Harry Potter & The Hand God

He is looking for me. He is trying to track me down -- to corner me. Lucky for him, I am not one to be cornered. 

I admit, thinks Blaise, that I am curious. Whatever Tom Riddle is looking for he thinks he can find in me. And he wants to do it now, when Harry is, best put, “out of commission.”

You want to find me. You want something from me. That gives me leverage.

Do you remember the last time I had leverage over you? Because I do, Tom. I remember. If memory serves me correctly, it did not end  well for me.

I think, this time, it will not end well for you.

But there’s only one way to know for sure, don’t you think? Don’t you think, Tom?

So you want to find me. Fine.

I will let you. 

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Tom approaches him in an empty corridor. Blaise is on his way to visit Harry again when a much more interesting opportunity presents itself. “I’ve been looking for you,” admits Tom, leaning against the wall. His demeanor is casual -- is meant to be interpreted as such. But that is a fool’s assumption.

Blaise will not underestimate the enemy. He never has. “I am aware,” says Blaise.

“I need something from you.”

“Really? From me in particular? Quite a compliment, coming from you.” 

“Yes, well,” says Tom, grinning, pushing himself off the wall. “Paint yourself flattered.”

“Very well. What is it you, ah, need? I am happy to be of assistance.” Which is to say he isn’t. Blaise and Tom’s conversations are fun like that; dancing around the issue, never stepping boldly on thin ice.

“Harry’s parents,” says Tom. “They were murdered.”

“Really?” says Blaise with a gasp. He cradles his chest with his hand; the very picture of shock.  “How intriguing -- I hadn’t a clue!”

Tom is not amused. “What was it you said? Spoon your shit to someone who’ll eat it?”

“Something like that. I am sorry,” which is to say he isn’t, “to say that Harry is not interested in telling you about his parents’ murder. Now, if you’ll excuse me--”

Tom blocks his path. “I will not.”

Blaise takes in Tom’s grip of the wand, harsh, strong, white-knuckled. Tom’s magic zaps the air bitterly.

And Tom’s heart, latching onto Tom’s with a grip that looks more like a death-lock than a hug.

He means business. He will not excuse him.

Blaise is okay with that. He means business, too. “You’ve heard my perspective from Harry’s other friends, I presume?”

“I did,” says Tom, relaxing a little. His remaining tenseness cannot be missed. 

“And you rejected it?” How entitled. People like you do not know how to take no for an answer. 

“In a way.”

“I wonder,” says Blaise, gripping his own wand, “why you’ve saved me for last? You must know my answer before even asking the question.” You’d be an idiot not to. 

“I do. Not in the way you’re thinking, I assure you.”

“What makes me so different?” asks Blaise but he, too, already knows the answer beforehand.

“Leverage,” says Tom. He smiles and it is sick. Everything about him is disgusting. How could Harry ever find any syllable sludging off his lips attractive? 

“Leverage,” repeats Blaise, softly. He hopes Tom means what he thinks he means. There is a light at the end of the tunnel and all he has to do is stop Tom from putting it out.

“Leverage. Given recent circumstances,” continues Tom, “I find there is something we both want from each other. Compromise, really, is not something I think either of us finds agreeable, yes?”

Oh and just the idea of it -- of sharing with this shit for brains, arrogant, bitch for the rest of his life -- is nauseating. “Compromise,” says Blaise thickly, “is most disagreeable.” Regardless, even, of what his definition of compromise is. Blaise takes after Harry that way, too. There is only such thing as black and white.

“Indeed! So in its place, I’ve devised a plan with a little less give and a little more take,” says Tom. “What is on the table is valuable for each of us -- though for you, I must say, the consequences are drastically less severe.”

“You bewilder me.”

“Thank you.”

Blaise resists the lure to roll his eyes and continues, “Why risk anything at all? You want information on Harry’s parents? Then get it. It is not that hard. We are each allowed to read his journal during our scour time.”

“I did read his journal,” says Tom. He tries to hide his frustration but Blaise can see through any ruse constructed immediately. He is angry at his incompetency. Blaise wonders what for. “What I found I had little use for.”

“You want the nitty-gritty, don’t you?”

“Since nitty-gritty exists,” and it does, given that information not freely given is information prized, “I want it, yes.”

“But,” says Blaise, “this isn’t about Harry.”

Tom huffs, like the assumption is preposterous, but it isn’t, of course it isn’t. There is something about his frustration, his methods, his persistence into people long dead. Why James and Lily? What use does knowledge of them serve? Blaise first thinks it’s about Harry -- learning more about him, and isn’t there always more to learn -- but something about that doesn’t feel right, either.

“Whomever else would it be about?” asks Tom.

And to that… To that, he is unsure. “I don’t know. But it is not about him.”

“It would be a fascinating theory,” panders Tom, “if it had any basis.”

“Oh,” says Blaise. “It’s not a theory.”

“No?”

“No.” Blaise watches the void of Tom’s heart orbit in his chest. “Just a hunch.”

“Hunches aside, would you like to hear my terms?”

“Your terms spurning compromise?”

“Those very terms indeed.”

“Yeah,” says Blaise. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.“Let’s hear them.”

“You want your lip locking charm removed,” states Tom. It is a bold ass start and Blaise is almost impressed. Mostly, though, he is apprehensive. With Tom, bold is calculated. “You want to spill your guts to Harry, to tear him from me, to save him from the big, bad, wolf. And I am fine with that. Really. In concept. And I want information -- every single last fucking thing there is to know about the untimely demise of James Potter and Lily Potter. That’s what you want. That’s what I want.”

Blaise understands what Tom meant then by Tom having more on the line than Blaise. He is selling himself short. This is borderline highway robbery. 

Unless, of course, the information Blaise has weighs more and in ways he cannot tell than ever comprehensible. 

(Another confirmation: This is not for Harry.)

“So let’s duel. Let’s duel over it.” That is… an unexpected offer. Almost welcome. But suspicious. Blaise wonders how special he is for receiving this invitation. Tom, taking his silence as shock, and it might as well be, plunders on, “One fight, right here, right now. If I win, I get what I want. If you win, you get what you want. It is that simple. Really, I don’t know where Harry got off overcomplicating it.”

“Simple? The offer itself, sure. It is your motivations that are far more… complex.” It is your motivations that I do not understand.

“Okay. Listen,” says Tom, exasperated. “Fuck my motivations, alright? Fuck ‘em. Who cares? What’s it to you? Think about you for once, for Merlin's sake. Pros and cons -- lists, do you make lists? If you lose -- then it’s whatever. Literally. At most, you’ll get Harry mad you broke his trust or something. At most. And I doubt even that’ll happen. If you win? Merlin!” Tom laughs. “Think about what’ll happen if you win! Me -- gone from your life, forever. I’ll go back to being evil over there. I’ll get my grimy, no good hands out of his pants and his heart forever. So do my pros and cons even matter at this point?

“You tell me.”

And Blaise does: “Nothing about you will matter.”

“If you win.”

“When I win.”

“Is that a deal, then?”

…

Is it? That’s the million dollar question. Before the lip lock charm, and before, even, Blaise’s original confrontation, Blaise had considered violence. He had considered taking Tom Riddle toe to toe, head to head, and found that he had no chance of coming out the other side. Tom Riddle is powerful. Tom Riddle is too much. For this foe, violence is, sorry, Harry… not the answer.

He tried sly. Tried blackmail and it worked, didn’t it? For a bit, it fucking worked.

And then it didn’t.

So maybe Blaise was a fool then. Maybe he is a fool now. 

Either way, Blaise, with Harry in his heart and Harry in his head, says: “But of course, Tom. However could I refuse?”

Tom smiles, shark like. Has Harry ever seen you like this?

If he did, would he still love you?

Maybe. Maybe not. 

He won’t, regardless. zNot after this fight. Now after I win.

“Let’s lay some ground rules,” states Tom, tossing his wand in his hand, careless. Casual. Like he has already won. It seems they share the same train of thought. “You must remain between the line here--” Tom draws a line on the ground with his wand toward the left end of the corridor, “-- and the line here,” he draws another line. “Sounds good?”

“Sounds wonderful.” It’s a large arena. Blaise guesses that long-distance combat is the best route with Tom, for surviving, at least, if not winning. “Will it be a wizard's duel or an Affair of Honor?”

“It matters not to me.,” says Tom. “The basis for winning stays the same; disarm your opponent, or make them unable to continue dueling. So, Blaise. Your pick.”

(With Harry in his heart and mind.) “Affair,” says Blaise.

Tom rolls his eyes. “Alright then. Affair it is.” He repeats the terms, says, If you agree to these terms, say ‘I do,’ 

“I do,” says Blaise. Magic hangs in the air and the second it fades -- making the loser’s fate set in stone -- Tom’s magic swells like a physical force.

An ocean of black, so thick you cannot see through it, makes to splat him right where he stands, but Blaise sees it before it’s there. He moves away just in time. Does anyone else see your magic like this?

I would suppose not. One’s magic is a natural extension of their heart.

Blaise shoots out a cutting curse, long and horizontal, making it so Tom ducks to avoid it. Tom’s magic pops with rage and Blaise conjures a block of ice to avoid the onslaught of blasting spells. He sits behind it as it chips away and considers, while time still permits it, where to go next.

Blaise wants to say that Tom excels at wandless, non verbal magic -- but this is hardly the case. Rather, it seems Tom has too much magic to control, so it does it almost entirely by itself; an automated system, acting on Tom’s instincts without conscious thought. It is a brag, in a way. A show of pure power.

And though Tom has yet to cast any spells with his wand, the idea that he can, while simultaneously controlling this swarm of fuck you… is worrying. Is hard to handle. Is nearly impossible to deal with in close combat.

… Unless that’s the point of the subconsciously controlled magic? To make it so any attacks cast on Tom’s person must be cast from afar? And Tom set the limits so a distance between them would be manageable.

Of course, Blaise is not foolish enough to believe that Tom is sub-par at close combat. But he knows that if Tom wants something avoided, there’s a reason for it. 

Blaise needs a diversion, needs to draw the bulk of Tom’s not manually controlled magic elsewhere. What he first needs is time to think. Blaise crouches, turning his back to the wall so he is facing his ice block and the blasting curses sent at it. He waits. Just a moment. And the curses break through his ice and before they can hit him, before they can even fucking dare, Blaise shoots out an ice spell. A long rectangle of ice reaches from Blaise’s wand to the opposite side of the corridor. Blaise sends out another one. And another.

All the while, he moves closer. All the while, magic sparks around him, sending off heating charms, but Blaise is stubborn, too. He lowers the temperature of the room in every way he can. Tom’s magic retreats -- likely to help Tom find his footing, to clear out a space for him. 

Blaise sinks to the floor, controlling his breathing. There are great things at stake here. He cannot afford to fuck this up. 

A diversion. Get close, throw hands. Or magic. Or whatever, it doesn’t matter, whatever gets the job done.

First part: a diversion. A distraction. Yeah. Yeah, he can do that. 

The ice around him is reflective, ever slightly. Made to be dense, to be a heavy hitter if it made contact. He can do better. He needs to. 

Blaise straights (ha) and starts summoning columns, this time, of ice all around the makeshift arena. They are more mirror like. Easily destroyed, light… but they do not have to be heavy. Their design is purposeful. 

He hears blasting spells knocking them down. Tom’s started acting, too. He is fast, knocking down his columns at record speed, trying, Blaises guess, to drive Blaise either further from him or closer, while also attacking images of him that are particularly convincing.

But for every one he knocks down, there are two in its place. It is a simple replica charm -- the Humpty Dumpty one in particular. When something is broken, it replaces itself twice over.

Blaise creates an image of himself. An apparition-type figure with his face, made to look like it is moving and occasionally firing more spells. It reflects off of one column of ice onto another and another and soon, it looks like there are a hundred of him.

To top it all off, he casts a Disillusionment charm on himself. He is in a sea of dummies and cannot be seen. It is the perfect cover.

He moves toward the source of the blast spells at a steady pace. He pauses quickly and often to dodge falling ice, so it is not as fast a pace as he had hoped. But it is steady. It is working.

On the ground, he starts to notice snakes. They are small and close to brian dead and everywhere. Blaise supposes that Tom summoned them -- but to what end? To whack against images of Blaise to figure out which ones are Blaise and which ones are just images?

It is smart. It is also overkill. Any sort of simple projectile could do the same thing, but whatever. Let the Slytherin have his pride. 

Tom, when Blaise finally approaches his corner, looks calm. He is moving constantly, but his pace is as steady as Blaise’s. He…

He must know that he does not have the upper hand. He must. His wand strokes are smoothed and his wandless magic is rhythmic. There is nothing unnerved about him.

Blaise approaches slowly. He feels like he is walking headfirst into a trap, with the snakes, thousands of them now, surely, creating space for his shoes in every step. It feels like a trap but… What other option does he have? If Tom knows he is here already there is no undoing that.

He has one shot. He has one chance to get a good ambush in and if it is not good enough or strong enough or whatever -- then he loses. Then that’s that. 

Blaise raises his wand, a hex on the tip of his tongue, but before he can even cast it, before he can even try and experience close combat with Tom Riddle, Tom’s head snaps to him, where he should be and is invisible. 

He says something, in a language that is not English, is not human, and then before he has time to even be shocked, the snakes on the ground swarm him, flinging themselves up from the ground, biting him. Tearing his wand away from his fingers and lying in what is now melting ice, disarmed, defeated, a loser, he realizes something.

He realizes something and is unable to say it because, god damn, he lost. The lip lock charm still stands.

But he can think it. So he does. Tom Riddle saw him even though there was nothing to see -- like he was able to see him through a snake’s eyes, just for a moment -- and then Tom Riddle spoke with words not human.

Tom Riddle, the head of a housewide takeover.

Fuck you, thinks Tom, heir of Slytherin. 

Blaise looks away calmly from his still bleeding fingers. Tom has already vanished the mess -- and it was a right fucking mess, wasn’t it -- around them and he stands, looking just as presentable as before.

“Alright,” says Blaise. “What is it you want to know?”