Beginning
Tom lingers in the shadows of the library, his fingers ghosting over the spines of books he’s been forbidden to touch. He does it anyway.
“You won’t find it, you know,”
The torchlight flickers as Tom ignores the low voice, the corners of his mouth turned down in a frown. It is the only thing that indicates he’s heard.
“He took it.”
That catches his attention. Tom doesn’t turn to face the voice so much as shift his eyes. There’s someone else in the shadows with him. He used to be accustomed to their presence; he used to welcome it.
“Where?” Tom hisses, clutching at the roped scar that cuts across his throat, “Where is it?”
“Gone,” the green-eyed young man is an apparition in the dark, waving a flippant hand. The motion is a blur as he says, “I think he burned it.”
Tom longs to shove him against the dust-covered bookshelves.
“He wouldn’t dare,” Tom turns to leave, mahogany eyes staring resolutely forward, “Go. I don’t want to see you.”
He used to love the laugh that follows him through the maze of dark shelves. (He thinks he still does, even after what Harry has done.)
~
Before
“Hello,” the green-eyed boy says, holding out a thin hand as he sways with the movement of the train, “My name is Harry.”
The boy is all sharp lines and darting eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. These things, Tom recognises; it’s the form of a child who doesn’t know they weren't meant to fend for themself. Long instilled instincts of go away, I will bite, do not approach rear their snapping heads. But Tom looks up at the mirror of himself and sees something he never has before. The boy is smiling at him, pink lips pulled over blunt teeth as his voice bleeds caution and yearning and hope.
“Tom,” he says, taking Harry’s hand in his. He releases it a second too early, “My name is Tom.
The hopeful smile turns radiant, and Tom can’t help but bask in its light. He has had precious few smiles meant just for him. Harry sits across from him, hands running along a warm-coloured wand he’d had hidden in his pocket. Tom’s bone-white wand is hidden up his sleeve.
The train is cold, and Tom’s threadbare shirt does nothing to keep him warm. The boy sharing his compartment notices his shivering, no matter how he tries to hide it.
“Here,” he says, “I have a spare.”
Tom looks at the offered jumper, seeing its worn appearance. He takes the thick, woollen clothing with greedy hands. Harry still smiles at him. Harry understands.
"Thank you," Tom says stiffly.
Harry smiles at him again.
When they arrive at their destination, they are both clothed in the same shade of faded cornflower blue beneath ink-black robes. The two boys sit in the same boat as they drift towards the castle looming in the distance.
Hogwarts, it is called. Tom knows, for he has been visited by an auburn-haired wixen once before. Harry does too, apparently, because he gasps its name like it’s a prayer. And maybe it is.
They make their way into the Great Hall, surrounded by other children. Harry grabs Tom’s hand, shocking him. No one has held his hand in a such long time. Where disgust and anger should be, a possessive feeling settles instead. This is not the action of a patronising adult, leading him somewhere as if he cannot do it himself. Nor is it an action of pity. It is the action of a touch-starved child seeking comfort. He clutches Harry’s hand just a little bit too tightly. Harry doesn’t mention it.
“What House do you think you’ll end up in?” Harry asks as they wait on a grand staircase. He holds himself still, his feet planted firmly on the floor. His stance is that of a runner, ready to push off the ground and bolt away at a moment’s notice. His hand is warm in Tom’s; maybe he means to take Tom along with him.
“Slytherin,” Tom replies immediately, a sharp grin on an even sharper face. His cheeks and jaw have been moulded and carved by starvation and suffering; Harry’s are the same. “And you?” Tom asks.
“Dumbledore told me my parents were in Gryffindor,” Harry says.
“Your parents?”
Harry shrugs, “They’re dead. An evil wixen killed them.”
Recognition sparks in Tom as they stand among smiling children fraught with energy. The floor beneath them blends seamlessly with the walls. The stone has an unnatural brightness to it; it seems to shine from within.
“Mine too,” he says, a sense of kinship filling him as he pulls the boy a little closer, “You’re an orphan, just like me.”
The small boy smiles at him, smoothing down the front of his robes. Gemstone eyes soften with recognition.
“Do you want to be in Gryffindor?” Tom asks, “I read that they are brave.”
“Dumbledore said I would be,” Harry frowns, “But I don’t always feel very brave.”
Tom doesn’t understand the way his stomach drops when Harry stops smiling, his hand pulling away from Tom’s. He doesn’t like it.
“You don’t have to be brave,” Tom rushes to say, fumbling to soothe the boy in a way he himself has never needed to be soothed. He takes Harry’s hand in his again, “I have you.”
Tom has always taken good care of his belongings. Harry’s frown doesn’t quite go away, but the corner of his mouth quirks up; he looks mischievous, and all too knowing. Bright green eyes stare up into deep brown ones, assessing.
(In another life, Harry Potter begs the Sorting Hat, “Anything but Slytherin!”
In this life, he doesn’t feel quite so desperate. His first friend has already told him everything he needs to know.)
Before the night ends, there are two new snakes sleeping in the dungeons, their beds side by side, their wands hidden beneath their pillows.
(Is this where it all started?)
~
“Tom,” Dumbledore says, calling him over as the rest of the students pack their quills and textbooks, “A moment of your time?”
He can’t say no, so he waits at his desk, twisting the gold band of the warm ring on his finger. He draws looks from the Slytherin and Ravenclaw Seventh Years leaving. The hair on the back of Tom’s neck stands up as he feels the lingering gaze of a green-eyed young man.
Once the room is empty, he stares expectantly at his Transfiguration professor. Dumbledore sighs and makes his way to him when Tom refuses to rise from his seat. The petty victory doesn’t please him as it once did.
“How are you, my boy?” Dumbledore asks, concern in his sky-blue eyes. Tom can see those eyes flicker down to the garish scar that wraps around Tom’s neck like a noose.
It looks worse than it did the day he got it; the hasty healing spell that had barely saved his life had done him no favours. He is lucky that many consider it a mark of heroism and believe it only adds to his good looks. (Heroism is not how Tom would describe it.)
“Well, Professor,” Tom’s tone is polite, his smile bland, “And you? This is the first I’ve seen of you since Yule.”
The man flinches and Tom’s smile sharpens, like broken glass. He can smell the blood in the water.
“I have been as well as I can be, considering,” Dumbledore says, brushing sliver-streaked auburn hair away from his face, “I just wanted to let you know that we are getting close to capturing Grindelwald.”
Nodding, Tom stays silent. Dumbledore has been gone for three months and only now returns to Hogwarts without warning? Tom knows there is more that the man isn’t telling him. Perhaps he thinks he is shielding Tom.
“About what happened at Yule,” Dumbledore continues, peering down at him with a knowing look, “I wanted to say–”
It’s Tom’s turn to flinch.
“There’s no need, sir,” Tom rises from his seat, his back straight as he shoulders his bag, “I must get going; Professor Snape doesn’t take well to tardiness.”
Dumbledore watches him go with an imperceptible sigh. Tom exits the classroom to find Theodore Nott and Abraxas Malfoy waiting for him. The two young men look apprehensive, as if they can sense Tom's ire. After the years spent together, perhaps they can.
“What did he want?” Theodore asks, his dark brow quirked as they fall in step with Tom, “The man was practically staring at you all lesson.”
“To talk,” Tom grits his teeth, “He’s feeling guilty about what happened at Yule.”
On either side of him, Theodore and Abraxas give each other looks. Theodore is the one who voices their questions; he always was the braver of the two.
“So, did you discuss it? You haven’t talked about Harry since–”
He is also the least wise of the two; a yew wand is at Theodore’s throat in an instant. Abraxas inhales sharply at Tom’s sudden movement.
“Do not say his name,” Tom snarls, and it’s the closest he’s come to losing his composure, “I don’t want to talk about that traitor.”
It has been a while since Tom has shown his teeth; perhaps his companions have forgotten how sharp they are. He used to bite a lot more, as a child, before he decided to hide behind a handsome smile.
Tom leaves them standing shocked in the corridor, stalking towards the Potions classroom.
“Such a temper,” Harry whispers liltingly in his mind.
Harry’s voice has been in his head for months, admonishing and teasing him at every turn. It hurts to hear his mind conjure all that he has lost. It fills him with cold fury.
Walking over stone floors, Tom takes a left turn where he should take a right. He heads away from where he knows his concerned Head of House will be waiting and starts towards the library instead. He has research to do, and he knows Snape will forgive him. The tall, hook-nosed man has always liked him, despite his previous association with Harry.
The library is quiet as he enters, flashing a charming grin at Madam Pince, who always indulges his visceral thirst for knowledge. Tom has never needed to show her the permission slip that allows him entry into the Restricted Section. This is likely a good thing, because the scrawling signature at the bottom of the creased piece of paper is forged. Snape may have a soft spot for him, but he is still in the pocket of Dumbledore; he would never let Tom have access to the books there. Precisely because of what Tom is searching for right now.
He's already looked once, hidden under the cover of night, but he has to look again. Tom doesn’t accept paltry limitations like failure. He never has. It’s the reason he rose to such heights in his House despite his blood status. That, and who he’d had by his side.
“Let me know if you need help finding anything,” Madam Pince says, smiling warmly at him as she waves her wand at a pile of errant books, “We’ve had a few changes to our inventory.”
Tom fights to keep his expression pleasant as he thanks her. Dumbledore has clearly been busy, sorting through the books available to the students of Hogwarts. Choosing what he wants them to know, as is his right as Deputy Headmaster of the school. Choosing what he wants Tom to know.
It’s just another reason to add to the extensive list of why Tom hates Albus Dumbledore.
Scouring the shelves of the Restricted Section, many of them layered with centuries worth of dust, Tom searches for a book he has read once before. He has already used one of the rituals it contains; now, he needs a new one.
The book bound in black and embossed with silver is nowhere to be found. Tom seethes. He swears he can hear bright, mocking laughter drifting between the shelves. Tom instead picks up a worn, fraying book he already knows won’t have the answers he needs.
Madam Pince raises a thin brow when he approaches her with ‘Magick Moste Evile’ tucked beneath his arm. She writes his name in the never-ending logbook on her desk nonetheless. Tom thanks her with the smile that won him his Head Boy badge.
~
Later, mahogany eyes bleed red as Tom snarls Dumbledore’s name like a curse, throwing the useless book against the walls of his dorm room. Its ageing spine cracks.
(Tom has always loved magic, its every form and iteration. When you grow up starving for something and magic is what comes to you, you learn to need it. You learn to worship it.
Wixen see magic in shades of black and white and grey. They proclaim superiority over one and condemn another for a difference in colour that no one can seem to agree on.
Tom knows better; magic is made of light. It is every colour on the spectrum, every shade. It is the glimpse of yellow when you look at the sun. It is the fleeting red of a rose petal. It is the ever-changing blue of the sea. It is the precious green in the eyes of a friendlover betrayer.
No, magic is not good or evil or something in between. It simply is.
At least, that’s what he tells himself. He can admit that much as he approaches Alphard Black and asks after a book bound in the skin of a newborn infant.)
~
Before
They don’t fit into Slytherin. Harry is an orphaned Half-Blood whose father sullied himself with a Mudblood and then got himself killed. Tom is worse.
“I hoped it would be better, here,” Harry says, his back to a solid, stone wall as he watches the door carefully, “At least we’re getting three meals a day,” he laughs.
“Yes,” Tom replies dryly, “A small price to pay for those damned treacle tarts you’re so obsessed with.”
“Hey! They’re a gift to mankind,”
Tom hides a smile.
Their first week in the dungeons passes in a blur of stinging hexes and biting words. It doesn’t matter, though, because they bite back. By the end of their first month, the rest of the First Years give them a wide berth, their eyes white with fear. By the end of their sixth month, the Seventh Years only stare down their noses and scoff.
The more Tom learns about Harry, the more he can’t look away. He was first drawn to their similarities; he stays captivated by their differences.
Harry isn’t soft, not in the way most children are. Not in the way most children should be. There is a sharpness to him, seen in the way he hides food in his pockets and can’t sleep without a locked door guarding him. Tom is the same, with his belongings stowed beneath a loose floorboard, and his robes pulled too tight as he seeks the comfort of pressure. Theirs is a sharpness forged through mirrored suffering.
But the thing about suffering is that it loves all of its children uniquely.
Suffering had cut Tom into a callous thing, it brought him down to cruel bones and a stinging tongue. For Harry, suffering cut away at him until all he was left with was a beautiful, bleeding heart. Both of them focus these things on others. Tom is vicious, Harry tries to be kind.
Even as Harry spits poison back at ignorant peers who mock him in the voices of their parents, he never strikes first. Tom smiles when Harry threatens violence against their dorm mates for stealing their textbooks, leaving Theodore and Abraxas pale with fright and disgust. He smiles even brighter when Harry nearly snaps the wand of a pug-faced girl who spits on Tom and snarls, “Mudblood!”
Afterwards, though, he catches Harry grinning shyly at a buck-toothed Ravenclaw and laughing with a red-headed Gryffindor.
Tom believes not in retaliation, but in revenge. He curses Theodore and Abraxas in their sleep and strings the entrails of the pug-faced girl’s mewling kitten above her bed. They all wake up screaming.
Tom and Harry are two sides of the same coin. One’s smile is kinder than the other, but both are guarded, and both are wary. It’s not something they can grow out of easily.
~
The spare classroom is hidden behind a portrait of deep purple grapes filling a golden chalice. What it was once used for, Tom doesn’t know, but now it houses a circular oak table surrounded by seven chairs.
Tom sits on the largest chair; its back is high and solid. He watches as his two dorm mates enter to room, joining Evander Rosier, Alphard Black and Blaise Zabini at the table.
The chair on Tom’s left is empty, and it has been for three months. Prior to Yule, it was rarely used. Its owner only sporadically deigned to sit, preferring to wave Tom off with a mirth-filled smile. Still, it had held a purpose. Since Yule, it has remained in its place, untouched. Tom’s Knights think it will never be filled again. Tom refuses to think about it.
(One might be surprised that the Knights of Walpurgis meet in an old classroom and not in the Chamber of Secrets, or even in the Room of Requirement. But what one might not remember is that Tom is a possessive creature. His nature is born of a childhood spent clutching at crumbs and secreting away other’s belongings.
The Chamber of Secrets is his birthright, his inheritance, his. And Tom does not wish to share it. As for the Room of Requirement, he and Harry discovered it in their second year when they begged a stray house elf for a place to hide. The Room belongs to them, even now. And Tom hoards it jealously.)
Tom’s five companions– for he will not call them followers, no matter what Harry used to say– look at him with hungry eyes. These are the children of the Noble Houses, these are the strongest of their generation. They know what power looks like. They know it looks like Tom.
Once, they looked at Tom with disgust, or worse, they didn’t look at all. So caught up in their own superiority, they preached Pureblood propaganda taught to them at the knees of their parents. It wasn’t until Tom had shown them just how much magic loved him that they began to listen. It wasn’t until he had proven that he was no Mudblood vermin that they began to bow. It was Fifth Year when the Heir of Slytherin rose, and Tom showed that he was no Riddle. No, Tom was a Gaunt. Once, they viewed him as lesser. He’s long cured them of that.
But if his Knights still believe that Muggles are the mud beneath their shoes and their wixen progeny not much better? Fine. Tom need only prove the worth of Half-bloods. He owes no one anything else.
(“They are still wixen beneath their Muggle blood,” Harry used to say, running a tanned hand through Tom’s hair as they lay on his bed, “Doesn’t that mean something?”
“They will ruin us if they’re given the chance,” Tom would reply, “Doesn’t that?”)
Tom smiles at the Knights of Walpugis and is rewarded with a smile back from each of them. He collected them by using his teeth, and he has kept them by using his smile. Friendship, no matter how useless, is something Tom can give. Loyalty bred by love is better kept than loyalty bred by fear.
“Welcome,” Tom says, laying his wand on the table in front of him.
“My lord,” his Knights chorus. (In the back of Tom’s mind, he hears Harry’s laughter.)
“I trust that you all bring news?”
Theodore is the first to speak. He always is.
“Dumbledore has been assisting the Aurors,” he says, his dark eyes finding Evander, “He has been using it to avoid summons from the Wizengamot. Presumably, because they plan to ask him to confront Grindelwald head-on again.”
Evander nods, “Grindelwald was in Cardiff a few days before Dumbledore and the Aurors arrived. They were searching for traces of a ritual performed in the area. Vinda has not been very forthcoming as to what said ritual was.”
Vinda Rosier, Evander’s cousin, is an acolyte of the Dark Lord. She has unknowingly been instrumental in keeping Tom informed of her lord’s doings.
The smile Tom offers the two young men is a touch too sharp. Nonetheless, they bask in his approval; it is a privilege. Theodore and Evander have confirmed Tom’s suspicions; Dumbledore is resisting a second confrontation with Grindelwald after years spent fighting at a distance. Tom wonders if that is why he has returned to Hogwarts after his extended leave. Turning to Blaise, Tom gestures for him to give his report.
“The wardstones have been completed,” Blaise says, lounging effortlessly in his chair as only he can, “They will arrive in time for the new moon.”
“Excellent,” Tom twists the ring on his finger, its black stone catching the candlelight, “Abraxas,” he turns to the fair-haired young man, “Any news on the Ministry front? I hear the Recruiting Ball has been moved up.”
“Yes," Abraxas makes an affirming gesture, "They were forced to change their timeline, what with the Dark Lord’s mad dashes around the continent."
"As we suspected. When will they hold it?"
“The event is now set to happen next month. I have taken the liberty of confirming our attendance,”
The next half hour is spent discussing their plans for the Ministry’s ball. His Knights all have the advantage of blood behind them, and Tom intends to use this to its highest potential as he sources the best posts for them. He means to take over the Ministry of Magic by the time he is thirty; he will need all of them in key positions to ensure his rise.
By the end of their meeting, they have all given their reports and been given new orders in return. All, except Alphard, who looks Tom in the eye and nods ever so slightly. It’s enough.
The Black Heir waits until they are alone to reach into his bag and carefully hand Tom a book. Its leather-like cover is dyed black, and its title shines silver as it catches the candlelight.
“Secrets of the Darkest Art,” Alphard says, seemingly uncaring of the horrific power he has just given Tom, “Direct from the depths of the Black Library. I hope you know that my mother was quite… troubled, when I asked for it.”
Alphard doesn’t look concerned in the slightest. He has always strayed too close to the line of insanity. Sometimes, he dances over it.
Tom’s smile is made of ice, “Please send her my regards.”
~
Before
“You can do better than that filth, Potter,” Abraxas says to Harry one night, whispering when he thinks Tom is asleep. Tom has always been a light sleeper. His voice turns sugary sweet, “At least you have the right name behind you. We can help you move past the unfortunate circumstances of your birth; you need not associate with him.”
Tom is still under deep green sheets, his wand clutched tightly under his pillow. He barely breathes as he hears Harry’s bed creaking.
“I think I can manage myself, thanks,” and oh, there is venom in Harry’s voice, “Arrogant prats who can barely use their wands aren’t the kind of people I associate with.”
The pale hand wrapped around a bone-white wand loosens.
Throughout their first year at Hogwarts, Tom and Harry learn that magical children are no different than Muggle ones.
Children can be cruel. Particularly at eleven, when they know just enough to make it hurt, but too little to understand that hurts can scar. They aren’t ignorant; they pay attention and they learn. They watch the world turn around and around on an axis. The issue is that they believe that axis is themselves.
Somehow, this belief that the world revolves around them is intrinsic to a child’s survival. They are too young to be faced with the true width of the world, so they narrow it down to themself and whatever they know in relation to themself. Their parents care for them, their home shields them, their friends play with them, and their toys belong to them.
Most children grow out of this belief naturally. They finally get big enough, get strong enough, get old enough for the world to teach them its lessons. Some take it better than others, yet nonetheless, they learn.
Some children, however, are never under the illusion of their own importance. The world teaches them its lessons too early. Half of the time, it does this with a singular, precise focus that is as terrifying as it is unfathomable. The other half of the time, it does this without prejudice, without care. (Somehow, that is almost worse.)
Harry is one of those children that the world loves to teach. He knows the world doesn’t revolve around him because it told him that he wasn’t worthy of it. He grew up being told that he was a burden, that he was different, that he was a freak. He was told that he was worthless because his suffering was his own fault. Harry didn’t learn to hate the world so much as he learnt to hate himself.
As they wave their wands and repeat incantations over and over again, Tom learns that Harry has never wanted the world to revolve around him because he thinks he would ruin it.
Tom is one of those children that the world watches with blank, unfeeling eyes. He has never believed that the world revolves around him. How could it, when it has treated him with such impartial disregard? From birth, he was shown that he didn’t matter, that no one cared, that he was fleeting and it was of no consequence. He was shown that he was worthless in the way that his talents meant nothing. No, the world has never revolved around him.
But as Tom sits up late in his bed, his book lit by the soft glow of his bone-white wand, he vows that one day, it will.
He will grab the world by its throat with his teeth and bite until it has no choice but to pay attention. Until it is forced to look him in the eye and know what it has done. Until he draws blood.
No, the world doesn’t revolve around Tom Riddle. Not yet.
~
“Tom?”
The Room of Requirement is cold, despite the beginnings of spring stirring outside the castle. Tom’s grip on his book tightens imperceptibly. The scar around his throat burns.
“Tom,” Harry sounds hesitant as he approaches, his voice halting.
Somehow, the Room has created a window. Tom sits in a plush, deep red lounge facing the Quidditch Pitch. The sunlight streaming in from the window should warm him, but it doesn’t. His wand hand itches to throw a curse.
Harry’s voice turns pleading, “Please, Tom,”
This is what finally convinces Tom to look up at him. Harry is wearing jeans under a faded, cornflower blue jumper that has been repaired one too many times. He is captivating, standing just out of Tom’s reach with his hands shoved in his pockets.
“Hello,” Harry says so softly that it’s almost a whisper. His gemstone eyes are the only ones that rarely stare at Tom’s scar, “You look well.”
Tom hasn’t properly spoken with Harry since Yule, and it’s jarring to hear his familiar voice so near. He tries to ignore the cold hand clutching at his heart, even as he greedily takes in the sight of his oldest friend.
“Why are you here?” Tom asks, unable to help himself.
He almost misses the pause before Harry speaks.
“You wanted to see me,” Harry sounds surer of himself.
Tom is constantly battling his need to fight, to claw his way through life, to show his teeth. In this moment, he loses.
“And why would I want something like that?” he clutches his book, “No, I don’t want to see you.”
Tom can’t stop the ice from leaking into his voice, into his sneer. He has always been a touch too cruel, even to those undeserving. And right now, the burning at Tom’s throat tells him that Harry has never deserved it more. (Somewhere, buried deep, Tom’s heart rebels against what they have become.)
Turning back to his book, Tom skims over gruesome diagrams and poisonous words with too-casual eyes. He has work to do, and he will not be interrupted by Harry of all people. He’s already lost too much time.
“Maybe I wanted to see you,” Harry kneels in front of Tom. The sunlight blurs the sharp lines of his face, the stinging green behind wire-rimmed glasses. It turns him into something soft. Tom has never known Harry to be soft.
Tom’s eyes slide right back to the young man on the ground, as they always have. It’s habit; instinct, perhaps. The sight of Harry’s hopeful face is akin to a knife in Tom’s heart. Harry doesn’t deserve to look at him like that.
“Your wants mean nothing to me,” Tom tosses his book carelessly, and Harry watches as it lands heavily on the ground.
“That’s the first I’ve heard of it,” Harry’s tone turns teasing as he stands to follow Tom across the room, “They used to mean a great deal.”
Harry freezes when he sees the piles and piles of scattered parchment and old fairy tales sitting on the small table they used to work at together. It’s a moment before he is running a lingering hand over a battered, old book; the cover reads, ‘The Tales of Beedle the Bard’.
“You still have my research?” Harry looks conflicted, “I thought you’d burn it after what Grindelwald did.”
“After what Grindelwald did?” Tom’s eyes glow red, “You mean after what you did.”
“Tom–”
“You betrayed me,” Tom seethes, stalking over to come face to face with his greatest heartache, “You left me.”
Harry’s gemstone eyes shine with unshed tears as he finally looks down at Tom’s neck, and Tom feels nothing but anger. This is not the Harry he once knew, the Harry he once held precious; this Harry doesn’t get to look so broken.
“I don’t want to see you.”
“How long are you going to lie to yourself?” Harry spits back, and finally Tom can see the fire behind his shining eyes. It’s been there for a long time.
“As long as it takes to see you suffer as I have,” Tom lifts his wand, finally losing the last of his tenuous restraint, “I swear it.”
Harry clenches his teeth, holding himself still as the sharp tip of Tom’s wand sits a hairsbreadth away from the delicate hollow of his throat.
“Leave,”
Harry seems to fight himself for a moment before he steps back, his black hair falling in wild curls around even wilder eyes. Tom turns back to his work. He refuses to watch Harry leave.
(He can’t, not again.)
~
The next time Harry finds him, Tom is standing by the lake, his robes pulled tight around him.
Tom looks at him with haunted eyes.
Tom walks away.