The leather of Harry's boots didn't take the blood as well as he wished it would have.

Theodore Nott writhed on the floor of his flat, trickles of red bleeding through his white-collared shirt. His brown curls were matted to his forehead—and whether it was from the sweat or blood, Harry wasn't sure if he wanted to know. Nott was gasping in heaving breaths, clawing his way across the wooden tiles like an injured butterfly with a broken wing.

"Potter—please help," the man choked, fingers wrapping around Harry's ankle like a shackle.

Harry's mouth hung open as he spluttered for the words he couldn't speak. His gaze drifted down to the red carpet. And then to Nott's wound. After another speechless moment, he dragged a hand down his face, jabbing his foot sharply to shake Nott off of his leg.

A pained expression formed on Nott's face as he curled a protective arm over his abdomen.

Harry drew forwards, falling to his knees at Nott's side. His hands hovered hesitantly over the man's stomach, before he quickly regained his composure and rushed into the kitchen. He swung open a dark cupboard, shuffling through its contents until his fingers latched around a red handle. When he swept back into the other room, he set to unwrapping a cream-colored cylinder of bandages. Harry yanked up the hem of Nott's shirt, his heart dropping drastically. "Nott, who did this to you?"

The brown-haired man wheezed, recoiling away from Harry's touch. "No one."

Harry fought the urge to scoff, struggling to remember what one was supposed to do with what he presumed to be a stab wound. Nott flinched as Harry cautiously pressed his hands down on Nott's chest, and both men seemed to inhale sharply as the crimson ceased to beady droplets. Eventually, Harry reached for the bandages, wrapping Nott's torso with an extreme tentativeness. When the last string of gauze was set into place, Harry slumped against the woven couch.

"Nott, who stabbed you?"

Nott let out a strained chuckle, a pathetic attempt at a showcase of amusement as he admired Harry's sloppy handiwork. "It's quite bold of you to assume that I got stabbed, Potter."

Wrinkles formed between Harry's dark brows, and his nose crinkled in distaste. Nott looked as if he were to collapse in humorous giggles at the notion—that Harry Potter seemed so doctor-ish. Harry cleared his throat, eyes trailing down to the bloody wound, and the shirt bunched up around Nott's neck. "Only a knife could make a cut as clean as that."

Nott snorted. "Nothing about this," he motioned towards his stomach, "is clean, Potter."

Harry hauled himself up, resting his chin in the palms of his hands. His mind felt as if it were to burst, for all of his thoughts were swirling around as furiously as a raging tornado. Theodore Nott was injured. He had an injured, high-society, member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, Death Eater sprawled across his carpet. Harry blinked. "Who stabbed you?"

I didn't get stabbed, Potter." Nott's lips twisted into a ferocious scowl. "Stop racking your brain with countless ideas of what could've happened to me."

"Unless . . ." Harry trailed off, crossing one leg over the other while he settled into the brown cushions of the sofa. He put an abrupt halt to what he was about to say. "'O tell me, what happened to the great Theodore Nott?"

"I already told you," Nott accused, propping himself up onto his elbows. He tugged on the collar of his shirt, muttering profanities as he tore it off, tossing it somewhere off to the side. It fluttered to the space beside Harry, sending a fresh bloom of crimson to stain the floor. "It was no one."

"You somehow manage to break into my apartment at nearly midnight," Harry drawled, nearing the quivering figure, "bleeding everywhere, and tell me that you weren't stabbed." He gripped Nott's chin, forcing the man to look down at his abdomen with a pained expression. "You expect me to believe that? I dearly hope you don't take me for an idiot, Nott."

Nott's face was filled with something unguarded as he droned on. "You're like a clock, Potter. The next second is never the same. yet, you always circle back to the beginning."

"If you're suggesting that I have two personalities, I'll gladly take that as a compliment."

"You're psycho!" Nott spat, tripping over his own two feet as he struggled to scramble away from Harry, bumping into the wall behind him.

"Actually, I'm Harry Potter—a citizen of London. And if you don't tell me the truth right now, I'll use those citizens' rights, and call for the watchmen. You're lucky I didn't do that in the first place," Harry warned, eyes darkening a drastic shade.

"Now, there's no need for such ruckus, gentlemen."

Harry whirled around at the familiar voice. His eyes narrowed to slits, hands clenching into white-knuckled fists as he caught hold of the sight in front of him. The shadow gave him a lazy smirk, skipping over to Nott's bloodied side. As soon as he cast a delighted look upon Nott's figure, his face froze over.

"Well, well, well," the shadow murmured. "What do we have here?"

"Riddle," Nott gasped, failing at a glare.

"Nott," Riddle replied pleasantly. Without warning, he lunged forwards, digging a finger into Nott's side. Harry watched in horror as that nail wrenched its way through the cotton bandages, wriggling itself into a pool of blood, and twisting—

"Stop!" Harry demanded, stepping forwards. He latched onto Riddle's pale wrist, yanking him away from Nott. Harry stumbled backward, dragging the other man with him as the two toppled onto the floor. If someone were to even sneak a glimpse through the window, the watchmen would surely be banging down his door in a matter of minutes.

Riddle's eyes widened drastically-a criminal caught in surprise-before he collapsed on top of Harry.

Harry grunted, shoving the dark-haired man off of his chest before stumbling to Nott's aid. He hoisted Nott off of the ground by the collar of his shirt, pressing him against the wall. "Truth or dare?"

Nott bit his bottom lip, face contorting in pain. But, at Harry's words, his eyes widened, and his reply sounded garbled. "Huh?"

"Truth? Or dare?"

Nott blinked, and his mouth opened hesitantly. Although he tried to conceal the fear that flashed across his face when a shadowed entity grew closer to him, his voice sounded strangely calm as he answered. "Truth."

Harry's shoulders sank as he continued to fight off Riddle's attempts to pry him off of Nott. As he wrenched himself to the side-successfully loosening Riddle's bone-crushing grip-he heaved in Heavenly breaths and focused his blurry vision back towards a mortified Theodore Nott. The man was trembling in Harry's arms, barely managing to hold himself up without wincing.

Harry chewed on the inside of his cheek. "Did you get stabbed?"

Nott's face turned to a ghostly shade of pale, all traces of natural flush gone from his cheeks. He fumbled for words, eyelashes fluttering. "Nevermind. I choose dare."

"I dare you to tell me who stabbed you."

Nott ran a shaky hand through his curls, glancing up simultaneously at Riddle. Riddle's eyes could've been mistaken for a flashing crimson as he neared Harry like a predator. His lips were drawn up into an unsettling grin, and the blade clenched in his palm was facing the wrong side down. Yet, he didn't seem bothered by it as he grew closer to Harry, driving the weapon up into the air.

"Never have I ever," Nott breathed, trying his best to divert Riddle's attention away from Harry. In the spur of the moment, Nott neared Harry in the gut, making the raven-haired man groan in pain. Harry fell gracefully-hunched over the reddened carpet-tumbling to the ground like a bird that had been shot down.

His wings had faded in plain sight, and in the angel's place was a devil.

"I just want to talk, Mr. Potter," Riddle allied, in the beginnings of lunging for Harry once again.

Harry grunted, rolling to his side. He bolted towards the kitchen, fingers grappling for the light switches. In an instant, the apartment was flooded with darkness, and a disapproving noise echoed from the other room. Harry decided that it was Nott, but when his fingers wrapped around a butcher knife, he doubted himself.

As soon as Harry re-entered the living room, he rammed into Nott, sending the other man into a twisted state of shock. He unashamedly admitted to himself that he was delighted to find Nott sprawled across the floor. "Never have I ever gotten stabbed."

"I don't like these games very much," Nott whined, struggling to crawl away from Harry's outstretched arms.

"Too bad," Harry mocked, dragging them both to the edge of the sofa as Riddle slammed the blade into the ground. Harry pressed the pad of his forefinger between his brows, welcoming the crushing stinging as he wondered how his interview with the landlady would go later.

"Hi! Sorry to bother you again, but I'm going to need to file a repair," Harry would say.

"A repair?" The landlady would question. "Whatever for?"

"I might've gotten into a stabbing fight last night, and now there's a knife imprint on the floor. My apologies!" Harry would explain.

In the present, Harry shifted his focus back towards Nott. "To be quite frank, I didn't particularly like your face either when I first met you, but life's not fair. You'll be asked questions you don't want to answer and meet people you don't want to acquaint yourself with.

"Was that an insult, dear Mr. Potter?" Riddle cooed from the other side of the flat, scanning the room greedily. "Because if it is, then let me give you one in return." He ducked behind the sofa-to where Harry had his hand clamped over Nott's protesting mouth-and let his lips twist into a sadistic smile. "It goes . . ." A pale hand swiped Nott out of Harry's grasp. "Like this." A devilish grin painted itself across Riddle's face, and he delicately pressed the knife against Nott's sweat-sheen neck.

Harry groaned, using the back of the couch as a brace as he regained his balance.

"You come to one of my meetings, or lovely Nott here dies," said Riddle gleefully.

A trickle of blood spilled down Nott's collarbone like a sparkling fountain. "You wouldn't," Nott gasped, gazing up at Riddle's icy expression with a desperate look. "You need me. You wouldn't dare to kill me. We're team members, remember? Without me, you'd-"

"Happily recruit another Death Eater," Riddle interjected softly. "Neediness isn't a pretty look on you, Nott. And you're most certainly not making a good impression on Mr. Potter."

"I'm not a display window," Nott argued, the faint undertone of a wheeze filling his voice. "I can't be perfect."

"Windows can crack," Riddle sang, driving the tip of the blade deeper into the crevice of Nott's shoulder blade.

Harry held up a hand. "Why are you so desperate for me to join your little group?" His words even surprised himself, a cup of bitter coffee with a side of salt. His glare flickered between the two men, coldness disintegrating into something that Riddle wasn't sure he wanted to decipher. Nott's wound was still bleeding profusely, a puddle of red ink dripping and splattering and staining the carpet.

"Why are you so desperate to decline my offer? It's not every day I reach out to a client in a moment of eagerness, Mr. Potter," Riddle said quietly.

"Eager?" Nott spat, inhaling sharply as the knife pierced his skin. "You're anything but eager, Riddle. You're insane. You'd kill one of your loyalist followers for a stupid man."

"I'm not stupid!" Harry shouted, fighting the urge to slap a hand over his mouth as soon as the words flew past his lips. "I-I . . . I'm aware. If my surroundings. And lies."

"Hmm?" Riddle murmured, seemingly looking intrigued by that passion that Harry was displaying. He leaned forwards, practically latching onto Harry's arm. "Are you calling me a liar, Mr. Potter?"

"Yes," Harry retorted, gritting his teeth so hard that fiery sparks of pain shot up his nerves.

"Well, in that case . . ." Riddle trailed off, expression oddly blank.

Nott whimpered.

"No!" Harry lunged forwards, snatching the knife out of Riddle's flimsy grasp-already catching onto the hint that Riddle was giving him.

Riddle's eyes widened, clearly not expecting the sudden outburst. "Stop, no!" The man twisted his body to the side, gripping Harry's wrist and slashing the blade across Harry's abdomen.

Harry's mouth fell open as he gaped down at the tear in his suit. He dropped to his knees, slumping into Riddle's awaiting arms.

"How was Nott's acting? Fake?" a smug voice asked from the doorway.

Riddle's lips pursed together, cruelness flashing in his dark eyes. "He didn't exceptionally well. As for his injuries, I think not. Get him out of my sight."

Draco Malfoy bowed his head, hauling Theodore Nott over his shoulders-grunting as he made his way down to the midnight-colored carriage parked outside of Forest Flats. The crack of a whip echoed through St. Matthew's, and Tom Riddle was left alone in Harry Potter's apartment.

Sure, Riddle was evil.

But life was wicked.


Harry's eyes fluttered open.

He took in his unfamiliar surroundings with haziness, before the memories of the previous night slammed back into him with a headache. He gasped, scrambling back as his fingers kneaded into pristine sheets, head bumping against a wooden headboard.

Nott bleeding all over his floor . . . Riddle hurting Nott . . . Riddle bargaining with Harry . . . Riddle stabbing him . . .

Harry blinked. He was in his flat. He eyed his stomach suspiciously, cautiously lifting up the hem of his nightclothes, holding in a breath as he awaited the sight of dried blood and pain.

There was nothing there.

He slumped back into his bed, shielding a hand over his eyes as the morning sun drew above the windowsill. The shadows of light danced across the floor in speckles of rainbows, taunting him. His gaze flickered to the tacky grandfather clock bolted to the wall and squinted.

He could just barely make out the roman numerals the clock was displaying, and his hands grappled for his glasses on the nightstand. Harry hissed when his finger brushed something sharp, and he yanked his hand back to survey the damage. Something had sliced him—and the red sliding down his palm was enough proof of that.

He rolled over to his side, reaching for his glasses once more. His fingers caught hold of the frame, and he pulled the object closer to his face.

The lenses were shattered.

Had it all been a dream? A sick, twisted nightmare full of vengeance and blood?

Harry racked his head for the events of last night, a single sentence flooding through his brain. The warning that Riddle had given him.

"You should be careful, Mr. Potter. Meddling only makes things worse."

It hadn't made sense at the time, but what if it had been something for the future? A phrase that Harry would only understand after he woke up? Harry rubbed his eyes, sliding on the crooked frames. They'd have to do it for the time being. Broken eyesight was better than bad eyesight.

The bridge of Harry's nose stung, but he slowly blinked away the pain. It felt like a razor was being dragged across his skin every time he scrunched his face up, so he refrained from making any over-the-top expressions.

Harry slipped out of the tangled covers, sliding into the first shirt that he could find. Which managed to be a collared t-shirt with fuzzy dragons spinning and flying across a black pattern. Harry huffed, but he decided that he didn't want to waste any further time by changing.

He yanked on a pair of plain slacks—thankfully with no silly designs on them—and grabbed a heavy overcoat off of the rack just for extra measure against the howling wind outside.

With one last accusing look towards the interior of his flat, he slammed the door and made his way down the rickety staircase. The apartment complex reeked of metal, no doubt the cause of the golden railings that left a person's palm a faded sparkly yellow every time they used it.

He swept through the entrance hall, trying his greatest to tame his hair before stepping onto St. Matthew's.

Like the day before, it was crowded per usual, but a thought occupied Harry's mind, gradually slowing his angered pace.

Mage Dumbledore had only given him yesterday off.

Harry glanced up towards the looming figure of Big Ben, his scowl growing deeper at the concept that he was supposed to be at Queensborough nearly twenty minutes ago. He adjusted his broken glasses, praying that his disheveled appearance wouldn't cause any children to burst into tears, and waved for a taxi carriage to pick him up.

After he had jumped inside of a stray carriage, and the horse pulling it halted in front of the Queensborough, Harry reluctantly hopped down the midnight steps. He tugged on the collar of his ridiculous shirt—debating whether to ask the Mage if there was an illusion for making him look normal—then tucked the thought away for later.

He lifted the door knocker, but before he had the chance to rap the golden lion against the wooden entrance, the door swung open.

"And so we meet again, Harry," Mage Dumbledore said, an unusually bright twinkle in his eye. One hand was stroking his beard of pearls, while the other hurriedly ushered him inside.

"And so we meet again," Harry muttered to himself, desperately trying to use his overcoat as a shield—to hide his dragon shirt.

Mage Dumbledore's gaze only glimmered in amusement as he took in the strange fabric of the young man's top, as if Harry was a shiny new toy that he had just unwrapped. "Is that a parade of dragons on your shirt, Harry?"

When Harry's lips twisted downwards into a ferocious scowl, the Mage knew that he had received the man's opinions on his dress wear. Yet, the elder decided to not comment any further on the intriguing matter, and led Harry inside.

"Summer is just around the corner," Mage Dumbledore commented cheerfully, plopping down on a silver armchair, watching with uncontained delight as he noted a floating platter hovering towards where the two were. Cups of tea were on the verge of toppling off the dish—a spoil of chocolate-colored liquid spilling fat droplets onto the expensive tiled floor.

Harry graciously took a glass of mint tea from the Mage, drinking in delicate sips. His glasses still made his vision distorted, but he was able to make out enough of Mage Dumbledore's calm expression. "All the more reason to ignore it, sir."

The Mage placed a hand over his heart, bony fingers clutching onto his plum-colored overcoat. "My, Harry! What season do you prefer then?"

Harry looked ready to jump over and catch the man—for Mage Dumbledore was leaning over the side of the armchair so far that it seemed like he could flip over within a moment. But, he settled when the Mage withdrew. Harry shrugged. "I dunno. Fall's nice, I suppose."

"Fall," Mage Dumbledore whispered to himself, humming quietly as his pinky tapped against the China cup. His eyes traced the blue floral patterns on the glass, before stilling on Harry's figure. "What is it that you like so much about fall, Harry?"

Harry shifted around in his seat, setting the teacup onto the small table in front of him. He rolled around his neck, propping himself up on one of the elaborate pillows that the Mage insisted on littering the place with. "It's, er . . . Colorful."

"Spring is colorful."

Harry refrained from shooting the Mage an exasperated look. "Yes—but autumn's different. It's not a rainbow, it's just the first three. There are pumpkins, the promise of winter is coming, and the weather is a mix between the scent of bonfires and the horizon of darkness. Plus, there are two holidays."

"Oh, so now we're diverting the topic to holidays?" The Mage questioned, pushing his half-moon spectacles up the tip of his nose with his middle finger. "Summer has plenty of holidays. America's independence day, your birthday . . ."

Harry frowned at the mention of his birthday. He had never taken a liking to it, seeing that the reason his parents had passed was because he had been born. Which also prompted Mage Dumbledore to ponder the fact of why Harry loved Halloween so much—for it was the date of Lily and James Potter's death.

But when he directed this question towards the raven-haired man, Harry brushed it off with a shrug. "I'm not a fan of those who turn a small deal into a big one."

The Mage glanced down at the ground solemnly, a heartstring tugged. "Your parent's death was no small deal, Harry. I hope that someday, you might gain the decency to understand that."

If 'annoyed as Hell' was a commonly used phrase in the twentieth century, then Harry Potter would've been the perfectly painted picture of it. His left eye twitched, and he tucked his hands behind him to hide his balled fists. "I wasn't talking about my Mum and Dad's death, sir. I'm merely stating that the Death Eaters aren't as popular as they'd wish to be."

At that, Mage Dumbledore raised a white eyebrow. His lips curved upwards at the corners, and a faint blush returned to his ghostly cheeks. "Well, in that case, what trouble have you been up to, my boy?"

Harry inhaled sharply. With what was about to come out of his mouth, it was one of many ways to ensure that the Mage was on his side. He had to know whether he could put his trust in Mage Dumbledore in the near future—for God knew that he'd need it.

"I got stabbed last night," Harry said, wincing at the overwhelming amount of honesty that leaked into his voice. It reminded him of the excessive mound of cream that the Mage had dumped into his tea, and he shuddered.

The elder recoiled. "What?"

"I got stabbed," Harry's dark brows furrowed, "or so I think. My shirt is no coincidence, sir. If it was a nightmare, then it was one where I and one other man bled before we were both knocked unconscious. When I woke up this morning and reached for my glasses, I found that the lenses were shattered." He lifted a tentative hand to touch the textured glass. "In my so-called dream, that happened."

Mage Dumbledore fell oddly quiet, and his face held something of a mystery as he gazed through one of the colorful windows—a slight breeze of peculiarness sweeping throughout the room. "May I see your glasses, Harry?"

Harry retorted in shock at the man's request, but slowly slid the frames off of his face. He handed the item to the Mage, who examined the frames at a majority of different angles.

Harry would have screamed in joy after what had felt like an eternity of silence, the Mage spoke. "This was no accident, my boy. This," he pointed towards the break, "was not a fracture that could be caused by falling off a dresser. This was caused by intent."

Who stabbed you, Harry?

"Do you recall anything else in precise detail about what happened yesterday evening?" Mage Dumbledore asked softly, handing Harry back his glasses.

Who stabbed you, Harry?

"And if you can't remember anything," continued the older man pleasantly, "I quite enjoy retracing my steps. It's one of the world's many wonders of how many things you can recover with a little stroll. I'd dearly recommend it."

Harry's head snapped up suddenly, so sharp that a trickle of pain erupted down his neck. "I have to go, sir." He bowed his head ever-so-slightly, pushing himself off of the spot he was comfortably seated in. "It's been nice meeting with you."

An amused smile only spread across the Mage's lips in response. "Goodbye, Harry. And mustn't you forget, your shift is over for the remainder of the week. I will be busy performing a show in France, and I hope that when I return, I will be able to begin your training." Yet, when the Mage glanced up from the newspaper he had just opened, he smiled at finding Harry's empty armchair.

For Harry was already halfway across St. Matthew's, biting the inside of his cheek as he tried to remember which darkened alleyway led to Borgin and Burkes,

The April sun cascaded down upon his face in little lightning bolts, ironically matching the scar that was set smack dab in the middle of his forehead. Harry's hand lifted on instinct, fingers brushing over the jagged patch of skin. It was only one of the many deeds caused by the Death Eaters.

Or so he presumed.

Sirius was the only person who knew the truth about James and Lily's death and had practically left Harry in the dust.

Harry's hands clenched into tightly-wounded fists at his sides, prickles of pain sparkling up his tendons. He strode through St. Matthew's, walking with determination, and head held high with confidence.

When he entered Knockturn Alley, his fists began unclenching. When he burst through the door of Borgin and Burkes—barreling past a bewildered Mr. Burke, and a few wide-eyed costumer's—his hands drew themselves open. When he slammed the backroom entrance open, his hands found Riddle's collar.

"What did you do?" Harry's voice was filled to the brim with fury, yet Riddle's gaze only dropped to his patterned shirt.

"Nice shirt, Mr. Potter."

"Thanks," Harry breathed in response, not processing the other man's words before his dark brows crinkled in confusion. "Wait. No! You get back here!" He grappled for Riddle as the black-haired man slid through his flimsy grasp, seating himself in a desk chair.

Riddle only gave him a lazy smirk, dodging Harry's flailing arms. "I think not."

Harry scowled, fingers locking against the handles of the spinny chair. He yanked the chair towards him, sending Riddle spiraling into his arms. "Listen here, Riddle. I didn't come to this shop to play any games."

"I'm not a pawn, nor a knight," Riddle said softly, touch dancing across Harry's arms before curling around his wrist like a shackle. He looked away thoughtfully. "But I wouldn't mind being called a king."

"You forgot about the rook and bishop," Harry warned, nearing the man once more. "Every piece is important in the game of chess."

"Not all are powerful, though."

Harry ignored the statement that was clearly poised to annoy him, and occupied himself with pacing the entity of the room. "My glasses are shattered."

Riddle squinted, tilting his head up in order to catch a glimpse of the fractured flames. "Indeed. Might I recommend a repair shop, Mr. Potter? I certainly like to go to it when my broken things need fixing."

Harry scoffed. "Like what, your heart? I'd be surprised if you even had one."

Riddle leaned back into the desk chair, palm resting delicately underneath his chin. "Then you'd be in for a shocker. I'm not what I seem."

"You're completely what you seem. In case you haven't noticed, you're awful at concealing your reactions to matters as such, Riddle," Harry bit back, heart leaping in pride as the retort slid past his lips.

Riddle's smile looked sour. "Please, call me Tom. We are familiar with one another now, Mr. Potter." Riddle's head shifted to the right—as if he were expecting Harry to repeat his words—and his bright mood dropped when the other man remained silent.

Finally, Harry spoke. "Call me anything but Harry."

Riddle seemed to ponder this, his handsome face the perfect picture of devastation from this newly discovered loss. "No hard feelings. I thought that 'snitch' rather suited you, anyway."

Harry's mouth moved with the words he couldn't speak. "Snitch?" he spluttered.

Riddle looked unphased. "Why, of course. I heard from Nott that you were the Seeker at Langdale. Part of that little game—Quidditch, I think . . . ?" he trailed off. "You know, where you toss the golden ball up into the air and have to catch it before the opposing team does. Besides, you tattle-tale on me to that old Mage of yours."

Harry blinked. "Mage Dumbledore?"

Riddle's mouth pursed, and realization flickered across his face. "Ah. I see. So you have told Dumbledore about that little . . . interference of ours."

"You stabbed me!" Harry cried.

"I did not injure you in any way or form," Riddle interrupted blankly.

"Lying is not a pretty look on you, Riddle," Harry warned, resurfacing a familiar sentence from last evening.

"Neediness isn't a pretty look on you, Nott."

Riddle's sharp features contorted into a peculiar calmness-one that reminded Harry of waves. They rolled against white sand, crashed into jagged boulders, and returned back to the sea. Riddle wore a salty smile, then the lightbulb in Harry's mind exploded into a thousand beams of sunlight.

Riddle blinked. "Lying is a beautiful look on me. But, unfortunately, I am telling the truth as of right now. For if I was lying, you'd fall to your knees and kiss my shoes, snitch."

"Bitch," Harry muttered, swiping a raven-colored lock out of his eyes. His bangs tickled his forehead as he stumbled backward, taking a place against the wall and crossing his arms over his chest. Realization swept over him in a cold breeze, and he nearly slid down the floral wallpaper in exasperation. "Coffee!"

Riddle's neck snapped up, and his eyes were full of confusion. "What?"

"Now it all makes sense," Harry mumbled, using the corner of Riddle's chair as a makeshift brace. He spun it around so fast that Riddle looked as if he had just received whip-lash, frozen to the antique. He gazed into Tom Riddle's eyes so intently that the world outside seemed to stop-that the stars had stopped glowing and the world had stopped spinning and his suspicions had been proved wrong.

But they had been proved right.

At least, so Riddle thought-whom was currently in a state of unspoken panic.

Riddle tried to clear his mind, before prompting spinning around in the desk chair and clasping his hands together in front of him. "Coffee is illegal."

"Exactly," Harry urged, racking his brain for any more ideas on the matter.

"Exactly?"

And then suddenly, Harry was pressing a sharpened knife to Riddle's throat. The tip of the blade barely sliced across Riddle's neck, but he felt a burst of pain bloom across the sensitive skin.

It had all been a distraction.