V.
Tom is not entirely sure where the boy comes from.
The only thing he's sure of is one moment he's in Defense Against the Dark Arts, seated next to Abraxas and trying to present an attentive face even though he knows all the material already, and in the next he has a lapful of sixteen year old boy.
"The fuck–– "
The boy's initially too concerned with cursing up a storm and brushing himself off to notice where he's landed.
"Where the fuck is my wand––of course, of all the bloody things to lose ––"
Tom's too shell-shocked to do much more than settle his hands on the boy's hips, preventing him from tottering off into oblivion, into a tumbled, tangled heap on the ground. Distantly, he realizes it's––warm. Not… uncomfortable.
His hands flex.
Then, suddenly––the boy finally looks up.
And Tom is presented with the greenest eyes he's ever seen.
Tom's shocked for all of a second before he leans in slightly, studying them closer. The boy seems frozen, stilled at his ardent attention. Tom doesn't even try Legilimency; he just wants to see if those eyes are really as green as he thinks they are.
The boy blinks, once, twice, and then he's off of Tom in a flash, his (apparently found) wand pointed straight in Tom's face.
His eyes are wide, his hands shaking just slightly. The boy's eyes seem even greener from far away, as if being too closely engulfed in them makes you seem surrounded, and so then there is nothing duller for them to be compared to.
They seem to flare even brighter at the boy's next words.
"You––you're supposed to be dead!"
Tom's heart stops, as if the very word can cause his body to be called to imitation.
He nearly lashes out, nearly puts his wand to the boy's throat, no matter how pretty his eyes may be. It cannot be true. He refuses, he fights the very notion––
But then––he is shocked back to himself, and the world returns.
There are classmates watching––Abraxas, Zevi, Orion––all watching as Tom is confronted by this boy.
Tom turns his head, looks at them all, taking in their shocked faces, the apprehension in the lines of their mouths. It isn't long, though, before there's something jabbing into his neck, stealing his attention back.
Tom's head slowly faces back to the boy, and he can distantly hear Merrythought trying to negotiate, but it is as if there is a bubble surrounding the two of them. There is a dome, the moment sparking between their eyes, shutting out all other people, all others present.
One gaze is green, so green it's almost like death, and the other something dark, so dark that it's almost a void.
The boy's lips shake, tremble, and he's mouthing, mouthing, 'You're not real. You're not, you're not––Tom Riddle's gone, Tom Riddle's dead–– '
Tom tips his chin up. The boy studies him, something panicked in his eyes.
'Tell me you're not––'
"I'm real," Tom says. He is not sure if there are others to hear. "I'm not dead. "
"But you are," the boy whispers, voice cracking. "Only Voldemort––only he is alive."
Tom's hand twitches for his wand.
' Don't say that name,' he mouths, almost snarling.
For some reason, this almost makes the boy smile.
He whispers something, and it almost sounds like "Ironic."
And then the boy collapses, the red light of the stunner a surprise to the both of them.
When next Tom sees the boy, it is a week later and he is on patrol, treading the walls of Hogwarts, just as he has millions of times before.
Funnily enough, the boy had not been far from his mind to begin with.
He pauses, watching him, curious. The boy has a hand on one of the walls, as if tracing cracks already well-learned, his feet gliding across the floor like a ghost's. Completely unaware of everything.
The last Tom had heard (and he had been keeping tabs), the boy was still in the infirmary.
Amnesia, he'd learned from Slughorn.
Tom isn't so sure.
He slips into the shadows, casting a quick Notice-Me-Not on himself and a Silencio to conceal any trace of him.
Torture, murder. What is a little stalking, compared to that?
He creeps along behind the boy, who is clad in the regulation and yet still utterly ridiculous white gown given to all those staying in the infirmary. It flits about his knees, like something from the Victorian ages. Something… darkly romantic.
The only thing missing is a candle, held in one of those snow-pale hands.
The boy seems to wander aimlessly, his fingers caressing the walls with an affection that is unusual of one that supposedly has no recollection of ever being here before.
Tom is almost considering abandoning this mission when they come upon the second floor lavoraties.
And instead of turning into the boy's, instead of giving Tom an excuse to turn around and mark his patrol as finished, the boy steps, sure of himself, into the girl's.
Tom pauses once outside of the door.
There is only one reason a boy would voluntarily seek out a bathroom like this one, with rusted taps and leaky toilets and a wailing ghost that hides in the pipes.
Tom's mouth ticks upward.
This is dangerous, yes. All of his secrets, all of his work, could be shredded to tatters, unraveled like thread in mere moments.
But his fascination, his ever-present boredom…
Ah, it purrs at a chance like this.
He follows.
When Tom enters, the boy is standing over the entrance to the Chamber.
With a whispered word, Tom reveals himself.
The boy looks up immediately, his senses keen (at least where Tom is concerned, and isn't that interesting?). His whole body twitches, as if to jump up, to confront, but the boy only watches, careful to keep Tom within his sights.
Suddenly, the boy laughs. "You know, I should've realized you'd run into me here, of all places."
Tom's eyes narrow.
"Why?"
The boy sobers, sighing. His shoulders are still tense, still ready for battle, but there's something undeniably weary in his voice when he says, "I know a lot about you, Tom Riddle."
Tom pulls his wand out slowly at the admission. The boy's eyes take careful account of the motion, of every little movement Tom makes.
"And why is that?" Tom asks, voice steady, his fingers flexing around his wand. "I don't recall meeting you before. I'd remember eyes like yours."
The boy blinks, obviously not expecting the compliment. Eventually, he responds, "Well, I suppose some things are just destiny, yeah?"
And he holds his wand up, a mirror of their first meeting.
"You and I always meet with wands drawn. You wouldn't know that, of course, but I…"
The boy's grip firms around the handle.
"I know. I know, and I won't lose that, even if I've lost everything else."
Tom's interest is piqued. Tom is fascinated by this boy, pale, standing strong despite the evident nervousness outlined in his whole body. He is intrigued, enchanted, bewitched .
"I was told you lost your memories," Tom says eventually, his eyes glued to this boy. This ethereal creature.
The boy's smile slants, more a smirk than a kind twist of lips. "Of all the things I told them I lost… That is the only thing that is a lie."
Tom stores this information for later, locks it away in his mind, so that he may examine it with a stronger greed when he is alone, and not so preoccupied with consuming the image of this boy in his mind's eye.
Eventually, Tom too raises his wand, the wood coming together as they cross.
A rushing warmth races through Tom's veins, a sizzling electricity coursing down his spine at the contact.
His eyes crease in a true, genuine smile. It is perhaps a little dark around the edges, a little cracked and crooked, but the boy looks as if he expects it. Looks as if he is just as enchanted.
"Tell me, boy-who-lies…" And Tom hungrily watches the way the boy's jaw tenses at the moniker, "Will you be honest when I ask your name?"
The boy's eyes burn into his. Green. So, so green .
"Harry," the boy breathes, voice quiet, but steady. Sure of himself, of his response––of his truth. "Just––Harry."
Tom's smile grows wider, more violent.
"Well then, Harry. It seems you and I have some issues to work out."
He's not sure who strikes first.
...Tom won't call it infatuation, but if he had to call it something…
He'd say maybe the boy is right.
Maybe some things are just destiny.