"Does the prophet see the future or does he see a line of weakness, a fault or cleavage that he may shatter with words or decisions as a diamond-cutter shatters his gem with a blow of a knife?"
Dune, Frank Herbert
Things changed yet remained the same after that incident with the basilisk.
Tom was lost, or rather, he felt lost.
He wandered the same halls that he had always known, sat in the same classes, and yet it was as if he had lost something vital in the Chamber of Secrets; something intrinsic and unnamable yet more necessary for that.
In the meantime the petrifications abruptly ended and to the faculty it seemed the scare was over, they still searched for the perpetrator but eventually they let it subside, as if it was a mystery that would never be solved.
As if it had never really mattered in the first place.
See what Lord Voldemort really amounted to, Tom?
Evans was around too often, and at first it was smothering, because Evans had always managed to be too close in his silent and aloof manner. He knew too much, saw too much, and he was always there standing over Tom's shoulder ready to kill him and yet faltering.
Every night, when he fell asleep, he was back in that chamber with Evans standing behind his back and there was only their combined breath and the terror that this was it; this was all that he was. This single, silent, panicked moment where his heartbeat stuttered in his chest.
In the dreams Evans never failed to kill him.
It took him a week to ask, it was in the Common Room, they'd both been up far too late into the night staring silently into the flames. This had happened several times since the incident, Evans actions had failed to cure his insomnia but had passed the condition onto Tom instead, because whenever Tom closed his eyes he was dying.
They never said anything in these moments, never looked at each other, instead stared ahead into the fireplace. Sometimes Tom found himself wondering if Evans was some sort of physical phantom, if that was his secret, if he was an apparition whose sole purpose was to remain in the shadows and haunt with too green eyes.
Because how could anything human cause him such terror and grief?
Regardless they were there together once again, and Tom found the words were easier to say than he had ever expected, "Why didn't you kill me?"
Evans looked over at him, his eyebrows raised, his expression one of confusion and Tom asked again.
"You were going to, but you didn't, why didn't you just kill me?"
If Evans said that he didn't know, that he'd pitied Tom, that he just couldn't do it then Tom was going to scream and finish what they'd started that night and every night since in his nightmares. He was shaking, there was so little control, but he'd lost everything and he couldn't afford to lose it again.
For a few moments Evans just stared at him, incredulous, and then that familiar expression of disregard returned.
(It was almost sad that Tom found that comforting because at least it was something he knew, something he'd come to expect from Evans.)
"I tried to hate you, when I first got here, and I do hate you. I will always hate you, because you're a right monster, but you could have been so much more if you just tried." How was it that contempt sat so well in those green eyes? More than happiness, grief, it was contempt and righteous anger that suited them so well.
"You're brilliant, Riddle. You really are a bloody genius… And I didn't realize that you weren't Voldemort yet, that Malfoy and the Blacks and everyone else would hate you just as much as they hated Hermione. You're still evil but… You're not Voldemort yet."
"I could have been." He said bitterly, because he'd almost tasted it, worthless glory as it was he'd almost had it with that basilisk.
Evans frowned, his eyes flashing, and for a moment it looked as if he might curse him for saying that; for implying that Voldemort was a suitable road to travel on. Tom was too exhausted, too worn, to think on this and try to see why Evans held such strong feelings. They were there, they were inexplicable, and they were overwhelming. Perhaps one day they'd even kill him, although they'd tried and failed before.
After a moment of silence he appeared to think better of it though and shook his head, "I think even you know that it'd be a bloody waste. I don't like you Riddle, and if I had to I would kill you, but I'm going to believe that you can be better than you are now. I have to believe that things don't need to be the same… And I don't want to be like you." The last words were said with just as much force and anger as the rest and yet Tom couldn't help but think that they sounded more contrived than the rest of it, as if Evans desperately didn't want to be like Tom Riddle, the Tom Riddle he'd made up in his head but wasn't sure if he was or not. As if he was truly afraid to find out.
Evans seemed to consider this sufficient reasoning, because although he sat stiffly he didn't say anything more, and waited for Tom to say something in response. But there was nothing to say, because in his own way Evans had given Tom what he needed just now, a reason that wasn't based on pity.
He had never met anyone as brutally and terribly honest as Evans.
It was in that moment that he realized, to his surprise, that he didn't hate Evans. He didn't hate him for looking too closely and seeing what no one else had bothered to search for, he didn't hate him for having such unshakable beliefs, and he didn't hate him for that night in the chamber. Somehow Evans was removed from all of this, as if standing a little to the side of it, and so Tom didn't hate him in the way he had hated Mrs. Cole, Dumbledore, and so many others. He didn't know what he felt, a sort of forced hollowness, as if he had been carved out from the inside but at the same time…
At the same time perhaps there was something resembling kinship.
This was the closest that anyone had stepped to his soul and although Evans found it lacking he had not ground it out beneath his heel. Evans had seen potential, beyond all the things he found distasteful, he had found something that was worth keeping alive.
(That night in his nightmare, when Evans' wand rested between his shoulder blades, the transfer student hesitated to deliver the killing words.)
Evans was far more multifaceted than Tom had ever given him credit for. In some ways he was always sharp, that young man down in the chambers, but in other ways he was little more than a student.
The months went on and somehow, impossibly, they gravitated towards each other.
There was no real explanation. Evans, as he reminded Tom every so often, was not fond of him. Hate, he'd say, he hated Tom. He hated Tom's charm, his genius, his arrogance, almost every aspect of his personality Evans would list off and hate with a passion.
Being hated, it was probably similar to being loved, Tom didn't really know. It was hard to imagine something stronger than that single minded passion, that focus, the way his eyes burned you even as they looked at you.
Hate was a passion; that was what Evans had taught him.
Still in spite of his hate they somehow put the Slytherin's Chamber behind them. It lingered in the shadows of their conversations, but it did not obstruct them and soon they were sitting together in their classes and occasionally Evans would talk.
He was quite good at Defense, not so much the theory, but the actual physical casting and defending. He'd confessed at one point to Tom that he'd had a bit of a spotty education when it came to the subject, and that he'd only had one and a half good professors in it, (the half was said grudgingly along with mutterings of murderers and cultists) but in spite of that he flourished. Perhaps because he took it seriously, Evans, more than any other student saw the practical need for Defense Against the Dark Arts.
Most students would never use these spells, would never come face to face with dark wizards, and would spend their lives in an office. They saw it as a class, useful, and a bit more interesting than some of the more theory based classes but ultimately unimportant. Evans full-heartedly believed in defending against the dark arts.
"Why do you hate it so much?" Tom asked at one point, they'd been in the library, Evans flipping through his odd books again. He seemed distracted though, forlorn, looking as if he was on the verge of abandoning the subject altogether. Not that he'd ever told Tom precisely what he was looking for.
Tom had asked once and Evans had refused to answer but instead had become panicked and looked on the verge of causing Tom bodily harm if he inquired further. It had been a rather large hint to leave it alone.
"What?" Evans asked, looking up at him in confusion, tearing his mind from the pages.
"Dark magic." Tom clarified and with only the words a shadow fell across Evans face.
He looked so much older than fifteen in those moments, an adult trapped in a small child's body, and it would always take too long for anyone's comfort for his face to return to something resembling a student's.
"It's evil."
"It's energy." Tom countered, "It is neither good nor evil; magic only has the morality prescribed to it by the caster."
Evans scoffed at that, looking as if Tom had made some unintentional joke, "Of course you'd say that… That's just the excuse that evil people give to justify their actions. There is good and there is evil."
Tom considered that for a moment, he looked so convinced, so sure in his beliefs. He'd come to like that about Evans, that he was so sure in himself and more that he was so noble, they joked about it Slytherin but most Gryffindors didn't actually have many of the man's virtues. True nobility, honor, bravery were hard to come by and yet somehow Evans had them nonetheless. When you listened to Evans, or watched him, you almost couldn't help but believe in these things as well.
However, Tom knew a bit more about the subject than Harry Evans. Tom had read many of the books they didn't hand out in History of Magic, he knew his dark arts, and more he knew the unforgivable.
Crucio was invented by a madman and a sadist who'd experimented to find the human limit of enduring pain and to push them past it. Imperius by a dark lord who'd sought more manageable servants and a way to subdue enemies without having to lift a finger. Avada Kedavera had a different story though.
Avada Kedavera was not created by a mad man, a dark lord, but instead by young academic who'd been horrified by the world he lived in. He lived in a time of warring states, centuries ago, when Europe's borders were not so complete and the muggle world pressed in close.
The corpses of wizards littered the streets, their bodies hacked in two, strewn apart, and the fields were painted red with their blood. There was no easy way to kill a wizard, no fast, painless, efficient way to do what they felt needed to be done. More it was tradition that prisoners of war in England be taken to an island in the sea and chained to the rock so that dementors might devour their soul.
The academic had created a spell that he believed would end the horror of war if not the death.
It required will, you had to want to kill your enemy above all else, it required many syllables, so you had to say it without stuttering, but when fired it was fast and when it hit it never failed to kill. It was fast, it was painless, and to the wizarding population it was an abomination.
The spell had no purpose other than to kill, all other spells used in battle, they had other functions and while inefficient at killing did the trick.
To use this killing curse a man must admit to himself that he is a murderer and that he had no other intention than death.
And so it became unforgivable, the same as a spell to cause insanity through pain or to turn a person into a living doll.
Strange that obliviate, a spell used to erase everything a person is or was, had never made that list. Because surely that, more than even the killing curse, deserved to be counted among the unforgivable.
But of course it was too convenient.
He had a feeling this was a story that Evans didn't want to hear and had never heard before, sitting there, Tom had found he was content with Evans keeping his illusions. At least one of them had faith in the world.
Evans wasn't awful at Potions but he wasn't very good at it either.
Tom had learned early on, when they'd begun partnering together, that Evans could go and fetch the ingredients and do what Tom told him to but he was not allowed to directly interfere with the potion and more Evans knew this was for the best as well.
On his own Evans' potions would pass, barely, and he always would carefully watch his creations as if to make sure they didn't go too far downhill.
"Considering how good you are at Defense I'd assumed you'd be slightly above mediocre in Potions." Tom commented at one point as they were studying for an exam in the library, he'd finished studying quite a while ago but he liked sticking around and watching Evans' squirm. There was something about seeing his mounting frustration which was just so surreal and also satisfying.
Evans may have almost managed to kill him and had somehow slain a basilisk but Tom was much better at school than he would ever be.
"Yeah, well, I had a bloody awful teacher who hated my guts." Evans said, his quill tapping against his notes making small dents in the parchment.
"You hate me and we get along just fine." Tom pointed out to which Evans glared for a moment and then actually seemed to think on the words.
"Bloody hell, you're right… Well, I mean, I can't believe I'm saying this but he was way worse than you." Evans appeared shocked by his own words, as if he really couldn't believe he was saying this, as if there was nothing more abominable and wretched than Tom. And yet somehow, Tom couldn't help but feel slightly flattered, because this was the closest thing to a compliment he'd ever gotten from Evans.
"Oh he must have been quite terrible then." Tom said causing Evans to flush slightly with rage and embarrassment.
Flustered, Tom wondered if he'd ever seen Evans flustered, he didn't think so. Evans was always so closed off that it was hard to tell what he was thinking beyond determination and contempt. It was a bit odd to see such normal emotions on his face.
"Shut up, Riddle!" He spat out, but it lacked any real venom.
"Well, Slughorn plays favorites but he doesn't single anyone out as a bad seed either. That's more Dumbledore's style, so you should be fine. Ignored, but fine." Tom said with a shrug, which was true enough, in Slughorn's world you either got an invitation to the Slug Club or you didn't. Tom had never seen him hold a vendetta; he was too busy brown nosing future heirs to bother with it.
"Hey, Dumbledore's a great wizard!" Evans said, Tom looked up, blinking slightly unaware that he'd touched a sore topic.
Now that he thought about it Evans was always trying to talk to Dumbledore but it had always looked like he'd never gotten to say what he wanted to. Tom would always pass him waiting outside Dumbledore's office for a chance to chat and somehow Dumbledore always blew him off. Dumbledore didn't have the same distrust for him as he did Tom but never the less he was coldly professional with Evans.
So where had the need to defend him come from?
"I never said he wasn't a great wizard." Tom said, and he was, Dumbledore was a very learned academic and a master of Transfiguration. Tom had never belittled his talents even if he didn't like the man.
Evans blinked, confused, looking as if he'd wanted Tom to sneer and spit about how much he hated Dumbledore.
"He's a petty and ridiculous man but he does have his talents, I won't disregard that simply because I dislike him." Tom explained with a shrug, Dumbledore seemed unimportant now, now that Voldemort was no longer feasible.
Evans frowned slightly and then admitted almost grudgingly, "I've been trying to talk to him, and it's like he's not even willing to listen. He needs to though, it's bloody important."
Personal then. Tom couldn't help but think that it was about Evans' mysterious secrets, the things he'd never told Tom but had only allowed Tom to guess.
"Dumbledore rarely gets close with students. He picks his favorites early and doesn't deviate from them; it must be a Gryffindor trait." Tom said with a shrug and he could see Evans disbelieving expression but it was true.
Dumbledore had a bad habit of dismissing things that were terribly important because he felt morally superior or else unaffected by them. He had hardly changed since the time he had introduced Tom to the wizarding world five years ago.
"But it's really important." Evans insisted his fist pounding on the table if that might accentuate his point.
"He doesn't care."
It didn't seem as if Evans believed him or rather Evans was determined to prove him wrong because soon in every ounce of Evans' free time he was standing outside of Dumbledore's office or else trying to find him and speak to him alone. It was like he was some sort of demented stalker, there were rumors flooding the school of Evans' being in love with the man, but never the less Evans didn't falter.
For weeks he persisted until finally it was almost the end of the year and they would all be headed home for the summer.
It was their last day of Transfiguration, and Dumbledore had just finished handing back their last graded assignment. He smiled at Minerva McGonagall, his favorite student, and was now waiting for them all to shuffle out.
The man seemed tired, as if the war had drained something out of him, but never the less he was still standing there oh so proud and noble in the front of the class. Like he was so much better than the rest of them; Tom always wondered how he would have liked living in an orphanage if he'd ever gotten a chance.
Evans waited until it was just him and Tom in the room. For a moment he just stood there, almost nervously, awkwardly, his mouth half open as if searching for the perfect words. Finally he said something very odd, "Sometimes you have to choose what's right, instead of what's easy."
Dumbledore froze, stiffened, and looked at Evans as if seeing him for the first time. Evans didn't repeat himself though, just stared forward, his eyes blazing and his chin jutting out slightly. And then he turned, slowly, and walked out of the classroom leaving Tom to catch up with him.
"What was that supposed to mean?" Tom asked.
"He knows that he needs to talk with me, and maybe he's too busy and important with other things, but he knows and now when we come back in the fall he'll listen to what I have to say." Evans said, grinning wildly, as if he'd just won some great battle.
"I applaud your subtly, Evans, but I think that might have been too subtle." Tom pointed out, "You should have just told him what you wanted."
"I tried that, didn't work, tried something new." Evans said shortly, "Besides at worst he'll just ignore it, right? And then I'll try again."
"Are you a bloody Hufflepuff?" Tom asked, because there was tenacity and then there was pointless tenacity and sometimes he thought that Evans just had no idea when to give up and move on.
"Hey, I told you, it's really important!" Evans said looking mildly offended.
Tom didn't doubt that, but why Dumbledore, why only Dumbledore? Why not Tom? Why not Tom who had seen and was more than willing to listen? Why was it that he felt so cold at the idea of Evans dismissing him without a thought?
Important, he wondered how long Evans' tenacity would last when Dumbledore failed to meet his request in the next year. For surely Dumbledore, having made up his mind before he even heard Evans words, would not falter in the coming year.
The train rolled out of Hogsmede, back to the hell that was London, and Tom just felt empty at the prospect.
Of course, he could still leave that place come graduation, losing Voldemort hadn't taken all of his hope for the future from him…
Yet the wizarding war that had been only rumors earlier in the year was coming to fruition. The German ministry had been taken over by a dark lord and the mudbloods were being purged, at least, that was what the whispers were. It was hard to tell what was true and what was not only that in the mainland of Europe things were spiraling out of control and that it might not be best for Tom Riddle to be a supposed mudblood. Of course, this was in Germany, nowhere near England yet, so perhaps it would sort itself out.
Across from him Evans sighed, distracting Tom from his thoughts, he also looked dejected at the prospect of returning to London.
"I don't suppose you'd tell me where you live if I asked?" Tom asked, causing Evans eyes to flicker to his.
"I… I don't live anywhere right now…" He trailed off uncertainly caught by his own thoughts.
Tom blinked, and wondered if this explained anything, but it just added to the mysteries. "Don't tell me you're an orphan."
"Well, yeah, I guess I am." Evans said shrugging, as if he'd never equated being an orphan with being homeless before.
Evans, he found himself staring at the transfer student again. It was hard to see him as a student, even with the glasses, the second hand robes, the chronic bed head. Never the less there were times when he seemed just as young and lost as the rest of them.
"I'm an orphan." He said and Evans blinked, as if not sure what to make of this, "I live at an orphanage. I'm sure Mrs. Cole wouldn't appreciate a new tenant, but she wouldn't throw you out either."
"I…" Harry looked as if he didn't know what to say, good, he shouldn't.
Tom was being far too generous, if offering someone a place at that terrible orphanage could be considered generous.
"This is where you thank me." Tom said after the silence had persisted too long.
"Thank you…" Evans said, and there was nothing in his eyes, not contempt just a sort of dazed look as if he couldn't quite believe what was happening. But it was enough.
It was enough.
And they both turned to look out the window as the Scottish countryside rolled by.
Author's Note: Thanks to readers and reviewers, reviews are much appreciated.
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.
