Summary: Harry Potter 'just knows' things. Tom Riddle just assumes he's an idiot. The things they couldn't have known… An odd sort of time-travel fic. AU. HP/TMR. slash.
A/N: Attempted a tiny!Tom PointOfView... Surprisingly, it was quite hard. Ugh. Wrote it four times over and still not satisfied. Oh, well. I think this about as good as it gets. Can't wait to get to older!Tom. This chapter just threw my story a bit into the comical side, I think. Not good?
Please read and review, flaming is okay if that's what tickles your fancy (you weird, weird person), but it'd be great if I could get some feedback on tiny!Tom POV, it's giving me anxiety when I write... Oh, and please tell me if the Tom/Harry interaction is well-characterized.
P.S. (parseltongue) within dialogue.
...
What He Knew
—
Chapter II
—
Tom Riddle lay upon his bed; arms leisurely crossed behind his head, an open book thrown to the side, and his drab grey covers tucked neatly beneath him.
He lay in silence, relishing the undisturbed quality of the atmosphere, listening to the contrast of commotion emitting from beyond his door.
He could hear the scuffling of children echo through the wood. Mr Cole was drunkenly babbling to himself loudly somewhere further down the hall. Mrs Cole was pacing along the corridor with irritating shuffles, dragging her soles along the floor with each step.
Thinking about the Coles and the past few weeks made the left corner of lips twitch upwards into a semblance of a smirk.
...
It has been almost a month since the Maggie Marple incident in Vauxhall Square and everything was going just as Tom had planned.
Well, Tom hadn't initially planned to drop a stone cherub on the bratty little girl, but as soon as Margaret Marple had decided to open that gaping hole she like to call a mouth and disrespect him by actually daring to touch something of his, he reckoned he could make an exception to his initial plans and work the situation to his advantage.
And he did, with the utmost pleasure.
Not only did he manage to shut up Maggie Marple ("She was but an irritable little shrew that didn't know when to stop screeching. It was fairly altruistic of me to inform her of the right to remain silent," Tom would shamelessly comment if accused) but he also stopped any future visits to Vauxhall Square.
A victory on both ends of his virtual playing field.
But while he could care less if Maggie Marple was dead or alive—or just simply crippled for the rest of her miserable life—he felt a sliver of true joy and excitement bloom from the fact that he'd never have to see Vauxhall Square ever again.
Vauxhall Square; a vanquished villain that once terrorized Tom's world.
Disgusting, he sneered in silence each and every time he came to look upon it. That was the single word that most efficiently described Vauxhall Square as a whole.
Vauxhall Square was disgusting. A disgusting place fit for those who lurk within its looming shadows.
While dilapidated and unassuming in appearance, nothing could hide from Tom what truly happens beneath its the layer of aging dirt and decaying grime.
It sickened him to even think about it, and served as yet another apt reason to never trust anyone.
Yet another point to his list; a list that Tom couldn't even remember starting, though he knew the ins and outs of every detail to every reason upon it.
With no semblance trust, there can be no true betrayal, was the general gist of his mentality.
Unlike so many other children, Tom never had any faith in adults. They're just as unreliable as the children they're responsible for, he reasoned, almost spitefully.
In fact, he never saw the point of having something as malleable as 'faith', whether it be for children, adults, or something greater.
Faith was far too fickle for his liking.
Perhaps Tom didn't even have faith in himself, not needing something like belief to sustain his certainty of being.
He did not trust his existence to be the product of some higher power, or believe that he was formed from some sacred union of love—yet another petty emotion; weakness—Tom just is, he exists and that is all.
He found that faith tends to overcomplicate things, often leaving him questions that he is yet to be able to answer.
But putting faith aside—especially considering his severe lack of—it was rather the things that Mr and Mrs Cole were able to condone in order to secure what they desired that truly lost any semblance of respect Tom had for them as human beings.
Tom was aware that he himself was no saint—far from one if you were to judge by the thoughts that frequented his mind—but he was also well aware that becoming so weak-willed towards his own desires was never to be an option.
Desire; it was as fickle and mercurial as one's emotions.
Simply put, if you don't control it, it will no doubt string you up like a puppet and tear you apart.
That's all Mr and Mrs Cole could really say they were—puppets.
It revolted Tom that the Coles were so spineless, that they couldn't even resist their own cravings, allowing something as immaterial as emotion to usher and control them.
Craven fools, he thought. Weak, powerless, disgusting.
Tom would've found it all rather pitiable if he were one for pity—he wasn't, of course.
So, instead, he hated them.
He hated how it was so shamelessly easy for them to be compelled by desire. He found it repulsive, how they were constantly nurturing their baseless urges with a mindless sense of desperation.
They were willing to do whatever it took to satiate their cravings, using whatever means possible—means such as the exploitation of children.
While faintly disgusted by the notion, Tom hadn't let it truly bother him as long as he was not apart from it. He understood the selfish, opportunistic term, "The ends justifies the means."
However, Tom's tolerance of their deplorable deeds could only extend so far before snapping.
To think that in their desperation, the Coles somehow worked up enough confidence one day to try and tempt him into one of their darkened niches—with toys and sweets nonetheless.
Tom had scoffed at the blatant insult to his intelligence; he wasn't sure if he was more insulted by the fact that they actually thought they'd succeed or by the fact that they thought using teddy bears and chewing gum would help.
Either way, Tom imagined he'd enjoy the feel of Mr Cole's windpipe crushed beneath the pressure of his hands. And once he was done with Mr Cole, he'd be glad to time exactly how long it'd take for Mrs Cole to bleed out if he avoided major arteries.
Perhaps if they had simply left him alone, he wouldn't have had to waste his time plotting against them.
Tom is no hero; he was repulsed by the idea of Vauxhall Square, but he had also been quite indifferent to notion of fixing the problem. Initially, he had deemed such an endeavour as a complete waste of effort that served as only an irresponsible choice of action.
As cold as it was, Tom simply didn't care for the sufferings if it had no effect upon him.
Tom's own sense of self-worth was so exaggerated that unnecessarily risking himself due to selflessness was not even something to be considered. He would never voluntarily do anything out of the 'kindness of his heart' unless he had a good, proper reason to. Even then, he'd have to evaluate the worth of what he would garner in exchange.
Observing the Coles slink through the shadows like pale, simpering ghosts hadn't truly impacted Tom at first. Sure, it was rather irritating seeing them be so entirely obvious in their schemes, but he would have lost nothing in letting their seedy dealings continue if they hadn't bothered him—after all, who would reward him if he'd put in efforts otherwise?
Tom reckoned he was probably even willing to let the bribes of candy and plushies slide if they hadn't pushed it.
Unnecessary difficulties with adults was another thing Tom found himself better off avoiding; it was inconvenient for him to actively retaliate when there was a blatant difference in the power he held versus that of the Coles'. Not to say there aren't any other types of power apart from that which the Coles had—some of which Tom could easily wield if he so wished—but he would have stayed mum if only to avoid pointless conflict and inconvenient punishments.
However, when the pliant words and tactless briberies failed work, the Coles had actually attempted to forcibly drag him into their dealings, effectively making sure that all his previous notions of reluctance were quickly overturned.
Tom had no qualms about ruining people, and the Coles had all but given him their permission to do as he wished—inconveniences be damned.
It was only by chance that Maggie Marple decided to annoy him on the same day, but Tom was nothing if not opportunistic.
He knew that just one flick of his finger could initiate a scheme that had the ability to slowly ruin the Coles from the inside out.
Tom knew their desires, and he was going to capitalize on them, using their own weapons of destruction as his primary choice of artillery.
He exploited their desires, used them just as they had used all those other children.
Now, he was simply waiting for them to tear themselves apart.
Tom knew that it wouldn't be a quick and easy process, but he didn't care.
He wasn't going to stop until those sorry excuses for human-beings fell prey to their own devices—victims of his own brand of poetic justice.
When Maggie Marple's blood ran red through the cracks upon the dirty ground, Tom felt no guilt. He felt nothing but a small shred of utter delight and an eager anticipation for what was to come.
It had been only the first of many steps—his move against Maggie Marple—but he could already taste the satisfying burn of blood within its results.
Tom had seen the abject horror on the Coles' faces when Maggie Marple lay there in a pool of her own blood, obnoxiously red shoes blending into the gore.
They'd known just as well as he did what the broken girl lying in Vauxhall Square meant.
When the clunking sounds and sirens sounded louder and nearer, an obvious alert to incoming enforcements, Tom had felt a sweet sort of gratification as he watched the longing horror on both of the Coles' faces make a slow but obvious appearance.
In that moment, he had taken away whatever source they had to satisfy their addictive desires.
Not only would the grievous injury Maggie Marple received prevent any justification for further visits, but whatever lurked in the depths of Vauxhall Square was bound to be discovered by someone, somehow, and sometime soon.
Revenge may be known to be both bitter and sweet, but this is only the appetizer—and it tastes just as I wish.
In that moment, Tom felt so gratified that he'd even allowed a rare show of emotion to grace his features while he looked upon the scene before him.
It felt odd and foreign upon his lips, almost too odd and too foreign for his liking, but he permitted it nonetheless.
A smile.
...
And so, a month passed in relative peace.
The Coles evidently weren't fairing well from the withdrawal, Tom noted with a cruel pleasure.
While both parties seemed to be in a state of constance sufferance, Tom was rather curious that of the two Coles, it wasn't the high-strung Mrs Cole who happened to be worse off. In fact, he found it rather amusing to see how easily the 'big and tough' Mr Cole crumbled.
Mrs Cole had become a ball of constant anxiety and shaken nerves, but Mr Cole was the one that faded into something even less than what he once was.
The man scarcely ventured about anymore, no longer terrorizing the occupants of the orphanage with his loud posturing and brash attitude. He had opted to hole himself up in his room for the majority of the past month, not showing his face for anything more than the daily sustenance he required. From the sounds that could be occasionally heard from within the man's room, Tom suspected the man took up spending his days in an endless cycle of constant inebriation versus the after-effects of the hangovers.
Sometimes Tom could even hear him sniffling and sobbing from within his office.
The poor bastard, he thought in mockery, a callous sense of satisfaction engulfing him each time he'd hear the man weep.
Tom had yet to do anything else to further whatever scheme he'd planned, but he found that he rather liked the current situation, so he found that there was no need to rush things along.
After all, I'm not getting out of here anytime soon and none of them are ever going anywhere.
Slowly unfolding his arms from the position behind his head, the fixed orientation making them ache a bit, he crunched up to an upright posture as a knock sounded upon his door.
"Tom?" A muffled voice inquired from behind the door. It was probably Mrs Cole judging by the slight tremor in the pitch of voice.
Tom remained silent, staring at his door like he could see beyond it. He wondered how long the woman would stand there if he didn't respond.
"Tom?" Her voice was a bit louder than before.
Tom didn't respond.
"Tom?" she asked again.
Silence.
He could hear deep sigh on the other end as scuffling steps began heading away from his door. Then, as if she'd changed her mind, the scuffling footsteps slowed and sounded back.
Another knock. "Tom?"
Tom knew he was being purposely infuriating and disrespectful by ignoring the woman, but he couldn't bring himself to care. This time he wondered how long Mrs Cole's trembling questions would last before she snapped. He wanted to see if she would storm off in anger or barge in with indignation.
"Tom?" she asked, huffing in frustrating before continuing on this time. "Get out here this instance, young man. Dinner is starting in the dining hall within fifteen. If you are not there for prayer, then you simply won't eat."
Tom obviously didn't care enough to reply.
"Starve for all I care, you wretched little child," she hissed softly beneath her breath.
The footsteps scuffled away once more, slowly fading out into the other sounds that came from outside.
That was slightly disappointing, Tom thought with a slight frown. He'd been looking forward to seeing the older woman snap out with volatile emotion, dismayed that the woman had just gave in—and so easily, at that. Perhaps I'll try Mr Cole next time.
Grabbing his worn gray jumper from a nearby chair, he slipped the woollen material over his collared shirt as he got off his bed. Straightening up, he fixed his rumpled collar with one hand while smoothing out his thin bedsheets with the other.
Finally satisfied, Tom stepped over to his door with quick, languid strides. Grasping the cold brass of the knob, he pulled it open and exited out into the hallway, pulling the door closed behind him.
...
As the door clicked shut, a small object seemed to fly out of nowhere, and taking advantage of his unguarded posture as it harshly collided into his ribs.
Tom winced as he tumbled face first to the dusty floor, letting out a muffled grunt of pain on his way down.
He didn't even want to imagine how disgraceful he probably looked as a puff of dust sprinkled his entirety upon impact with the ground.
"Sorry!" the object twittered out from on top of him. It squirmed, pressing its weight further onto him, causing Tom to hiss uncomfortably. "Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorrysorrysorrysorry, I mean, I'm really, really, superduper—" the voice paused its spluttering as Tom flipped onto his back and pinned the offender with a glacial look. "Oh."
Tom vaguely recognized the object, narrowing his eyes as he tried to place the familiarity through scrutiny.
It was a boy. He looked about three or four years old.
Scrutinizing the small child, Tom quickly found himself rather irritated by the childish protrusion of the boy's bottom lip and the rosy-tinted upon the apples of his cheeks.
Apart from his red cheeks, the boy was astoundingly pale; his soft-looking skin appeared only a shade or two darker than Tom's own. It contrasted sharply with the boy's wild, sable locks which seemed to fluff about whimsically, clearly unable to decide whether they wished to be straight or curly.
Actually, the monstrosity upon the boy's head appeared to be actually sentient as Tom swore a lock of it dared to twist out a cheeky wave at him.
But what truly caught Tom's attention were the startling green eyes settled beneath the uncut fringe tangled across the boy's forehead. Bright and aware, they peered at him with an astounding myriad of emotions, impossibly curly lashes rapidly shuttering across smooth cheeks as he blinked owlishly.
It was that boy from the day of the Maggie Marple incident, Tom finally concluded with a frown.
Tom had forgotten entirely about the boy's existence. He had no real reason to remember the insignificant brat so he simply didn't bother to.
But thinking back on it now, Tom vaguely recalled the glare that the brat had directed at him. It burnt him with its sharp green accusation and had, initially, served to make Tom somewhat wary over the possibility that the brat had somehow gained knowledge of his involvement in Maggie Marple's accident. It shouldn't have been possible, but those green eyes had dictated otherwise.
However, despite the knowing look within the boy's bright green eyes, the brat had chosen to neither tattle nor confront him after the incident. Meaning, within a few days time, he was placed into the back of Tom's mind and left there to rot.
Tom just assumed he had successfully scared away the little boy, and that had been the end of it.
Recalling that the brat was still sprawled across him in a daze, Tom roughly shoved the boy off with a harsh push of his hands. The small kid tumbled to the side, just as easily as he had in Vauxhall Square.
Turning away without an apology, Tom busied himself with dusting off the small specks of dust from his neatly arranged hair and clothing.
"That was your fault, y'know."
The indignant voice made Tom glanced back; it seemed the little brat was fine as he sprung up from the floor, not bothering to dust himself off. Filthy, Tom silently sneered, as the boy proceeded to sneeze onto the elbow his own sleeve.
"Really?" Tom inquired flatly, part of him curious as to why he'd even allowed himself to reply to the little brat's accusation.
"Duh," the brat scoffed, like it was completely obvious; the little brat was completely obnoxious. "I mean, you were just standing in the hall like a block of cheese."
"Excuse me?" Tom wasn't sure if he was questioning the smaller boy with irritation or exasperation. A 'block of cheese'? Tom wondered if his hearing had gotten thrown from the impact of his fall.
"Are you dumb, too?"
Tom felt needlessly insulted by the little brat's slight on his intelligence, but before he could tell himself to ignore it like he should—like he normally would—a retort seemed to have instinctually slipped out. "Clearly not," he snapped, "as I am currently replying to your baseless accusations and needless comparisons to standing blocks of cheese."
"What?" The brat looked genuinely confused by what he said, furrowing his dark brows and adopting an angry pout.
Tom rolled his eyes. "Dumb. One syllable. Four letters. Definition: often an offensive term used to describe one who is unable to speak; most typically because of congenital deafness," he scoffed out with an air of superiority. "However, I'm assuming you are calling me 'dumb' as in stupid, which is also a false accusation."
The little brat appeared to be taken aback by his response for moment, making Tom feel rather gratified.
The small child could be heard gritting his teeth. "Whatever, you lump of butter," he finally retorted—rather weakly, if you asked Tom. "It's your fault anyway, because you were 'needlessly' standing in the hallway like a lurking turtle, 'thus' making us hit each other," the brat accused before Tom could turn away and leave. "So there, dumb-head," he added in as an afterthought.
Tom was once again caught between irritation and exasperation. 'Lump of butter'? 'Lurking turtle'? What is wrong with this child? Tom questioned with a bemused silence.
Despite knowing that it'd be far more logical to simply ignore the brat, Tom found a quick reply unconsciously running past his lips, "If there is anyone currently present who is unworthy enough to be deemed something so witless as 'dumb-head', it's you, dumb-head." He didn't know what possessed him to say something like 'dumb-head' out loud, not once but twice, but he immediately regretted it.
"Hey!" the brat shouted angrily, placing chubby little fists against the waistband of his dusty trousers. He appeared as menacing as an angry kitten. "Well, um, well, uh, well…" Tom looked down at the shorter boy expectantly, already anticipating the next silly insult the brat would throw at him. "Well, you're an evil, little, bad boy who is really mean! YOU BIG MEANIE!" the brat screeched out the last bit as loud as he could, making Tom cringe back with a wince.
"If anyone's little, it's you," he retorted, swearing that his right ear was actually ringing. "Not only are you something as uncouth as a 'dumb-head', but you have been unfortunately born into a reduced state. It's no wonder your brain has followed your body's example. You really are the literal definition of 'dumb-head', dumb-head," Tom couldn't resist adding on the last bit, no matter how childish it seemed. Though I can just feel my IQ drop every time I say 'dumb-head', he mentally reprimanded himself.
The brat stared at him, green eyes flashing in anger, as he seemed to be visually measuring the difference in height between the two of them; Tom appeared to be not quite two heads taller, and the brat clearly noticed as his lips peeled back into a silent snarl.
"I'm not," the boy hissed through his teeth, making a sharp contrast from the loud screech of before.
"Not wh—" Before he could goad the boy further (he wasn't sure what it was about the brat that made him want to bully him), a familiar mass of weight barrelled into him once more.
Bracing himself, Tom tipped backwards perilously before stumbling sideways to catch himself against a wall. He was not up for another tumble on the grime-covered floor.
"Control yourself, you little brat," Tom sneered angrily. He roughly shoved the small boy away.
The little brat seemed to be well-balanced as he righted himself in an instant, wildly waving hair flying about with more chaos than before.
"Shut up, you git!" he snarled, much like a savage animal—the hair only adding to the image. "Don't tell me what to do!"
Pushing himself off the wall, Tom stepped closer to the other boy and did his best to loom over him. The thought of a six-year-old boy looming over you wasn't frightening, but being the target of that venomous glare probably sure was as the smaller boy couldn't help but cringe back slightly.
"You better watch yourself, boy." Tom's eyes were an impossibly clear green as they glared into at the smaller boy's; the brat's previously bright green darkened into a stormy mixture as he attempted to match Tom's gaze with as much heat as he was receiving.
Upon staring into Tom's eyes for a moment, the brat looked to cower for a split second before quickly regaining his spine.
"Or what?" he growled back. "You'll do me in like Maggie Marple? You will, won't you? Sick freak." Tom instantly narrowed with visible rage. The brat shrank back, gulping hard as guilt and remorse seemed to clear up his angry green eyes, making them shifty and watery as he bit nervously at the peeling skin on his lips. "I mean, I, uh, didn't..."
The brat looked utterly pitiful—lips trembling, chin shaking, and cheeks flushed in a disgraced red.
Tom didn't care; all he could hear was the word 'freak' being repeated in that hateful hiss.
He hated that word.
Grabbing the brat by the front of his shirt, he hauled the kid up with both hands and slammed him into the wall behind him.
Leaning in, he brought his mouth to the brat's reddening ear. "Don't you fucking dare, you little brat," Tom coldly hissed his words, dragging them out before unconsciously slipping into the same tongue he used to speak with the serpents found in the tall grass out back. "I will gut you alive and strangle you with your insides. I'll watch in complete and utter glee as the oxygen in your brain slowly dies out and kills you in the slowest way possible. I'll make you wish that I had the decency to drop a lump of rock on you like I did to that annoying little bitch. Make you regret ever being conceived as I slowly tear you apart. From. Inside. Out," he finished with a sharp, guttural bark of English.
Eyes bright with watery tears looked up at him, face reddening like his ears from the pressure of Tom's fist against his throat. "I, I, I," he stammered out uncertainly with a croak. "I'm sorry," the apology came out in a familiar hiss.
Tom reeled back; so shocked by the hissing sound that came from the brat's lips that he let go of the brat, watching as the child slid to the ground in a crumpled heap.
He can speak it too, Tom blinked in surprise, not believing his own ears. The heavy fog of pure rage clogging his mind was slowly dissipating in light of the discovery. This impudent little brat can speak it.
Tom opened his mouth, for the first time uncertain of what he was to say, but before he could say anything at all, the sound of a door slamming open and a booming voice cut in.
...
Both boys turned towards the sound, the brat still sitting on the floor with that pitiable tremble upon his expression.
"What the fuck are you brats yelling about?"
It was Mr Cole, eyes bloodshot and angry as he stomped closer and closer towards them from the other end of the corridor.
"I'm fucked over and hungover, I don't have time to deal with shit from little shits like you." He was barking pissed, the bushy moustache above his lip looked to be quivering along with his rage.
Neither of the boys commented as they caught a whiff of the man's stale breath and body odour.
"Well?" he shouted, demanded. "Don't just stand there staring at me with those ridiculous faces. GET THE FUCK DOWNSTAIRS FOR DINNER OR YOU WON'T EAT AT ALL!" His voice seemed to escalate when he stopped in front of Tom, spittle flying onto the boy's face from the force of his speech.
Disgusting, was what immediately flew through Tom's mind, but his mouth decided to be more sensible.
"Sir," he said impassively, nodding his head as if in apology—a mere façade of reverence—before moving to step around the much taller man.
Before he could get around the older man, Tom felt a tightening grip upon his arm. He stilled into a tensed stop, keeping his breathing slow and steady.
Then, quicker than Tom was able to react, a force harshly struck him across his face. He hit a nearby wall; the impact of Mr Cole's fist against his jaw had thrown him hard enough against it that he momentarily saw blindingly white starbursts.
Tom clenched his jaw tightly as he felt a trickle of blood slide down his chin—he had bitten his lip to avoid calling out; he wouldn't give the man the satisfaction.
Picking himself up from leaning against the wall, Tom levelled his icy gaze up at the older man, not giving in when cold blue eyes glared back down at him.
"Don't you fucking look at me like that, you little bitch! Don't look at me with those eyes, y'hear me?"
He raised his hand, feigning a threat to beat Tom across the face once more.
Tom kept his gaze steady, unwilling to flinch and give in to the blatant attempt at intimidation.
Somewhere in the back of his mind he could hear himself say, almost snarkily, that he was getting that chance he wanted, the wonderful chance to see how long it would take for Mr Cole to snap.
Except, rather than having options such as 'storming in' or 'barging off' like it was for Mrs Cole, it's either 'get beaten across the face' or 'kicked in the ribs', probably both. He mentally sighed. I'll admit, just this once, such a wish was not one of my better ideas. Nevertheless, he though with conviction, I'm not about to let this drunken halfwit get anything over me.
"I said, you HEAR ME?"
Tom's clear green eyes just stared unblinkingly at the man as he tilted his head fractionally to the side—an unimpressed motion.
It presented an eerie sight. A complete stillness in contrast to the movement of everything else.
It took a moment for the adult to gather himself to respond.
Mr Cole gulped, unnerved, before shouting, "I can't fucking deal with you!" His face reddened into a puce-like colour.
Tom maintained his still features, allowing a flow of fresh crimson to trickle freely down the pale of his chin.
Mr Cole roughly jerked away from Tom with a shaky sneer. He seemed rather intimidated, but the man quickly covered such insecurities with a dramatic furrowing of his brows, paired an attempt to stare Tom down.
Tom restrained the urge to give his own sneer.
"Fucking freak," Mr Cole finally snarled out when it was clear that Tom could maintain a state of inertia for a very prolonged measure of time.
The man turned his angry attention towards the brat—who was still halfway from standing up properly after being handled by Tom.
The brat's own pair of green eyes widened at the sudden bout of attention, observing with apprehension as Mr Cole seemed to exude twice the anger he had before.
Tom tightened his sore jaw, wanting nothing but to drop the lighting fixture on the man's head. He could almost imagine how the man would writhe and scream in agony as the electricity fried through his nerves.
"Freak," Mr Cole muttered once more as he stomped towards the brat. "Fucking little freak of bloody nature. Freak."
From his peripherals, Tom caught a quick flash of guilt flicker across the brat's small face, eyebrows furrowing as the word 'freak' was sounded out again, much more louder, harsher and crueler than before.
Tom found himself wanting to strangle the brat even more he had prior to Mr Cole's interruption.
I don't need your pity, he thought spitefully. I'm only holding off exacting my annoyance because you just may as well prove to be useful. He hadn't forgotten what had transpired before Mr Cole decided to emerge from his cave of vodka, whiskey, and cheap alcohol. Curious, curious, little brat.
Mr Cole was standing in front of the brat now, quivering moustache and all.
"What you doing just leaning there? Is this the respect I deserve?"
"No, sir."
The brat quickly stood up straight, fists clenching tightly until his knuckles stood out with an even starker white against his pale skin. His tone was so defiant that Tom could almost hear the unspoken 'because you don't deserve any respect at all' tacked onto the end.
He felt his lips unconsciously quirk up in amusement before commanding his features to fall back into impassivity.
Mr Cole, indignant, grabbed the brat by the front of his shirt, lifting him up until they were face to face.
Clearly Mr Cole heard your little implication, too. Pity for you, Tom thought, almost in mirth. He had no qualms about calmly watching the little boy being manhandled. In fact, it was rather amusing even. That's what you get for being a cheeky little brat.
However, alongside the amusement, an edge of something else crept up on him as he watched the adult manhandle the tiny brat—but it was gone even quicker than it had emerged.
The brat looked positively miniscule compared to the grown man, though it was apparent that the brat had more guts than what Tom had initially presumed. His little face was fixed into his own defiant little mask of indifference, Tom noted with the slightest bit of regard.
"You doing that, too? You little shits! Don't fucking look at me with those eyes! Look away," he emphasised his shouted words by shaking the little brat, jostling him roughly—like he could just shake the obstinate look off the boy's tiny features.
Tom almost admitted to having a millimetre of respect for the small boy as he refused to give in to the much larger man.
Bright green eyes looked straight on ahead, chillingly calm, as if they were able to look right through whatever was in front of him.
Those are fearsome eyes, Tom thought, almost wary of what they could possibly see. They weren't the eyes of a bullied child prone to naïveté, but rather that of a grown man who's seen all the cruelties of the world and still lived to tell the tales. Jaded. Cold. Defiant.
Mr Cole snarled wordlessly, shaking the brat hard once more for good measure before throwing him to the ground.
"That's your place, you fucking shit," he barked down at the boy before stomping away, stopping to glare at Tom once more (for good measure, probably).
Tom blanked his face from any previous amusement and let his cold mask of indifference fall over his features, staring right back with an icy glare of his own.
"Fuck!" shouted Mr Cole after a few seconds, fed up and storming away with a huff. He stomped into his office and slammed the door. The clatter reverberated along the old structure of the flooring and walls.
Tom found it unnecessarily childish, scoffing as he turned back towards the brat.
...
The tiny bundle was curled in on the floor, whimpering lightly.
After a moment of staring at the unmoving brat, Tom stepped away objectively, deciding that it wasn't his problem and headed towards the staircase.
Halfway there, he heard an unexpectedly loud groan that dissolved into a series of pitiful whimpers. Tom shook himself of the odd emotion creeping up on him. Pitiful? I don't do pitiful.
Somehow, despite mental protestation, he found himself thoughtlessly turning back down the hallway towards the brat, who was still lying upon the dusty ground.
"Hey," he said, a foot away from the brat. "Get up." He nudged the brat lightly with his shoe for good measure.
Whimper.
Tom asked himself why he was doing this before nudging the small boy once more.
"Get up."
Whimper. Whimper. Groan.
Tom crouched down and sighed, not believing he was trying to help the irritating little brat. Rolling the brat over to see the damage, he heard a decided hiss when he tried prying one of the brat's wrists from across his chest.
"Get up," he commanded. "Now."
Scrunched eyes opened into tiny slits, a glimmer of green looking straight at Tom with visible pain. Tom felt an unnecessary tightening in his throat when those eyes opened wider and blinked out full drops of tears.
"Up," he barked, not wanting to waste another syllable on the child. Annoyance was beginning to creep up on him, frustrated that the brat was still just lying there, disobedient to his commands.
Deciding words and soft nudges weren't working as much as he would like, Tom grabbed hold of the small brat's shoulders and dragged him along the floor until he was properly propped up against a nearby wall.
The brat met Tom with widened eyes full of pained tears, lip quivering in its pout.
The last thing I need is for him to cry, Tom thought, irked. If he cries, I refuse to exert the effort to deal with it.
The brat surprisingly did not begin to cry, successfully calming himself with a large, shuddering deep breath.
They looked at each other with a moment of tense silence.
Then, the smaller boy opened his mouth. The words that spilled out were not what Tom expected. "Are, um, are you o-okay?" he asked, clearing his throat as it caught.
Tom stared incredulously at the boy, not believing the brat was asking him that.
The brat didn't seem to catch on to Tom's perplexion.
"I mean, he smacked you purty hard…" If he weren't so surprised, Tom would have scoffed at the boy's ability to enunciate his words. "It looks really, um, ouchie." As if to emphasise his statement, the brat reached forward towards Tom's face with a sleeve-covered hand, trying to stroke the older boy's cheek.
Instinctively, Tom flinched out of reach, uncomfortable with the progression of events, but it turns out the brat has a pretty strong grip. Using the same outstretched hand, the brat grabbed at Tom's arm until he was forced to sit closer, and before he knew it, the brat reached up and placed his dusty sleeve against his cheek, swiping softly across Tom's jaw until he reached his lips.
"What. Are. You. Doing?" Tom demanded, tense.
The brat shoved his sleeve into Tom's face like it explained everything; now, along with dust and what looked to be charcoal stains, there was a small smear of darkening crimson. Tom recognized it as blood. His.
Slapping away the outstretched hand, he quickly wiped at jaw with the back of his own hand, trying to rid any left over evidence of crimson and the feel of the brat's sleeve scratching up his face.
"So—" the smaller boy began, dragging out the syllable until Tom almost gave into the urge to slap the child despite his present injuries.
"What?" he hissed, just to stop the irksomely trailing word.
A toothy grin shot across cherubic features, green eyes widening into the very picture of innocence. "Are you A-OK?" he asked, surprisingly chipper. Tom could see the boy's other hand—the one that hadn't dared to touch him—twitching angrily with mix of red and darkened purple, a dread stain across once pale skin.
Tom looked pointedly at the injured hand in response, lifting a brow with his own silent question of inquiry. The brat followed his gaze, wincing at the sight.
"Um. I'm okay. I think."
"I didn't actually ask."
"Oh. Right."
Sighing as he felt another bout of tightening in his gut at the sight of the brat's downtrodden face, Tom forcefully grabbed for the injured hand's bicep.
"OW!"
Ignoring the protestation, Tom gently felt along the boy's hand and forearm, a sudden contrast to the previously rough pull. Reaching the wrist and seeing the boy hiss out, he stopped. Then, abruptly, Tom closed his hand firmly around the small wrist.
He almost felt gratified by the loud yelp the brat made. It sounded like a screeching cat.
"Why'd you do that, you big prat?" he yelled out, anger furrowing at his brows whilst he glared disbelievingly at the older boy.
"Not broken or fractured. Might be sprained," Tom responded coolly.
"What?"
Sigh. "I did a rudimentary check to see if you broke your wrist. You should still get it checked out by an actual professional."
"Oh." A look of guilt began replacing the previous irritation. "Oh. Um. Th-thanks a bunch," he mumbled out, peering down shyly.
Tom was regularily disgusted with sentiment, but something in his cold heart lit warmly at the sight of the brat's pink cheeks and hesitant smile.
Scoffing out loud, at both himself and the brat, Tom got up from his position before any more unfamiliar feelings crept up on him.
Seeing that the brat was also getting up by himself, Tom decided that since the smaller boy had regained use of his legs, he was now officially no longer his problem.
Turning away, he walked back towards the staircase; hoping dinner wasn't over yet. He wasn't interested in cold bread rolls and watery stew.
About a quarter of the way there, he felt an unexpected warmth tugging at his hand. Looking down, Tom caught sight of a small hand clenching tightly on his own.
His first instinct was to pull away; his second was to find the owner of it before cutting it off and throwing it away, but that would be quite hard without any tools. Yanking hard to extricate himself, Tom followed the arm back to its owner, who was surprisingly persistent with its hold.
The brat.
The brat was holding his hand.
It seemed that everything about the brat made Tom feel caught between vexation, exasperation, and confusion.
"Why are you holding my hand?"
"Why not?"
"I refuse to partake in this foolish activity."
"My wrist hurts." The brat thrust out his pouty bottom lip like it would garner sympathy.
It would have if it were directed at anyone but Tom.
He cringed in distaste. "I fail to see the need for this."
The little brat clenched harder as Tom attempted to tug away again.
"Then, because we're friends."
Friends? Tom was once again disturbed by the brat's choice of words. 'Friends'? When have I ever condoned such a thing?
"We are not."
"We are so."
"No."
"Yeah."
"Stop."
"Friends."
"I refuse."
"We're friends!"
"We are not."
"We are so—"
"No."
"Ye—"
The repetition was grating on Tom's nerves, he quickly interrupted before the brat could continue, "I refuse to pander to your whims and give in to your childish attempts of argument."
"But you'll give in to my childish demands of friendship, though." The brat dared to give him a cheeky grin, full of teeth and enthusiasm. "R—ight, Tom?" he wheedled childishly.
"Riddle," Tom said before he could help it. He hated the sound of his plebeian name, even more so as it came from the brat's lips in a pouty whine.
"What?" the brat questioned in confusion, before pausing and letting a satisfied smirk trace across his face. "You admitted we were friends!"
"I did no such thing."
"You did!" the brat insisted. "I said, 'But you'll give in to my childish demands of friendship. Right, Tom?' and you didn't deny it! We're friends, Tom."
"I did not agree to anything," he denied, ignoring the use of his first name.
"Doesn't matter, cookie batter! You didn't deny it," the brat stated forcefully, clenching hard at Tom's hand like he was afraid Tom would attempt to pull away. Tom tried, it failed. "And no take-backs!"
'Cookie batter'? 'No take-backs'? Does the brat suffer from a sort of mental deficiency? Tom mentally scoffed in irritation. The brat's lucky that he proved to be somewhat more, well, more than all the others. He could speak it, which does make me wonder...
"What, pray tell, am I taking back?" Tom tentatively played along, in hopes that this irritation would all end all the more quicker.
"You can't! I said no take-backs," the younger boy shouted with a trembling bottom lip and a horrified expression. As if Tom had even the slightest idea what a 'take-back' even was. The brat seemed genuinely appalled that Tom would even question the sanctity of 'no take-backs'—which Tom still had no clue about.
Tom furrowed his brows, slightly more than a little annoyed by the child's antics. "Excuse me?"
"I said no take backs, so you can't take back the fact we're friends," the brat slowly stated like he thought Tom was a bit too slow on the uptake. Grinning a winning smile, he looked up at Tom with bright green eyes. "Now we have to be friends forever, and ever, and ever, and ever, and ever, and—"
"Shut up," Tom demanded in aggravation. "Just shut the hell up. Yes, I get it. No take-backs. Alright"
"You admitted that you understood! And you just said with your own two lips that there's no take-backs!" he crowed. "We're friends!"
Tom gritted his teeth, jaw tensing almost painfully. The brat is more cunning than he seems, he thought in irate frustration. A pity that he is so childishly juvenile that it makes me want to pop his head right off from his shoulders.
"We are not."
"We are so."
"N—" Tom stopped himself, already seeing the familiar pattern of argument before it could develop itself once more. He sighed, the sound slightly whistling from between the press of his teeth. "Think what you will to satisfy your own baseless fantasies."
Yanking his hand harder than before, it finally came out of the brat's grasp.
"OK! Then, since you say so, I will!" The brat had the gall to smugly grin at Tom, as if he was the one that truly won in the end.
Scoffing, Tom turned down the corridor, shaking his head in disbelief. The brat was unbearably impudent for something so small and weak.
However, perhaps Tom did have to give him some credit. The brat was very... determined (along with being incredibly irritating); proven once more as his much shorter legs worked twice as hard to catch up to Tom, unwilling to let his prey of choice go without a word.
He trailed behind Tom for a good minute before Tom got fed up with the quick patterings of his small feet. The sound of it echoed loudly each time the brat's worn shoes tapped against the wooden floor.
"Brat," he spat, turning around with a harsh green glare. "Stop following me."
"I'm not. We're just going the same way, dumb-head," the brat said with a familiar condescending tone, sneering at Tom like it was obvious.
That word, again, Tom scowled as it reminded him of the utter foolishness of everything that has just happened. Strike speaking it, perhaps merely hearing it is sufficient enough to make my IQ drop.
"Brat."
"Excuse me?" Tom couldn't believe he was being called a 'brat' by the brat. That had to be a conundrum in itself.
"You're excused." At the cheeky retort, Tom could feel the need to strangle the boy coming on once more as the brat continued on with his irritating little voice, "Harry Potter," he stated.
Sigh. "Is that supposed to mean something to me?"
The brat looked like he wanted to say something before thinking twice. "No, not yet," he said with a knowingly smile pursing at his lips. "I mean, we're to be friends, so it will, eventually."
The irritating (and slightly damp) hand clasped around his once more. It was smooth, warm, comforting—and it unnerved Tom.
"Harry Potter is my name. I'm Harry Potter. Not 'brat'," the brat clarified. "You've been calling me that, so I just thought you didn't know my name." He shrugged. "My full name's Harry James Potter, but you can call me just Harry. I mean, since we're friends and all."
Tom silently fumed at how incredibly obstinate the brat was being. He opened his mouth to make a caustic remark, but swiftly stopped himself.
Ignoring the brat was probably much more ideal, lest Tom get swept up once more by the four-year-old's obnoxious attitude and the ease which it provokes him.
No, he definitely didn't wanted to be dragged into another round of childish antics again. This brat, Harry Potter, was childish enough for the both of them with plenty more immaturity to go around. There was no need to add any more idiocy to the mix.
A hand tugged at his forcefully, pulling his attention from his thoughts. Tom had briefly forgotten about the brat's grip upon him, unpleasantly reminded by the insistent pulls.
The brat attached to his hand seemed to find attempts to drag Tom along amusing, laughing uproariously to himself when the older boy scowled with each persistent jerk.
Tom sighed.
That is when Tom Riddle knew.
Harry Potter was bound to be the bane of his existence.
...
...
...
And why he didn't blast the brat down the stairs?
(He quite wanted to.)
That, he just didn't know.
...