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.