DISCLAIMER: I own nothing of J. K. Rowling's magical universe.

A/N: Here's my second Harry Potter one- shot, I hope you guys like it!

The rain was heavy, splattering droplets showering overhead mercilessly, as rushing rivulets of water gushed down the drains and gullets. The wind blew, ferocious, biting and cold, unrelenting. Small speckles of ice flurried downwards, landing lightly on the busy street, announcing the normal chilly arrival of London autumn. It was but approaching evening at five, yet the overhead sky revealed darkness; the clouds twisting into various blurry black shapes.

He darted, under the rain, quick even as the lightning flashed above. Splatters of mud and puddle clung to the sleeve of his trousers; he continued onwards. The small familiar alcove was but there, almost in reach.

The quick rhythm of his light footsteps faded into the rain, then finally came to a complete halt before the bus stand. He ducked in quickly, no longer allowing the little raindrops to seep in through soaked attire.

It was darker in here. The faint sunlight that still existed on that part of the globe did not seem to penetrate this far, where he was. He didn't much care though, it was shelter after all. He raised his eyes, only to meet a pair of eerily familiar green orbs staring right back at him.

The man angled his face slowly towards him, in that brief moment, a flash of lightning caught his sharp features.

He remembered feeling surprised; for all he had expected to happen, it had never been this.

xXx

Before the Rain

"Wish you a good day sir!"

Tom Riddle Sr. looked back briefly, before raising his hand slightly at the conductor as he alighted the bus.

That day was dark, as he remembered. It had been late September, with winter looming threateningly near. The clouds were dark; the wind was ever so ferocious, chilling passer- bys with or without their jackets and raincoats, to the very bone. It wasn't a good day out for travelling, especially not in such a wild weather, and he wouldn't have been if not for an errand required of him to attend personally in the next town.

He quickened his footsteps towards a small, shabby bus stop, half- hidden by a large, overgrown and unkempt tree sprouting next to it unexpectedly. He braved the haze of rain, pursuing onwards, until he reached the relief of a roof overhead. Then he sat down on the damp, rickety seats, tried his best to get used to the sudden gloom in the bus stop, and waited.

xXx

The bus was late, which was totally expected in such a weather. In fact, he was beginning to worry that it wouldn't be arriving at all. He checked his timepiece once more, the fifth time that night. Then he cast his eyes out into the rain, searching for the arrival of his only means of transportation. Cabs never went as far as this rural area, nor did trains.

At first, he never really noticed the boy. He was considered tall for his age, slight, but then again- just a kid. He didn't really pay any attention to children- not that he had any of his own. He merely remembered and attended to important things, matters that may affect his household's pride, money, business. He had nothing much else in his life aside from that. And it was just as well, as he wasn't quite as young as he used to be anymore.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the boy dart down the pavement, a second before crossing the rainy street. Then the traffic lights blared green. Immediately, the honking of cars faded, and vehicle after vehicle started forwards, their engines booming, a cloud of black dust rising behind their exhaust pipes into the humid air, visible even under the heavy rain.

He glanced down at his timepiece anxiously once more. The bus was already five minutes late. He wondered how much longer was he to wait? Would he arrive at his destination on time? Would all the inns be fully booked?

He admitted, he hadn't been paying much attention to his surroundings; but he was absolutely certain, not more than half a minute had ticked passed since he last glanced up. Yet when he did so again, red light was blaring from the traffic lights, instead of green. The pedestrian crossing was clear as cars pulled up reluctantly, tyres screeching to a halt.

There was only one pedestrian at that time of late evening. The boy darted quickly across the street and reached the other end quickly, ignoring the pelting of the rain, before starting to head towards the bus stop, towards him.

Normally he wouldn't have noticed him- the boy was looked barely eight or nine years of age, and was dressed in a shabby, oversized raincoat, which he draped carelessly around his shoulders. But there seemed to be some kind of aura that roused him, a spark of familiarity that made his senses tingle. It was foreign feeling that he had never experienced since almost ten years ago. But once he rested his eyes on the boy, he felt as though a jolt was sent through him, as though lightning could have struck him, yet he never realized it.

The boy was dark, handsome. And of course, tall for his age. When the boy finally reached the bus stop, panting lightly, he continued to watch the child. The boy seemingly noticed this, for his head snapped up to meet his gaze almost immediately. And for some indecipherable reason, Tom Riddle Sr. wasn't the least bit surprised that the boy's eyes were green, a shade darker than emerald, just like his used to be.

The boy's gaze seemed to narrow slightly. He remembered wondering if his rich velvet, fox fur- lined coats and square toed boots had intimidated the boy. It was clear by his dressing, manner and outfit- he was from a prestigious family, never to associate with vagrants or homeless children, for that matter. Yet the boy did not seem to least bit frightened, tentative even. In fact, the younger of the pair seemingly grew defiant, and there was something about the aristocratic haughtiness about him as he lifted his chin and looked straight back at Tom Riddle Sr. that sent an unknown chill running, slight. It had nothing whatsoever to do with the rain.

He never met someone who could radiate such a measurable amount of confidence, least of all a child who seemingly, had no place else to go. He wanted to see more of the boy's face, yet his features were hidden under a shadow.

"I seem to be holding your interest, sir," the boy spoke suddenly. Tom noticed that the boy's eyes were piercing, razor sharp. Even more so than his.

"You are quite right," he answered quietly, finally drawing his eyes away. "I was wondering what a vagrant child like you would be doing out in the rain at this time of the day."

The boy did not reply, but he felt the child tense up slightly beside him. When he turned around to meet the boy's eyes properly, he received an unexpected cold glare in return. "Just make another assumption," the boy said.

The younger of the pair moved to leave, swiftly- just as he came by, but with that quivering, shaky truth slowly encroaching on his mind, Tom couldn't simply allow him go. He reached out and grabbed hold of the boy's sleeve before it left the empty seat beside him completely.

"Stay," he said simply, authority, commandment- or perhaps a single plead ringing in his voice. "The rain outside is cold."

The boy eyed the heavy downpour of the rain, before his gaze lingered on his hesitant touch. The boy shrugged, then slid into a seat away from him once more.

xXx

He wasn't used to it. He couldn't be certain how things worked here in this little town, being his first time here, but nevertheless he felt unnerved by it all.

It had been so much of a daily habit, a routine even, that it became almost a belief that servants, vagrants, the lower class, ought to bow before the upper. They scurried out of the way, never approach unless approached, try to be as helpful and docile as possible, in the desperate hope that nothing bad would befall on them if they failed to comply. They served. And he, being the head of the prestigious Riddle family, was entitled to that kind of treatment, that kind of respect. He had assumed it would be likewise every elsewhere he went.

But the first member of the lower- class he met, this boy; had been all but humble. He was defiant, intelligent enough, and had a certain manner of speaking, his way around words that spoke of aristocratic haughtiness, but that couldn't be right- as despite everything, Tom was still pretty certain the boy was a homeless child. Who else could he be?

He had a vague idea, found back in the corner of his mind, but a certain kind of oppressive fear kept pushing it back.

He found it silent, he didn't know why. The rain outside was hammering loudly against the flimsy roof of the shelter they shared, he heard tyres skidding across the wet floor, the faint blare of a siren somewhere far away. Yet there was silence, and an oppressive one at that. He felt more than saw, more than once, a piercing gaze resting on him, looking him up and down- but not once did he catch the boy's gaze trained on him.

"You normally do not associate with my kind," the boy spoke first, his voice low, quiet- yet it carried easily over the pitter- patter of rainfall.

He found himself nodding, if slightly. "It is true," he agreed.

This time, he felt the gaze on him once more, and when he met it, the boy did not look away. "To what then, do I owe your special interest?" the boy questioned without pause, eyes still boring into the other's.

He was unsure then, what to reply. All he said was, "You're different."

The boy was the first to look away this time. "I know," he said, so softly, with a sense of quiet sadness he didn't know what to make of.

Plunk. Plunk. Plunk.

The rain outside continued to fall, heavy and loud. He watched the raindrops fall, quickly, some vertically, some nearly horizontal due to the blowing wind.

Then he said, "The rain is heavy today."

There was no reply, the boy was looking elsewhere.

"Does it normally rain this heavily in your town?" he tried asking, angling his head slightly in the boy's direction.

"It's cold," the boy merely said.

"Then you might want to brace yourself for winter," he said mildly. "You do not like the chill?"

There was a long pause after this, the boy seemed to be pondering on his words.

"They say it was winter when I was born," he said at last, looking away.

He didn't know why, but Tom Riddle Sr. got the feeling as though he were missing a part of the conversation, as though there was another implication to the boy's indirect, short answers. Alas for his own ignorant assumptions, he saw the boy as a child. An unusual one at that, but no more. His words couldn't have stretched far, he believed. He fell silent for a moment, contemplating his words, but the boy beat him to it.

"It rarely rains here," the boy said again, his voice dropping, soft. "But when it does, it's unexpected."

"The town needs the rain, even though it brings chill and mud," he returned, slowly. "I've heard these areas are always dry. Draughts might occur often without the presence of rain."

This time, the silence between them was not broken- it stretched, on and on, even as the rain began to recede, the clouds fading back into the horizon, leaving nothing but heavy dampness in the air. A slow, cool breeze drifted along the now nearly empty streets.

"The rain has gone," his quiet companion said, eyes looking at the clear, slightly dark blue sky.

"You're not waiting for the bus, are you?" Tom Riddle Sr. asked, shifting slightly.

"No," the boy agreed, before standing up to leave. "I ought to go now."

For once, he actually sounded like a normal nine year old boy. But as the boy turned to leave, he suddenly stopped, his face still half- hidden in the shadows. "Will we meet again?"

There was no pitter- patter of the rain this time, yet Tom Riddle Sr. wasn't sure if he heard the child right. "I might pass this way again," he said at last. "My destination is the next town…I wait for the second bus for my stop."

The boy inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement, half- facing him, before turning round. He walked away.

But in that brief second twilight caught the child's face, he felt that painful jolt in his heart, and that niggling doubt vanished, only to replaced by shock and certainty of his revelation.

Next time, while waiting for the second bus, perhaps he would wait a little longer.

xXx

The second time he came by, a week had passed. His business in the last town had been a great success, he even had his latest business event partner with him as he returned to that shabby bus stand.

He had prayed for rain, and the heavens had granted his wish. The skies were once again open, with rushing gullets of water pouring out of them. The clouds were once again dark shadows, ironically- it was also approaching dusk.

"Let's take shelter at that bus stop," Tom Riddle Sr. told his companion.

Said partner, Mr. Dawson, a short stumpy old man with not much wealth, yet with many influential connections- snorted with disdain. "What bus stop? It looks like a rundown shack."

"Unless you would rather stand here in the rain," said Riddle Sr. coldly, before turning his back on Dawson.

He reached the bus stop soon enough, his long quick strides leaving Dawson little chance of keeping up. One look into the shadows left him feeling as empty as the bus stop was. One of the raindrops had finally managed to punch a hole through the hole of the shabby roof, dripping onto the between him and where the boy had once been. The bus stand, he realized, was not built in a strategic spot; there was a fence around it which prevented him from noticing far off whether the bus had arrived. From past experiences, the bus never stopped at the bus stand anymore; not when it was so derelict and easily unnoticed. It stopped by the traffic light.

He couldn't move away, not when he had suggested Dawson to come. Speaking of which, the man arrived shortly, panting as he ducked his balding head under the roof, and swore as he stepped in a puddle in the process.

"What a dump this is," Dawson grumbled, glaring up at the hole above their heads. "It's got no proper roof."

"This is already the best they can have," Riddle Sr. said, coldly, without a sneer.

Dawson snorted. "Then maybe I'll risk the rain," he said snobbishly. "At least I'll be able to see the bus arriving."

At his words, a rat chose to come scurrying in his direction, its red eyes wide with terror. It scampered between Dawson's boots, running round and round, before sinking its teeth into the heel of his boot. Riddle Sr. did not know what to say at this sudden abnormal behavior of the animal, he did nothing but watch as Dawson give a cry of disgust, then stomped off into the rain.

He found that he didn't particularly care. The man Dawson relied on the Riddles' wealth too much, it wouldn't do much harm to offend the man. They had known each other for years since, after all.

Then the boy appeared.

The rat did really have impeccable timing, after all.

He looked just as how he had always imagined him to be- tall, dark, handsome, even with his boyish features. Razor sharp green eyes. He wondered why he had never noticed the moment he set eyes on the boy- he was his carbon copy.

"Your stop brought you here," the boy said, with an expression akin to a small smile. His hair was damp from the rain, it wasn't completely tidy, his clothes once again soaked, through- yet his posture was still upright, erect; the charming aura around him never once vanished.

"It did," said Riddle Sr. quietly. "I couldn't miss this town."

Something in his voice made the boy look up, sharply- and once more, Riddle Sr. got the feeling that the boy knew more than he did. Perhaps he had already guessed.

But if he had, the boy said nothing. He merely sat down at his customary seat, and looked out once more into the rain.

"It's raining again," Riddle Sr. said.

Piercing green eyes met his, unrelenting. "Why did you wait?" he asked, straight, sharp to the point.

He didn't know how to reply the boy. Doubtless, with his intelligent resourceful character, the boy had known- the bus Riddle Sr. should have taken left precisely five minutes ago. The next shift wouldn't be until thirty minutes later.

He didn't know how to begin. For all his debates, discussions and negotiations he had done in his business life, he had never done something like this before.

"You asked me what was it in you that held my interest," he began, finding it increasingly hard to meet that piercing emerald gaze once more. "It wasn't because you were different. You're alike, very much so, to me."

The silence from all those days seemed to stretch till then. The boy looked at him for a moment, but this time it was broken by a rough call- Dawson.

"Riddle!" the man called loudly, hailing him from the side of the road. "I've already hailed my cab. Better than waiting in this dump. Hop in!"

Riddle Sr. looked at the man once, before turning back to the boy.

He still had a slight smile about him, something Riddle Sr. was grateful for, but it was tinged with something he didn't really recognize. Bitterness.

They resumed their previous small talk.

"What are you doing out here in the rain?" he asked the boy, eyeing his dripping attire.

"Running errands," the other replied lightly, before shivering slightly. Riddle Sr. was suddenly reminded once more that the boy was only nine years old, at the most. "You were right. The rain is cold."

Dawson was hailing him again, louder this time. Riddle Sr. felt a sense of desperation surge up within him, a kind of strong urge that willed Dawson away, let the Riddle business be damned. It could wait, surely-

"Look," he began, before he was sure what he was supposed to say, "I need to know this, truthfully. What is your real name? Where do you come from?"

The boy tensed up again, but pretended not to hear him. He continued on speaking, like Riddle Sr. never said a thing, causing his frustration to well..

"But I don't agree with what you said," the boy spoke, "The town may have needed rain to flourish, to grow crops, but then it rained little. So we dug wells, ponds, streams. We grow independent. Then, when the cold rain comes, we realize- we may not need rain in the end."

Riddle Sr. stilled. Outside, Dawson's face was growing red and impatient. The cab was honking loudly.

"After all, truthfully speaking, you don't need what you never had."

He knew. The boy, the child he saw him as, had pieced the puzzles together much quicker than he ever had. He had been playing around with the words, throwing deeper implications- meanings, routes, paths!- trying to tell him, to convey the message.

The boy- his son- maybe, perhaps- had thought of him before. Thought he needed a father to lean on, as he moved on in his life. Like everyone else. But he dug in deeper, got used to his absence, grew stronger. He grew independent.

He swallowed back his many words he had prepared, and asked instead- "You shouldn't be out here alone in the rain all the time. Where is your mother?"

It brought him a shiver, to ask of her once more, since he had pelted, raced, ran away from a life spent with her in a haze of panic and fear all those years ago. But he wasn't quite prepared for the answer, "I never saw her."

Riddle Sr. knew, somehow- she wouldn't have abandoned her son simply. Not when she loved the father so deeply, as she claimed- not when she loved their unborn child so much she begged him to stay.

She was dead.

"Mr. Riddle!" Dawson yelled from the backseat so loudly, it could be heard all along the street. And it never escaped Riddle Sr.'s notice- the boy flinched at the call.

"The rain has stopped," the younger of the pair said, once more.

He stood up to go, so did the boy.

"If you ever pass by this stop," Riddle Sr. said tightly- "be sure to wait here."

He handed his son a card with the Riddle Manor's address, taking care to study the boy's features one last time, before he walked out into the sunlight, towards the black cab.

xXx

The next time he saw the boy, four years had already passed.

And just like the rain at that town, he showed up completely unexpectedly.

It had been his thirty- fifth birthday, 5th of December, in conjunction with his company's first year anniversary. Mrs. Riddle thought it a good omen, and threw a grand party at Riddle Manor. Guests, well- known, the famous and the rich, were all invited, some even from other parts of the world.

He had been having his third glass of wine, talking with some of his business clients. Then he appeared, in the garden, looking as he always did- exactly like him.

The boy had grown taller, almost as tall as him now. His dark hair had grown longer since he last saw him; he was more handsome than ever. He felt a strange feeling, might have been pride even- as he saw those dark green eyes meet his once more.

Before he could approach the boy though, Dawson noticed him first.

"Whose that?" he barked; the boy was the only one at the scene not wearing a suit. "How does a boy get to attend this party?"

He started forwards, but Dawson suddenly gasped, "My my, Riddle… this boy looks exactly like you! Don't tell me, the Riddle scandal almost a decade ago was real? This is your son?"

He said this extremely loudly; it drew much attention from the crowd. He felt Mrs. Riddle's critical gaze sweep over him, felt the gaze of hundreds of guests rest on him. And when it came to his family and pride, he did it without thinking, automatically, just as he had always been brought up to.

He gave an easy laugh, waving it away. "Now, you know that's not true," he said lightly, but his face was white and taut, his hands were shaking slightly.

"Mr. Riddle's party is very grand," the boy interrupted smoothly, a charming mask on his handsome features. Riddle Sr. knew it was a façade. Because it mirrored his. "I only managed to stop by as it was the only time the bus brought folks of my town here directly without overnight stops."

Riddle Sr. glanced sharply at his son, recognizing the piercing subtle jibe.

Dawson, typically, rose to it. "You're poor," he spat the word, as though with contempt. "Not even enough money to pay for overnight stops! I should wonder, what are you doing here? This is a party for the upper class."

"Folks are welcome to attend," interrupted Riddle Sr. much to quite a few raised eyebrows. "Though they were told to stay out of the main garden. I'll ask for you to be escorted to-"

"No, Mr. Riddle," said the boy, his gaze once more razor sharp, cutting. "I apologize for intruding. I shall return to where folks of my position ought to be."

The boy turned away, into the darkness, but Riddle Sr. had one last sentence in. "Please do allow me," he began, but he once again faltered at that unmistakably cold, dangerous gaze.

"I recognize that I'm not welcome here, Mr. Riddle," he said. "Allow me to leave."

The boy disappeared forever after that.

xXx

The next time he saw him, more years had passed… he was no longer a boy. And when he did, he couldn't help but marvel, how much alike he and his son were in character. The boy grew up ruthless, he grew cold like the winter he was born in. And when it boiled down to family and pride, his son simply made the same decision as he did all those years ago, swiftly.

Somewhere along the path, his son had strayed, further than he himself. And as the room swayed, the earth trembled, a small part of him just couldn't help wishing he had waited one more time at the bus stop. If he had reached there before the rain.

The last picture he saw before darkness engulfed him was no longer his perfect mirror image; no longer the son he used to recognize.

It went dark.

Outside, heavy rain fell from the evening sky.

The end

A/N: Thanks so much for reading, please do tell me what you think about this one- shot. Multiple layers were added to their characters through their conversations, I hope you got them. :)