SUMMARY: "Harry Evans was like lightning in a bottle. An impossibility." Tamsin Marvolo Riddle hides her cruelty and thirst for power under a perfected mask of charisma. When war-weathered Harry Evans transfers to Hogwarts, she is intrigued by the hatred, seemingly spurred on by nothing, he feels for her. A festering interest gives way to obsession. fem!Riddle/Harry
After the incident with Lestrange and Evans, heavy tension overtook the House. And not just between Evans and Lestrange, though that was certainly there, but between Evans and essentially the rest of the students in Slytherin.
Tamsin could read the room expertly, and she could feel that palpable, tangible strain whenever Evans interacted with any Slytherin. But shockingly, despite her relatively good treatment of him, he had given her the greatest amount of vitriol and venom, a silent resentment that was boiling in him, something that was even more concrete than his feud with Lestrange.
Days passed by, and Tamsin kept her eye on him. There was something that she couldn't place about Evans, and she didn't want that to come back to bite her if she didn't keep her guard up.
The insults directed at Evans were more subtle now from Slytherin. More thinly veiled, hidden under broad smiles and sickeningly sweet, syrupy laughs. They only gazed at him with scathing eyes and sneers when he wasn't looking. The only person who seemed to hate Evans out loud was Lestrange, but it was only because he'd been backtalked and was still reeling with the embarrassment. Tamsin, who usually saw everything from a bird's-eye view, was left wondering what it was like in a dorm with both Lestrange and Evans. She wondered how they got along—how they hadn't hexed each other's faces off. One of the seven wonders, no doubt.
Still, it made some sense: as insane and manic as Lestrange was, he wasn't one to follow through with his threats. But Tamsin was. If someone had dared to speak to her like that, Tamsin would've made them hurt.
Lestrange's insults, directed at Evans, were spreading like hives, and even Dumbledore had taken notice of Slytherin's hatred of the new half-blood student. This could cause Tamsin problems down the line.
However, although tension was thick, Harry Evans did not drastically change Slytherin or rip into their reputation as a culture supporting pureblood supremacy. His existence merely reinforced Slytherin's hatred and showed the other Houses that they hated mudbloods, even those sharing their House colors.
Being in Slytherin, however, was no doubt profoundly debilitating for Evans. He was now a mudblood to the Slytherins, a Slytherin to the mudbloods.
There was no winning with a hand of cards like that.
She warned her Knights about him, telling them to be careful around Evans. There was a litany of reasons for this command, but mostly, it'd been spurred on because, ever since Evans' arrival, Dumbledore had seemed far more suspicious of her; her Knights' hatred for an "innocent" muggle-born hadn't exactly helped Tamsin.
To Lestrange, she had simply said, "Hold yourself back from doing anything hasty."
And when Lestrange had let out a bark of laughter, Tamsin's eyes had sharpened. That had shut him up for a few seconds, before he opened his stupid mouth and asked, "Hold myself back... Tamsin, what's that supposed to mean?"
"Aren't you a Slytherin?" Tamsin had questioned, her eyes cold. "I want you to exercise caution, Cadmium."
She hadn't even needed to specify what she was talking about. Lestrange already knew. "I'm not scared of him."
Abraxas Malfoy, the pompous fool, had agreed, "I don't think he's anything to worry about. He's all talk, Riddle."
Tamsin let out a laugh, genteel and controlled, and the Knights of Walpurgis in the room prickled. She flashed her pearly whites, aware of how unsettling she looked. "I did not mean to insult your pride. There is no doubt in my mind—you are more powerful than him," said Tamsin. Lestrange seemed to visibly perk up, like one of Abraxas' proud peacocks. "But picking fights with meaningless mudbloods is below you, Lestrange."
"Tamsin—"
Tamsin walked toward him, causing whatever Lestrange had to say to die in his mouth. At the present moment, the Knights were gathered in an abandoned classroom, hidden by many a protection ward to avoid detection. It was an eerie environment, with cobwebs framing the wall to the back of Tamsin, and dim, black-and-white lighting. Her lips formed a cruel smile, and she could see a bead of sweat drip down Lestrange's neck.
She finally stopped in her tracks, when she was centimeters away.
Her hand slid down his right robe pocket, until she felt the outline of his wand. Poplar. Simple, with a couple of carvings. Unicorn hair. It felt light in her hands, and so she removed it, keeping her movements slow and measured. Her gaze flicked to the other Knights, with Rosier flushing red as if he were witnessing something indecent, Malfoy shifting from foot to foot, and the Blacks and Avery looking away, lips tight.
She brought Lestrange's wand out, smiling. "Supple."
Lestrange looked down, his head slightly bowed.
"This is your wand, is it not?" she said softly. "It is. It reeks of you, Lestrange. Undeniably yours."
By now, her Knights were all looking away, waiting, backs lined with tautness.
"But it is a flexible wand. It can bend to other masters," said Tamsin. Finally, after a few shaky breaths from Lestrange, she murmured in a musing tone: "I'd wager it'd be embarrassing to be tortured by your own wand."
Lestrange had begun nodding, a manic desperation in his forest-green eyes.
"I am the Heir of Slytherin. I have Slytherin in my birthright, in my pedigree, running in my blood. Only I know how to restore Salazar Slytherin's vision," Tamsin proclaimed, her voice gaining a hard, sharp edge. "And petty rebellion isn't included in it, Lestrange. You will obey my will. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes," Lestrange was desperate to put out, his head now fully crooked down at her. Like a dog that'd been kicked for his infraction. "I...understand now."
Tamsin smiled, stared down at the wand, and neatly slid the wand back into Lestrange's pocket. "I'm glad you've seen the light," she told him, her tone light. Tamsin's eyes glazed over the other members of their little...clique, softening with practiced precision. She repeated, "Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes," chorused her Knights. It was melodic to her ears.
Perhaps Tamsin had misinterpreted Harry Evans. There was nothing interesting about him to probe her curiosity.
The boy was very quiet, almost strangely so. It was easy to forget one was in the same room as him. Like he was on the fringes at Hogwarts, a shade, similar to a House ghost.
He never sat in the Common Room; he always passed quickly by like a breeze on his way to the dorms. To be fair, though, he was barely in the dormitories either, according to Lestrange. When Tamsin went on her prefect patrols, she often spotted Evans walking quietly down the halls. He looked like a wild animal, pacing back and forth as if in a Muggle zoo. It was almost comical. When they met eyes, he would keep eye contact, searing. Then he would pass by her like a ship in the night, disappearing down the bend of the hallway in seconds. Sometimes, when this occurred, Tamsin had the strangest urge to follow him down, to see if he was hiding something more than that restlessness. Still, she resisted the curiosity, pushing it to the back of her mind.
According to what Tamsin had observed, Evans didn't have any friends. No one associated with him. No part of Slytherin was his home. And the other Houses, upon seeing his green tie, looked away.
During class, he never said anything. People whispered things about him, quiet and hushed. Rumors about how he was some mudblood soldier. This made Evans retreat further back in his shell, acting more and more withdrawn at the looks he received on his back.
He seemed, despite what Slughorn had said of his "brilliance," utterly average in most classes. The only classes in which he was even marginally better than the rule were Defense Against the Dark Arts and, strangely, Potions. In Defense, he'd received extra points for his House for excellent spell work, which had made his Slytherin peers noiselessly laugh into their hands. And in the latter class, he was quite good at making select potions. The rest...he was average in. Still, Slughorn seemed to smile whenever Evans did something, a quick look of affirmation that could be easily missed—just so he could separate himself from a mudblood.
Every day, he sat on the farthest seat of the Slytherin table in the Great Hall, exiled to the edge. Evans didn't seem to care though, hardly minding the happenings around him, instead passing longing glances at the other Houses' tables. Most days, he played with his food dully with his fork and looked around the room, as if steadying himself with the sight of Hogwarts. However, a couple weeks after his induction, he had the gall to look at her during the meal. When they made eye contact, he looked away.
But several moments later, his eyes, from the far side of the table, began to trail across, slowly and leisurely. His lips were drawn tight.
He looked in her direction, eyes gliding across her features to her...her hand.
Framed on her ring was a proud black-and-gold stone. The Gaunt Ring. Her second horcrux.
Evans continued to look at it. Feeling strangely conscious of it, she covered the ring with the sleeves of her dark robe.
While she kept her diary securely in the chamber of her ancestors, she found herself wearing the Gaunt Ring everywhere she went, in an almost paranoid fashion. If she ever took it off, she had no doubt there'd be a thin band of tightened skin in her ring's shape.
She had killed her family and extracted the ring from Morfin's finger. It had slipped on easily, like it was meant for her.
She decided, then, that it was hers. And that it would be her next horcrux.
The way Evans was eyeing it, with no subtlety at all, made her skin prickle.
Placing her hand under the table, she ran the pad of her thumb over the precisely cut edges of the stone, trying to soothe her worries. Where she traced was displayed the Peverell coat of arms—a captivating shape with a circle and line framed by a triangle.
She eased her worries after several breaths.
Evans thought it was a pretty ring. It was nothing more than that.
Galatea Merrythought was the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, and like much of the staff—save for Dumbledore, of course—she adored Tamsin. Tamsin found the class to be rather boring, as they mostly dabbled in the theoretical. And to add to that, Tamsin didn't particularly feel the need to defend herself against the dark arts, when she'd rather embrace all sorts of magic—even spells of the unsavory branch.
Still, Merrythought was a respectable witch, who was strict without being overbearing. And she did love to compliment Tamsin, awarding her lavish, exorbitant quantities of points, which boosted her standing in Slytherin. Still, the class was useless, with non-practical applications of non-verbal magic being taught all throughout September. Now it was November, and they'd still been reading and learning the same material. Defense was a waste of Tamsin's time...
Until today.
"I think we've taught enough abstract concepts," said Merrythought, walking through the classroom with a smile. "I think it's time for us to practice something more...concrete. I want all of you to partner up, and try to pick someone equal to you in power, would you?" Galatea Merrythought's violet robes flowed down the column between the desks. "We will be practicing dueling. More hands-on, wouldn't you say, students?"
The students, consisting of Slytherins and Gryffindors, nodded vigorously, excitement and eagerness clear in their gazes. Tamsin smiled at this, feeling a precursor to adrenaline running through her blood. Tamsin adored any chance she got to showcase her magical prowess, to remind the rest of Slytherin of their place. And dueling was fascinating. Although she had to suppress her instinct to use darker varieties of magic, utilizing what she'd learned from obscure textbooks often plastered expressions of awe onto her followers' faces.
"Now who would like to go first?" Merrythought asked, her tone chirpy. Merrythought peered at the room of students, before her eyes met Tamsin's form and lit up. "Miss Riddle, would you like to show us how it's done?"
"Of course, professor." Tamsin smiled, standing up to survey the room.
She could pick Alphard or Orion Black, but she wanted more of a challenge. Avery wasn't bad, but he was also unpracticed, his dueling unrefined. Same with Rosier. She wanted to reinforce her status as the top of Slytherin, worthy of being the heir.
Her eyes met Evans'. She thought about perhaps dueling him, but it was a fleeting idea. When her gaze slipped away, Evans' cheeks were colored with a subtle darkening.
That left Abraxas Malfoy. He was nowhere near her level, but he was a fine dueler. She offered him a raise of her eyebrows, a challenge.
Abraxas practically hobbled out of his chair, face beaming.
"Excellent pick," said Merrythought with an approving nod. "Come to the front of class, and draw your wands. I want to do this the proper way."
Tamsin strode to the front with grace and unhurriedness in her step. Abraxas walked at a faster, brisker pace, smoothing his white-blond hair with one hand, while picking out his wand with the other. He licked his lips, trying to steady himself.
Tamsin merely smiled and drew her wand, holding it firmly but delicately.
They bowed.
Tamsin waited no time after that to make her move.
She fired a non-verbal spell in Abraxas' direction, catching the Malfoy heir off balance. A stinging hex, which Malfoy shakily blocked with a non-verbal Protego, causing a weak, silvery shield to be erected in front of him.
Swan-diving colors of blue and red darted around the room, causing the air to practically tremble. Tamsin continued to circle Malfoy, wordlessly blocking his measly attempts at spells.
Annoyed by Abraxas' cowardly attempt to hide behind a shield, she sent several, rapid-fire shots through Abraxas' Protego, cracking it open after three well-placed spells.
It sent Abraxas flying back at the impact with a yelp.
After Abraxas had been knocked on the ground, she allowed him time to gain his footing. She had a manic look in her eye, her dark hair flowing from the wind in the room, adrenaline coursing through her veins like pure power. Abraxas hurriedly got up.
Sending a modified version of Confringo in his direction, Tamsin watched with satisfaction as Abraxas was sent further back, futilely trying to defend himself. She moved with agility, avoiding several of Abraxas's spells, blocking the rest with her wand, as the boy began edging to the corner of the Defense classroom.
Feeling as though she had wasted enough time dallying, Tamsin sent a silent Incarcerous with a precise twist of her wrist in Abraxas's direction, ropes rising like a wall around Abraxas and creating a cage, worming around his hands, making him lose grip of his wand.
Abraxas's wand dropped to the floor with a clatter. Tamsin looked to the right, where Merrythought was grinning from ear to ear.
"That was brilliant, Miss Riddle!" said Merrythought. "What a wonderful display of non-verbal magic. You've implemented our lessons effectively. Please, students, feel free to take notes about Miss Riddle's precise spell-casting and footwork... On the other hand, Mr. Malfoy, I would like more dynamism in your Defense. Your fixed posture and reliance on shields make your dueling less efficient."
Abraxas nodded, flushing. But when he looked in Tamsin's direction, he had eyes of adoration.
Like she was power in physical form.
She soaked in it, looking at her other classmates with gobsmacked expressions. Her eyes trailed over to where their resident muggle-born was sitting... Evans looked shaken by her duel, like he'd been there in the place of Abraxas. His pupils were dilated with interest, and his hair was matted with sweat.
"Who's next?" asked Merrythought. "It'll be difficult to top Miss Riddle and Mr. Malfoy's display of spell work, but—"
"I'll go," said a voice near the back of the room. "If that would be all right, Professor Merrythought," he added, for formality's sake.
Tamsin felt her lips twist, and intrigue simmered in her gut. Merrythought voiced Tamsin's thoughts aloud: "Are you sure, Mr. Evans? You are a new student, and I haven't taught you many spells. I don't want you to...feel underprepared."
Evans' smile didn't reach his eyes. "You don't need to worry, Professor."
"I applaud your proactiveness," said Merrythought, though her tone revealed her skepticism. "Having confidence is the first step to having a successful duel. Who would you like as your partner?"
Evans' eyes flitted around the room, as he stood up. He flicked his eyes to Tamsin, but took them off of her in a moment's time. She wondered if that was intentional, if it was some kind of revenge for not picking him. She dismissed the thought as foolish.
His gaze finally traveled to where her Knights were sitting.
And Tamsin put the pieces together, just as Evans said, "I'd like to duel Cadmium Lestrange."
He couldn't duel her, so he was settling for someone else. The way his eyes burned green fire, incensed—that wasn't for Lestrange. It was for her. And that was puzzling, anomalous, in her mind, forcing her to ponder deeply and intently.
"Great pick. Cadmium, would you be amicable to Mr. Evans' request?"
Cadmium Lestrange looked in Tamsin's direction, waiting for approval. Tamsin gave him a subtle nod, and Lestrange stood up, a vicious leer etched on his mouth. She found it ironic; she'd been so insistent when she'd told Lestrange to be cautious around Harry Evans, but now, she was going to watch them duel. Gushingly new, tantalizing adrenaline coursed through her body, as the two figures took their places.
She found it impossible to look away from Cadmium Lestrange and Harry Evans. She found herself wanting to watch Lestrange—one of the best fighters of the Knights of Walpurgis—destroy Evans.
Evans was trying to get to her through a duel with Lestrange—that was as clear as day—and for even thinking such a foolish thought, she wanted Lestrange to pick the other boy apart.
Lestrange's face wrinkled with disgust, but Evans looked calm, brows relaxed, posture loose. Like the duel was a picnic, and he was a breeze.
After bowing, Lestrange immediately threw a spell that looked like blue sparks in Evans' direction. Looking unbothered, Evans darted away, quick as the wind, from the orientation of the spell. Tamsin noticed that Lestrange had picked up what she'd taught him, when she'd been training her Knights in dueling. They had learned all sorts of painful hexes, as Tamsin had withheld information on the Unforgivables...just in case one of her followers performed the spell, and it was traced back to her.
If Tamsin's memory served right, what Lestrange had fired was an immobilization jinx, mixed with Confringo. Lestrange, similarly to Abraxas, didn't have fluid movements, but he made up for it with brilliant spell work, courtesy of Tamsin's training. Lestrange continued to fire off complex, violent spells in Evans' direction.
However, despite his power, it seemed that Lestrange's non-verbal spell-casting had taken a great toll from him, as he breathed heavily, sweat coming in streams down his wrinkled forehead. That would have to be worked on, noted Tamsin, but he was still doing an excellent job of putting Evans on the receiving end of his magic. Tamsin's lip curved in amusement, as she watched Evans move around Lestrange's powerful attacks.
After a few seconds of watching Lestrange sent spiraling jinxes in Evans' direction—which Evans ducked and avoided like a matador with the charge of a bull—Merrythought's brow began to furrow.
Evans, as if sensing if he didn't fire some spells of his own that the duel would be soon over, began to summon spells. He coerced flaming colors of vivid green out of his wand, quickly charging in Lestrange's direction. Lestrange blocked one of them, looking quite proud at having done so, but Evans just began to send more, fiery beams of light that caught Lestrange on the defense. Spells, even a couple curses, that even Tamsin didn't recognize.
One hit Lestrange, causing him to let out a shriek of surprise. Tamsin stared at him impassively, feeling disgusted at the weakness Lestrange was exhibiting.
Watching Lestrange was like watching a sinking rock. Watching Harry Evans was like watching magic given human form.
He was fluid—like breezes, and rivers, and the magic that seeped out of his wand like liquefied flames. His eyes were such a blinding green as he blocked and avoided and fired and cursed; it was a bit mystifying. Evans was reflexive, purposeful, automatic with every spell. Meanwhile, Lestrange stood in place, heaving, gasping for air practically, like a fish out of water.
Lestrange's face was now a bright pink, his eyes watery, his curly, dark hair wild against his eyes. The fury and shame curdled in him to form an ugly emotion, something that birthed new desperation and recklessness. Lestrange sent several more spells, to which Evans, unbothered, only ducked to avoid.
Evans looked arrogant and coy at Lestrange's futile attempt. When Evans sent another array of spells flying in Lestrange's direction—causing the sound of little explosions to racket, another landing on Lestrange's chest, making Lestrange clutch it—Evans caught Tamsin's eye in the center of the room, searching her gaze.
She sealed her emotions away from her face. Her heart thrummed in her ears.
After he had recovered from the temporary pain, snarling almost, Lestrange neared Evans, sending a spell that would probably sap the remaining bits of his energy across the room. A last-ditch attempt, Tamsin analyzed. And what happened next stole her breath.
It was like Evans had put a pause on time: He ran up to Lestrange, narrowly avoiding the spell that sizzled past his ear, and shoved him down. Lestrange tripped, shocked at such brute force.
Finally, when Lestrange was panting, looking one second away from passing out, Evans, in his first instance of verbal magic, casually said: "Expelliarmus."
Lestrange's wand floated to his left hand like it weighed nothing. It molded in Evans' hand like it was made to be there.
For a moment there, she was so fascinated, so entranced, by Evans' display of raw magic that she forgot about how pathetic Lestrange had been. After the duel had ended, the realization had come sharply back, like a piercing in her gut.
After all of the hours she'd dedicated to Lestrange's training, after she had perfected his non-verbal spells, teaching him advanced magic that no student at Hogwarts could even hope to cast, he had gone up and done this.
Tamsin fumed, and she found that she wasn't even mad at Evans. That display of magic was atypical, both fluid and powerful; how could she be mad at magical might? No, she was beyond rage at the thought of Lestrange's loss.
Everyone in Slytherin knew the Knights were her favored batch, the best of the best. The upper echelon, the greatest of House Slytherin.
The rest of Slytherin knew that she was training them, that she had put time and effort into molding them to be the best... And some mudblood, with no standing, who'd been at Hogwarts for a mere two weeks, had gone up and beaten one of them.
It's more than infuriating, Tamsin decided, scarring half-crescents onto her palms with her nails. It's humiliating.
"Exceptional!" praised Merrythought, stepping up, and she outright began clapping. No one joined her, and she, coughing, stopped. "That was a fascinating display of power, Mr. Evans. Simply exceptional. Students, do you see now how one must approach a fight? Not always with magical means, but also through physical! Though, er, Mr. Evans, the shove at the end was a bit much."
Evans' eyes were coated over with adrenaline and elation, but he calmly nodded. "Apologies, Professor." He passed Lestrange's wand back to him, something like mirth in his eyes.
"It's all right, Mr. Evans. That was still very impressive," the professor said. Merrythought turned to the rest of the room. "Who wants to go next?"
Gripping his wand with a tight, angry grip, Lestrange walked back and sat down, miffed and humiliated, looking like he was close to combusting. He didn't meet her eyes. Tamsin had to hold back a sneer, instead looking at him with bitter eyes that communicated how disgraceful the duel had been.
He hadn't just made a fool of himself. He'd made a fool of them all.
She would have to punish him for failing, for making the Knights look weak and feeble...
As Evans walked to the back of the classroom, he passed her an indecipherable look. Evans took his seat, practically lounging in his chair like he was some king. A self-satisfied smirk unfolded on his face.
Tamsin seethed.
A/N: Hi, thank you for all of your amazing comments! I just realized that I didn't specify this in the summary, but Harry "Evans" is a time-traveler. I've had this idea for so long now, and it's so cathartic writing it down. Please lend me your thoughts in the comments; they're the best kind of fuel. Thank you for reading.