Chapter Text
It began, as trouble was wont to do, with too many Firewhiskey shots in the Gryffindor common room. Ignatius Prewett maintained a healthy supply in the seventh-year boys’ dormitory, despite the fact that most Gryffindors were complete lightweights. With Albus Dumbledore too distracted by the ongoing war in Europe to discipline his house, weekend parties had become a common occurrence.
Tom never bothered attending, preoccupied as he was with more productive pursuits like Horcrux research and secret chamber hunting. However, Abraxas enjoyed flexing his popularity with the other houses, and few things delighted him more than a flirtatious glance from a pretty pure-blood witch. Honestly, Tom sometimes questioned Abraxas’ membership in the Knights of Walpurgis, but always reminded himself that wealthy and well-connected pure-bloods were assets, no matter how vapid they might be.
Today was an exception: Abraxas would attend the party on a mission. A new transfer student had shown up last Sunday and been Sorted privately into Gryffindor. Much enigma surrounded the true identity of Harry Evans. Transfer students were already a rarity at Hogwarts; the last documented one came from Beauxbatons during the eighteenth century to escape the French Revolution. Transfer students who showed up at the beginning of May, with fewer than two months remaining in the school term, were illogical.
Of course, Tom had some theories of his own. The frontrunner was that Evans, given his dark hair and facial structure, was a newly legitimized Potter bastard child. Then again, that didn’t explain why he didn’t adopt the Potter surname, or why the Potters enrolled him at Hogwarts as a seventh-year rather than hire private tutors.
A more exciting theory was that Evans was a spy for Gellert Grindelwald tasked with infiltrating Hogwarts. On the other hand, Tom had trouble believing that Grindelwald would entrust such a mission to a no-name Muggle-born, particularly one who would live right under Dumbledore’s nose.
Or there was nothing to theorize at all, and Evans was just as boring as the rest of the school. Another person fortunate enough to be blessed with magic, yet utterly unworthy of mastering it.
Whatever the case might be, Tom needed to find out to decide whether he should expend effort befriending and recruiting Evans. After all, there was only room among his Knights for the best or the most useful.
“I want to know everything about him,” Tom had commanded. “Who he is, what he knows, and more importantly, why he’s here.”
“I will not fail you, my Lord,” promised Abraxas.
That exchange had been two hours ago, and Abraxas had yet to report back. Tom tapped his quill against his Potions essay. What was taking him so long? Had he succumbed to the wiles of yet another witch before completing his mission?
Impatience spilling over, Tom grabbed his two-way parchment, an invention of which he was rather proud. Until he found a way to physically brand his Knights, everyone carried a clone of the parchment so they could communicate with Tom at a moment’s notice.
Abraxas, he wrote, any update?
The ink seeped into the parchment and disappeared, signaling its reception on the other end. If Abraxas came back to the Slytherin common room drunk and empty-handed, Tom had a human subject for a new hex he wanted to test out.
Fortunately for Abraxas, an answering buzz came from the parchment. Tom squinted at the response. For a member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, Abraxas had the most atrocious handwriting. Inebriation certainly did not improve matters.
Be on guard, my Lord, he seemed to have written, the new transfer student intends to kiss you.
Tom stared at and reread the words multiple times. Harry Evans wanted to…kiss him? Why? They’d had exactly zero interactions since Evans’ arrival, being in neither the same house nor the same year. Tom was surprised that Evans even knew who he was.
Then again, Tom was a prefect and the brightest student at Hogwarts, not to mention quite handsome and the subject of crushes from wizards and witches alike. Perhaps, despite his short tenure, Evans had already heard professors sing Tom’s praises, or witnessed other Gryffindors lust after him.
Well. How unexpected, flattering, and a little disturbing. How presumptuous of Evans to believe that he even had a chance with Tom. Slytherin might have an admittedly well-deserved reputation for being the most promiscuous house, but Tom had standards. He didn’t stoop to snogging anyone without pedigree or an impressive family Gringotts vault.
Head swirling with questions, Tom settled back in his chair. He was most eager for Abraxas’ return.
As soon as Abraxas staggered back into the dungeons, Tom hauled him up to the fifth-year boys’ dormitory to debrief under a privacy ward.
Which was no easy feat, given the pathetic state of Abraxas; his usually pale face was flushed with alcohol and he was barely capable of stringing two words together. For all the distilleries the Malfoys supposedly owned in Scotland, they were as incapable of holding their liquor as the most weak-stomached Gryffindor.
Abraxas sank onto the edge of his bed, groaning. Tom tutted, annoyed he didn’t plan ahead to brew a Sobriety Potion.
“Recount your conversation with Evans,” he demanded.
“Evans?” Abraxas’ eyes were glazed. “Who’s Evans?”
“The transfer student. The person I asked you to investigate.” Tom only managed to check his temper when Abraxas bobbed his head, understanding dawning. “How was he?”
“Evans. Yes. Odd bloke.”
“Odd?”
“The way he was talking to me, it was as if he knew me. He called me Malfoy and mentioned the manor. You understand what I mean?”
Tom didn’t understand, but that didn’t matter. “What did you talk about?”
“He was living abroad and wanted to learn more about Britain. So we talked about, um, Quidditch players, professors, books, our favorite sweets.”
“All very important topics,” Tom said dryly. “Where abroad?”
“He didn’t say. Then we both drank a lot…Evans was more plastered than I was by the end.”
Abraxas puffed with pride at the dubious feat of outdrinking a Gryffindor. Tom rolled his eyes.
“Of course not, nobody can tolerate alcohol like a Malfoy,” he said, never one to be stingy with insincere compliments. “Now, explain to me the meaning of your message.”
The first flicker of alertness came over Abraxas’ features. He sat up a little straighter. “Right, the message. Well, at some point in the evening, I slipped some Truthfulness Drips into his Firewhiskey as planned.”
Tom nodded. Unlike the Veritaserum, Truthfulness Drops were easily accessible from Zonko’s Joke Shop, and nudged rather than compelled the drinker to tell the truth. Loosen the tongue of your rival, according to the marketing pitch. Their effectiveness increased as the drinker became less guarded, so they mixed well with alcohol. Until the Ministry caught on, Tom planned to take full advantage of Truthfulness Drops to collect information.
“Once he had a few sips, I asked him about Hogwarts, and what he was doing here —”
Abraxas let out a huge yawn, assaulting Tom’s nose with a strong whiff of alcohol. Tom glared.
“Sorry. Where was I…yes, I asked him what he was doing here, and he told me what I reported to you right away.”
Not exactly right away, but that wasn’t important. “You’re certain he means me?” Tom asked. There were inferior Toms at Hogwarts.
“Yes.” Abraxas looked serious. “He even said Lord Voldemort.”
Tom stilled. Lord Voldemort was a moniker that he used only with his Knights, each of whom was sworn to secrecy. How would a new student know? Did this mean that he was Grindelwald’s spy after all?
“What else did he say?”
“Before I could ask anything else, Longbottom and Shafiq dragged him off to talk about Quidditch, and Melinda came to find me.”
Abraxas’ cheeks pinkened at the mention of Melinda Macmillian, his current objection of infatuation, whom Tom estimated to last at most a month. The Malfoys were known to be fickle lovers.
“Can you recall anything else?”
Abraxas shook his head. “I’m afraid that was the end of our interactions tonight.”
Dissatisfied and distrusting that Abraxas had shared all pertinent details, Tom drew his wand. “Look at me, Abraxas,” he said, grabbing Abraxas’ chin so he couldn’t wriggle away. “Legilimens!”
Abraxas was too drunk to resist as Tom dove into his mind, sifting through his disconnected memories of this evening. There was Abraxas going to Gryffindor Tower. There was Abraxas glancing over at the Gryffindor witches to search for Melinda. And…yes, perfect, there was Abraxas, sitting obscenely close to Harry Evans on the couch.
“Definitely not the upcoming World Cup,” Evans was saying, expression smug. “Bet you five Galleons.”
“Done,” returned Abraxas, as they clinked Firewhiskeys.
Tom fast-forwarded through the conversation, past gossip about Slughorn’s secret cupboard (“He definitely sells illegal potions on the side to fund Slug Parties”) and an argument about Malfoy Manor (“I’m telling you, white peacocks are tacky!”). He noted with amusement the change in Evans’ and Abraxas’ demeanors as they grew increasingly inebriated. When Abraxas finally broached Tom’s topic of interest, Evans was half-sprawled on the couch, glasses askew and words slurring.
“Why did I come to Hogwarts so late in the term? For Lord Voldemort, of course,” Evans said, caressing the syllables of Tom’s new name.
“Lord Voldemort?” Abraxas’ tone was heavy with surprise and fear.
Evans nodded. “Yes, I want to ki —”
“My Lord?” gasped Abraxas in the present, doubling over and throwing Tom from his thoughts. “I — I’m not feeling so well, I need to —”
Tom didn’t relax his grip. “No one will learn about this. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, of course — my Lord, please, I need to —”
Tom released him and gestured towards the bathroom. “Go before you stink up the room any further.”
Abraxas obeyed, and not a moment too soon. Seconds later, there came the sound of violent puking.
Tom wrinkled his nose and cast a Fresh-Air Spell around his bed. He hoped that this time, Abraxas went for the toilet instead of the sink.
On Sunday morning, Tom awakened to a quiet dungeon. Many students, including the hungover Abraxas, were sleeping late, and the few who rose early for breakfast were lounging in the common room. Tom spotted Lucretia and Walburga Black painting each other’s nails, and on his way to the exit, he passed a group of younger Slytherins trying to hide the evidence of copying each other’s essays.
Tom nodded to the Black cousins in greeting, but slipped out before either could invite him to join. For him, Sundays meant study sessions in the library, not for trivial socialization. Preparation delineated losers from winners, he liked to preach to his Knights and held himself accountable for setting a good example.
He took his customary table at the library, tucked in a corner where he had a good balance between privacy and view, and laid out his books. He had a set routine that was long ago perfected: go through the previous week’s homework to ensure he had absorbed the material, finish the next week’s reading to impress the professors, and make progress on his personal research.
The last was the most interesting, and the topics of his research varied. A few years ago, he had been tracing his lineage, discovering to his delight that he was directly descended from Salazar Slytherin. Afterwards, his focus had shifted to the Chamber of Secrets.
Nobody, not even his Knights, believed that the Chamber existed beyond urban legends. Unsurprising, as less discerning minds could not grasp the possibility that a chamber could exist for centuries at Hogwarts without discovery. Tom was the exception. Based on what he’d learned about his ancestor and what he understood of location magic, he was convinced that the Chamber did exist and contain the means with which Slytherin wanted to purge the school — and eventually the wizarding world — of impurities.
Over the past several months, Tom had been making progress narrowing down the location of the chamber. For instance, it must be located beneath the school, given Slytherin’s affinity for dungeons and the necessity of having enough space for the monster he left behind. At the same time, the chamber must be connected to the rest of the castle through physical and not magical means, because it would’ve otherwise been detected in previous sweeps of the castle. Finally, the entrance to the chamber must be obvious, yet locked to admit only Slytherin’s descendants.
The key to unlocking the secret, Tom was certain, rested on gaining a better understanding of Hogwarts’ construction and layout. Therefore, after finishing schoolwork, he returned to perusing his growing collection of blueprints for Hogwarts and other magical castles constructed during the early Middle Ages in northern Scotland. He was deep in concentration, tracing the source of a particularly large vent on the fifth floor of a castle near the Cairngorms, when his ears perked at Madam Renfrew’s signature loud voice.
“Mr. Evans, here to visit the Restricted Section again?”
Tom raised his head. Harry Evans was shifting from foot to foot, evidently uncomfortable that the librarian was announcing his visit to the rest of the library. He bowed his head, murmured something, and held out a sheet of parchment.
“Same permission slip from Albus Dumbledore, I see. For your independent research on Transfiguration, is that right?” When Evans nodded, she waved him through. “Go on ahead, and do let me know if you require additional assistance.”
Tom’s interest was piqued. Evans had been at Hogwarts for a week, and already he was close enough with Dumbledore to do independent research, so much so that even the librarian knew. Interesting.
He watched Evans head into the Restricted Section. After nearly five years, he knew its layout by heart, so he noticed immediately that Evans was not heading into the Transfigurations section. Instead, he beelined for the section that focused on time and space magic.
Accidental or intentional? Evans was new to the school, but then again, surely Dumbledore or Madam Renfrew would’ve told him which shelves to browse.
Very curious. Tom turned back to his study of vents, though kept an eye on the Restricted Section.
Twenty minutes later, when Evans did not emerge, Tom rose to his feet, figuring he should stretch his legs. Madam Renfrew made no remark as he headed into the Restricted Section; Tom had been able to freely roam the library since his third year.
Tom wove through the aisles and the various reading areas interspersed throughout. Given the emptiness of the library, it didn’t take him long to find Evans. He was poring over a textbook whose spine read, in illuminated script, The Many Shapes of Tyme Magick. Based on the material and style of its binding, Tom ascertained it likely dated back to the fifteenth century, when many Renaissance-era magicians became obsessed with traveling back in history to recover knowledge lost during the Dark Ages, to limited success.
The print was small and the script flowery, so Evans was bent so close to the book that his glasses practically touched it. His finger moved across the page slowly as he repeated each word under his breath, giving the impression that he was barely literate. Evidently, he’d never heard of Magnifying Charms.
Tom let out a snort, which drew Evans’ attention. He looked up, posture alert and suspicious. In such proximity, Evans’ resemblance to Charlus Potter was astounding, aside from a thin lightning-bolt scar on his forehead and a pair of vivid green eyes, which were filled with an emotion so unadulterated that it flooded Tom’s mind with the barest brush of Legilimency.
If Tom didn’t know any better, he would say that Harry Evans hated him.
Thanks to Abraxas’ intel, he did know better and was in a kind mood, so he smiled at Evans.
Evans scowled right back. “What are you looking at?”
That was rude. Tom knew he had a nice smile. A smile that could launch a thousand broomsticks, Druella once said. The proper reaction would be swooning, not scowling. Nevertheless, he decided to be gracious.
“Hello, I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said. “My name is Tom Riddle and I’m one of the prefects at Hogwarts. Nice to meet you and welcome.”
Nose scrunched, Evans eyed Tom’ extended hand with such distaste that Tom dropped it awkwardly. “I know who you are. No need to introduce yourself.”
Tom kept his expression pleasant. “I heard you’re doing research with Professor Dumbledore. That sounds quite fascinating. In which sub-area of Transfiguration, precisely?”
“Of course you would eavesdrop. This is none of your business.”
“I wasn’t eavesdropping,” Tom said, keen to set the record straight. “Everyone in the main reading room heard your conversation with Madam Renfrew. I’m quite interested in advanced Transfiguration myself and would like to learn more.”
“Regardless, my research is none of your business.” Evans patted his book. “Can I return to my reading now, Mr. Prefect?”
Tom refused to give up. “You could add a Magnifying Charm to your glasses to help with the small font. And a Translation Spell might also help with the old English.” He pointed at the textbook. “I could show you, if you’d like.”
“No need. I read slowly, but I can read just fine. If you wouldn’t mind, kindly keep your suggestions to yourself.”
“Well, if you need anything —”
“I don’t need your help with anything,” Evans snarled, slapping the book shut. “Good day, Riddle.”
He got to his feet, swept the books into his bag, and relocated himself to a different corner of the library without a backward glance.
Tom was left dumbfounded and more than a little offended. What was that about, some sort of reverse psychology? Was this what Walburga meant when she said that sometimes witches pretended to be difficult to entice their admirers?
If that was the case, Evans’ execution was highly unimpressive so far. He had nothing to gain and everything to lose by rebuffing Tom’s attempts to be friendly. Perhaps there was truth to the rumors that Evans was raised in seclusion and home-schooled; he had no idea how to woo an object of affection.
Tom couldn’t help feeling a twinge of regret. He had expected a little more intrigue, a little more excitement. Dating at Hogwarts wasn’t unlike the games of musical chairs that matrons at Wool’s sometimes forced the orphans to play. After five years, everyone who was remotely attractive and not socially inept had either already snogged each other, or collected enough data to decide against snogging. Evans could have been a much-needed injection of fresh blood into the kissing pool.
Instead, he was another uncouth Mudblood who didn’t know how to appreciate the gift of Tom’s attention to boot.
What a pity and waste of those pretty green eyes.