Chapter Text
Tom Marvolo Riddle had a dilemma.
It wasn’t often that he found himself in dilemmas for extended periods of time. With his quick tongue and sharp wit, he’d slip his way through any kind of trouble—not that he ever found himself in trouble to begin with. He was much too keen for that.
But this. This was different. Infuriatingly, vexingly, frustratingly different.
The dilemma? One named Harry James Evans.
The problem? That Tom had an (unfortunate, unavoidable, hopelessly large, currently unrequited—but not for long!) obsession with said Harry Evans.
The issue? Harry Evans was scared of him.
Now, normally this wouldn’t be an issue at all. Not even a footnote if it were anyone else. Tom liked it when people feared him. His most loyal followers were frightened by Tom’s mere presence. Rightfully so; they should grovel beneath his feet, shiver at every word, bend upon his every whim. Cowardness was borne into the bones of those lesser—they demonstrated that perfectly.
Plus, Tom had spent enough time being Slytherin’s resident mudblood. But now, after the…revelations…of last year, it was his turn to look upon them as if they were lesser. Are lesser.
But Harry? For some reason, Tom couldn’t help but feel offended when the boy lowered his head and averted those arresting green eyes. Those green orbs needed to be focused on him and him alone, piercing down to his very soul, and not some bland cobbled wall or some inane talking portrait when the boy inevitably looked away, dodging Tom’s gaze with all the grace of an overgrown flobberworm.
For Tom’s own eyes—warm brown and deep—could not unlatch themselves from Evans. From the very day Evans transferred to Hogwarts, walking down the Great Hall on September the first, shoulders hunched and up to his ears. Looking small and timid and oh-so-lacklustre yet so much more.
Messy, unkempt, quiet Evans. Slytherin House’s sixth year transfer student.
He arrived without much aplomb. Sorted at the beginning of the ceremony before all the wide-eyed first years and subsequently forgotten because of his unremarkable name and overshadowed by the new additions to Hogwarts. There was a new Black in Slytherin—Cygnus Black—and all the upper years fought to take him under their wing. A no-named person like Evans was quickly disregarded, especially with the sixth year’s hierarchy already established. Tom was naturally at the top.
And yet—and yet despite all that, something about the boy drew Tom in. Was it his looks? Not so. Harry Evans looked like your average Hogwarts student, if a bit slovenly. His hair was perpetually mussed and his glasses askew. He easily blended in with the sea of students. Quite unremarkable.
Was it his attitude? Also not so. Evans didn’t have an attitude at all. He was quiet, passive, and unobtrusive. Again, easily forgettable.
Was it his intelligence? Definitely not. In their very first Charms class, Evans was the only one to fail to reproduce the spell. In their Potions class, his potion gurgled ominously before exploding in a noxious cloud of purple and brown sparks. And in Herbology, he nearly got his fingers bitten off.
So then what was it that captured Tom’s attention? A spell? A curse? One meant to draw Tom’s unequivocal attention to Evans?
Perhaps the only thing noteworthy was Evans' eyes. Like the green of a forest after rain. Bright and vibrant and so, so vivid. Like the green of sea glass, crystalline and gleaming under the sunlight. Like the green of Tom’s favorite curse. Breathtaking, beautiful, and oh-so deadly.
But that was it. Nothing else about Evans stood out. Try as he might to forget, to ignore, there was an irresistible pull that always drew Tom back in.
Tom’s eyes tracked the boy everywhere. From classrooms to hallways, to the Great Hall, and to the Slytherin common room where the shadows cast by the dim glow of the fireplace swallowed the boy whole. And even after night fell and curtains were drawn, Tom sometimes crept on silent feet over to Evans' bed and peered through a slim gap in the fabric, watching as Evans' chest rose and fell with every breath of slumber, puzzling over the conundrum that was Harry Evans.
It seemed like the feeling was not reciprocated. Evans avoided Tom like the plague. If Tom drew close, Evans drew back. It amused Tom, a little. It was like training a skittish animal to be used to your presence. With time, Tom would ensure Evans was comfortable around him. All he needed to do was be with Evans at all hours of the day. What did the muggles call it…exposure therapy?
So yes, Tom dedicated his complete and whole attention to one Harry Evans. Wasn’t it only right that Harry returned the favor? He should be honored that the Tom Riddle, Heir of Slytherin, future Dark Lord (not that Evans knew that part) took interest in him.
At first, Tom tried to get closer despite Evans rebuffing him at every turn. He was curious as to why this boy was so interesting. So deceptively uninteresting. And Tom Riddle was the last person to let his curiosities go unsatisfied, picking away at them like stubborn scabs. Why did he hold Tom’s attention without even trying? No one else seemed to feel the same way about the quiet, unassuming boy.
“Evans?” Nott said, face turned contemplative. “Doesn’t have much of a presence does he?” Nott would know, being someone who also tended towards fading into the background like a particularly stubborn wallflower. Honestly, it was a surprise he was even the first to speak up. Like attracted like, perhaps.
“Forget he’s there half the time.” Mulciber agreed, bobbing his head as he shoved no less than four pieces of toast into his mouth. Mulciber only paid attention to two things: food and eating. It was no surprise that he paid no mind to Evans.
“Why are we talking about Evan? He get another howler from his Mum?” Greengrass asked. He was not the sharpest wand in the shop. By far. He was in his OWL year, a year below the rest of them, and Tom could confidently say that Greengrass would get at least three Dreadfuls—and that was Tom being optimistic.
“Not Evan Rosier, you twat. That new kid, Evans.”
“Must’ve gone through something in the war.” Lestrange added, raising his voice above Mulciber and Greengrass who’d devolved into petty bickering. “My father gets that look sometimes.” Lestrange’s father—retired Head Auror turned politician—was indeed quite battlehardened. Even years sitting in his gilded Wizengamot seat gaining both rolls of fat and votes hadn’t taken off his edge, despite his auror years being long behind him.
Tom didn’t often trust what came out of Lestrange’s mouth, but he could at least agree that Evans had something constantly weighing on him. There was something almost haunted about the way Evans carried himself. How he shrunk at loud noises, never kept his back to a crowd, and always kept his eye on an exit. Was he really a war refugee? The signs, at least, were there. No one had been able to strike up a conversation with him, so there was no way to confirm. For now.
And yet, the lines in his shoulders drooped far too heavy for it to be so simple. It was as if the weight of the world weighed on him. That wasn’t something a mere foot soldier would carry.
“You think he’s been on the battlefront?” Rosier whispered conspiratorily. “Who’s side do you think he was on?”
Tom quickly tuned them out. Useless drivel and gossip that was commonplace among lesser men. Annoying and insipid, the lot of them. Sometimes, he couldn’t wait until graduation when he’d finally be free of their banal existence.
And so, useless as his followers always were, Tom took matters into his own very capable hands.
Walking him between classrooms and pointing out tricks steps in the staircases; waiting for him in the common room to head to breakfast together; offering quills and parchment when they would mysteriously but conveniently disappear from Evans' bag, only for Tom to provide his own with a dashing smile.
But no matter what Tom lowered himself to, nothing seemed to work. If anything, it had the opposite effect—Evans seemed to withdraw upon himself more and more. If before he would shrink away, now it was a full-bodied flinch. In one memorable moment, Evans tripped over himself to get away from Tom, landing in a messy heap of robes and half-finished essays. Luckily, Tom was there to help him up, dashing smile and all.
He was quite like a stubborn turtle that refused to come out of its shell. Tom hated turtles. Ugly, useless creatures. But he did like Evans, so tried not to let it bother him too much.
But, it has been weeks now. Weeks since Evans transferred and Tom began to enact his master plan. Four weeks and three days, but who’s counting?
Tom really didn’t have an excuse to escort Evans to class anymore. Four weeks was enough time to get used to Hogwarts’s charming maze of hallways (and he had a sneaking suspicion from day one that Evans didn’t need help at all—the dungeons were notoriously hard to navigate if you weren’t a Slytherin, and yet Evans found the common room without being shown). He even started to get annoyed side-eyes from the other boy when Evans thought he wasn’t looking. Which he gracefully pretended to be oblivious to. But still.
So, Tom didn’t have any other methods to get close to Evans. Other than naturally becoming closer. But any attempts were quickly rebuffed. It was infuriating. Tom needed to get close to Evans so he could interrogate him on which obscure curse he’d used on Tom. To explain why and what it was so that Tom could cast the countercurse and finally push Evans out of his thoughts. Because how else could you explain the strange allure to Evans that only affected Tom, if not for a dark curse? It had to do with manipulating emotions, that was for sure.
And why Tom of all people? Actually—Tom could list a lot of reasons. His striking looks, natural charm, his keen intellect. Tom had fellow classmates bending over backwards just to even be in his presence. But the confusing thing was that if it were indeed a curse, why wasn’t Evans acting on it? It rather looked like he was doing the complete opposite.
Either way, Tom always loved a good chase. A hunter always savored the hunt—it made sinking his fangs into tender flesh all the more pleasant. The reward after a long and drawn out game, so to speak.
“He just needs a friend. Someone to talk to.” Abraxas Malfoy said, gazing with his big grey eyes across the table. Abraxas was a sappy fool. Despite his pointy features and perpetually pinched lips, Abraxas had a surprisingly soft heart—Tom was working on sharpening that heart so that the interior matched the exterior. Unfortunately, it was a work in progress.
Today, Evans looked especially miserable. He pushed his bangers and mash around on his plate, not even deigning to take a bite. Part of Tom wondered why the boy even served himself food, if he wasn’t going to eat.
Seeing Evans miserable made Tom feel miserable. A strange occurrence he couldn’t quite explain away other than that possible dark curse manipulating his emotions again. Instead, he decided to take his bad mood out on the closest available outlet. One Abraxas Malfoy.
“Does it not look like I have tried to be his friend?” Tom snapped irritably, shooting Abraxas a scathing look that sent the other shrinking back. Tom focused on the thrill of sending the proud Malfoy heir metaphorically tucking his tail between his legs, rather than the gloom that he felt echoing off of Evans.
“What I’m saying is—“
“Is poor blubbering ‘Brax offering poor wee little Evans a shoulder to cry on?” Orion Black, resident annoyance and thorn in Tom’s side, sang from two seats down.
“W-what! I do not blubber!”
Tom rolled his eyes. He hated Orion with a passion. Proud heir to the Black family, he refused to come to heel like the rest of Tom’s pureblooded mutts. Boisterous and rebellious, he was a loud, pig-headed fool with a brain addled by too many bludgers to the head (Tom hoped the next bludger would be the last and the annoying pest finally gone for good). Sometimes Tom wondered if there was any brain left over, or if it’d all leaked out from his ears the last ten times Orion had collided with a bludger and gotten tossed off his broom. Or maybe it was the Black madness. Or both. It was honestly hard to tell.
“He just needs someone to talk to.” Abraxas finished, long since used to Orion’s unnecessary interruptions. “There’s obviously something weighing on his mind. Maybe he should talk to the Matron? Or even a professor?” Abraxas side-eyed Tom with a knowing look. “As he has been refusing his own peers’ overtures.”
Really, Abraxas was too soft for his own good. And also much too keen.
“He’s not the type to seek outside help.” Tom said with a derisive sniff. Abraxas might know Tom well, after spending five-going-on-six years locked up in a magical boarding school together, but Tom knew Evans. After observing Evans for an inordinate amount of time, Tom knew him well enough to say that Evans would rather deal with whatever bothered him, alone. In a way, he and Evans were similar like that. You could never trust someone else. Just the thought of that similarity made a small thrill go down his spine.
And so, Tom continued to watch, as always, as Evans finally shoved away his plate, not a bite taken, and stood to leave the Great Hall. Brown eyes tracked his movements as Evans slumped under the weight of his book bag, and plodded with tired steps to the entrance.
Abraxas had the right idea. It was Tom’s idea, from day one: to befriend Harry Evans.
There was appeal to it—Evans would spill all his secrets to someone he trusted, confided in. Tom needed to be Evans’ friend. Then, the mystery behind Tom’s strange attraction towards Evans would be revealed.
The only problem was Evans didn’t let anyone close. So how could anyone become his friend?
—
Now that they were in their sixth year, Professor Merrythought had them learning spells of NEWT-level curriculum.
Today, their focus was the Patronus Charm.
“The key is not so much the wand movement.” Merrythought began, waving her wand in demonstration as she spoke. “But the emotion you put behind it. The memory you choose determines the difference between a successful and unsuccessful caster.”
“Professor,” a Gryffindor raised their hand. “If casting a Patronus will only get us extra points on our NEWT, why do we have to learn it?”
Tom had to hold himself back from rolling his eyes, lest others notice. Gryffindors. Incompetent underachieving fools, the lot of them.
“Just like how your chosen memory determines the charm’s success, your success today will determine your life or death in the future.” Merrythought said, sending a sparkling white dolphin splashing through the air from her wandtip.
She was a practical professor. That’s why she was Tom’s favorite.
“I don’t plan on getting sent to Azkaban.” The same idiotic Gryffindor said, just before the dolphin rushed him, disintegrating into sparks of blue and white upon impact. The boy fell back in his seat with a startle, spilling onto the floor in a mess of robes and upturned books. The rest of the class laughed at his predicament.
“Dementors and Lethifolds are not bound to Azkaban, Mr Dunn.” Merrythought returned, slipping her wand back into her holster. “Any more questions?”
Idly, Tom thought Dunn rhymed with dumb. What a suitable name for such a lacklustre person.
Merrythought clapped. “Good. Now wands out and start casting! I don’t expect many of you to be successful today, but by the end of the year I want at least one of you to have it down.”
She sent a quick smile towards Tom. Well, he wasn’t about to disappoint. Casting a Patronus couldn’t be that hard. Not if that person’s name was Tom Marvolo Riddle—which he just so happened to be named.
But…
…Casting a Patronus really was that hard.
And the only thing preventing Tom from razing down the entire classroom out of frustration was the fact that no one else had successfully cast it either. Not even a wisp.
Except…
Evans hadn’t even tried. He hadn’t even raised his wand. Instead, he fiddled with it nervously, even dropping it three times when it slipped out of his fingers. It seemed as though Merrythought noticed, because after making her rounds on the Gryffindor side of the classroom, she beelined to Evans on the Slytherin side.
Although Tom was sitting five rows away (five rows too far away), he leaned over to try and catch their conversation.
Evans had his head down, expression despondent and worried. “Can’t…”
Merrythought said something in response, but all Tom caught was “...believe…again.” Then she placed a firm grip on Evans' shoulder, giving it a squeeze.
Tom almost winced in sympathy when he saw Evans cringe away. Merrythought’s “reassuring” pats and squeezes had no right being as painful as they were, seeing how she was an ageing witch pushing her 50’s. Tom knew from first-hand experience.
But something she said must’ve given Evans the courage to lift his wand.
As the dark holly wood raised, the world paused with it, as if everyone was holding their breath. Or maybe it was just Tom, as he watched, entranced, nearly frozen with anticipation—he could nearly sense that something was about to happen. Just then, an electric tingle shot through the air, raising gooseflesh against his arms. Tom could literally feel the magic gathering around Evans.
How beautiful. He thought.
“Expecto Patronum!”
A brilliant stag burst from the wand. It shone even brighter than Merrythought’s dolphin. It cantered above heads, sending students ducking with gasps of awe. Tom couldn’t take his eyes off the sight for it was one to behold. He tracked the stag around the room, watching glittering light fall like stars under its hooves. The room seemed dimmer and the Patronus all the more brilliant. It made a loop in the air before it finally settled down beside Evans. He only realized he wasn’t breathing when Abraxas shoved a boney elbow into his side—and was much too enraptured to retaliate with his usual stinging hex.
Evans was waiting for it, hand outstretched. A smile danced across his face, softened by the blue glow of the stag.
Tom’s breathing officially stopped once again. If he thought Evans' magic was beautiful, then Evans' smile was even more so. Thank Merlin Tom had complete control of his faculties, otherwise he’d be a puddle of goo on the floor by now. And he wouldn’t even be mad about it.
Evans looked impossibly younger like that. Smile lighting up his features, body relaxed as he stared at his Patronus. He leaned forward, touching his forehead to the stag’s, as if reuniting with an old friend.
Harry’s lips moved, murmuring something into the effervescent fur. Then it faded, and Harry’s smile along with it.
Tom mourned the loss but he could hardly think of its absence when his mind was racing. Abraxas’s words came filtering back to him. “A friend…”
Suddenly, Tom had an amazing idea. Naturally, all his ideas were amazing, but this one was definitely better than the rest.
This one was sure to work.
All he needed was to master the Patronus charm.
—
Unfortunately, his endeavor proved harder than others. And not for the lack of trying.
“Expecto Patronum!”
Not even a hint of mist escaped the tip of his wand.
He tried another memory—this time of when he first realized he shared a language with snakes.
Still no light.
He tried another, one he was convinced had to work: when he discovered his ties to Salazar Slytherin and the legacy he upheld with his very blood.
A puff of smoke, but nothing else.
Merlin’s saggy fucking balls. If it were any other day, he’d feel accomplished getting a wisp because that was visible progress, and after only a day’s worth of practicing. But he was impatient and an overachiever and he wanted a corporeal Patronus now.
Idly, he wondered if picturing what his Patronus could be would help. Perhaps a concrete image in his mind would help solidify the corporeal being.
Taking out a sheet of parchment and quill, he sat down at a desk. First, he wrote down a list of possible creatures.
Snake was at the top. Underneath was basilisk. He’d heard that magical creatures could be a person’s Patronus, although his lip curled at the thought of sharing even a modicum of similarity to Albus Dumbledore, whose Patronus was reportedly phoenix.
He wrote down a couple more magical breeds of snakes, but none called to him like a basilisk did. After that, his list ended. He couldn’t really picture his Patronus as anything else. It certainly wouldn’t be an insect, or a fish, or a bird.
After all, his blood was tied to the house of snakes. What else would it be? If he ever went through the process of becoming an Animagus, he’s sure he’d be a snake too.
Tom looked down at his finished list. While lost in thought, he’d started doodling snakes in the margins. One drawing in particular stood out. A snake curled around a skull, protruding from the skull’s gaping mouth like a tongue. Hm. He could use this for something.
Tucking the list into his bookbag, and images of snakes firmly imprinted into his mind, he got back to practicing.
And so it went on. He churned through all his memories like he did books when given free rein to the library. He picked through each one clinically, examining it, conjuring the feeling it accompanied, letting it encase him, fill him up to the brim with happiness.
But to his unending frustration the best he could do was a blurry cloud of whitish blue smoke that sagged in front of him like a particularly sad crup, which dissipated just as sadly and slowly. Dear Salazar, his attempts at a Patronus looked more as if he was fueling it with sad emotions rather than happy ones, for all it looked like a gloomy cloud. And after his first day practicing, he got no further than that, even after two weeks passed.
He turned to other means for help. He asked Abraxas, taking advantage of the boy’s bleeding heart, to get access to the Malfoy’s family library. All it took was Tom telling Abraxas his grand plan to conjure a Patronus to act as Evans' silent friend before Abraxas was shoving him all sorts of different books. Journals from previous Malfoy heads who left accounts of their own Patronuses, tomes regarding the lightest magic the Malfoy library could provide (although admittedly there weren't many), detailing light-oriented emotions and how they impacted spells.
“Absolutely love the idea, Tom. Of course, you always come up with the most masterful ideas. Oh, I’m so glad you’re trying to get close to Evans. Do you think I should try too? Double our chances of success? I wonder what mine would be. Perhaps a peacock? I do love those creatures and oh how about a rabbit? A white one, with those adorably red eyes…”
Tom shoved the overeager Abraxas away with a disgusted look. Since when was this a ‘we-thing’? He sent Abraxas off, heavily doubting that Abraxas would be able to conjure a Patronus any faster than Tom could. It was nothing to worry about, at least.
Cracking open his new collection of books, Tom devoured all of it and then some.
Information ranged from asinine to theoretical. The issue being the Patronus was such an oddly finicky spell that was never quite the same for two wizards. Afterall, everyone’s memories differed and how someone processed and categorized a memory differed as well.
There were cases where the happiest wizard or witch alive, who’d want for nothing, could not produce a Patronus. And other cases where the most dourest of souls could call upon the most beautiful of beings. Insofar, Evans seemed to fall into the latter category. His gloom was so thick it could be cut with a knife.
Speaking of souls, there was one interesting passage Tom found. His previous standing interest in rituals involving souls—namely, horcruxes—was what drew his attention. But while horcruxes were steeped in the darkest of magicks, according to this theoretician, one N. Peverell, a Patronus was a manifestation of one’s soul at its purest, most base form.
The sāwl. The self. The soul.
It was strangely compelling. Unfortunately, it was a footnote—Peverell went on to discuss the subject of souls and how they tied to life and death. Particularly, necromantic arts. Inferi, for example, were reanimated bodies. But they had no sense of self, no soul and hence could not think for themselves. They only obeyed an imprint of orders within their mind.
But Tom arrived at a counterpoint: if the Patronus was a manifestation of the soul, why could it drive away dementors? The very creature that fed off of souls? If Peverell’s words were to be believed, sending a Patronus off was like delivering a feast to a dementor. But it wasn’t, because the Patronus was the only way to counter dementors. Which was why, while an interesting subject, Tom decided to discount Peverell’s muses for now and figure out a different way of harnessing his Patronus. Soul magic in relation to a Patronus was too questionable.
Abraxas didn’t have many books to offer. Tom found himself with nothing left to read in just an evening’s worth of time. He gave everything a second pass, in case he missed anything the first (doubtful, but he did it anyways).
Letting all the theories coalesce into one concrete thought and confident that this next cast would be the one, he tried again.
…and failed. Again.
Hm, maybe Abraxas’s resources weren’t enough. This was fine. Yet another mere roadblock in his grand plan. Plans always had backups and he still had many pieces at his disposal. Many willing pieces.
He called an emergency meeting amongst the rest of his Knights. It was a bit hastily made, and lacked a bit of the dramatic flair he usually afforded to such an occasion, but he couldn’t wait four days until the actual planned meeting, so this would have to do.
When the seats at the long table were filled and Tom was peering imperiously down his nose at his lessers, he felt with a smug satisfaction that all would be right in the world. The Patronus was surely in his grasp this time.
“Is this about Evans again?” Lestrange sighed.
“When is it not?” Rosier said, rolling his eyes. “You know Tom when he finds his latest obsession. It’s just like last year, when we scoured the entire castle looking for the Chamber.”
“Which,” Tom said, fingering his bone-white wand. “Might I remind you that it still has not been found, no thanks to your useless whinging.”
That shut them up.
“Now, I have called you all here today to discuss the Patronus charm.” Tom leaned back in his chair, gazing carefully at each of his followers, watching as their expressions shifted. Lestrange looked surprised, not expecting this meeting to not be about Evans. Well, he was actually correct, it was about Evans. But he didn’t have to know that.
“I expect all of you to achieve no less than an E on your Defence NEWTs. Professor Merrythought does not teach spells she does not believe to be useless. Thus, we will spend time dedicated to perfecting the charm.”
Abraxas was sending him not-so-discreet-knowing-looks. Tom ignored him.
“As she said, it is not an easy spell to learn. So, if anyone has any literature regarding its usage, even if it is only a single line, do not discount it. It is to the utmost importance that we discover the nuances behind its intricacies so that we may master it. As we do all magic.”
“If I may, my Lord?” Rosier said.
“Speak.”
“The Patronus is a very…light spell.” He sent a glance at the others around the table, who all nodded encouragingly. “Our families do not have much documentation on such.”
“It is said that if a dark wizard attempts to cast it, maggots will come out and devour you.” Nott added, face tight with unease. “Another likely reason why our families do not care for literature regarding the charm.”
Tom waved his hand. “I care not. You will have your libraries searched and bring everything you find back to me. If you return empty handed, there will be…repercussions.”
“Yes, my Lord.” Murmurs of assent passed around the table.
“And remember—if Evans can cast it, then I expect you all will too. Maggots or not.”
With that, he ended the meeting. It was short, yes, but he had more important things on his mind than teaching spells and discussing Dark Arts as he usually did during these.
He remained sitting at the head of the table as his Knights filtered out of the room. He always enjoyed these meetings. A little light threatening went a long way to lift his mood.
Just as Lestrange was stepping through the doorway, he bent his head to whisper conspiratorily to Rosier beside him. “So it was about Evans!”
Tom shot an overpowered stinging hex at his back.
—
Tom received books from his followers over the next week. Just as he’d done with what Abraxas previously provided, he went through each and every piece of parchment, note, book, and scroll with a clinical eye.
In a book procured from the Nott library, found mention of Nott’s maggot story. It was a mere legend, and most likely told to wizarding children as a bedtime story. According to the tale, a dark wizard named Raczidian attempted to summon a Patronus. Yet only the most pure of heart could ever hope to produce one. Instead of a glowing guardian, a horde of maggots greeted him, consuming him whole.
Tom scoffed at the tale. Only dark magic could turn against its caster in such a way—part of the reason why many feared dark magic. A light spell like the Patronus would never be able to do that, failure or not. Raczidian most likely attempted a butchered form of something else. Clearly, this dark wizard was not dark lord material like Tom was. Tom would never make a mistake like that—really, he never even made mistakes.
The same book went on to examine the subject of the ‘pure of heart’ in relation to casting the Patronus.
According to author Winona Wimbelby, a well-known spellcrafter from the mid 1800’s, the Patronus was conjured from the heart, not from magic. It was a contested take, Tom thought, to say the least. That it was not magic behind the Patronus, but an organ of all things. One that pumped blood through the veins and nothing did else, otherwise quite useless.
The Patronus is not magic, it is feeling. And feeling is fueled by heart. Love is happiness, happiness is emotion. Emotions live in the heart. That is what powers a Patronus. For what is more magical than love itself?
Love. Tom’s lip curled as he read the passage. Just as useless to him as this Wimbelby’s drivel. Love could not produce the wonders of magic. Obviously.
Love was a chain. Something that kept you constricted and bound, made you weaker—gave you a weakness. But he was above that. He would never let anything tie him down and prevent him from achieving his goals.
What was a spell if not fueled by magic? Yes, he knew you needed happy memories in order for the patronus to work, but it couldn’t work without magic, either. Otherwise, muggles would be casting spells left and right. Merlin forbid that. He nearly shivered in disgust. He quickly discounted Wimbelby’s theory based simply on that fact.
There must be something else missing. He was already using his happiest of memories. But what could it be? What was there that the books weren't telling him?
—
The day was bright, the sun shining on a rare fair-skied day. It was the perfect day to visit Hogsmeade, as the rest of his classmates had done. A light breeze tickled his cheeks and birds chirped cheerily overhead.
Abstaining from visiting Hogsmeade yet unwilling to hole himself up in the castle while the weather was willing, he had taken his Patronus practice to an oft-forgotten courtyard where he still retained privacy but could enjoy the warmth of the mid-October sun.
Despite the good weather, Tom felt a storm of frustration brewing in his mind.
He was ready to explode the spires off Hogwarts and evaporate the entire Black Lake—although the Giant Squid slapped him away with a tentacle before he could—he was that frustrated. The only thing holding him back from bringing it all crumbling down was his respect for the castle.
Instead, he settled for blowing up some trees in the Forbidden Forest with overpowered bombardas and disintegrating the remains with incendios. Only when all that was left of the trees was a smattering of ashes did he feel a semblance of peace. Threadbare and fraying that it was.
Taking a deep breath, and then two more for good measure, he straightened, smoothing down his robes and tidying his hair that was no doubt a little disheveled. That bloody squid’s slap was still smarting against his side.
Composure regained, he turned and made his way back to the castle, looping around the Black Lake and standing by the shore (he and the dastardly squid had come to a truce, now that violence was no longer on the table), letting the still water reflect his inner thoughts. Peace and calm. It wouldn’t do to appear so defeated in front of others. Tom did not do defeat.
He didn’t know how long he stayed there, staring out across the lake’s glassy, untouched exterior before a sound drew his attention away.
It was a laugh, high and free, wild and untamed.
Tom lifted his head.
Flitting across the sky was Harry Evans, broom tucked between his legs as he whirled and twisted in the air. More agile than a bird, more alive than a phoenix burning with flame. His dark hair was tousled and even more windswept than usual, cheeks stained as red as the scarf that was haphazardly slung around his neck, whipping around in the wind.
He was breathtaking. Beautiful.
Tom’s breath caught in his throat as he tracked the boy across the brilliant blue sky. A smear of black and green with a smatter of red. Belatedly, he noticed a speck of gold, whizzing just out of reach. A snitch. Evans was chasing a snitch.
It wasn’t until the sky turned a gentle orange, pink edging in the corners, did Tom realize he’d been outside for hours, watching as Evans lived and breathed amongst the skies.
This was the first time he’d seen Evans look anything but miserable, he also realized.
He ruminated over the fact that so much time had passed without his knowledge, just staring up at the sky. How time flew as fast as Evans did, when it was just Tom and Evans in the world. One grounded and steady, the other light and free.
He turned his thoughts inward, examining himself thoroughly. This was the first time he’d been so…lost. Usually he got lost in books and knowledge. But this…this was new. It was not exactly unwelcome either.
Harry had long since disappeared, most likely to the broom shed then off to the dormitories to shower and change before dinner.
There was still an hour left before dinner, so Tom, still lost in thought, decided to try once more at the Patronus charm. His failures from earlier in the day seemed so far away now. Instead, he felt invigorated and refreshed.
He made his way up to an empty classroom, bounce in his step, and sealed the door shut with a simple locking charm, more to deter any visitors than to keep anyone out.
He closed his eyes and began to think of a memory—his strongest one so far, the one where he discovered the legacy carried within his blood. But instead of the dripping chamber, the gleaming basilisk, and the flickering green-flamed torches, something else pushed its way into his mind.
Laughter that tinkled like bells, infectious, the brush of wind against his cheeks, Evans swooping through the air like he belonged there, smile straining at the corners of his lips. Feelings arose with it: contentment, peace, a bubbling happiness that Tom couldn’t tell was his own or Evans' (why was it that seeing Evans happy made him happy?).
He felt it, then. A simmering surety of success. Complete confidence that this was it, that all his hard work amounted to this very moment. In his chest, his heart pulsed several beats faster than normal.
Expecto Patronum!
Tom opened his eyes to the most brilliant blue he’d ever seen.
Shimmering silvery mist radiated from his wand while a glowing silvery blue outline coalesced into a deeper, more defined form. Silver tendrils twisted and curled, ghosting across his cheek and sending shivers of awe down his spine.
He watched, enraptured, as his Patronus took form.
In front of him stood a doe—tall and regal, her chest puffed out and proud. She pawed at the ground, her hooves soundless against the cobbled stone floor.
Hesitantly, (although Tom would later deny as such) Tom reached out a hand. The doe shifted to meet him, shoving her nose under his fingers affectionately as if asking to be petted.
She was formless and intangible beneath his touch, yet he could feel the magic thrumming from her despite that, even taste it on the air. Mist and magic curled under his fingers—it felt happy. Euphoric, even. It felt right.
Feeling a surge of giddiness and anticipation, and riding the high of his long time coming (but inevitable) success, Tom ran his fingers one last time across the doe’s nose, then sent it off to find Evans.
According to a passage from a Malfoy ancestor’s diary, a Patronus didn’t just ward off Dementors and Lethifolds. It could also take orders and carry them out, even relay messages. Although that particular ancestor used it to contact her secret affair partner. To think someone would use such a magnificent being for something so ignoble.
Swiftly, he let his feet carry himself in his Patronus’s wake, heading down the staircases and hallways to the dungeons.
He slipped into the common room, feeling a rush of excitement. The common room was empty, everyone obviously off to dinner, as the hour had turned past six long ago. He didn’t even realize so much time had passed. Evans must’ve just finished his shower then, if this was where his Patronus led to.
The doe in question was standing in the center of the common room, in all her gleaming glory, waiting for Evans to come down the stairs from the dorm. It seemed she was one for drama and flair, too, just like Tom.
Quickly, he hid behind a pillar, casting a quick disillusionment charm on himself and a silencing spell on his shoes. Then, he waited.
He didn’t have to wait long, but the anticipation made it feel more drawn out than it actually was.
Evans came down the stairs from the sixth year dormitories, hair freshly wet from the shower, looking perpetually windswept despite the water dripping from his curls. He startled for a moment, taking in the glowing blue doe standing in the room, features awash with surprise and…something…sad?
Evans' green eyes glowed with a strange light. Becoming hazy and distant, as if staring at something far, far away. A corner of his mouth pulled downwards.
No no no, Tom felt his stomach drop. Was Evans sad? Why was Evans sad? This wasn’t supposed to happen—this wasn’t the reaction that Tom expected!
But before Tom could reason why, Evans stepped forward. Slowly at first, then at an almost lurching, urgent pace. Just as she did with Tom, the doe met Evans in the middle, nosing at his side with a friendly nuzzle. The solemn expression broke, and an unexpected laugh bubbled from Evans' lips as he let the doe nibble and nudge at his clothes.
Tom watched, intoxicated, as Evans spoke, voice sounding unguarded and light. Tom wanted Evans to speak to him like that—tone so soft and gentle. But no, patience. Plans were best enacted slowly and carefully. He could wait. This was only the first step.
“Hey, girl.” Evans breathed, letting his hands skim the outline of the doe. His green eyes darted up and down, drinking in the sight of the glowing silver Patronus. Tom indulged in drinking in the sight of Evans. “Why are you here?”
The doe merely shook its head, letting out a soundless huff.
“Ok, yeah, no message then.” Evans seemed a little disappointed in the fact. But Tom planned on revealing his identity once the doe was sufficiently ingratiated to Evans' favor. The disappointment would undoubtedly turn to wonder, respect, and trust once Tom unmasked himself. Then, whatever comfort Evans got from the doe being his silent companion, Tom would take its place as the one to offer Evans comfort—as his friend.
Evans scrutinized the doe in front of him for a moment. “You…” he trailed off. Then he blinked. Once, twice.
Evans fell into silence after that and Tom watched a myriad of expressions cross his face, flickering like sunlight off rippling water. They were too fast to read, and even Tom, who could expertly discern a person’s thoughts from even the barest of twitches, could not peer through Evans' mix of expression.
But then, Evans' lips quirked upwards. A smile? But there was something else behind it, something that Tom frustratingly still could not read. Was it…sly? No, that couldn’t be it. But it certainly didn’t carry the melancholy of before. It was strange but looked entirely at home on Harry’s face. No matter—with time, Tom would be able to read all of Evans' expressions, including this one.
“Well, if you’re here then you must’ve been sent to me.” He cast a quick look around the empty common room, green eyes skimming over Tom’s hiding spot without a second glance.
Tom felt the first beats of anticipation curl around his chest. This was it. What all his hard work and spell practice had led up to. Evans would finally trust someone to share his thoughts, his feelings, his woes. Unload all those unnecessary feelings. Tom could almost picture it: Evans, lighter and brighter, finally laughing and smiling. And Tom would be the receiver of that gratitude when the time came. The receiver of that smile—the smile currently turned towards the doe.
“I don’t know how you’re here or how it happened, but I could say the same for myself, couldn’t I?” Evans said, staring into the doe’s misty silver eyes. “You must be here to help me. In a time I have no one else to depend on.”
A strange statement that Tom mentally filed away to examine later. Why say time and not place?
“It’s you, isn’t it?”
Tom’s heart nearly caught in his throat. For a moment, it felt as if Evans was speaking to him. How did he know? Was he watching Tom, too? But his hopes were dashed down and crushed beneath an erumpent’s hoof, only to receive death by fiendfyre a moment later by Evans' next words.
Harry leaned down, letting his forehead rest on the doe’s shining fur.
Tom swayed forward, only a meter away and yet yearning to close that gap, to reveal himself. Yes, yes it’s me. He thought, nearly trembling in delight. But he wanted to hear it from Evans’ lips, the confession from his own mouth.
But his next words were not at all what Tom expected.
Evans brought his arms around the doe’s neck, pushing his face into its shimmering side like a child seeking comfort.
“Mum.”
—
Tom: *calls another emergency Knights of Walpurgis meeting*
Lestrange: Dear Merlin, is this who I think it’s about?
Tom: What do you do when the person you love are obsessed with thinks of you as his mother? Asking for a friend
Lestrange: *chokes* Evans thinks you’re his mother?!?!
Tom, despairingly, not even pretending it’s not him anymore: Am I doomed?
Abraxas: My Lord, perhaps you’re being too hasty. Have you ever heard of the Oedipus complex? There may yet be a chance for you—we can turn this situation around
Tom: Good. Give me all the literature you have on the Oedipus complex…nothing is too complex for me.
Greengrass: Who is this Oedipus and why is he so complex?