Tom Riddle had had a lover once, a long time ago. He thought. No, he knew. He remembered the happiness, the love. The rocky start, the blissful middle, and the abrupt end. At least, he thought he remembered the end. They'd died, hadn't they? They must have. Otherwise, they'd still be with him, right?
He remembered how they'd met-
Rain. A sidewalk. Turning a corner too fast. A bump. A puddle. Falling books. -
Everything they'd done together-
Looking up at the stars from the bed of a truck in a field in the middle of nowhere, holding hands and blushing cheeks. A dimly lit Italian restaurant, mischievous eyes and a hand creeping up his thigh under the table. The back of a dark movie theater, soft lips mouthing at his throat and a breathy laugh sounding in his ears. An outing to the park and an unexpected thunderstorm, dancing wildly, laughter, a warm body in his arms, drying each other off and getting distracted by shivering flesh. Getting dressed up to go out and never making it out the door, falling into soft sheets and softer skin, a warm embrace and loud moans echoing around the room. Sitting on the couch reading a book, a head resting against his chest, short hair tickling his chin-
What Tom couldn't remember, was his lover.
He remembered things about - him? Her? No, him. Him. - Him. He remembered things about him.
His favorite color-red, even though green suited him better. It matched his… His…
His favorite food-treacle tart, which was a dessert, not a food, no matter what H… H… HE said. He remembered that he was brave, and reckless, and kind, and stupid, and brilliant, and impulsive, and self-sacrificing -brat would jump in front of a train to save a stranger's life- and so amazing and wonderful and just Tom's opposite in every way, so much so that they never should have worked, but they did.
His favorite season was spring - just look at the way everything is growing, Tom, isn't it beautiful? It all just comes back to life, or helps create new life from death, doesn't it just fill you with hope?
He loved to bake, but hated cooking - he never had told Tom why he hated cooking, only that he liked baking because he hadn't been allowed to by his family, had only been trusted with the stovetop.
He gardened.
He was dreadfully untidy.
He never learned how to swim or ride a bike.
His family hated him.
His friends loved him.
Yes, Tom remembered a lot of things about his lover.
He remembered so much that he sometimes wondered if it really had been so long ago. After all, Tom was only in his mid-twenties. It couldn't have been more than a decade at most. And yet, it must have been.
How else could he explain forgetting his lover's name, his face, his voice?
How could someone so completely forget the one who meant everything to them, unless it had been a long time ago?
Sometimes he'd think he remembered something-sparkling green eyes, messy black hair, ridiculous round glasses, pale skin, an odd scar, a small, lithe frame that tucked neatly under his chin and wrapped perfectly into his arms, a whisper of a name, Harry-
But the very moment he reached for the image, to pull it closer, analyze it, memorize it, it was ripped from his grasp, along with whatever thought had inspired the remembrance, and replaced with questioning doubts- that shade isn't even possible, is it? Perhaps his eyes were blue, or brown? Maybe he was blonde? Or perhaps redheaded? Honestly, did they even make glasses like those anymore? Surely, he'd wear something more square-framed, if he even wore glasses. Was his skin really so pale, perhaps it was a bit darker? Surely, he was a bit taller, more broad-shouldered. No, that doesn't sound right, Henry, perhaps? Or James, did it even start with an H?
Tom Riddle had had a lover once.
He had loved him more than anything in the world.
He knew this.
And he had lost him.