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Deep in the Hogwarts dungeons, behind a hidden door, a group of young men meet weekly to learn the darkest and most forbidden of magics and scheme about how one day they will remake the world in their image.
Tonight, a hush of anticipation has fallen over the chilled room, though it is not the usual sort that precedes these gatherings. Tom Riddle, their leader, is in a foul mood this evening—his temper so close to the surface that it feels like a physical presence. The Knights sit in silence as Tom paces at the front of the room, all knowing from experience that is best not to speak.
“First,” Tom says decisively, “we must address the event that occurred this morning.”
He gazes upon the faces of his Knights, half-hidden by shadow. None of them seem inclined to look Tom in the eye. Is it fear? Guilt? Both, perhaps?
When Tom arrived at Hogwarts, he was an underfed whelp with a Muggle name and an unrefined tongue. He had been ostracized, hassled, and harangued—but only briefly. Tom had already learned in the orphanage the value of a lesson taught through fear. It had been years since any of his peers in Slytherin dared to defy him.
Yet this morning, as Tom was rising from his desk to leave the Transfiguration classroom, he stumbled, tripping over the legs of the desk and falling flat upon his face in full view of the entire class.
All around him—laughter. Even Dumbledore joined in with the chortling, eyes bright with unguarded amusement. The humiliation burned.
Abraxas, a supposedly loyal friend, tried in vain to hold back his mirth as he helped Tom to his feet. It was then that Tom noticed the reason for this predicament. Someone had cast a jinx on him, tying his shoelaces together.
But who?
Was someone in this very room his Judas?
“Someone in these halls wishes to discredit me—discredit us. They mock our cause, everything we stand for. The question we must ask is: who dares?”
Tom’s eyes flick to the rear of the room, where a hand is raised.
Harry Evans, the recently arrived transfer student, leans against the wall, a playful smirk etched upon his face, as if he has just wandered into a casual gathering. He wasn't there a moment ago, Tom would swear it.
Harry Evans is not a member of the Knights of Walpurgis and should not be present here.
“Oh yeah,” Evans says, flashing a quick grin. “That was me.”
“How did you get in here?” Orion Black blurts.
“I’ve been coming to these meetings all term,” Evans says. “Did none of you notice?”
After a moment of silence, Evans rolls his eyes. “Wow,” he drawls. “I knew you lot were self-absorbed, but this really is something else.”
Evans must be lying. There is no possible way that he has been attending all these meetings. Tom would have noticed. Tom notices everything about—
“I require an audience with Evans,” Tom snaps. “Alone.”
It briefly improves Tom’s mood to see how quickly his Knights rise to their feet and file out of the room. He has trained them well. But when he and Evans are alone, the air feels further chilled, and Tom’s fury returns.
“How did you find this room?” Tom demands.
Evans seems unaffected by Tom’s rage turned upon him. He saunters forward in a loose, casual manner that Tom would ordinarily find unbecoming—yet when Evans does it—
“It’s not exactly subtle when everyone else in the dorm all get up at once and go off somewhere once a week. I just followed you. Thought this was some kind of Slytherin meeting I was meant to attend.”
“But surely after the first time, you realised it wasn’t,” Tom says.
Evans shrugs. “No one asked me to leave. If you didn’t want me here, maybe you could have had some better security? Isn’t the Dark Arts good for that sort of thing? Blood wards and whatnot?”
There is considerable security placed upon this meeting place. Tom would never be so careless to allow this location to be revealed to just anyone.
Tom opens his mouth but closes it again as it becomes clear that Evans is throwing him off course from the true offence he has just admitted to committing.
“What was the purpose of the stunt you pulled this morning?” Tom asks, keeping his voice low so Evans has to move closer to hear him clearly. “Why do you seek to dismantle my reputation?”
Evans stares at Tom blankly for a moment before exhaling a laugh.
Tom’s jaw clenches in irritation. He has spilled blood for far less than this blatant show of disrespect. “What could you possibly find funny?”
Evans throws his hands up in a gesture of peace. “Sorry, sorry,” he says. “You’re just taking this super seriously.”
“It is serious!” Tom informs him. “I have painstakingly built my influence at this school. I cannot allow it to be undone by the likes of you!”
“Seems kind of fragile if all your hard work can be undone because you fell down one time,” Evans says blandly.
Tom is unable to hold back a groan of frustration. His face heats, his pulse pounds, as he glares at the unbothered face of the obnoxious, ill-bred, audacious, gorgeous pain of a boy before him.
“Answer my question!” Tom says. “Why do you seek to destroy me? Do you disagree with my goals?”
Evans laughs again. “Well, your platform is utter shit. But mostly I just thought it would be a funny prank.”
“A funny prank,” Tom repeats.
“Yeah. For a little giggle.”
“A little…?” Tom cuts himself off, momentarily stunned.
Evans’s mouth curves into a Cheshire cat grin. There’s something about his teeth that appear too sharp.
Tom’s breath stutters. There’s a lurch in his chest—a brief moment where the small animal in his hindbrain seems to recognise a predator. Madly, he has the urge to run.
But then Evans’s face smooths into something gentler. Tom is soothed by it; his breathing calms. It would be foolish to see someone like Evans as a threat.
“I’ll tell you what,” Evans says. “How about I make it up to you?”
He steps back, opening his arms wide. Does he want a hug?
“One free curse,” Evans says. “Lay it on me.”
The words of the offer seem to echo in the quiet. The flames of the torches waver, as if they are too waiting for a response.
Tom knows many curses that would cause Evans a considerable amount of pain, yet leave no trace. Yet he cannot seem to move to take out his wand.
“Well?” Evans asks.
It's far too easy, Tom decides. He knows nothing in this world is given freely. Evans already stymied him once. Tom will not willingly walk into what could be a trap.
A solution appears in Tom’s mind, causing a smile to form on his lips. He is pleased to see that Evans appears to be thrown off-kilter by Tom’s sudden shift in expression.
“I have a better idea,” Tom says.
Evans’s brows lift. “Oh? Want to call your minions back in here? Really give them a show?”
Tom shakes his head. “No,” he says. “You will accompany me to Hogsmeade this weekend. Consider it restitution.”
Evans blinks. “What?”
“Wear something nice,” Tom tells him.
Yes. Tom will woo Evans so thoroughly he will have no choice but to see the brilliance of Tom’s plans. He will fall in line—body and soul.
Tom briefly allows himself to get lost in his reverie—imagining Evans kneeling in supplication. Then he looks to Evans to offer a final remark, only to find he has already gone. Tom looks around the empty space, trying to recall if he heard the echo of Evans’s steps against the stone or the creak of the heavy door.
His own footsteps sound thunderous as he takes his leave.