Brandish Her Soul Like a Weapon
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
He had eyes ripped straight out of that old Muggle idiom: like the green-eyed monster. They were a very startling, beautiful color, she had to admit—lush, like wild foliage, and searing, like her favorite curse. Placed atop his nose were wire-rimmed glasses, which hid the full brunt of rage in his eyes under a gauzy sheen. But it didn't stop it from leaking out. The intensity in his eyes was immense and unwarranted, like a powerful current. Tamsin felt a piercing sensation, like needles, every time his gaze intersected with her form.
When Slughorn had asked her to stay behind in class, she had expected him to praise her accolades in Potions, or to remind her to come to the next Slug Club. Tamsin hadn't imagined for him to string along a green-eyed boy, radiating untamed loathing from every pore in his body, who he'd dubbed the newest transfer student to Slytherin.
He looked no older than fifteen, with gangly limbs, angry eyes, and a clenched jaw. He also looked like he wanted to smash something, especially if that something was her skull. Very muggle, very violent.
Unsubtle, Tamsin noted. Slytherin House would have to wring that trait out of the new transfer student.
Slughorn prattled on and on, for several minutes about the boy's circumstances for his late arrival. War in France. Grindelwald. Running away. Tamsin wasn't surprised. He looked like a refugee, with his scraggly hair and secondhand robes. Sporting a scar that carved up his forehead like a bolt of lightning, it was obvious that he was marked by violence. His eyes radiated war—there was no other way to say it—and the angry glow to them was probably just a side-effect of his vision being so frequently mottled with death.
"This is Harry Evans," Slughorn finally stated, when he was done blathering. It clicked in Tamsin's head, then, that, with a name like Harry Evans, he was a mudblood runaway of the war. "And this, Harry, is Tamsin Riddle. She is our prefect and also the best student I've ever had the pleasure of teaching."
Tamsin allowed a practiced smile to grace her lips. "You flatter me, Professor."
"Nonsense!" Slughorn proclaimed. He chuckled. "I believe you two will hit it off nicely. Both brilliant, I have to say."
She turned to Evans. "My name is Tamsin Riddle. I'd be happy to help you adjust to Hogwarts," Tamsin said politely. She offered him a smile that was all lip. "It's very nice to meet you, Harry Evans."
"Same here," he gritted out, like it was painful to say.
Slughorn looked positively giddy at Evans's two-word introduction, even though it lacked any sincerity behind it. The old man blurted, "It's so excellent to see you getting along, my dear students... Or should I say future students." His eyes crinkled with joy, looking at Evans. "I'll let Miss Riddle give you a tour of the castle. She and Mister Lestrange will be assisting you during your stay at Hogwarts to ease you into your new home."
The chirpiness in Slughorn's tone was unfounded in Tamsin's opinion. Though Slughorn was by no means a pureblood supremacist, he still harbored some pureblood ideals. He wasn't one to seek mudbloods into his circle; he never did like unremarkable pebbles. Tamsin had had to crawl from her status as a mudblood her first year; she'd had to gain their starry-eyed worship, their blind devotion to her. They had treated her like the scum on their boots before, with a surname like Riddle. There was no way Evans had managed to weasel his way into Slughorn's cheery, little circle so easily, not with his status as a mudblood. Fools like Slughorn searched for potential in everything, and potential rarely found purchase in muggle-borns. That nasty, undisguised hatred from Evans wasn't appealing either.
Even crude Slytherins like Rosier were born with sophisticated cunning in them.
With cunning came the ability to shield one's emotions, to obtain power and greatness.
Her Knights had found their means of power and greatness in the form of her. Her and her Knights of Walpurgis, how they worshiped her. How they loved her. How they would give their hearts, bodies, minds, souls to her, in exchange for a good word by her lips.
Evans' anger was particularly annoying because it was directed at her, imprudent hatred mixed with suspicion. It reminded her of Dumbledore, and that made her skin itch.
Tamsin didn't dwell, as she settled her gaze on Evans. It wasn't anything she needed to worry about. He was new to Hogwarts. He didn't yet comprehend the hierarchy of serpents.
He didn't know who was at the helm, who had Hogwarts under the bend of her thumb. That, in the eat-or-be-eaten world of Slytherin House, she'd climbed to the top.
"Thank you, Professor Slughorn," said Evans, turning to the old slug with genuine gratefulness in his eyes.
Then his gaze flipped to hers, and that biting iciness returned like a blizzard.
Bidding Slughorn goodbye, they walked out of the dungeons of the Potions classroom.
Tamsin could still feel Evans seething in her direction. She couldn't believe it. How was Evans a Slytherin? This amount of stupidity was unfathomable. Even though she'd sometimes had difficulty communicating her emotions through her gaze, with her eyes often coming off as cold or intimidating, she had never been this blatant about her emotions. Although her hands often prickled with the desire to inflict pain, one of her telltale giveaways, she had sealed that aspect of her, obeying Pureblood conventions.
Why did Evans hate her anyway? It was like, as soon as she'd stepped in, he'd decided that she was the devil incarnate.
It was strange. Usually, Tamsin was rather good at charming people.
She parted her lips, musing. She didn't get far into her thoughts, before she saw Evans pause at the stairs and look at the portraits on the wall. He had a nostalgic look in his eyes.
"So," she said, in an attempt to make conversation, "you've been Sorted, have you?"
His nose wrinkled, and his posture stiffened. "Yes."
"Into Slytherin?"
His eyes were searing, challenging. "Yes," he stated clearly.
"I hope you find it welcoming in our house," Tamsin told him, plastering on a warm smile. "We are very close-knit and unified."
That was true enough, but that unification would be against him. Slytherin was not tolerant of mudbloods in its midst.
Evans wouldn't last a day here with "Mister Lestrange" and his dormmates. Unless he was somehow also the Heir of Slytherin, they would make his life nothing short of hell.
All because of one...little...surname.
And ironically, he probably could've passed as a pureblood: sharp cheekbones like the Blacks', sloping nose like the Potters', and green eyes like the Killing Curse. Tamsin would have believed he was some noble pureblood heir from his looks and that confidence embedded in his step, as he walked through Hogwarts with an unfeigned confidence, like every step of the castle was familiar to him. To add to that, there was also a...trace in the air of his magic. Fluid and in-motion. Similar to the powerful magic of pureblood heirs, like Abraxas or Orion.
He could have passed as a bastard child of a noble and ancient house. What a pity, she thought amusedly.
"Professor Slughorn mentioned you were from France," Tamsin noted, keeping her tone curious. "I notice you speak with a British accent."
That anger evaporated, leaving behind a flustered look in his eyes. Evans blinked a couple times, licked his lips, and murmured, "My parents were British. I picked it up before I went to school."
Muggle school, most definitely. For a muggle-born, mudblood child with no inkling or idea he even had magic.
She hummed in affirmation. "We don't often have transfer students here at Hogwarts... Wouldn't Beauxbatons be a closer—" Tamsin prodded.
"I don't want to talk about it," snapped Evans without any subtle grace. That anger flashed, but moments later, he also added, "I'm sorry if I seem rude. I'm just not in the mood for pleasantries."
He didn't seem all that sorry, in Tamsin's opinion. He seemed two seconds away from violence.
But that made sense. He had lived in Grindelwald's playground, and had a war-torn mind with a war-torn body. There was a good chance he had scars, similar to the lightning bolt, under his robes; it made Evans weak. He was graceless and tactless, with no way to shield his emotions. He was bursting at the seams with potent anger and whatever else he'd managed to scavenge from the war against Grindelwald, like mistrust.
"I'm sorry for pushing," Tamsin said softly, allowing for sympathy to drip into her tone.
"It's fine," Evans muttered back. Still on-edge.
Any time Tamsin spoke in the tour, Evans seemed to bristle, gooseflesh appearing on the back of his neck, a twitch and jostle in him. Evans was jumpy, wary, paranoid.
She looked around at Hogwarts, gestured at some classrooms and the like, and showed him around, as students walked past them and greeted her warmly. One even dared to give her a red rose, which she received with a winning smile and a heartfelt thank you. She saw Evans seething in the corner of her eye, and she bid the nameless Ravenclaw goodbye, placing the rose in her robe pocket.
As soon as he left, she fisted the stupid flower with a white-knuckled grip, and felt satisfaction when she extracted hydrosol from its bud. It ran smoothly over her hand. She liked imagining it was blood.
Tamsin hadn't known what she'd expected from Evans after the fifth person said hello to her. Perhaps some kind of newfound reverence, as he gradually put two and two together and realized Tamsin's place at Hogwarts: as the top dog. But she didn't get much. Evans seemed just as standoffish as before, still looking at her with loathing. She wondered if she should take a peek at his mind, pondered for a few seconds if there might be a deeper reason for Evans' ineptly hidden suspicion. Deducing it was merely a product of war, she let it go.
Tamsin didn't waste Legilimency on powerless mudbloods; there was nothing she needed to know that she couldn't discern from his appearance or expressive cues. The narrowing of his eyes, ticking of his jaw's muscle, furrowing of his brows. He was an open book.
She continued the tour, not letting anything pass her welcoming façade. Tamsin grew irritated at Evans' unsubtlety. At the increasing violent tinge in his eyes, indiscreet and brash.
Oh, how she wished she could open the Chamber again, to bring out the majestic serpent that resided inside it, to strike this annoying thorn and turn him dead and glassy-eyed. It would fill her with such satisfaction. But she couldn't risk it. Not with Myrtle's recent death. For now, she put herself in a good mood by imagining how House Slytherin would tear him apart. Her Knights would not make assimilating to Slytherin, as a dirty mudblood, easy.
And that anger in Evans—well, it could be beaten out of a person. They could make it vestigial.
After giving Evans the tour, Tamsin made haste to the Chamber of Secrets just after her final class.
The placement of the Chamber of her ancestors was convenient for her. There was little reason to get suspicious with its location being in the girls' lavatory; she only had to be careful about making sure she was alone when she, coercing it open with Parseltongue, opened the Chamber. Tamsin had learned her lesson with dull-witted Myrtle, who had to show up at the lavatory at the wrong time and place, just when Tamsin had been speaking to the beast inside. When its eyes had flashed at the sink, Myrtle had dropped dead in seconds.
Myrtle had been an accidental death, but Tamsin wasn't one to waste such an opportunity.
Tamsin, seeing her chance to perform the bit of archaic magic that Slughorn had admitted to, had brought out her diary. She'd performed the ritual of splitting her soul into a horcrux.
It was a long procedure, involving splitting the essence inside her. She carved gently and delicately a portion of her soul, and once she'd summoned a reasonable amount of it, she'd injected it into the pages of the diary. It had felt like relief, like a shot of adrenaline entering her veins. Addicting. Since then, she'd been itching to create another horcrux. That, alongside her management of her new exclusive "club," the Knights of Walpurgis, had been her main focus.
Dumbledore could speculate about her all he wanted. She'd made up for her error by blaming Hagrid. The stupid fool couldn't pin the blame on her, not when she'd made sure to cover her tracks, picking the perfect scapegoat. It was only a bonus that Dumbledore liked the stupid half-breed.
Tamsin had goals of such grandeur. She intended to secure her own immortality with horcruxes. Then she intended the Knights of Walpurgis to become molded into something more: she was still contemplating the name, but she liked the sound of Death Eaters. As its new lord and master, she would bring the Wizarding World to its knees. As Voldemort. Oh, how she longed to erase her Muggle name and forge a new one, one that would never be spoken. She would fashion herself into a powerful, revered figure.
Until then, she needed to bide her time. To play the slow game. To secure her control over the populace at Hogwarts.
To master dark magic. To create new horcruxes. To become immortal and eternal.
To become more than human.
In the quiet of the dark chamber, Tamsin opened her diary, brought forth a pen, and watched ink dribble down from her quill. The blot of ink disappeared, absorbing into the page. A thrilling chill ran through her at the sight.
"Hello. My name is Tamsin Marvolo Riddle," she wrote neatly and precisely on the first page. The page soaked it up, like a sponge.
Such happenstance, the diary wrote back in a moment's notice. My name is also Tamsin Marvolo Riddle.
Ah. So her diary had sentience, then. When she'd stored her soul away in the vehicle of the diary, she never imagined having the desire to check if that part of her soul was happy, was fulfilled, was sated. She hadn't even thought this small sliver of her soul even had a conscience. She hadn't thought of that at all.
Even now, Tamsin wasn't sure why she was bothering. Perhaps that morbid curiosity, which had driven her in the pursuit of knowledge, had reared its head. And it couldn't hurt anyway, to merely introspect with one's self. It sounded like something bloody Dumbledore would suggest, and she laughed at that.
"How has the diary been treating you?"
It is nothing more than paper and leather.
Her jaw clenched at that. "Paper and leather. Skin and bones. There is no difference."
Do not mistake my words, the diary wrote back hastily. I have no complaints or regrets. I will stay here for an eternity, in order to ensure you obtain eternity. We are one in the same, you and I. Your interests are mine.
"Then this will be our last correspondence," wrote Tamsin, each letter like an etched vow. "I intend to make more Horcruxes. To split my soul into seven, the most powerful and sturdy number."
Our last? the diary wrote back. The words stayed on the page several seconds, before fading. Then I wish you luck in your endeavors. Goodbye.
"Goodbye."
The farewell was sipped by the paper, leaving behind an endless expanse of white paper. Tamsin closed the diary carefully, feeling the smooth leatherbound cover on her fingertips. Caressing it delicately, the satisfaction of creating a horcrux finally settled in.
It's paradoxical, she thought to herself, wry. Splitting her soul was the first time Tamsin had ever felt whole in her life.
The Common Room was dead-silent when Tamsin walked in. Curfew was hours from then, so a few Slytherins were lounging on arm-chairs, most working on their homework: long scrolls that'd been assigned, due the next day. Tamsin had finished it only moments after getting the work. Her academic record, as all the Slytherins knew, was pristine; her diligence was commendable; her tenacity was worshiped in House Slytherin. She hardly bothered with homework; she finished quickly, and she always received perfect, stellar marks.
Evan Rosier, who'd been sitting on one of the green arm-chairs, perked up when he saw Tamsin, blue eyes bright with interest. He didn't say anything to her though, his eyes simply lighting up like little comets at the sight of her. He was one of the boys who was in love with Tamsin, enamored by her. Tamsin had heard rumors about Rosier's feelings from Druella, Evan's older sister; she spoke about the poetry he waxed about her, about her long hair like a "dark waterfall into the abyss" and her eyes like "galaxies twinkling with midnight-black stars."
Tamsin hadn't scoffed when Druella had told her in the dorms, to save face, but she'd wanted to. If Rosier hadn't annoyed her before, he did now.
Although Tamsin used her feminine mystique to her advantage, she despised the way some of her...admirers misinterpreted her. That they thought she was some prize to be won, some blushing bride, when she was truly pulling the strings in the operation. Rosier would love to whisk her away to be his wife, though he was unwittingly uncomprehending of the fact that he was nothing more to her than a dog. A follower, a fool, a tool to be used.
Rosier smiled when Tamsin sat parallel to him. To the side of his plush arm-chair, in equally comfortable seats, were Abraxas Malfoy, Edmund Avery, and Alphard and Orion Black. They were the main crux of her group of Knights. The only person who was missing was Cadmium Lestrange, and he—
Ah, there he was.
Walking in from the Slytherin entrance was Lestrange, framed on his left side was Harry Evans, whose eyes were still wary and vigilant. It seemed like Tamsin wasn't special, after all. Judging by his darkened eyes and fits of twitching, Evans was equally as jumpy around everyone.
Observing Lestrange's sneer and disgusted expression, Tamsin realized that Lestrange knew Evans was a mudblood. He didn't say anything though, leading Tamsin to the conclusion that he wanted Tamsin's input before doing anything hasty. Good dog, thought Tamsin, smiling.
Gesturing at Evans, one of the girls, Cordelia Greengrass, blurted, "Who are you?"
Greengrass was one of the few female Knights of Walpurgis, chosen because Greengrass was quite popular and not unskilled with magic. Greengrass didn't show up to every meeting of the Knights, but she still supported Tamsin for her status as the Heir of Slytherin and her goals of ridding the world of muggle-born scum. Cordelia Greengrass was also one of the girls in her dorm, along with Druella Rosier and Walburga Black. She had slowly become acquaintances with Greengrass, after she had seen Tamsin as muggle-born scum and competition. It had been a gradual but rewarding process that involved Tamsin's silver tongue and patience.
Girls, Tamsin had learned, had to be manipulated differently from boys. While her male Knights bent down to her because of her power and beauty, because her magic sung with vigor and because she possessed a kind of intimidating, classical beauty, the girls had to be seduced differently.
She'd had to emotionally appeal to Greengrass, and sharing a dorm, allowing for close proximity, helped. It was one of the tricks Tamsin had learned in her years at the orphanage, where she'd had to play nice with Amy Benson to steal her shiny thimble.
Evans didn't respond to Greengrass's question, standing ramrod-straight by the entranceway. Cadmium Lestrange's sneer grew, and he stepped up and blurted, "New transfer student, of the mudblood variety." He let out a sharp laugh. "Harry Evans."
Tamsin felt a smile creeping on her lips, but she quelled it. She knew neutral dispassion was the most powerful emotion to wear.
"A mudblood?" asked Abraxas. "In Slytherin? Preposterous. You're fibbing, Cadmium."
Evans finally let that anger fester into something: a snarl. He snapped, "I'm not muggle-born. I'm a half-blood."
"Are you, now?" said Lestrange mockingly. "I don't think a half-blood would have to run away from Grindelwald. With the way Slughorn explained it, it sounds like you've been chased out like the filthy animal you are..." His voice dropped an octave as he murmured, "What a shame you had to escape to our school, to Slytherin. Do you know what sort of a House Slytherin is?"
Evans clenched his jaw, not saying anything. He likely didn't want to provoke a fight, not with so many powerful purebloods in one place. Tamsin couldn't blame him: his mudblood, or if he wasn't lying half-blood, status was already sullying his reputation. Picking a fight in a room that would be against him wouldn't be wise.
"You may not know this because of your dirty blood," Lestrange said in taunting tone, "but this House is only for purebloods. Certainly not for half-bloods...certainly not for mudbloods like yourself! I can't believe it."
Lestrange looked over at Tamsin's direction, searching for approval. She only gave him a nod and the quirk of her lips.
Evans sneered. "Is that so?" His voice was so quiet, it could've been mistaken as a breeze.
Lestrange offered an equally ugly sneer back. "Dumbledore lets anyone into Hogwarts these days," he snapped, like he was trying to provoke Evans to do something. "It's like the damned fool is shrieking: 'The muddier the blood, the better!'"
Tamsin watched, undeterred as Evans stared. That anger was increasing exponentially in his verdant eyes. Surprisingly though, he wasn't even looking at Cadmium Lestrange; his eyes were trained on her, the rage shooting up like the thrust of a geyser into the air, turning his face into an amalgamation of irritated structures: his nose wrinkling, his eyebrows descending like the brunt of a storm, his eyes like slits of glowing jade. Evans looked like he wanted to pounce, and wasn't that so very Muggle of him—
Instead, quick as a whip, he took a pace forward, drew his wand from his robe pocket, and brought it to the other boy's chin.
The wand was made of holly, a dark brown structure that's tip was thin, acting as a junction between Harry's hand and Lestrange's chin. Evans brought it up forward, prodding it sharply. "Do you want to see how muddy my magic is, Lestrange?" he whispered softly. A smile grew on his lips. "I'm not like you, like any of you." His pupils shot up, staring at the room of purebloods from his standing point. "Do not provoke me again."
Evans brought his hand down, backed away, and left Lestrange sneering and pink-cheeked. Lestrange's voice was sharp and high when he screeched: "You couldn't have done anything with that, mudblood! Magic is forbidden in the Common Room!"
Evans laughed finally, and the sound was like grating nails on chalkboard. "Perhaps to you. Dirty blood or not, magic has never been forbidden to me." The eyes of pureblood scions trailed after him, sneers on their faces, disgust on their tightly-drawn brows. "You don't crawl out of a war without something to show for it. Don't be the first to find out what that is."
And eyes blazing, his wand tightly wrapped by his hand, Evans made his way to the stairs to the dormitories.
Tamsin half-expected Lestrange to do something to avenge himself, to say some other mocking line in his lilting voice, but Lestrange merely sneered and sat down near her, lips drawn to a thin line, unwilling to admit how shaken he'd been at the exchange. His cheeks were still tickled by a flush of anxiety.
Tamsin wetted her bottom lip, her mouth suddenly very dry.
From the corner of her eye, she watched Evans' silhouette, with the clench of his muscles in tension and the twitch of his hand around his wand, disappear into the darkness. She found herself staring at where he'd been, long after he had left.
How curious.