Chances
Tom jolted awake, his heart racing as he emerged from a nightmare that felt more like a vision of his future than mere dreams.
In the dark recesses of his mind, he had glimpsed a horrifying image—a version of himself with no face, a terrifying void where his identity should have been.
It was suffocating. He knew it was just a dream, yet the sensations lingered with a chilling clarity, as if it were prophetic. Tom had grand designs for himself; he envisioned power beyond imagination, dominance over all.
Surely that wasn’t how it would end—faceless, soulless, a husk of what he could have been. He was meant to be a God, not a shadow of a being.
The details of the dream eluded him, slipping through his fingers like sand. But he could vividly recall the feeling of weakness, trapped in a fragile, serpentine body, every fibre of his being consumed by a raw obsession that clouded his thoughts.
But most of all he remembered the emptiness, the hollow gap where his soul should have resided.
With a gasp, Tom sat up in bed, the remnants of the nightmare clinging to him like a suffocating fog. His panting must have roused Harry, because the other boy turned on his lamp, the soft dancing of shadows cast by the small flame illuminating his corner of the room.
Harry blinked, adjusting his glasses, and squinted at Tom with concern. “Riddle?” he called, his voice thick with sleep. “Are you.. alright?”
Tom shook his head, attempting to shake off the remnants of the nightmare. “I’m fine,” he replied, though the words felt hollow. He couldn’t quite shake the memory; the dream had felt so real, so tangible, that it rolled like a heavy weight in his gut.
Harry’s gaze remained fixed on him, an almost understanding look flickering in his eyes. “I know a nightmare when I see one,” he said, his tone quiet. “I’m not a stranger to them myself”
Tom kept his gaze forward. He heard the soft rustle of sheets as Harry shifted in his bed, the quiet sound breaking the stillness of the room. “If you wanna talk about it, we can”
He hesitated, weighing his response. The instinct to protect his thoughts clashed with an unexpected urge to confide in Evans.
“It was… unsettling,” he admitted after a moment, still grappling with the remnants of fear. “I saw myself—without a face. It felt like I was losing everything, like I was trapped in a shell.”
Harry contemplated this, his brow furrowed.
Harry sat back, his fingers gripping the edge of his bed as he considered Tom’s question. He wore a look of quiet resolve, but something else flickered behind his eyes, a shadow of reluctance that Tom couldn’t quite place. The boy seemed hesitant, as though speaking would draw him over some invisible line he wasn’t prepared to cross.
Tom turned his head to look at him, reading Harry’s silence as though it were a puzzle waiting to be unlocked. But as the seconds ticked by, Harry’s expression softened, just slightly, and he finally spoke.
“Riddle,” he began, his voice steady yet somehow distant, “I know you want to be more than just… another name, another face.” He paused, as if searching for the right words, his gaze dropping to his hands before returning to Tom’s. “But what I’m trying to say is… the more you chase after this power, the more you risk becoming exactly what you feared in that dream.”
Tom’s brow furrowed, the dream’s chilling memory prickling at him once more. He pushed down the unease, refusing to be swayed. “And what makes you so certain of that?” he asked, his tone deceptively calm. “You know nothing of how this feels.”
Harry shook his head slowly, a weariness settling in his gaze. “You’d be surprised,” he said softly, his voice almost a whisper. For a brief second, Tom thought he saw something old and worn behind Harry’s eyes, as if he carried a lifetime of experiences that no one his age should know. “But you’re right. I don’t know your dreams or your plans in their entirety.” He sighed, his voice lowering. “I only know what I’ve seen and what… could happen.”
Tom’s patience was wearing thin, his frustration mounting as Harry’s cryptic replies did little to satisfy his curiosity. “This nonsense again,” Tom said, his words sharper now. “You continue to speak as if you have knowledge of the future itself. What could you possibly know about where my choices will lead?”
Harry’s gaze hardened slightly, a quiet resolve etching itself into his features. “Enough to know that if you keep going, you’ll lose yourself,” he replied, his voice tinged with a firmness Tom hadn’t heard before. “I’ve… seen what it does. It won’t end with power or freedom, or whatever you think you’ll find. It’ll end in loneliness, emptiness… an existence where you become less and less yourself.”
Tom scoffed, though a sliver of doubt crept into his thoughts. “You speak of loss and loneliness, yet you know nothing of what I intend. You think you’re offering wisdom, but it’s nothing more than empty words.” He crossed his arms, his gaze never leaving Harry’s. “But I find it fascinating—if irritating—that you seem to believe you understand what awaits me.”
Harry looked down, visibly uncomfortable, his silence weighted with unspoken thoughts. Tom could tell there was more he wanted to say, more he held back with every fibre of his being. And while his restraint might have frustrated Tom, it also intrigued him beyond measure. This boy, who had appeared out of nowhere with far too many answers, was withholding something, some crucial truth that Tom could feel hovering just out of reach.
But just as he was about to press further, Harry’s expression shifted. “Listen,” he said, a touch of resignation in his voice, “what if we… just hung out for a while?”
Tom watched Harry, his curiosity tempered with a calculating intensity. This offer of “hanging out” was absurd on the surface, but Harry had unwittingly handed him a perfect opportunity—a chance to unravel the mystery behind the boy without arousing suspicion.
Spending time together would give him ample opportunities to deploy every charm and skill in his arsenal, coaxing Harry into a false sense of security. He could win Harry’s trust, observe him closely, and slip through the cracks in his armour when he least expected it.
Yes, he thought, this could be more advantageous than any interrogation. Harry seemed too careful, too tight-lipped when pressed directly; however, Tom had learned long ago that people were far more forthcoming when they felt at ease.
If he could turn their shared time into something that disarmed Harry’s defences, it was only a matter of time before he gave something vital away. And he knew exactly how to get what he wanted.
Tom’s lips curled into a faint, amused smile as he continued his silent analysis. Harry was no ordinary student, that much was clear. But he was young—naïve, in ways Tom could sense without fully understanding yet. It was this naivety he would exploit, gently at first, before tightening his grasp. Tom understood the power of patience, how to present himself as genuine, unassuming, and even trustworthy. This boy, with his secrets and strange knowledge, would eventually unravel in his hands. He would make sure of it.
"Very well," he said aloud, allowing just a hint of amusement to linger in his tone. "If this is your idea of easing tension, I suppose I can humour you." Tom let the words hang for a moment, then, with a slight shift in his voice, added, "But make no mistake, Evans. I will not be deviating from my plans."
He noted the flicker of apprehension in Harry’s gaze, a subtle sign that he had struck a nerve. Perfect. Let Harry feel a little uneasy, let him see the glint of interest in Tom’s eyes and understand that his secrets wouldn’t be safe forever. But he would play the part well—he would be exactly the friend Harry sought, all the while watching, waiting, and, eventually, extracting every truth Harry held.
Harry gave him a small, nonchalant nod, though Tom didn’t miss the fleeting look of apprehension in his eyes. Tom could sense the internal struggle within Harry, the push and pull between caution and a desire to reach out. It intrigued him, this vulnerability. It was as if Harry was fighting his own instincts—wavering between treating Tom as a dangerous adversary and someone worth the risk of trust.
Their exchange hung heavy in the air, and Tom let his gaze linger on Harry, quietly assessing him, his thoughts racing with possibilities. Perhaps this so-called “hanging out” would reveal more than Harry intended. After all, Tom could sense that he was edging closer to the truth, even if he couldn’t quite grasp it yet.
As Harry glanced away, seemingly finished with the conversation, Tom allowed himself a rare smile—a calculating smile, one that hinted at both intrigue and challenge. Whatever game Harry was playing, he was more than prepared to play along. And when it came to games, Tom Riddle never lost.
“Good night, Riddle,” Harry murmured, turning onto his side and pulling the covers up, his face half-hidden in the shadows.
Tom watched him for a beat longer, a faint smirk playing on his lips.
“Good night, Evans,” he replied, his voice smooth and quiet, lingering in the darkness.
He settled back onto his own pillow, eyes fixed on the ceiling. As silence fell over the room, he allowed himself a final glance at Harry’s back, then closed his eyes, thoughts still whirring with curiosity and plans.
The next morning, Tom awoke to find Harry’s bed already neatly made, the sheets pulled tight and the pillow fluffed as if it had been left that way for hours. He stared at the empty bed, momentarily puzzled, wondering where Harry had disappeared to so early.
He shook it off, slipping into his own routine and preparing for the day. As he straightened his tie, his gaze caught sight of a small scrap of parchment on his desk, folded in half.
He picked it up, eyebrows knitting together as he unfolded it to reveal a short, hastily scribbled note:
“Meet me by the entrance of the library after Charms class.”
The handwriting was atrocious, almost painful to decipher, with letters trailing at odd angles and lines smudged slightly as if written in haste. Tom’s lips quirked into a slight, amused smile—there was no doubt Harry had written it himself. He wondered if last night’s conversation prompted this invitation and, more importantly, what Harry might be planning. Tucking the note into his pocket, he went about his day with it’s contents simmering in the back of his mind.
After Charms, Tom strode through the bustling corridors, keeping a brisk pace as he made his way toward the library. The anticipation lent a certain energy to his steps, his mind already spinning with questions and theories. As he approached the entrance, he spotted Harry standing just off to the side, his gaze shifting nervously over the crowd, as if ensuring he hadn’t been followed.
A small, knowing smirk played at Tom’s lips as he walked up to Harry. “Quite the early morning mystery, Evans,” he drawled, his voice low and amused. “Care to explain why I’ve been summoned here?”
Harry turned to him, his face unreadable, though a hint of determination flickered in his eyes. “Follow me,” he said, keeping his voice soft, barely above a whisper. Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and started down a narrow hallway that led away from the castle, away from the noise and curious eyes.
Intrigued, Tom fell into step beside him, his gaze fixed intently on Harry.
Harry led them through the twisting paths around the castle grounds, finally reaching an open stretch that gave way to a small, secluded clearing. In the centre stood a majestic willow tree, its branches sprawling far and wide, dipping low enough to brush the ground. Its gnarled trunk was thick and imposing, larger than any willow Tom had seen before. It cast dappled shadows over the grass, creating a quiet, almost enchanted atmosphere that made the rest of the world feel miles away.
“Wow,” Harry murmured, his voice soft, almost reverent. He spoke more to himself than to Tom, eyes alight as he took in the sight of the tree. “I missed seeing this.”
Tom’s eyes narrowed as he studied Harry, trying to understand the subtle note of nostalgia in his voice. He’d never once seen Harry express this kind of familiarity with anything around the castle; it was as if this tree held memories for him, something deeply personal.
Without another word, Harry approached the base of the willow and pulled a small scrap of fabric from his pocket. Tom watched, curiosity sparking anew, as Harry muttered an incantation, flicking his wand over the cloth. The fabric expanded, unfolding until it became a full-sized blanket, spreading out neatly over the grass beneath the tree’s thick branches. Without hesitation, Harry lowered himself onto the blanket, leaning back comfortably, as though this was a place he’d visited countless times before.
He glanced up at Tom, giving the empty spot beside him a small pat. “Come on, sit down.”
For a moment, Tom simply observed him, torn between disdain and intrigue. The casual invitation was almost laughable—no one simply patted a spot for him and expected him to follow. And yet, there was a strange disarming quality in Harry’s expression, a quiet confidence that made it clear he wasn’t worried about how Tom might respond. This was Harry’s invitation, extended without pretence, and Tom found himself drawn to the odd sincerity in it.
After a beat, Tom settled himself on the blanket, folding his legs gracefully as he took his place beside Harry. He studied his surroundings for a moment, letting his gaze sweep over the willow’s long branches as they swayed gently in the breeze, casting playful shadows on the ground. There was a serenity to this place that he hadn’t expected, and he found himself begrudgingly appreciative of it.
Harry leaned back, propping himself on his hands as he gazed up at the canopy. His expression was open, almost vulnerable, as if lost in a memory only he could see. Tom couldn’t help but watch him, taking in every detail—the way the sun caught the stray strands of his hair, the way his gaze softened as he looked up into the branches above.
“So,” Tom began, his voice low, breaking the quiet between them, “this is how you envisioned… spending time together? Sitting under an overgrown tree, exchanging pleasantries?”
Harry’s chuckle softened, trailing off as he leaned back against the trunk of the tree, his gaze fixed on the view before them. Hogwarts stood in the distance, its turrets and towers stark against the vibrant hues of the sky, the sun just beginning its slow descent. The horizon glowed a warm blend of pink and amber, the delicate colours stretching across the vast expanse of sky, while a gentle breeze rustled the sweeping branches above, the leaves swaying in time with the wind’s quiet rhythm. For a moment, Harry seemed content just to watch, lost in a memory only he could see.
He took a deep breath, almost as if he were grounding himself, then spoke, his tone unexpectedly soft and contemplative. “You know, I used to dream about a place like this,” he admitted. “A place that felt like… well, like home. Somewhere I’d be safe, somewhere I’d belong.”
Tom glanced at him, surprised by the quiet confession. Harry’s voice held a sincerity, a rawness that seemed to brush against something unfamiliar in Tom. Sentiment, he thought dismissively, the weakness of people without power or control. And yet, as he watched Harry speak, watched the vulnerability in his expression, Tom couldn’t shake a strange urge to listen—to understand.
Harry’s gaze drifted to the castle again, and a faint, wistful smile crossed his face. “I remember when the Hogwarts letter came,” he continued, his voice soft, almost reverent. “It wasn’t just an invitation. It was… freedom. A promise that things could be different.” He laughed a little, though there was a sadness woven into the sound. “It forced its way into my life like some sort of… miracle.”
Tom listened in silence, his curiosity piqued. Hogwarts had been a revelation for him too, but for very different reasons. He’d seen it as a stage, a grand setting for his ambitions, his destiny. But for Harry, it seemed, the castle was something else entirely—a sanctuary from a world that had cast him aside.
Harry’s shoulders slumped slightly as he continued, his voice growing even quieter. “Before Hogwarts, my life was… different.” He paused, a flicker of bitterness seeping into his tone. “I grew up with my aunt and uncle. The Dursleys. They put me in a cupboard under the stairs.” He gave a humourless smile, glancing away as if to avoid Tom’s gaze. “That was my… space. Where I stayed when I wasn’t cooking or cleaning. And I wasn’t allowed to be myself, wasn’t allowed friends, wasn’t allowed anything.”
The words hung heavy in the air, the weight of them settling over both boys as Tom processed what Harry was saying. He’d heard rumours of the cruelty Muggles inflicted on magical children, but the idea of Harry—someone so self-assured, so resilient—being confined to a cupboard like some unwanted thing unsettled him in a way he didn’t care to acknowledge.
“I learned how to cook,” Harry continued, his voice barely above a whisper, “because I had to. They’d… hurt me if I didn’t. And cleaning—that was just a given. Every day, I’d scrub their house from top to bottom, even though I barely got to live in it.” He laughed again, a hollow sound that held no humour. His eyes grew distant, as if he were staring at ghosts only he could see.
Tom felt an odd twinge—a flicker of something he couldn’t quite place. He was well-practiced at keeping his expressions neutral, even cold, but watching the pain etched on Harry’s face stirred something unexpected. It wasn’t pity, exactly, and it certainly wasn’t compassion. But it was… a strange sense of recognition, a memory of his own that he had long since buried.
Without fully intending to, he spoke, his voice low and almost contemplative. “We’re not so different, you and I,” he said, meeting Harry’s gaze with a steady look. “I grew up at Wool’s Orphanage. A place that barely tolerated me. I had to fight for everything—food, privacy, a space of my own. And every time I showed even a hint of magic, the others would look at me as if I were some sort of… monster.”
Harry looked up at him, surprised. It was rare for Tom to offer any insight into his past, rarer still to show even a hint of vulnerability. But something about Harry’s openness—his unguarded pain—compelled Tom to share, if only a fraction of himself.
“They called me names,” he continued, his voice taking on a hard edge. “Devil child, among the nicer ones. Every small victory I managed to carve out for myself came at a price.” He shrugged, as if dismissing it, but his gaze remained fixed on Harry, watching him absorb the words, trying to gauge his reaction.
For a moment, they simply sat in silence, two figures beneath the sheltering branches of the willow, bound together by the weight of their pasts. The unspoken connection between them was fragile, but undeniable, a bridge forged by shared pain and mutual understanding. Tom could see the impact his words had on Harry, even if he’d only shared to match Harry’s openness, to show that he was capable of a similar vulnerability. It wasn’t a connection he wanted, exactly, but it lingered in the air, palpable and unsettling.
Harry shifted slightly, glancing over at Tom with an expression that was both soft and unreadable. “I guess we both grew up in places that… didn’t want us,” he said quietly, his voice barely more than a murmur.
Tom inclined his head, acknowledging the truth in Harry’s words. “Perhaps that’s why we’re here now,” he said, his tone darkening. “In a place that doesn’t quite know what to make of us either.” He paused, a faint smirk touching his lips. “But I’ll make sure it does.”
The small smile Harry had worn seemed to falter at Tom’s words, the flicker of warmth quickly dissipating. A subtle shift passed over Harry’s face, his expression growing more guarded, and his gaze dropped to the ground between them. He let out a soft, almost defeated sigh, the weight of his thoughts pressing down on him.
“Last night… I told you that if you keep going down this path,” Harry began, his voice quieter now, laced with an unspoken sorrow, “there will only be bad things. Terrible things, things you can’t undo.” He looked up at Tom then, his eyes searching for any sign of understanding, but found only a hardened mask staring back at him.
Tom’s walls, solid as ever, snapped back into place at Harry’s words. His jaw tightened, and his gaze became sharp, unreadable. “And how would you know that?” he asked, his tone colder now, the sharpness in his voice cutting through the air between them. “How can you possibly be so sure of what I will or won’t become?”
Harry hesitated, a moment of indecision flickering across his face as if he were weighing his words carefully. He opened his mouth, as if to speak, but the words died in his throat. He closed his eyes for a brief second, shaking his head, and the frustration, the helplessness, was evident in the way his shoulders slumped.
“I don’t know,” Harry said quietly, almost as though he was speaking more to himself than to Tom. “I just… I don’t want you to become something you can’t undo, something you’ll regret. I—” He stopped, shaking his head. “Maybe I’m just trying to stop something from happening that I know will hurt you in the end.”
Tom watched him closely, his gaze hardening as Harry faltered, the raw honesty in his voice making Tom feel oddly exposed, though he would never admit it. Why would you care what hurts me, as if anything could? He spoke, only in his mind. He felt a pang of something—perhaps irritation, perhaps something else—but it was fleeting. The boy wasn’t a threat to him, not yet, but there was something about the vulnerability in his voice that unsettled him.
Tom opened his mouth to speak, to demand that Harry explain himself further, but the words caught in his throat as Harry stood abruptly, brushing the dirt from his trousers. There was no warning, no build-up—just a sudden decision to walk away. His back was to Tom now, and without turning around, he muttered, “I don’t know why I thought this would help.”
His movements slow, as if every step was weighed down by the enormity of his own emotions. Tom remained seated, his gaze fixed on Harry, eyes narrowing slightly as he watched him turn away.
Harry didn’t look back. His footsteps were soft on the ground as he began walking back towards the castle, his silhouette fading into the distance. Tom stayed where he was, rooted to the spot, his mind racing, but there was a strange emptiness in his chest, a disconnect between the thoughts in his head and the strange, unsettled feeling stirring within him.
What was that? he wondered, a sensation he couldn’t quite name tugging at the edges of his consciousness. For the first time, he didn’t feel entirely in control, as though something—someone—had slipped past his usual defences
He found that he hated the feeling.
Tom’s gaze shifted upwards, and the pink of the sunset had deepened now, more pronounced than before. The sky seemed to stretch endlessly above him, the horizon painted in a mix of purples and oranges as the sun dipped lower. The world seemed to slow, the moment hanging in suspended silence.
He felt an odd sensation—a pull, almost like an itch, but one he couldn’t quite scratch. It was as though something had shifted between him and Harry in that brief exchange, some invisible thread pulled taut between them.
“What a strange boy,” Tom muttered under his breath, watching as Harry disappeared into the distance, his figure growing smaller with each passing step.
The words felt hollow, but they lingered, bouncing around in Tom’s mind. He didn’t know what it was, but something about Harry’s sincerity, his unspoken pain, had left a mark. And as the last remnants of the sunset faded into twilight, Tom found himself staring after Harry, his thoughts swirling in disarray, unwilling to let go of the strange weight Harry had placed on his conscience.
Perhaps, for once, he didn’t want to.