Chapter Text
When Tom hears the rustle of curtains opening beside him, he doesn't move at first.
He scarcely breathes, even, his grip tightening around the book in his hand as he strains his ears to listen.
The slide of the curtains closing again. The soft click of a trunk opening. Something is quickly retrieved from it before it snaps shut again.
Behind his own bed curtains, Tom gently sets down his book and waits.
The footsteps moving out of the dormitory are soft against the plush carpet, but the late-night silence of the dungeons makes every sound carry more weight.
The door creaks slightly. There's a pause, then it creaks again, but softer this time.
This is a boy accustomed to sneaking; that much is clear.
But Tom Riddle knows all these same tricks and more besides.
The Head Boy badge Tom wears is significant in the status it allows him. He cares very little for rules himself, unless they can be used for his own benefit. By the same token, Tom will happily break any rule that does not suit his purposes.
His position requires him to appear to hold Hogwarts rules in high esteem. There are times when he must carry out a punishment when rule-breaking is blatant and public.
But the other Slytherins have learned to conduct themselves in a manner that will not force Tom's hand.
If it were any of Tom's other dorm mates sneaking out at this hour, he would leave them be. If they are not clever enough to stay hidden and find themselves at the mercy of the caretaker, it is not Tom's concern. He, too, is meant to be asleep at this hour—not standing guard to catch those who break curfew.
However, the bed that has been vacated is not one that belongs to one of Tom's Knights.
The boy breaking curfew is Harry Evans.
Evans arrived at the beginning of term along with a scattering of other refugees from the continent. He has been tight-lipped about his past, giving vague answers and changing the subject whenever it is raised.
Contrary to what some may believe, Tom does not mind letting others have their secrets. He has learned that the experiences many of his peers consider harrowing are truly quite dull. Tom really has no interest in the supposed horrors Evans has witnessed. No, there is something else about him that concerns him far more.
In fact, it has begun to drive him to distraction.
It is the way that Evans treats Tom in comparison to everyone else.
It is subtle, granted. By every measure, he is polite. He listens when Tom speaks to him. He responds pleasantly. Recalling all of their interactions, Tom cannot think of a time when Evans could even have been interpreted as rude in any way.
Yet that is all Tom receives: measured politeness. Smiles that never reach his eyes. Exchanged greetings that are never followed by conversation.
But with the rest of the house, Evans glows. He eagerly leans into discussions. He laughs freely, dark curls falling around his face as his head tips back. Out on the Quidditch pitch, he takes to the air as though he learned to fly before he learned to walk.
He throws his arm over Orion Black's shoulders as they trudge to the changing room following a match, their Quidditch kits stained with mud. He speaks to his teammates animatedly, his hands making wild gestures in the air.
His eyes, vibrant and green, shine when he interacts with others. But as soon as they settle on Tom, they grow distant and dim.
There's something Tom can sense behind them. It is not the suspicious stare of Dumbledore. Nor is it hesitance or fear.
Tom might nearly call it hate—if the very idea were not so absurd.
People admire Tom. They fear him. Envy him, certainly.
But none simply dislike him.
Besides, he has done nothing to compel Evans to hate him. In fact, since his arrival, Tom has become even more careful to maintain his flawless public image.
It has become a peculiar puzzle, one whose solution is difficult to ascertain.
Tom has tried to engage Evans in conversations about subjects that clearly interest him. But unlike when Abraxas Malfoy brings up the same topics and Evans responds spiritedly, with Tom he says only enough to maintain a facade of pleasantry.
When enough time has passed for Evans to have successfully left the common room, but not the dungeons entirely, Tom slips out of bed and puts on his dressing gown.
Evans sneaking out has given Tom a new plan. He will follow Evans and discover what he is up to.
Though his intentions are not to punish Evans for any discovered misdeeds. No, their relationship is too fragile for that. Evans will only slip further away.
But shared secrets hold power. As do debts.
In front of Evans, Tom has maintained the persona of a Head Boy who takes his duties quite seriously, after all.
He'll catch Evans out. Then he will carry out a convincing performance of a man battling against his integrity. Evans will believe that Tom holds his duties so sacred that witnessing blatant rule-breaking and ignoring it is as painful as carving out the flesh of his own heart.
But for Evans, Tom will allow this incident to pass without consequence. He will do Evans a kindness. A kindness that Evans will believe caused Tom considerable strife.
Evans will have no choice but to be grateful to Tom. He will see him as an ally. Better yet, he will believe he owes Tom something in return.
Finally, he will thaw in Tom's presence—offer him the same sunny smiles he gives so freely to everyone else.
Tom finds the common room deserted when he reaches it. Dark, aside from the faint green glow of the lake and the dying embers of a fire in the hearth. He does not linger there.
Stepping out into the dungeons brings an immediate chill, causing Tom to pull his dressing gown closer.
Evans is not immediately visible in either direction.
He is determined to find Evans, come what may, but if Tom makes the wrong turn now, his task will become considerably more tedious.
Rounding the left corner brings him to another empty corridor. Perhaps Tom should have given Evans less of a head start before following, but he doesn't wish to be noticed straight away.
While Evans is already breaking curfew, there is a chance that, rather than merely wandering, he is doing something far more interesting.
Something that would make Tom's promise of confidence even more valuable.
Then from somewhere deeper in the dungeons, a door closes.
Tom smiles and keeps walking.
Now, what purpose could Evans have in visiting an abandoned classroom this late at night? Tom's mind races with possibilities.
The most appealing of them all is Evans seeking a clandestine space to practise the Dark Arts. If Evans is interested in such a thing, it will be easy for Tom to integrate himself with the boy.
He'll have Evans as one of his Knights and secure his loyalty in that manner.
If Evans is a Dark Arts practitioner, it is possible his coldness towards Tom thus far stems from the belief that someone held in such high esteem within the school is not to be trusted. It would be an easy notion to dissuade Evans of.
Of course, Tom would have to impress upon Evans the importance of maintaining an image of respectability—at least until Tom's goals are achieved and all have the freedom to practise the Dark Arts without fear of punishment.
Evans could also be meeting someone else for a private conversation on a subject too sensitive to be spoken of in the light of day.
Until now, Tom has believed that, like the other refugees, Evans is merely a victim of circumstance rather than someone who would know anything of substance regarding the war. But it would be quite interesting to be proven wrong. Interesting as well as advantageous.
But what is both most likely and least interesting is that Evans is having a late-night dalliance of the sort that Tom has become accustomed to breaking up while on his rounds.
Dreadfully boring, but still exploitable.
Evans seems like a gallant enough sort. He'll likely wish to protect the reputation of whatever tart he is meeting with—especially if she happens to come from a pure-blood family, where any indecent behaviour could tarnish her reputation for life.
Still, Tom doesn't fancy having to witness it for very long. He'll break things up quickly.
The corridor is quiet aside from the sort of groaning sounds that are always present in a castle so ancient. Tom cannot hear Evans's voice—or any voices at all—but that is of no matter.
Tom has carefully attuned his ears to detect whether a room is merely quiet or has been silenced by a charm. A Silencing Charm creates an unnatural blankness where sound should be.
Sure enough, after pressing his ear against a few doors, Tom finds the one Evans must be inside. He was careful, but not careful enough.
First, Tom silently dispels the charm. Then, rather than entering immediately, he casts another spell of his own invention that turns the door transparent—but only to his eyes. Evans will have no notion that he is being watched.
Sure enough, when Tom sees Evans, he's mid-kiss. His back is pressed against a desk, arms entwined around his paramour. How dull.
But what's this?
The other party pulls away enough for Tom to see his face.
Yes, his face.
Because Evans is not meeting with a girl.
It's a boy.
His hair is long enough to mistake him for a female at first glance, dark and falling to his chin. But his facial features are blunt and masculine, with a prominent Roman nose.
Forester, the Seeker for the Ravenclaw Quidditch team.
For some reason, Tom cannot bring himself to move.
He knows, of course, that some men prefer the company of other men. But how has he failed to notice that Evans is one of them?
There is something almost violent about this coupling—a clash of tongue and teeth. Evans's grip tightens on Forester's waist, knuckles whitening. Then, with a force that is nearly brutish, Evans presses down on Forester's shoulders until he is kneeling before him.
Forester does not seem angered by this. In fact, he looks up at Evans with a doting smile, his lower lip kissed bloody. His hands reach towards the waistband of Evans's pyjama bottoms and yank them down.
And while Tom hasn't made a habit of looking at other boys' cocks, he is forced to acknowledge that Evans is absurdly well endowed.
Long, thick, weeping at the tip—his cock could be classified as a weapon.
Not that Tom would ever be frightened of a cock, of all things.
In fact—
As Forester opens his mouth, tongue lolling out flat, Tom feels an unwelcome stirring in his groin.
And when Forester palms the bulge between his legs, Tom's own hand drifts down before he realises it.
He freezes.
Then discovers his fingers have already closed over the growing ache there.
When Evans cups the back of Forester's head, guiding his mouth onto his cock, Tom is engulfed by a strange heat.
Shame crashes through him and he flees.
Over the next few days, Tom thinks about what he saw Evans doing far more than he should.
It’s the final term of his Hogwarts career. NEWTs are on the horizon. Tom has far more important things to concern himself with than Evans.
Following him was meant to cure Tom of the distraction, not exacerbate it.
Tom no longer attempts to engage Evans in conversation, but only because his words get caught in his throat when Evans is too near. So instead, Tom watches him. Subtly.
In the classes where Forester is present, Evans does not seem to pay any special attention to him. Perhaps Evans avoids being publicly friendly with him out of a regard for both their safety.
At night, Tom struggles to sleep. He lies awake, straining his ears for the sound of Evans leaving his bed.
Part of him wishes he had never followed Evans at all.
But another part—one that is becoming increasingly difficult to ignore—wishes that he did not run away so soon. That he had stayed longer.
Seen more.
So the next time Evans sneaks out of the dormitory, Tom is up and following him before even making a conscious decision about it. He tells himself that he’ll put a stop to things this time.
He follows Evans to the same classroom as last time. A few waves of Tom’s wand reveals the interior of the room, where once again Evans is kissing someone.
But it's not Forester.
No, the boy Evans is with tonight is much softer than Forester. His features are nearly cherubic—round rosy cheeks and honey blond curls.
A Hufflepuff. Reed. A member of the Frog Choir.
Evans is sweeter with this boy than he was with Forester. Gentler. Reed smiles into every languid kiss, seeming to melt under Evans’s touch.
Does Evans care more for Reed than Forester? But he had looked so taken with him, despite his rough manner.
Slowly, Evans and Reed undress each other, laughing softly all the while. Tom spares less than a cursory glance at Reed’s plump and ruddy nude form, but his eyes linger far too long on Evans.
The shapeless uniform robes do not do Evans’s body any justice. What is revealed beneath is strong and defined.
In the low light, Tom makes out several interesting scars. He wonders where they came from. How he had not noticed them before.
What it might be like to press his tongue against the marred skin—
The suddenness of the thought draws a choked sound from Tom’s throat. Immediately, he clasps his hand over his mouth, eyes widening.
But Evans and Reed give no indication that they have heard him—lost in each other as they are.
Then Evans leans in to whisper something in Reed’s ear. It's too quiet for Tom to hear, but whatever he says makes Reed flush from head to toe. They kiss deeply again, before Reed turns away from Evans, bending over and bracing his hands on the top of the desk in front of him.
Evans must mean to fuck him then.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Tom recalls that his intention was to break up this rendezvous before things escalated too far. But curiosity keeps him watching.
He's not entirely ignorant of such things, of course. Many times as he has walked the streets of London, lecherous older men have called out to him, offering him money in exchange for his company. Tom has always refused them. It is far easier to use a bit of wandless magic to relieve a muggle of their coin. There is no need for Tom to debase himself in such a manner.
But he has always believed that the act could only be pleasurable for the one doing the taking. But he must be remiss because here Reed is, trembling in desire to be entered.
Evans strokes and squeezes the curves of Reed’s arse, then gives one cheek a playful slap. Reed giggles and widens his stance, revealing himself further.
Then, to Tom’s considerable confusion, Evans drops down to his knees.
He takes off his glasses, setting them aside, and proceeds to begin licking and kissing Reed’s hole.
The sight makes Tom feel light-headed. Evans is putting his mouth… there?
It's utterly filthy. Depraved.
He doesn't understand what could possibly be pleasurable about such a thing.
But even as Tom tells himself this, his cock seems to disagree with his assessment, hardening against his will.
And his mind drifts, imagining a warm mouth there. Evans’s mouth, tasting him with such reverence.
Though if it was Tom in Reed’s position, he would act far more dignified. He wouldn't be squealing like that.
Reed must be exaggerating the sounds of his pleasure, surely. Because he's nearly screaming now, bucking against the desk and pressing himself further against Evans’s face. Evans grabs on to Reed’s legs to hold himself steady.
“Fuck,” Reed cries out. “Harry, I’m about to come.”
Harry.
The name turns in Tom’s mind.
Of course, it makes sense for Reed to use Evans’s first name, given the intimate nature of their relationship.
But it is a stark reminder that Tom has not been granted this privilege. That while the rest of their housemates' given names slip from Evans's tongue with ease, he still addresses Tom as “Riddle” in that detached, aloof way of his.
The fact that this giggling Hufflepuff is allowed to call Evans Harry stings far more than it should. What about him could be so appealing?
Reed makes a strangled sound, head snapping back. Evans stays right where he is as the boy orgasms, face still buried between the globes of the arse in front of him.
It will likely be Evans's turn to receive his pleasure next. His pulse quickens at the thought of it. Will he bend Reed over further and take him? Will Reed take that enormous cock into his mouth?
Will Reed wrap his hand around Evans’s arousal and bring him off—letting Tom see every twitch and pulse?
Tom’s hand tightly grips his thigh in an effort not to touch himself.
Then, in the distance, there are footsteps. The creaking sound of a lantern swinging.
The caretaker is coming.
Tom is well within his rights to be out at this hour, but he doesn't want to be caught in this position.
“Shit,” Harry says, cocking his head to listen. “Someone’s coming.”
Once again, Tom runs away.
Over the next few weeks, Tom learns that Harry Evans is promiscuous.
Seeing him entangled with two different boys in less than a week is promiscuous in itself, but as Tom continues following Evans at night, he learns that Reed and Forester are only two of Evans’s many conquests.
In fact, Tom never sees Evans with the same person twice. It is truly baffling how Tom failed to notice the sheer amount of homosexuals he shares a castle with.
Most often, Evans meets them all in the same designated classroom, where Tom witnesses a variety of sexual activities he had never even considered before.
A dark-skinned Gryffindor allows Evans to fuck between his thighs, their cocks rubbing together.
Evans casts a softening charm on the floor so he and a lithe Ravenclaw can lie together and suck each other’s cocks simultaneously.
The first person Tom sees Evans fuck properly is the Gryffindor Quidditch Captain, Prewett—a stout, burly man with closely cropped ginger hair.
They do not meet in the usual classroom. Instead, Prewett uses his position as Quidditch Captain to allow Evans inside the Prefect’s Bath. It's a blatant abuse of the privilege. But Tom is forced to acknowledge that reporting Prewett would only draw suspicion to his own activities.
The room is too spacious to watch through the door, so Tom risks using a Disillusionment Charm on himself to follow them inside. Still, the bubbles in the bath allow Tom to see far less than he would like.
By this point, Tom has been forced to admit that he likes watching Evans—enjoys the illicit thrill of it all.
Even though there is a lingering discomfort in the knowledge that Evans so freely shares his body with anyone, no matter how unworthy, he continues to treat Tom, clearly superior to all of them, with measured indifference.
It is far more than perplexing. It is actively infuriating. Tom tells himself if he watches enough, he will eventually understand.
Even with the bubbles obscuring Evans and Prewett, it is easy to understand what they are doing. And for once, Tom is close enough to understand the low muttering Evans is directing towards his partner.
“You're taking me so well,” Evans says as he stretches Prewett open with his fingers. “Such a hungry little hole.”
Prewett keens, pressing into the intrusion. “Need it,” he sighs.
“Need what?” Evans asks, a touch of amusement in his tone. “Need me to stop?”
“No!” Prewett yelps.
“Need another finger?”
“No. Please—”
“I'm not a mind reader, darling,” Evans chuckles.
“Your cock,” Prewett manages to choke out.
“Good boy,” Evans says.
And with one fluid motion, Evans enters him, the water splashing around them. Prewett cries out immediately, his fingers digging into Evans’s back.
To Tom’s eyes, the coupling is odd. Evans is by no means a small man, but Prewett is built like a mountain. Yet Prewett is clearly enjoying himself, babbling and sobbing with pleasure as Evans drives into him.
Tom wonders how it must feel. He has masturbated before, obviously, but merely touching himself has never drawn out such a reaction.
Would it be humiliating to fall apart like that in front of someone else?
Perhaps not with someone like Evans, who is so giving and indulgent—with everyone aside from Tom, that is.
Later when Tom returns to his bed, he touches himself for the first time since beginning all of this. Until now, he has stubbornly ignored the erection that has appeared each time he has watched Evans—calling it willpower.
But tonight, he can resist the urge no further. Before, masturbation was largely a perfunctory task. This is the first time Tom has felt such strong desire associated with it.
And while he strokes himself, Evans’s voice echoes in his head.
“You like it when I touch you like that? Tell me what you want. You're so good.”
And since Evans has never said it, Tom has to imagine the word that finally takes him over the edge.
“So good for me, Tom.”
While the cast of Evans's conquests has varied considerably, none so far have come from Slytherin.
Or at least, that is what Tom believed.
But one night, he hears the tell-tale rustling of curtains, and this time it is not Evans leaving his bed. It is Orion Black.
Before Tom can ponder what he might be up to, Orion shuffles across the floor, pulls open the curtains of Evans's bed, and slips inside.
Tom remains frozen, listening to the hiss of whispers, a soft laugh and shush, followed by a Silencing Charm swallowing it all.
It is easy enough to imagine what Evans and Orion are up to behind those curtains. But Tom would surely be discovered if he attempted to see it for himself. The knowledge causes his jaw to clench tightly.
More bothersome is the fact that Evans treats Orion with a considerable amount of fondness during the waking hours. Tom has noticed how Evans brightens when Orion enters a room—how quickly he gravitates towards him. How might that translate to how Evans behaves towards him in bed?
Orion is vapid and vain. He's likely the sort to lie back and take all the pleasure for himself. What could compel Evans to prefer someone like that—someone who cannot even hope to engage in an intelligent discussion?
Tom would be a far more stimulating partner. After all, he has watched Evans enough to understand what he likes. Tom may not have experience, but he has never failed at a task he has set for himself.
Not that he's planning on propositioning Evans. That would be absurd. It is simply an observation.
Tom does not manage to sleep that night, even after he hears Orion return to his bed. In the morning, there are deep, exhausted circles beneath his eyes.
In the washroom, Tom glamours them away. At his side, Orion spells away the litany of love bites on his neck but leaves the ones hidden by his robes.
When he catches Tom looking, he smirks. "I'm not married yet."
Tom forces a mask of good humour, though for some reason Orion's flippant words burn him from the inside out.
At breakfast, Evans and Orion sit down right next to each other, so closely that their thighs press together. Watching from the corner of his eye, Tom wonders if there is a deeper significance to what has occurred between the pair of them. Could this mean that Evans has chosen Orion, out of everyone, to be his sole partner?
For some reason, the idea of Evans choosing anyone causes Tom's stomach to twist.
Then he notices something extremely peculiar.
Abraxas Malfoy, seated directly opposite Evans, is staring at him with a strange focus. He takes a strawberry from his plate and lifts it to his lips. Then, without taking his eyes off Evans, he slowly runs his tongue across the flesh of the fruit.
Evans watches him, his teeth digging into his lower lip.
How are Abraxas and Evans flirting so brazenly without Orion caring? Is he too self-absorbed to even notice? Surely, if he saw, he would object.
But now Abraxas turns away from Evans, looking at Orion instead. With the fruit pressed against his lips, he mirrors the earlier motion. Orion watches him and shudders.
The three of them? All at once? How would that even work?
Something clatters against the table, and distantly Tom hears someone attempting to speak to him, but he cannot tear his eyes away from the display before him.
Someone shakes his shoulder, and Tom turns to glare at whoever has dared interrupt him. Damocles Nott flinches back, his face pale.
"Sorry," he says quickly. "Didn't mean to startle you. But you didn't seem to notice—your juice..."
Ah, yes, so that was the clatter. Tom's pumpkin juice has tipped over, spilling across the table as well as the front of his robes. He takes out his wand to vanish the mess from the table. Then he rises to return to the dormitory to change into fresh robes.
He wasn't hungry anyway.