitions. A part of him has always wondered if things would've been different had he been given the role.

“You think Headmaster Dippet would hire someone so young?”

Tom’s eyes seem to harden. “He would, yes.”

But Dumbledore wouldn’t, Harry figures. “What subject?” he asks aloud.

“Perhaps Defense.”

Harry snorts. “Didn’t need to read your mind to figure that one out. It’s clearly your favorite subject.”

“It’s not actually.”

“Wait, seriously?” Harry stops dancing to stare.

Tom’s lips twitch again but he doesn’t make a comment, he simply lifts up Harry’s arm again and they continue to dance. “I quite enjoy Divination.”

“No fucking way.” Harry can’t believe what he’s hearing. Although it makes sense. Voldemort believed a blood prophecy but Harry had started to think it was because all of his Horcruxes started messing with his head.

“Evans, please. Mind your tongue.”

“You? Actually believe in that rubbish?”

“Not all of it’s rubbish,” Tom says and then he’s laughing again.

The warmth in Harry’s cheeks spreads down his neck. “You’re messing with me aren’t you?”

“Payback for earlier.”

They settle back into a moderate to quick tempo in what feels like a flawless translation. Harry wants to ask Tom where he learned how to dance but then Tom will ask him the same question.

“Who’s that man standing next to Mr. Crouch?” he asks instead.

“Travis Monroe. He was in Ravenclaw like you. An up and coming —”

“—herbologist,” Harry finishes for him.

“Yes. How did you know?”

“A friend was obsessed with his work.”

Neville. Merlin’s beard. Harry hasn’t thought of his friends in what feels like ages. A stab of guilt goes through him. He hides a wince by glancing through the crowd. He shouldn’t be here. He should be trying to find a way home instead.

“A friend,” Tom repeats tonelessly.

“You wouldn’t know him.”

“Maybe I do.”

Harry sighs. “I’m not telling you his name, Riddle.”

“I’ve given you three names and you can’t even tell me one? I’m wounded, Evans.”

“And the other woman next to him?” Harry asks in an attempt to get rid of his sorrows while simultaneously putting a halt to Tom’s annoying questioning. She doesn’t look familiar to him, not like Crouch or Monroe. In fact, her face tends to blend in with the crowd and after a few seconds of looking at her intently it’s as if she isn’t there any longer.

Tom seems to pause a little, his steps turning rigid. “She wasn’t on the guest list.”

Harry snorts quietly. “Figures you’d get access to that.”

Tom’s grip tightens on Harry’s shoulder blades again. “I’ve never seen her at any of Slughorn’s parties before,” he says, voice low.

“And I’m sure it’s eating you up inside,” Harry jokes, though his heart skips a beat at the idea of trouble.

The crowd seems to have noticed that they’ve stopped dancing. Some of them have even started rushing forward. The woman from before is not among them. Harry’s stomach churns at the thought of having to speak to that many people at once.

Tom doesn’t seem bothered by all of the attention, but he’s still scanning the crowd with a slight frown. “She wasn’t here earlier either,” he continues quietly. “Evans, did her face look—”

“Mind if I cut in?” an unfamiliar voice asks from behind.

Harry turns around and finds himself face to face with a male version of Rita Skeeter.

“Magnus Skeeter,” the man greets with a cheshire-like smile. “Pleased to finally meet you both.”

Harry doesn’t return the greeting because it isn’t a pleasure at all. He’s had enough lying for the night thanks to Tom. “Sure. He’s all yours,” Harry says before stepping away from the both of them. He spots a secluded area hidden away from the rest of the crowd and begins moving toward it but Magnus’ words stop him.

“Ah, no. I was actually referring to you, Mr. Evans.”

“Me?” Harry whirls around so fast he nearly crashes into Tom.

“Just one dance. I promise,” Magnus says, smile softening just a bit. His eyes, however, remain cold and assessing. For once, Harry is thankful that he’s had enough encounters with Tom to notice.

He knows he shouldn’t. But Harry finds that he prefers his chances dancing with Magnus than dealing with the growing crowd behind them.

Tom seems to sense his decision somehow, giving Harry’s shoulder a squeeze and bending down to whisper something so that Magnus doesn’t hear. “Step on his toes for me.”

Harry finds himself grinning despite himself. “Deal.”

Maybe Tom was right. Maybe all they needed to get along was finding someone in common to hate. Harry knows it’s much more complicated than that— he doesn’t think they’ll ever be friends— but he can’t help but think that he would’ve preferred to keep dancing with Tom instead of Magnus. 

He doesn’t dwell on it for too long though. Magnus clearly wants something from him. What that something is remains to be seen.

Careful now, Harry thinks. He can't possibly screw this up. Right?

Chapter Text

Though Tom wants nothing more than to stay behind and watch Harry step on Skeeter’s toes like he promised he’d do, the woman he noticed from before is slowly inching toward the exit. Their eyes meet before she slips through the doors and disappears out into the hallway.

Tom snakes his way through the crowd, casting a tame Notice-Me-Not charm on himself to avoid any unnecessary interruptions. But by the time he finally makes it outside, the woman is nowhere to be found.

“Hello,” a strange voice says from behind. It doesn’t sound human.

Tom whirls around and comes face to face with the witch. Though her face isn’t exactly a face. It’s hard to describe what the woman looks like. Every time she blinks, a part of her grows blurry or shifts into a completely different feature. Freckles. Arched brows. Long, pointy nose. No nose at all. That one makes his stomach churn.

“I didn’t mean to startle you, Mr. Riddle.”

Judging by the slight smirk on the woman’s face that forms the next time he blinks, Tom highly doubts that. He pretends not to let the sight disturb him. “Have we met before?” he asks instead.

She grants him a slight tilt of her head. “No. This is probably the first and last time you will see this face.”

This face. Tom picks up on the emphasis quickly. “You’re an Unspeakable.”

Her smirk grows. “Clever boy.”

“I didn’t know that Slughorn knew any Unspeakables.”

Tom has never met any either. Or perhaps he has. Unspeakables relinquish their former identities from the moment they begin working in the Department of Mysteries. The ability to change their appearance at will, however, more than makes up for it. They can also make it so that only one person can see them. A walking Notice-Me-Not , Tom remembers Orion calling them. More truer words have ever been spoken.

“He doesn’t,” the Unspeakable agrees. “But he’s very familiar with Imelda Castillo, an up-and-coming Magizoologist from Peru.”

Tom raises an eyebrow at her. “And does Imelda Castillo know you’re using her face and name?”

“No. But that’s only because no one will remember she visited after tonight. No one but you, of course.”

“What makes you think I’ll keep your secret?”

“Because I have something you want, Mr. Riddle.”

I highly doubt that too, Tom thinks with a frown.

“How well do you know Mr. Evans?”

Tom stiffens. He doesn’t like the way Evans’ name sounds coming out of the Unspeakable’s mouth. “We have brother wands,” is all he says.

“Perhaps I should rephrase my question. How well do you want to know Mr. Evans?”

How well does he want to know Evans? As well as he seeks to know himself, of course. “I think you already know the answer to that,” Tom answers simply.

For a moment, the Unspeakable says nothing. Her face flickers again and her eyes change to a familiar green. Avada Kedavra green. Tom feels the hair on the back of his neck rise up. He’s never had much trouble schooling his expressions until now. There’s anger, but there’s also fear as much as he hates admitting that to himself.

Aside from being changelings, Unspeakables are said to have strong powers of suggestion and obliviation. They’re powerful enough to alter memories and even feelings too. Victims live out the rest of their lives in morbid bliss.

“Of course,” the Unspeakable says eventually. “That dance was quite suggestive. But I wonder if you would have been so quick to stake your claim on the boy were you to know the truth about his origins.”

Tom gives an impassive shrug. He casts a wandless Aguamenti in his mouth to get rid of the dryness. “I don’t care about his blood status.” And he doesn’t. Finding out that Evans is a halfblood was a nice surprise, but it doesn’t mean he would’ve stopped pursuing him had he been a muggleborn.

The Unspeakable flashes her teeth at him. The fangs look almost vampiric. “Come now, Mr. Riddle. Don’t disappoint me. You were doing so well. I thought you of all people would’ve caught on by now.”

Tom raises his chin and doesn’t break eye contact. “If you wanted to speak in riddles you should’ve tried Evans not me. Make your point.”

“That boy does not belong here.” The Unspeakable’s eyes finally go back to normal. Though normal is not exactly the word Tom would use to describe the swirl of colors reflected back at him in the low light of the hallway. “And by choosing to interact with him as you have been, you move closer and closer to dooming your future self before he even has a chance to flourish.”

“My future self?”

That grants him another smirk-like expression. “You are destined for greatness, Tom Marvolo Riddle. Don’t squander it.”

Tom smiles thinly. “I already knew that, ma’am.” And he doesn’t plan on squandering anything.

“But what about the things you don’t know, I wonder…”

If there’s one thing that Tom appreciates about the Unspeakables and their secretive nature, it’s how exploitative it can be to people like him. He finds his yew in his pocket, gripping it tightly. Tom has yet to try any Unspeakables on a human being. He figures it wouldn’t hurt to start with an Imperio.

If the Unspeakable detects his intentions, she doesn’t react. They stare at each other unblinkingly. Finally, someone speaks but it’s neither Tom with his Imperio, nor the Unspeakable with her cryptic warnings.

“Tom!” 

He turns and spots Araminta making her way over to him from the other side of the hallway. 

“There you are.” She stops in front of him with a huff. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. What are you doing out here all alone?”

Alone? Tom turns back to where the Unspeakable had been standing and nearly curses. The witch is gone. Had she even been a witch at all?

“Tom?” Araminta asks following his silence. “Is everything okay?”

“I hate you so fucking much,” he breathes out.

Araminta makes a choking sound that gets cut short as he obliviates her. And if he still ends up using the Imperius curse, this time to send her off to bed early, then who can fault him?

Tom remains in the hallway for a long time after that but the Unspeakable never returns. He has to make a conscious effort to remember what she said. Still, he remembers as promised.

How well do you want to know Mr. Evans?

Tom’s answer to that remains unchanged.

But I wonder if you would have been so quick to stake your claim on the boy were you to know the truth about his origins.

So she hadn’t been referring to blood status. But if not blood then what? Evans can’t be working with Grindelwald. He wouldn’t have stepped in to duel against his minions otherwise.

Dumbledore then, Tom thinks with a frown.

But would Dumbledore work with someone who ‘does not belong’? What had the Unspeakable meant about that? Was it a literal expression or another riddle?

Tom finds himself walking back into the party room unable to hide the furrow in between his brows. Evans is no longer dancing with Magnus Skeeter but neither of them are anywhere to be found. The Unspeakable’s mocking attempt at showing him Evans’ face flashes through his head and Tom’s pulse spikes.

“Are you okay?”

It spikes again at the sound of Evans’ voice in his ear. Tom jumps back and away from him nearly tripping on a tablecloth. There’s a gasp from the crowd. Something breaks and shatters behind them.

Evans reaches out and holds onto the sleeve of Tom’s robes before he can fall. For a moment, they just stand there, Evans awkwardly keeping him in place and Tom staring unable to shake the previous encounter from his head. Her words seem to intensify in volume the longer he looks into Evans’ eyes.

You are destined for greatness, Tom Marvolo Riddle. Don’t squander it.

The sounds of the party have grown louder around them as well. There’s laughter. Crying too. A baby is crying. A woman is screaming.

When Tom blinks, there’s that familiar yet unknown green light again he saw in his dreams. It’s green. Green like Evans’ eyes. Green like the Killing Curse. Green like the end. His end. The woman’s wails have morphed into something else. She doesn’t sound human anymore.

Tom’s mouth is dry again but he can’t remember the spell that he cast before to fix it. He can’t remember anything but the Unspeakable’s warbled speech. He can’t think. He can’t breathe.

Don’t squander it. Don’t squander it. Don’t squander it. Don’t squander it.Don’t squander it. Don’t squander it. Don’t squander it. Don’t squander it.Don’t squander it. Don’t squander it. Don’t squander it. Don’t squander it. Don’t—

“Tom?” Evans asks quietly. He has never looked at him that way. No one has ever looked at Tom that way. The genuine concern flashing through Evans’ gaze is enough to snap him out of whatever that was.

His answer comes out shaky, but Tom’s smile is as perfect as ever.

“I’ve never been better.”