A/N:

i said to myself, what if i wrote an absurd amount of serious plot and backstory just so i could get to this one (1) lynchpin plot point which i think is utterly hilarious?

then i did it.

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Wizarding Britain's Finest

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Part One: Tom

Harry Evans was a nameless, forgettable Muggleborn student. He had no titles, no family connections, no power. He had shown up at the start of sixth year and gone on to be absolutely, utterly boring.

If anyone had known better, if anyone had thought to look, they would have noticed that Harry Evans was not normal. They would have noticed that his grades were perfectly, completely average, that his magic was strong but unrefined, that he was careful to only get new spells right on the third or fourth try.

If Tom Riddle had known better, if he had simply thought to look, he would have noticed all these things and more. He would have realized that Harry Evans stayed at Hogwarts every holiday, just like he did. He would have realized that Harry Evans' magical signature was stronger than that of an average sixteen-year-old wizard.

Most of all, he would have realized that the reason why he had failed to access the Chamber of Secrets in his seventh year was because Harry Evans had gone down there first and closed it all up.

Now that Tom had graduated and was working at Borgin and Burkes, he had more important things on his mind. His focus was on the expansion of his political organization, the Knights of Walpurgis. They met on a weekly basis to make plans and enjoy the finest dining that the richest Purebloods could provide.

Aside from that, Tom had also been searching for proof of his Slytherin heritage. With the use of Legilimency, he had learned that his mother had sold her locket, Slytherin's locket, to Borgin. Borgin had sold it to a Madam Hepzibah Smith, and Hepzibah Smith, well—

Madam Hepzibah Smith could not remember what she had done with it.

Tom visited her often to glean more information, but was increasingly frustrated by her patchwork memory. How could one lose such a priceless artifact? Not only had she misplaced Slytherin's locket, but she had also misplaced the cup that had belonged to Helga Hufflepuff, the founder from which Hepzibah claimed to have descended from.

It was all quite suspicious. Tom had begun to wonder if someone had beaten him to it.

And thus the direction of his inquiries changed:

Who did she speak with? Who came to visit her? Who worked in her household?

No one. Hepzibah Smith kept the company of her House-Elf and no one else.

It was only after some time that Tom realized he had been looking for answers in the wrong place. Of course poor, stupid Hepzibah was vulnerable to thievery and Memory Charms. It was not her that kept the valuables safe, it was the House-Elf.

So Tom turned his talents in Legilimency to the elf. House-Elves were not bound to the same laws of magic as wizards were, and thus it was more difficult to Memory Charm or Obliviate them with any accuracy. Whoever had stolen the locket and the cup would not expect any investigators to question the elf. People did not pay much attention to those they took for granted.

In the mind of the House-Elf, vaguely blurred but clearly recognizable to Tom, who took to names and faces well, was Harry Evans.

And so began a new hunt, a new challenge: the challenge of courting Harry Evans to his side.

Evans worked at Quality Quidditch Supplies in Diagon Alley. He worked the regular store hours on Mondays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays. On Saturday evenings, he had dinner at the Leaky Cauldron.

Tom observed this pattern for a while, then decided that the Leaky Cauldron would be the best opportunity for a chance run-in. Working retail did not particularly inspire warm feelings towards those who entered the shop; Tom was not about to associate himself as a customer for their first meeting.

So on Saturday evening, Tom made his way to the Leaky Cauldron, settled on the bar stool directly next to Harry Evans, and ordered two glasses of single malt whiskey.

Evans was focused on his dinner plate. He did not so much as glance in Tom's direction when the bartender placed the two glasses of the whiskey on the table. Tom cleared his throat gently and—when Evans seemed to reluctantly lift his head—pushed the second glass over.

"Pass."

Tom balked. "Excuse me?"

"Pass. On the drink." Evans flashed a hollow, empty smile, then turned back to his plate of… was that a lump of mashed potatoes? Evans was choosing mashed potatoes over him.

"Perhaps we got off on the wrong foot," Tom said smoothly, unwilling to let Evans' cold demeanour fluster him. "My name is Riddle. Tom Riddle. you may remember me from Hogwarts?"

"You were Head Boy," Evans said, matter-of-fact. He waved his fork in the air, then added, "And I am not interested in a conversation tonight."

Tom kept his charming smile fixed on his face. "Then we don't need to have one—"

"Great, let's do that."

"—but I'd kindly ask if you would accept my offer of a drink, and perhaps some companionable silence," Tom finished, irritated.

Evans reached for the glass, wrapped his hand around it, then promptly shoved it back across the table. "Sure hope you aren't a lightweight, Riddle."

Tom grit his teeth and tried to formulate another response. He had never been met with such a firm rejection before. Typically, people were open to conversing with him. It gave him the opening to craft a desirable persona with which to ingratiate himself with. Evans was giving him no such opening. In fact, Tom rather felt he had been given the verbal equivalent of a black eye.

Evans stood up, shoved his now mostly-empty plate away from him, and pulled his coat shut. Muggle coat, Tom noted. Muggle clothing and an abrasive attitude.

Tom sat there as Evans left the Leaky Cauldron without looking back. Once Evans was gone, Tom's view of the bar had widened considerably. There was a witch seated two stools away, smiling at him and eyeing his second drink. Tom scowled. He would have to try harder, that was all. Evans would require a different approach.

Now that his target was gone, there was no point in lingering. Tom caught the bartender's eye and waved him over.

The bartender shot a subtle glance down the bar. "For her?"

Merlin, no. "Keep them yourself," Tom said with a smile. "I'll be back next Saturday."

Next Saturday, Tom returned to the Leaky and located Harry Evans at the back corner of the bar. This time, Evans did look up as Tom approached. He appeared distinctly unimpressed as Tom shifted his expression into something contrite.

"My apologies if I overstepped last week," Tom began. "I noticed you come here on Saturdays, like I do, and I thought a drink would serve as a friendly way to introduce myself."

"Fairly sure I've always been here on Saturday," Evans said wryly. "Also fairly sure you haven't been."

Tom had been here the past few Saturdays because he had been following Evans around. "Pleased to hear you've noticed me," Tom said lightly. "May I sit down?"

"No, you may not," Evans replied, his tone distinctly mocking. "What I would like is to notice you leaving."

Tom was not a patient man. He was used to getting what he wanted, was used to his charm doing the work of building these flimsy social relationships for him. Now faced with rejection for the second time, there was only one viable path left for him to take.

"I host weekly gatherings every Friday," Tom said slowly. "A private group of friends for dinner, drinks, and intelligent conversation. I'd like to invite you."

Evans started laughing. "You don't give up, do you? My answer is no, and if you keep asking, my answer will be my wand down your throat."

Tom smiled and sat down anyway. When Evans began to protest, Tom shushed him and spread his smile into a shark-like grin. Evans met his gaze, seemed to read the seriousness in it, and narrowed his eyes in suspicion.

"I'm afraid you don't have a choice," Tom told him. "You see, Harry Evans, I had the pleasure of visiting Hepzibah Smith the other day. Wouldn't you know, I happened upon the most interesting memory in the mind of her House-Elf. She seemed to recall a certain dark-haired, green-eyed wizard breaking into her lady's home and making off with their most treasured valuables."

"I don't know what you mean," Evans said. He stabbed at an onion ring with his fork, lifted it to his mouth, bit off a chunk, and started chewing.

For a moment, Tom had to admire the gall. But no, he was the one in control here, and Harry Evans was but another stepping stone on Tom's path to power.

"I think you'll find that the authorities see it differently," Tom said. "Stealing from a Pureblood witch is the quickest way to find yourself declared guilty in a biased trial. You and I both know that."

"The testimony of a House-Elf would never be taken seriously as evidence."

"Evidence?" Tom tilted his head to the side. "They don't need evidence. All they need is proof that the items are missing, which they have, and someone to pin the blame on. In this case, you and the House-Elf. I'm sure I could spin the most convincing story of collusion. I promise you that it won't even have to make sense—they will leap at the chance to throw you into Azkaban."

"You don't scare me." Evans scoffed. He looked Tom up and down, his brows tugging together as if he'd only just realized something. "Why do you even want me at your party, anyway? I don't fit the profile of your rich, posh friends."

"I want to know how you spent two years at Hogwarts going unnoticed," Tom said. "I want to know how you were able to steal such powerful magical artifacts from a well-warded manor without being detected. I want to know more about you, Harry Evans, so I can decide if I want to recruit you."

"Recruit me?" Evans repeated. His eyes widened enough to tell Tom he'd successfully caught the man off-guard. "You want to recruit me to your little gang of Purebloods?" Evans' lips flattened out. "You do realize I'm a Muggleborn, right?"

"You have the magical talent to suggest otherwise." Tom waved it off. "You must have an ancestor of magical lineage." Whether or not that was true did not matter. If it was not, Tom would simply decide upon a connection and force the subject upon everyone until it became as good as the truth.

"I'm not joining you. You're mad." Evans shook his head to emphasize his point.

Tom braced an elbow on the table and leant in as if he was sharing a secret. "As I said: you don't have a choice."

Evans shot him an exasperated look, then glanced around the bar. "Would you look at that? I don't see the Aurors here right now." He tapped a thoughtful finger against his chin. "Maybe I'll just skip on over to America. I hear the weather in New York is lovely this time of year."

"The life of a fugitive is not a kind one," Tom mused. "Looking over your shoulder for the rest of your life? Is this really what you want? For a crime of this caliber, they will hunt you down." Tom spread his hands in a conciliatory gesture. "All I ask is for one meeting, one evening of your time, and I promise you will not regret it. Many of our classmates from the Sacred Twenty-Eight will be in attendance."

If Evans was after valuables, if he was seeking to rob the rich and the bigoted, then surely he would not pass on the opportunity to rub noses with Wizarding Britain's finest.

"You have the wrong idea of me," Evans said after a moment. "I am the last person on this earth who would ever willingly subject myself to your company."

It was good that Tom was not leaving this choice up to free will, then. "One night, and if you disagree with what you find, I swear I'll leave you be."

Evans' brows rose. "And Tom Riddle is a man of his word, is that it?"

"I don't know what I've done to deserve such a low opinion," Tom said, pressing his hand over his chest as if he had been wounded there. "But I assure you my intentions are genuine."

"You want the locket and the cup."

"I won't lie," Tom admitted, because to lie would do him no favours here, "I do. But I can also see the value in having you as an ally. As a friend."

Evans glowered, his gaze darkening. "I can't tell if you're bullshitting me or not, but either way, I don't want any part of it. Do you want to know what I did with them? The locket and the cup?"

There was an edge to Evans' voice that Tom did not like. "What?" he asked cautiously.

"I destroyed them," Evans said fiercely, eyes flashing. "I took them to an open field and reduced them to ashes with Fiendfyre. They're gone, Riddle. You'll never lay hands on them."

Rage flared in him, unrestrained and fevered. How dare Evans do this to him? How dare he destroy such priceless artifacts out of pettiness? Slytherin's locket belonged to him. It was his lineage, his claim. It was the only proof left to him aside from his ability to speak Parseltongue. Before he could think better of it, his wand was in his hand and aimed across the table.

Evans eyed the tip of it, which was glowing faintly and spitting sparks. His lips curled into a cruel smirk. "Do it. Right here, right now, in front of all these witnesses," Evans taunted. "And then we'll see which one of us goes to Azkaban, won't we?"

Tom was breathing hard, his vision swimming and spotting in equal turns. "You have no idea what you've done," he seethed. "Do you have any idea what you've done? That locket belonged to me."

"You can have what's left of it, if you like. I kept the remains as a souvenir."

He knew Evans was trying to get a rise out of him, but Salazar help him, it was working. Tom's hand was shaking, his knuckles white with the strain of holding his wand so tightly he worried it might snap.

No. His anger would not help him. It was not helping him. Tom exhaled loudly and, with herculean effort, lowered his wand. "I see."

Evans smiled. "You see that I'm not the best person to recruit for your little group of sycophants?"

"I accept your offer," Tom said neutrally as he stowed his wand away.

Evans stared at him. "You what?"

"The remains. Of the locket. I wish to have them. You'll deliver them to me when you attend my gathering on Friday."

"No! I'm not doing that," Evans protested. "You can fuck right off, Riddle, I told you—"

"You believed that I was only after the locket and the cup. I told you that was untrue. You no longer have them, yet I still wish for you to come."

"You just had your wand pointed at me!"

"You have destroyed my family's last existing heirloom," Tom countered flatly. "I feel that to be a reasonable excuse for anger. You'll bring the remains of the locket as an apology for destroying my family heirloom, and in return I will not inform the Ministry of your misdeeds. Do we have a deal?"

Evans was angry now, too. His face was flushed and he looked like he wanted to throw a punch.

Tom sighed. "Will it help if I make the event public? Will that ease your ridiculous nerves?"

"A public event?" Evans said dubiously.

"Yes, public. I will instruct my men to invite their wives, their families."

Evans seemed confused all over again. He was searching for the trick, the trap, but he would find none because there were none.

The only trap was the trap of Tom's charm; once Evans submitted to that, once Tom discovered how to successfully win Evans to his side, then that incredible power, that boundless courage, it would all belong to him.

The locket had been a means to an end, a way to prove his heritage and confirm his status in the hierarchy of magical Britain. That it had been destroyed was a travesty, a cause for just anger and resentment, but its remains would suffice for the original purpose Tom had envisioned for the locket.

Hufflepuff's cup, on the other hand, had simply represented an opportunity to analyze an ancient magical artifact. The value of it was incalculable, of course, but Tom had no discernible use for it. The cup would have made for a nice bonus, an added luxury to flaunt and utilize as a bargaining chip.

"Do we have a deal?" Tom repeated, extending his hand.

Evans looked down at it. "You only want the remains of the locket? Not the cup?"

"Only the locket," Tom confirmed, wondering why that mattered.

"And if I decide your fancy party is not for me?"

"I won't bother you again."

"I find that hard to believe," Evans said, jaw flexing.

Tom shrugged. "If I had truly wished to force your hand, to be cruel, I would have done so. Instead, I chose to offer you a drink. Instead, I chose to make concessions so that you would feel comfortable attending. All I ask is that you return what belongs to me and attend with an open mind."

Evans' green eyes searched Tom's face for a long while. Tom could only wonder what he was seeing, what conclusions he was drawing.

"You also tried blackmail," Evans pointed out. He shook his head. "I'm not sure how you think you'll be able to convince me. I can promise you that it won't happen."

That was as good as an agreement. Tom smiled. "I shall forward you a copy of the guest list once it has been confirmed." It wouldn't take long for Abraxas to arrange for a garden party. "There will be women and children in attendance to reassure you of my good intentions."

"You won't convince me," Evans repeated, but it sounded halfhearted.

Tom stood up. "I shall see you Friday afternoon." He extended his hand one final time.

This time, Evans took it and gave it a brief shake. Their palms connected, warm and dry. Triumph swelled in Tom's chest. Success at last.

No matter what Evans said, no matter how strong he believed his strength of will to be, he would succumb in the end, just like all the others before him.