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"That Harry Evans has been sticking his nose where it doesn't belong," says Avery.
"I've seen him sulking around the library when we have our meetings," declares Lestrange.
"He's been watching you specifically," confides Nott.
And so Tom Riddle, self-proclaimed leader of the Knights of Walpurgis, comes up with a plan.
Tom aims his wand and exhales slowly, prepared to solidify his will into reality. Magic is his birthright, greatness is his future. No strange mystery student is going to put a wrench in his plans.
"Avada Kedavra!"
The scene plays out in disjointed half seconds. Evans glances down. His shoelace is untied. He bends over to fix it. Tom's green spell misses Evans' head by a millimetre, bounces off the castle wall, and slams into first year Amos Diggory.
Diggory topples over, and the courtyard descends into screaming, crying chaos.
It is all immensely irritating.
That evening, the entire Great Hall is forced to endure a lengthy speech on the positive qualities of Hufflepuffs. Tom keeps his face appropriately grave, but privately, he is bored to tears.
Who cares? Diggory is just some nobody. No one is going to miss him.
Nighttime provides more cover and less witnesses. Tom creeps down the hallway after hours, watching as Evans winds his way through the castle towards Professor Dumbledore's office.
This is the perfect time to strike.
"Kill," he hisses.
The mighty basilisk, hidden in the pipes, slithers forward to do his bidding.
Evans pauses at the next corner. His hand rakes anxiously through his hair, and he mutters something under his breath that Tom can't hear.
And then… nothing happens. Evans continues on his merry way, alive and well, while Tom can only watch.
"Where did you go?" Tom demands twenty minutes later, after giving up and returning to the Chamber of Secrets. "I told you to kill that boy!"
The basilisk thumps her lazy tail upon the damp stone floor. She does not respond to his questions or insults. What a useless creature. What a useless legacy. Salazar has failed him.
Tom exhales in frustration. Conducting this assassination from afar is not working out. To kill Harry Evans, he needs to get closer.
"You want to go to Hogsmeade?" Evans asks, voice laden with doubt.
"Yes," Tom says, as pleasantly as he can. "I would like to visit Hogsmeade with you. As my date."
"I'm not your anything."
"That is not a no," Tom points out.
"It's definitely a no," Evans says, turning around and walking away.
"Evans is staring your way again," whispers Avery.
"Do you think he got himself sorted into Slytherin to stalk you?" asks Lestrange.
"He does fixate on you in Defense class," comments Nott. "Perhaps you ought to challenge him to a duel."
It isn't the worst idea.
Tom pushes his way through the duelling club crowd. It isn't difficult to locate Evans—his mop of unreasonable hair is a dead giveaway.
"Evans," says Tom, pointing at him, "I challenge you to a duel."
The look he receives in response is withering. Who knew green eyes could turn so cold? Evans straightens his shoulders and faces Tom with a grim expression. "Fine."
They assume the appropriate stances. They bow like proper wizards, and then they raise their wands.
Someone counts them down, and Tom feels his heart pounding wildly between each second.
One, two, three.
Tom whirls and fires first, a blazing red spell aimed to strike Evans' chest dead center.
Evans turns and steps aside, a clean ten-degree pivot that leaves his hair barely ruffled. His wand slashes through the dead air of Tom's miss. "Expelliarmus!"
The spell whips past Tom's head as he dodges. "Stupefy!"
"Expelliarmus!"
Tom grits his teeth. Does Evans not know any other spells? "Flipendo!"
Evans swerves yet again, but Tom isn't done yet.
"Ebublio."
A large globe of water swallows Evans up, suspending him in the air. The watery trap lasts but a second before a stream of bubbles escapes Evans' mouth, the start of a spell that Tom can barely make out before—
"INCENDIO!"
Water explodes into steam droplets that shower everyone in the vicinity. Some idiots clap and cheer at the impressive display of power.
Evans falls to the floor, and to his credit, his wand stays clutched firmly in hand. But not for long.
"Expelliarmus!"
The crowd gasps as Tom snatches the wand out of the air. Evans' head whips up, his dripping hair plastered to his forehead while his mouth hangs open in both exhaustion and surprise. He looks like a wet dog.
Tom offers his hand to his defeated opponent. "Good match," he says with a bland smile.
Evans' returning grip is punishing and threatens the livelihood of Tom's fingers. "Next time," he says through gritted teeth.
A dark promise indeed. Tom intends to hold him to it. The duel may be over, but the war is not.
Harry Evans must die.
"Go on a date with me," Tom demands, slamming both palms down on the study table.
Evans looks up at him like he's lost his mind. "I don't want to do that," he says slowly, like he's speaking to a child.
Tom is not a child. Of the two of them, Evans is clearly the stupider one. "Of course you do."
"I really don't." Evans holds his book up to his face, blocking Tom from his line of sight.
"Afraid?" Tom asks.
Evans lowers his book back to the table. His brow is deeply furrowed. "No. Concerned for your mental well being, maybe, but not afraid."
Tom snorts. The ungainly sound escapes him before he can stop it, and he claps a hand over his mouth in response, a reflexive attempt to stop further noises from slipping out. Being around Evans makes idiocy infectious, apparently.
"Ha," says Evans. He's smiling now. "Go back to your minions, Riddle."
Evans won't agree to go anywhere with him, so as per usual, Tom finds a way to get what he wants without consent.
"Are you going to follow me around all afternoon?" Evans asks with an irritated grimace.
Tom silently holds the door open to Honeydukes. Evans rolls his eyes but enters the shop. The bell tinkles overhead, signalling their entrance.
They wander their way through the various aisles of colourful sweets. Evans picks out a bit of this and that, chocolate frogs and licorice wands mostly, then lines up to pay.
Tom has his hands stuffed in his pockets. Sweets are a frivolous purchase that he refuses to indulge in. Maybe he should poison some of Evans'.
After Evans pays, they exit the shop together. Tom expects Evans to try and lose him in the crowded street, only that doesn't happen.
Evans glances around, as though to check if anyone is watching, then pulls Tom into a nearby alley.
"Here," says Evans, shoving a sugar quill into Tom's gloved hand. "Happy?"
Tom is speechless. Is this a trap? A bribe? Or is it the acceptance he'd been seeking all along? Though if Evans has finally fallen prey to Tom's charms, then all the better…
"Thank you," Tom manages to say. "I knew you'd see my way eventually." He'll have to check the quill for jinxes later.
"Well, you know what they say," Evans quips in a dry tone. "Keep your enemies closer. I still don't know why you like me, by the way."
Tom considers that for a moment. "Then let's visit the Three Broomsticks," he says, finally confident in the answer he'll receive. "I'll buy you a butterbeer and tell you."
Evans smiles, eyes crinkling. "It's a date."
Dating is a lot of work, as it turns out. To date Harry Evans, Tom is required to spend time with him. Granted, this time spent together often consists of completing the ever-increasing amount of homework they are assigned for their NEWTs. But each study session takes Tom a step closer to his goal of luring Evans into his deadly grasp.
"Your essays are terrible," Tom declares after reading several paragraphs over Evans' shoulder. "Let me fix it." He drags at the parchment, only Evans keeps a firm grip on the other end.
"Leave it!" Evans says hotly. "I don't need you doing my homework for me. I'm not stupid."
"I know you aren't," Tom retorts. "You know what you're doing, you are simply awful at explaining it."
"Wow," drawls Evans. "Thanks."
But he still relinquishes his essay and allows Tom to mark it all up.
"Now I have to rewrite it," Evans complains, scanning the lines of corrections that Tom has scrawled into the margins.
Tom offers a smug smile, pleased at having been able to show off his superior intellect. "You're quite welcome."
At every duelling club meeting, Tom challenges Evans to a duel. As they grow used to each other, their duels become more complex, with less emphasis on outright power and more emphasis on strategy.
Tom learns how Evans reacts to the unexpected. How he stands defiant in the face of a more knowledgeable opponent. What Evans lacks in spell range, he makes up in agility and endurance, and soon even that gap begins to close.
"You're copying me," Tom accuses, picking himself up off the floor. He doesn't lose to Evans often, but when he does, it's always extremely vexing.
"It's not copying," Evans says, mopping the sweat from his brow. "You don't own a spell. If I learn a spell that you like to use, that's fair game."
Not in the middle of a duel, it's not. How someone so indolent can exhibit such effortless talent is nothing short of fucking maddening.
"You're cheating," Tom says instead.
Evans slings his arm around Tom's shoulders and knocks his sweaty head into Tom's. "Then you ought to learn to cheat better."
"Evans does have quite the… physical advantage," says Avery.
"We saw him tackle that enormous Hufflepuff beater during the last match," comments Lestrange. "He's mad."
"Do you think he could lift you, Tom?" asks Nott.
"Shut up, all of you," Tom says, but it's too late. He's thinking about it.
"But you have the social skills of a cockroach," says Evans, closing his eyes with a yawn. He's lounging rather indecently on Tom's bed, wearing nothing but a pair of pants and a ratty old shirt that rides up as he stretches, exposing the warm skin of his stomach.
Vulnerable. An easy victim.
"You're ruining my bedsheets," Tom says, ignoring the insult.
"If I was really ruining your bedsheets, you'd be in here with me, ruining them."
"Don't be ridiculous," Tom says, rising to his feet. "And get out."
"I'm not—"
"Get out!" Tom says, shoving at Evans' shoulder. "I'll not have you stinking up my bed with your filthy Quidditch sweat—"
"You're being stupid," Evans says, shoving right back. "You're the one who asked me in here to begin with."
Tom reaches for his wand. If Evans won't move, won't leave, then magic will do the trick. He'll do it this time. Even Evans can't escape an Avada Kedavra cast point blank.
Evans slaps the wand out of his hand. A pink splotch smarts on Tom's wrist for a brief second before Evans covers it with his palm and wrestles Tom onto the bed.
"Get off," Tom hisses, kicking at him. "I'll kill you!"
Evans doesn't let up; he pins both of Tom's wrists to the mattress. Then he hovers there, staring down at Tom with a bright, wild look in his eyes.
Their heaving breaths fade to silence, and Tom is once again aware of his rapidly beating heart. Fight or flight. His body's awareness of proximity to a threat.
Perhaps this is it. Evans is going to kill him first. He is going to strangle Tom to death with nothing but his freakish brute strength. Somehow, that thought does not inspire the panic that it should. Tom's heart pounds louder, faster. His chest aches, and excess blood pools hot in his face and the tips of his ears.
Evans exhales slowly, warm breath fanning over Tom's cheeks. He releases one of Tom's wrists so he can brush his fingers through the fringe of Tom's neat curls. A tender gesture of mercy, the calm before the storm.
And then, finally, Evans attacks him.
With a kiss.
Snogging is just a different kind of fighting. Teeth and tongue and hands everywhere. Evans is more careful, less willing to go too far, to push too hard. He has self-awareness of an invisible limit that Tom cannot manage to tear down.
Conversely, Tom has no such qualms. He cheerfully claims his possession with bite marks and bruises in very visible areas. Drawing blood, in particular, excites him—it leaves Evans with a myriad of Tom-shaped imprints all over his neck and shoulders.
"I've been mauled by you," Evans says, cracking his back in discomfort at breakfast.
Tom's pale skin bruises easily, but he never sports more than a purple blotch or two on his neck. Whether Evans' care is out of respect remains to be seen. He certainly enjoys running his mouth in private.
"Weak," says Tom. Then he reaches for a butter knife and neatly spreads strawberry jam over his toast.
"Has Evans mentioned plans for after graduation?" asks Avery.
"I suppose long distance may be difficult if he chooses to play Quidditch abroad," remarks Lestrange.
"My parents are forcing me to move out by the end of summer," despairs Nott.
Hogwarts has proven to be a difficult place to murder Harry Evans. Tom must secure a better one.
"You want to… move in together?"
"I want you to move in with me," Tom clarifies. If they share a bed, Evans will be lulled into a permanent false sense of security.
"Right." Evans scoffs. "And I suppose you have the perfect living place all picked out?"
"Yes." Tom retrieves a scroll from his bag and lays it out on the table. It rolls across the surface and falls off the end, dropping onto the floor and managing several more inches before it stops. "I've narrowed it down to five options, three of which are open to negotiation in regards to renovations. There are several potential floor plans for each, as I'll require a private study for my personal research and experiments."
Evans pinches the bridge of his nose. "How are we going to afford any of that?"
"I will, of course, have many career opportunities," Tom says. "As well, I've heard Professor Merrythought will be retiring—"
"They won't offer someone as young as you are a professorship."
"Not me," Tom says, amused. "You."
"Oh." Evans sits up a little straighter, visibly startled. "But what about—? I mean, I don't know, Tom."
"Your essays may be terrible, but your spellcasting is… adequate. You would make an acceptable professor."
"Do you really think they'd hire me?" Evans asks quietly.
Better teaching than a career with guaranteed head injuries. Evans can't die from a rogue Bludger before Tom gets the chance to finally off him.
"Of course," Tom says warmly. "I can think of no one else more suited for the job."
Filling a flat reveals itself as an unexpected challenge. Between the two of them, they have perhaps four trunks of belongings, mostly clothing and school things. An orphan's lot, perhaps, but discomfiting nonetheless.
"We don't own very much," Evans says, voicing Tom's unspoken thoughts.
Tom does have a housewarming party planned, where they will hopefully accumulate the rest of what they need. But it does not spare them the inevitable embarrassment of showing off this barebones living space.
Evans continues, "I didn't think about needing, you know, chairs."
"I can conjure what we need," Tom says sharply, and then proceeds to do just that. Chairs, tables, an entire sofa. Cushions, picture frames, vases. He pours his magic into every aspect, into fashioning sturdy but beautiful items. Each addition must represent this new stage of his life perfectly, at least until they can afford some pleasant replacements.
He wakes up a half hour later, laid out on the single queen bed in their single bedroom.
"I thought you'd gone mad," Evans says upon noticing Tom's wakefulness. He dabs at Tom's forehead with a damp cloth. "You were muttering about baroque, I think, and then you suddenly passed out."
"Baroque is gaudy if it isn't done right," Tom mutters, sitting up and swatting Evans' hands away.
Evans switches his position, instead bracing the small of Tom's back to hold him in place. "We have time to get proper furniture. You're going to exhaust yourself trying to maintain an entire flat's worth of stuff."
"I can do anything," Tom insists. "I've achieved magic that—"
"That lesser wizards only dream of," Evans finishes with a sigh.
"I have." Indignation rises cold and numb in his chest. Tom clenches his fingers into the bedsheets. "I've done impossible, horrible things, Harry. You couldn't even imagine them."
The warmth and mirth in Evans' gaze fades to a darker and more complex emotion. "I think I can." His hand slides down Tom's spine, and then his weight vanishes from the bed. "I'll give you some space."
The door shuts.
I'm going to kill him, Tom reminds himself. I will kill him. Soon.
Tom works at Borgin and Burkes. Evans works at Quality Quidditch Supplies. The position of Defense professor is never mentioned, but Tom figures the interview must have gone badly.
Still, this result is better for Tom's plans. If Evans had stayed at Hogwarts, they would rarely see each other. It would be that much more difficult to murder him.
"You could stand to do the laundry a little more," Evans comments mildly.
"Why would I?" Tom asks, flipping the page of the latest edition of the Prophet. "You're perfectly capable."
"They're called chores for a reason," says Evans. "Because they're a chore. Which means you need to do half of them."
Tom considers this. "What if I pay you to do my half?"
"Pay me? With what money?"
Tom sets the newspaper down. He levitates all the dishes away into the kitchen. He unbuttons the top half of his shirt, then circles the table and sits himself down in Evans' lap. Predictably, a pair of calloused hands come to grip his waist, squeezing down and rocking him in place.
"I can think of something better," Tom promises, flashing a sharp smile.
"Better for who?" Evans asks breathlessly, his eyes dark and fixed upon the smug curl of Tom's lips.
Tom answers that question by leaning in for a bite.
Evans arrives home one day to find that the front door will not open all the way.
"What—" There's a thump as a shoulder slams against the door. "Not this again. Tom? TOM! What is all this crap? Get your shit away from the bloody door!"
"It is not 'shit'," Tom says defensively. He takes his sweet time in making his way over.
Evans glares at him through the crack between the door and its frame. "Move whatever it is so I can come inside, or so help me Merlin, I will explode it."
Tom folds his arms across his chest. "These are unique, valuable items."
"It is junk. Dark scary junk, but junk."
Tom levitates his latest acquisition, a pure white marble statue of a thestral that has silver runes etched into the base. "This statue has untapped magical properties—"
"You are a hoarder," Evans declares, finally managing to wedge himself into the flat without Tom's assistance. "Either you need to sell some of this off, or we need a larger flat. And I'm fairly certain we can't afford a larger flat, not if you keep spending all your commissions on fancy evil artifacts."
This sounds concerningly like a fight. A real one, not a fun, playful one. A concern, to say the least. What if Evans leaves? If he storms off, Tom may never have an advantageous opportunity to kill him ever again. Evans can only be defeated with certainty while his guard is down, which can only happen if they remain in a committed relationship.
Tom waves his wand and banishes all of his new belongings into the washroom. He checks his reflection quickly in the mirror hanging next to the door, then braces himself for the inevitable.
Evans sighs in relief and sheds his coat. "There, was that so hard? Now I can come inside without having to leap over five different things—"
Tom slides the ring from his right hand and drops to one knee. There is only one way to ensure that Evans will stay with him, will never suspect him.
"You must know this by now," Tom says softly, holding up his family heirloom, "that I'll do anything to have you."
Evans blinks. "Tom, what—"
"Marry me, Harry." A pause, and then: "I'll find us a larger flat."
The marriage ceremony is small but binding. Tom had considered researching dark curses that could be interwoven with their vows, specifically ones crafted with the intention of weakening an enemy, but in the end he had decided that there would be too much risk involved. It wouldn't do to ruin their engagement and miss out on the main event.
Besides, the vows themselves are already perfect. Til death do us part.
"I don't care either way," Evans murmurs later that evening, as the last of their guests are heading for the door, "but I didn't think you'd want my surname."
"I want everything," Tom promises, because a surname isn't the only thing that he plans to take. He reaches over to cup Evans' jaw with his hand, imagines drawing the sharp silver of a blade across the vulnerable skin of his neck.
"Yeah?"
"I wouldn't have married you otherwise," Tom says, matter-of-fact.
Evans smiles and leans in for a kiss. Their lips meet, quick and steady like a heartbeat, and Tom feels a hand settle on his waist. Comfortable, familiar.
There is no other as fiercely challenging, as uniquely qualified as Evans is as an opponent. Some days, it feels as though Evans knows everything about him, even the bits that Tom has never dared to share.
"I can't wait to take you to bed tonight," Evans whispers into the shell of Tom's ear. He's almost… shy about it, as though they haven't spent every year since graduation fucking each other into various pieces of furniture.
Tom supposes that a wedding night is an important moment. As tantalizing as it might be to commit the act he is committed to seeing through, it wouldn't do to waste an evening of pleasure.
Besides, there are only benefits to this plan. After the unholy consummation of their holy union…
Harry won't suspect a thing.
END.
