"Tell me the truth," Harry demanded, digging the tip of the blade deeper into Riddle's skin.
Yet, Riddle looked unphased. He shrugged, eyes traveling over the construction of the knife. "I did tell you the truth. I did not hurt you, snitch."
"Lying is a beautiful look on me." Riddle's words echoed in Harry's head, as much as he tried to push them out. Harry searched Riddle's face for any sign of resentment but stilled when came back with empty hands and a pounding heart.
Riddle did look devastatingly attractive.
But, he didn't make Harry want to fall to the ground and kiss the tips of his dress shoes. So, he stuck with that statement and twisted Riddle around so the man was pressed against the wall. "Don't even try, Riddle. Are you so desperate for me to join the Death Eaters, that you'd stab me?"
Riddle blinked. "If you need proof of my 'no injury' reassurance, it's smack dab on your stomach."
Harry stilled, and a malicious grin spread across his lips. "Whoever said I got stabbed on my stomach? It could've been my heart, my hand, my leg . . . the stomach is an interesting choice, indeed."
If Riddle was alarmed, he showed no signs of it. In fact, his face remained oddly expressionless, like he had just been told a tragic thing but didn't mind. "Everyone knows that the best place to inflict pain on someone is in the gut. It can twist your insides, and rearrange your mind. Unless, your name is Harry Potter, of course." His mouth curled to the side. "Then you might need a little more education on the matter."
Harry took pride in the crimson that trickled down the side of Riddle's collarbone before he answered. "My apologies that I didn't attend murder one-o-one in my school years. I chose to involve myself in classes that would actually be of use."
"Knowing a pain point is a delicate advantage, Harry."
Harry's mood soured, and his heart deflated as quickly as a balloon could lose its oxygen. "Mental pain is much more fragile than physical pain. A stab wound can take weeks to heal. A broken heart can take years."
"I don't think it's wise to be giving your so-called 'murderer' tips, Harry."
Harry scowled, and he tightened his grip on Riddle slightly. Riddle choked, and a stray curl tumbled down his forehead as he struggled to loosen himself out of Harry's grasp. Harry slowly removed the knife from the piercing point, instead of resting it comfortably against Riddle's neck. "So then you do admit it. You do admit that you stabbed me last night."
"I thought that we had already established the point that I did not injure you," Riddle replied, a certain dryness in his tone.
Harry's face converted into something unknowable, an emotion that Riddle couldn't define. "I have a knife to your throat, and you still refuse to speak the truth."
Riddle's mouth twisted into a tangy smile. "I have already told you," he said quietly, "everything that you need to know."
"The world may be at your heed and call, but I am not," Harry growled.
Riddle only laughed softly, fingers dancing up Harry's forearm until he cradled the hilt of the blade. The pad of his thumb brushed against Harry's wrist, before he yanked on the handle harshly and the knife clattered to the floor.
"Unfortunately, I cannot give you what you desire," Riddle continued smoothly, fluidly leaning down and snatching the knife off of the ground before Harry had the chance to dive for it.
"You don't know what I desire."
Riddle's eyes darkened into misty pools of black. "I know everything that you desire. I know your hopes and dreams, I know your aspirations, I know your daily habits, I know when you are, where you are, how you are—"
"But you don't know who I am," Harry interrupted sharply. "No matter how much you claim you know me, you never will. Not the true me, at least."
"You say I speak lies," said Riddle softly, twirling the blade in between his pale fingers. "When you're the liar. I could kidnap Granger and Weasley, and convince them to tell me every twisted secret of yours."
For a split second, a wave of panic washed over Harry. He had to remind himself that Riddle was just threading a web of carefully weaved words—a spider waiting for the right moment to lunge at an injured butterfly.
But Harry wasn't a butterfly, nor Riddle a spider.
"Tell me."
Riddle startled, head snapping up so quickly that a fountain of pain trickled down his neck. His lips curled at the corners. "Hmm?"
"Tell me a secret of mine," Harry repeated, remaining unphased. He swept a raven-colored strand out of his eyes, inwardly praising himself as his silver tongue rolled into effect. "Tell me my deepest, darkest secret, Riddle. Tell me something that no one else in the world knows except for you and me."
Riddle perked up at the challenge—too overwhelmed at the prospect of beating Harry Potter at one of his own games—that he didn't notice how Harry was slowly slipping out of the door.
"On your cousin's eighth birthday, you poisoned his tea. Naturally, it was suspected that you were at fault. But you were, weren't you? You liked hurting the ones that took a bite out of you first. Revenge is a sweet thing, isn't it?"
Harry crept closer to the exit, the back of his spine bumping against the cool metal of the doorknob. "You just want to use me. You'll treat me just as a toddler treats its toy. You'll make me fulfill your sick purposes, and then leave me be."
The shadows flew out of their corners, mixing with Riddle's dark chuckle. "Oh, I'll never leave you be, Harry. I'll treat you well." His head tilted slightly to the side, icy expression forming into something innocent. "Think of it. The Minister and Tom Riddle working together."
"I'm not the Minister," Harry stated blandly, knuckles brushing against the doorknob.
"You will be."
"Besides," Harry drawled, trying to contain the poorly-concealed panic that leaked into his tone, "if you're so well known as the leader of the Death Eaters, then why are you working here?" He swept a limp hand across the basis of the room.
Riddle drew closer, until he stopped just in front of Harry's still form. "It's okay to be scared, Harry."
Harry was too occupied with his struggling to find a defense that he brushed Riddle's use of his first name to the side. "I'm—" Riddle waited patiently as Harry fumbled for his words. "I'm not scared. You don't scare me. But you did stab me."
Riddle's hand locked around Harry's neck, throwing him against the door with such an extreme force that pain exploded behind Harry's eyes. "I did not stab you."
Harry's fingernails clawed at Riddle's wrist, not giving up until the other man's grip loosened in the slightest. Harry didn't care. He gulped in a large breath, closing his eyes as the taste of bittersweet oxygen flooded through his lungs. "You are an awful, awful man, Riddle. Rumor is that mirrors speak louder than people's words. I'd recommend looking in one."
"Are you calling me a monster?" Riddle's voice was oddly light, as if he was taking Harry's insult as a compliment.
"I don't know," Harry said quietly. "Rejection has many benefits. Perhaps, if we had met under different circumstances, I would've joined the Death Eaters."
Riddle looked exceedingly curious, just a breath away. "Is that so?"
"Oh, yes," Harry croaked. "I only answer to good people, Riddle. I value my choices very efficiently, so."
Riddle leaned in closer, the suffocating grip now gone from Harry's neck. Riddle's fingers played with the collar of Harry's white shirt. "Tell me more. Was I not considered to be a valuable choice in your opinion, Harry?"
"You are a ruby, Riddle," Harry replied, voice lowering to a pained whisper. "Just not a diamond."
"Ah, let me guess," said Riddle, pushing up the knot of Harry's tie so tight that he choked. "I don't have that little sprinkle of glitter you want."
"I've already told you my reasons for not joining the Death Eaters. So, do me a favor and leave me alone. And my friends. And my family. And my life. Stop meddling with things that don't ridicule you."
"Everything involves me. Everything."
Harry's head cautiously raised, and he met Riddle's attentive gaze. "Fine."
Riddle's lips straightened into a thin line, and his expression seemed to whisper that he knew something that Harry didn't. "Fine, what?"
Harry understood that he had all of the fire in the world cradled in the palm of his hands. One flimsy move or an unpredicted drop could cause the Earth to burn into a crisp. So, he inhaled sharply, refusing to meet Riddle's calculative stare as he spoke his next words.
"I'll attend one of your meetings. But you have to promise me, that if I decide that it is not to my liking, you'll let me go."
A thought brushed against Harry's mind, the slight hint of possessiveness strung with a soothing tone. I'll never have to let you go, Harry, because you'll become one of my own.
Harry shuddered as a chill danced down his spine, and Riddle's face mixed with invisible stars.
Riddle looked lost in his train of thought-a rarity—before switching his focus back towards Harry. "I agree. Just remember, Harry, that I'm the deal striker here. You're being brought into a very dangerous game, one where the world will be turned into shambles and twisted rules are in the making."
It pained Harry to admit that he let out a light laugh. "Come to think of it, just a few seconds ago, you were threatening for me to join your little group. And now? Your tossing countless warnings at me."
"I take accountability very seriously, Mr. Potter." It seemed as though the informative Riddle had crept out back out of its cage. "I may be a liar in your line of sight, but I like my followers to know the terms on my hand."
Harry's eyes narrowed to slits, and he ducked, escaping through Riddle's harsh clutch. Before the dark-haired man could comprehend what Harry was doing, the boy had already twisted open the door, and fled out of the backrooms. Harry fumbled to slam the exit shut, squeezing his eyes shut as he held the door closed. "We are not playing a game of cards, Riddle."
Riddle's amused laugh slipped underneath the threshold. "No, my dear snitch. We are playing a game of childish glee, with a splash of darkness."
As Harry took careful strides away from the backroom entrance, he kept his eyes trained on the unmoving doorknob. Riddle hadn't even attempted to get out, which Harry supposed was one positive out of a bucket full of negatives. He pressed the heel of his palm into his eyelid, slumping dizzyingly against one of the rusty bookcases.
"Mr. Riddle can be quite concerning, sometimes," a gravelly voice, worn with old age echoed from close by.
Harry's eyes fluttered open, and he whirled around to face Mr. Burke. The man was bracing himself against the check-out countertop, a glass jar full of money tipped over, the shopkeeper swirling his pointer finger in circles around the spilled coins. Mr. Burke glanced up at his unanswered statement, dark eyes narrowing from behind his circular spectacles.
"He's been asking about you, y'know," Mr. Burke said. "Small facts. Little tidbits. I remember when Mr. Nott introduced you to me the other day. It wasn't too long ago, and Mr. Riddle has already gained an obsession with you, Mr. Potter."
"Why did you hire him?" Harry questioned, swallowing at the sharp breeze that wriggled its way through the opened shutters, engulfing him in a whirlwind of ghostly tentacles.
"Why did I hire him?" Mr. Burke wore a thoughtful look, scooping up the pounds and dumping them back in the jar. A fairly loud clatter echoed through the store as money clinked against glass — and Harry had to refrain from smacking his hands against his ears to rid himself of the terrible noise.
"You could have hired anyone else. But you chose him."
Mr. Burke let out a bitter chuckle, propping his elbows upon the wooden counter. "Child, it puts me to shame that you think that I get a lot of requests. Knockturn Alley is a dangerous place to work in. You either meet allies or enemies."
Harry's eyebrows shot up, creases forming on his sweat-sheened forehead. His hands had turned clammy from the summer humidity, and strands of his hair were matted to his face. "Which one am I to you, Mr. Burke?"
Mr. Burke's alarmed expression softened, replaced by a sort of sincerity that Harry couldn't quite define. "You shouldn't be asking that question to me, Mr. Potter."
Almost instantly, Harry understood the second meaning of Mr. Burke's words. "To be fair, Mr. Burke, it should tell you something that I directed the question towards you." As Mr. Burke's mouth started to jump into protesting accusations, Harry held up a hand, and his voice dropped to a hiss. "I know that Riddle can hear every word I'm saying right now, so let me make myself very clear. "When I walked through the entrance to this shop, I didn't have any intent to walk out without what I wanted."
What you want is different than what you need, Harry's brain taunted.
Harry grit his teeth together. "So, with that, would you happen to have any Fourth of July cards?"
Mr. Burke blinked. "Excuse me?"
"My dearest friend is in America, you see," Harry drawled on. "And it's nearly July. I think that she would be delighted to receive a postcard from me. So why not decorate it with a celebration of an American holiday?"
Mr. Burke looked as if he was still processing what Harry had said. "My apologies, what?"
"Independence day cards," Harry continued, cocking his head innocently to the side. "Do you not have those?"
And so Harry Potter's afternoon rolled to an end with a postcard imprinted with red, white, and blue fireworks on the cover, and a very confused Mr. Burke.
Much to Harry's dismay, his afternoon resumed the second he spotted a cream-colored letter laying poshly outside of his flat.
His mouth twisted into a grimace, and he ripped open the envelope.
Dear Harry, it has been far too long since you visited us last. My dearest Dudley still constantly reminds Vernon and I of your unfortunate escapade when you accepted our last invite. With much regards, I truly hope that you'll take the time to celebrate British National Day with us this upcoming weekend. Vernon and I just please must ask you to avoid dragging any slimy snakes or confetti into our visit. Sincerely, Petunia Dursley. (Husband to Vernon Dursley, and mother to Dudley Dursley.)
Harry snorted as he ripped the carefully folded parchment into scraps. Aunt Petunia's delicate calligraphy remained in his mind, his attempts to vanish the vision proving effortless.
British National Day had passed over three weeks ago. The only reason that Harry had even received an invitation to Aunt Petunia's party, was because she feared for her reputation if she 'forgot' to invite her 'most darling nephew'.
Harry scowled at the prospect, kicking open the door to his flat, and dumping the letter in the nearest trash bin.
His brain wandered elsewhere, a mind filling to the brim with a multitude of flashbacks to his aunt's last summer bash.
Harry stood off to the side, the sound of classical music floating through the midsummer air, as he caught a whiff of sugary sweet ice cream.
A cluster of toddlers giggled in glee, sweeping by his feet, and sticky fingers coated in chocolate. A waffle cone was held in their palm, a mound of pink dessert and a bright red cherry resting on top.
"Nice, isn't it?" a voice asked, and Dudley Dursley came into view.
He held an ice cream cone of his own, licking up the sweet treat every few or so seconds. The sun above glistened, causing Dudley to mutter a curse as a trail of white vanilla got onto the cuff of his suit sleeve.
"I suppose," Harry replied blankly, eyes flickering over to Dudley's figure.
Streams of rainbow-color decorations were strung up above them, a litter of candles placed neatly atop the picnic table that Uncle Vernon had set outside just less than an hour earlier. The sky held a hint of an oncoming storm, but the occupants of the party didn't look bothered. Aunt Petunia had assured them that the inside of their house had been just as lavishly decorated as the outside as if an evacuation was to ever be in need.
Dudley frowned. "You don't have to lie. You know, you could have just declined mum's invitation. No offense, but I wouldn't be surprised to find her screaming down and up in joy in the living room after receiving a decline letter from you."
Harry shrugged, leaning against the side of the paneled house. "I know. I just came here to spite her."
Dudley's expression soured, and he set the ice cream cone on the picnic table, not seeming to notice how it had begun to drip through the wooden cracks. "You don't have to act like your life here was so terrible all the time. At least mum invited you. And . . . maybe I want to get to know you better."
"You couldn't have done that in your seventeen years of knowing me, I'm presuming?" Harry replied dryly.
"Well, I couldn't exactly talk to you, because of the cupboard situation." Dudley cut himself off the second he noticed his tone turning defensive.
Harry flinched, resorting to sarcasm. Dudley didn't miss the motion. "And I wonder who's fault that is," Harry drawled, taking a sip of his glass of water.
A moment of silence engulfed the two before Dudley spoke once more. This time, his voice was a bit more tentative, and he placed a hand on Harry's shoulder. "You're not going to get any ice cream?" Dudley nudged his head towards the makeshift ice cream bar that Aunt Petunia had set up for the children.
It took a great effort for Harry to not shrug out of Dudley's grasp. "Can't."
Dudley raised a blond eyebrow, eyes flickering to his own melted dessert. His lips twisted downwards, and he cringed as he watched the liquid cream drip onto the grass. "Can't? Or won't?"
"Can't," Harry rasped. "I'm allergic to sugar."
Dudley blinked. "You're allergic to sugar? But I thought–"
Harry glanced down at the silver watch wrapped around his wrist, marveling at the metallic clicks that ringed in his ear every time the second hand drifted to another roman numeral. "Just because I baked desserts didn't mean I got to eat them."
Dudley recoiled as if he had gotten shocked. A similar electrical bolt coursed through Harry's spine as his cousin spoke. But, before Dudley's mouth could form his next string of sentences, a young lady swept to his side.
She had vibrant blond hair, resembling the color of the shining sun above. The woman latched onto Dudley's shoulder, and Harry could only guess that she was his wife. The blond scowled at the bewildered expression her husband was wearing. "Dudley, my sweetheart, why don't you wipe that look off of your face? We wouldn't want to scare off your dear old cousin, hmm?"
Harry brushed it off with a wave of his hand. His fingers had begun to turn numb from his crushing grip on the China cup. "It's fine—I'm used to it. Dudley used to always have the same constipated look as he does now."
A smile raised the edges of Dudley's lips. "No insulting allowed at mum's party, Harry."
"Oh, my bad." Harry rolled his eyes. "You look exceedingly handsome, my dear."
Dudley let out a booming laugh, the sound reverberating through the backyard, yet he looked strained. "You are too funny, cousin. Now, I'm afraid that little Lolita needs our attention, doesn't she, honey?" He tugged on his wife's arm.
The blond blinked, eyes flickering to where a smaller girl was in tears. "Yes, I suppose. Farewell, Dudley's cousin."
Harry scoffed as the two made their way hand-in-hand towards their daughter, and at the fact of being addressed as 'Dudley's cousin'. Instead, he focused on where a green shrub had been shaking, and a snake slid out of the crevices.
Its beady eyes engulfed Harry in a pit of darkness, tongue flicking out to taste the scent of ice cream. It slithered across the lawn until it was resting at Harry's feet.
Harry glanced around, before looking back down at the peculiar creature. He leaned down, cupping the snake in the palm of his hands, a glass of water long forgotten.
"You are a strange thing, aren't you?"
The snake seemed as if it was ready to chomp off Harry's finger.
"Harry! You decided to come!" Aunt Petunia swept over to his side with poised grace, a fake smile spreading up the entity of her thin mouth. She patted his shoulder awkwardly, before screeching as she caught ahold of the sight in his hands. "A snake! A snake! Vernon, kill it!"
Harry stumbled backwards in shock as his uncle drew closer, wrenching Harry's wrist around with such force that the boy cried in pain. Although he knew that he wasn't Uncle Vernon's target, his heart stung with shielded memories.
As the snake slowly crept towards the pinata—a frenzy of colors hanging from one of the willow trees—Uncle Vernon roared in rage.
Harry gaped, completely and utterly speechless as his uncle lunged forwards, missing the hissing snake by a millimeter. In a sore attempt at diverging the snake in the other direction—Harry dove—eyes widening and limbs flailing as he crashed into the pinata.
And a storm of confetti rained down upon him.
Harry sulked at the flashback, yanking open one of the kitchen cupboards. His fingers wrapped around a red mug, and he set to switch on the kettle.
Although the sky was a magnificent royal blue, there was no sun to be seen. A few clouds swarmed into misty groups, dancing across the atmosphere like how the galaxies waltzed across the universe.
If Harry was being honest with himself, he didn't know what to do.
But he did know what to do.
And that was what scared him.
"We are playing a game of childish glee, with a splash of darkness." Riddle's words echoed across his mind, a dispersed mixture of unwillingness and betrayal.
Harry exhaled with a sense of boredom. Dumbledore had informed him that he was going to be performing in France, so work was off-limits.
There was only one thing to do.
He grappled for a blank sheet of parchment, snatching an inked quill off of the kitchen countertop. As the kettle whistled, and steam blew out of the top, he began scribbling down a messy response to Aunt Petunia's request.
Dear Aunt Petunia, you really are too kind. I'd love to attend your British National Day celebration. I haven't been able to see Dudley for quite some time, and I assure you that there will be no snakes or confetti involved. (And in that case, I'd recommend purchasing balloons instead of confetti.) Just friendly advice, you see. Once again, thank you for inviting me. Not-sincerely, Harry Potter. (Your nephew.)
The street lights flickered outside of Forest Flats as he sealed the envelope, delicately melting a wax stamp on the corner of the letter.
His eyes drifted to where the knife-shaped indent had resided from his 'dream' prompting Harry's lips to twist into a scowl. But, what he saw caught him by surprise. A crack in the wooden floorboards was dug into the carpet, making Harry nearly topple out of his stool.
As he drew closer—fingers brushing against the woven material—as his suspicions were confirmed. He pulled his hand away, staring in concealed shock at the jagged mark on the floor.
Apparently, there had been more to yesterday evening than it had originally seemed.
