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: Think I'm getting a hang of the characterizations...(?) Correct me if I'm wrong :) Wow, didn't know writing fanfiction could actually give you so much anxiety.
This may be a bit shorter than last, but it was originally one huge chapter which I split in two ;) I'll update sooooooon, yeah? I was actually going to publish this in a day or two, but I just can't stand waiting so long...
Review, or flame, you silly child, you, but do leave some sort of something? Please? It'd be great if you could give me some idea how I'm doing with Tom and Harry's awesome friend-making skillz (skillZ, with a Z because it's just that cool—yeah, no.) Right, and thanks for all the favourites, follows and reviews, you basically are my life.
P.S.
Edit? Psh. Yeah, um, no.
Proof-read? Right. Who are we kidding here?
I'd end up updating a chapter a year if I were to do either.
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(Do people actually read all that before the story?)
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What He Knew
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Chapter III
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Harry Potter didn't exactly know how he got here.
He felt cold sweat gather between the creases of his left hand as the warm skin clutched at the distinctly cool object tightly. The 'cool object' happened to be Tom Riddle's hand.
Harry really, really didn't know how he got here.
And what possessed him to dare to hold Tom Riddle's hand? Like they were pals?
Better yet, what in the world was he thinking when he oh-so-boldly announced that they were now best mates? And ahving the gall to say it with such hyper excitement, too.
Harry Potter and Tom Riddle. Friends.
Who does things like that? Who says things that deliberately makes them seem like completely hyperactive nincompoops?
Apparently, I do, Harry scolded himself. Silly, silly, optimistic Harry Potter who's got no control on his chronic verbal diarrhoea.
Another thing Harry had yet to come to grips with was the fact that he had instinctively sought to forge a bond with Tom Riddle, because that's what felt right—familiar.
With Tom Riddle—as in, the (super-duper scary-wary) Tom Riddle who scared the living bejesus out of Harry.
How could I want to be friends with him so badly? How could I feel like we're meant to be 'something' to each other? Why do I just know that we're supposed to be connected in someway?
Harry shook his head at the barrage of incredulous thoughts. His sweaty hands were becoming extremely cold and clammy, especially the one clutching onto Tom Riddle.
What is wrong with me? he asked himself, glaring back at Tom Riddle.
The boy was an evil lunatic of epic proportions, who may or may not be the perpetrator in the Maggie Marple incident! Even if he wasn't a crazy murderer, Tom Riddle is still a bad boy! And mean! And a whole bunch of other horrible, terrible, terrifying things!
Insanity. I'm insane, Harry told himself, mentally beating himself over the head. I definitely wasn't thinking in my momentary lapse into crazy-dazyness... Actually daring to childishly argue an uncomfortably one-sided friendship with Tom Riddle or all people. Why, Harry Potter, why? Why do you have to do things like this?!
...
Just a few days ago, Harry had been fine just dreading the very idea of Tom Riddle.
It was the sane thing to do.
While almost a month had passed since the Maggie Marple incident, Harry still couldn't get the red—all that red—cleared from his memories. He shuddered at the very thought, Maggie Marple's blood stained red shoes flashing vividly across his mind.
He didn't exactly fear Tom Riddle, but he wasn't unafraid, either.
Harry was very, very, very wary of Tom Riddle; something just telling him that the older boy was bad, bad news.
While he can't explain how, or even why, Harry was about certain that Tom Riddle had something to do with Maggie Marple's little 'accident' in Vauxhall Square.
Suspicion was enough to warn Harry off.
It was true that little Harry Potter was a fan of tales featuring knights, heroes, and dragons, legendary battles between good and evil; he often dreamed of what it would be like to act as a champion of all that was just. However, even little Harry wasn't delusional enough to think he was truly the hero within a story.
He wasn't made of pretty words and fancy flourishes; Harry Potter was flesh and blood—something Tom Riddle would probably mercilessly tear into given the chance.
So for the previous few weeks, Harry had pulled all stops when it came to avoiding Tom Riddle.
If Tom Riddle glanced in his direction, he immediately avoided eye contact and sought a barrier from the older boy's field of view.
If Tom Riddle walked his way, he would turn tail and flee to somewhere at least two rooms of distance apart from the other boy.
If Tom Riddle was exiting his room (which was coincidently, and unfortunately, the one next to Harry's), he would wait an hour before leaving himself—breakfast be damned.
If there were even a murmur that Tom Riddle was anywhere near an area, Harry would avoid it like the plague for the next three days.
The only time Harry would ever be caught sitting in the same room as the older boy was during dinners, but even then Harry would wait until Tom Riddle sat before choosing the seat that was the furthest distance away.
Harry had never felt such need to avoid anything before, always opting to face his problems head-on with a courageous mindset, but when it came to Tom Riddle, it seemed that all previous notions of bravery were able to fly quicker out of the window than one could say 'coward'.
It wasn't that little Harry was afraid of Tom Riddle.
Really. He wasn't.
Harry was just a little, let's say, unprepared for confrontation—whether it be mental or physical.
Harry may come off as flighty and easily caught within his own fantasy world, where everything was rainbows and butterflies, but growing up in the orphanage also conditioned Harry to have a sense of realism and survivability.
There isn't anything easy about living in an orphanage. Harry knows that there's a defined pecking order of sorts; the weak are preyed upon, the strong are in constant struggle.
Harry learned at a very young age—much younger than he is now—that the only thing that was going to get you by in this place was yourself and the strength of your own willpower.
If little Harry were to compare the orphanage to something, he'd like to say a jungle, but even wild animals would cringe at some of the happenings that went on within the cage of peeling walls.
At least some animals had the decency to abstain from preying upon their own species, which isn't something that can be said for humans.
Harry would like to ignore the facts but in the back of his mind he knew that he was alone in the orphanage; no one in here was going to give in just because you cry a few tears, no one here has the time for your pleas for attention, and most of all, no one in here has the will to care for you more than themselves because they feel just as alone and abandoned as you do—and it was sad. It was really sad because the reality of everything was something little Harry didn't want to know, didn't want to admit.
Sometimes, he hated just knowing things.
Perhaps it was because of his reluctant knowledge of his solitude that gave him the nerve to do something so daring as declaring a friendship with the boy he feared ("But just only a little," Harry admits). Somehow, he knew that Tom Riddle and Harry Potter were far too similar for coincidence.
Perhaps Harry felt the reality of the situation wasn't good enough, so he strove to make his own reality of sorts. He's never been one for the rules.
But, perhaps it was merely his loneliness that simply got to him. No one wants to be alone.
"Not even Tom Riddle," Harry wished to insist, despite all evidence otherwise.
Harry would like to believe that everyone needs someone, at some point or another. Even if Tom Riddle is a horrid child with serious attitude problems, Harry didn't want to think of the other boy as the exception.
Maybe if Harry could make someone like Tom Riddle not so alone, make Tom Riddle need him as much as Harry needed others, then the cruel truths about the nature of the orphanage would become rendered false.
Harry quite liked that idea; it'd be like breaking one of the laws of the universe. Sort of.
Little Harry Potter didn't care if he was an opportunist or an optimist, but as soon as he crashed right into the older boy after a month of complete avoidance, he reckoned there must be some sort of spooky higher power at hand and a plan slowly began to blossom. Evolving from a stray thought into an irrepressible idea.
Despite their row after the initial impact (Harry was quite surprised he managed to wrangle a sentence or two out of the stoic boy)—and, wow, was Harry frightened when Tom shoved rudely him into a wall—it seemed like the idea became as unstoppable as it was implausible.
This 'idea of friendship' was obviously something impossible—and judging by Tom Riddle's face, it was also completely unwanted—but something within Harry urged him on, telling him to strive for the impossible, to break this standard stubborn of loneliness and abandonment. That same something told him that if he didn't give it a shot, something horrible, much more horrible than the sight of Maggie Marple's crushed little body, would inevitably happen.
But all that didn't matter now.
His plan. His aspiration. His implausible dreams. His need to prove something. His dread.
Gone.
As soon as Harry reached forward, tiny hand shaking with both apprehension and exhilaration, grasping onto those cold fingers—he felt, for the very first time, fulfillment.
It was an odd feeling.
Not one of happiness or need, but one of simple satisfaction. Like Harry was no longer the only one in this graying world; finally, reaching out, he had grasped onto the reality of which he was not alone.
He couldn't help but tighten his grasp, despite the many harsh protests that answered his grip. He didn't want to lose this feeling. No, not when he'd just found it.
When Tom Riddle had actually managed to pull his hand from the hold, Harry swore his world began crumbling, just a bit, at the edges.
The feeling of abandonment swelled up within his tiny body—an emptiness beginning to devour his world, colouring it back to the bland grays of before as it edged away from the reality Harry had been seeking.
But Harry was nothing if not persistent.
He had been very much so up until that point, and that odd feeling he got from holding onto Tom Riddle's frigid fingers was not something he was willing to part with within moments of its discovery.
And so, he somehow ended up here; attempting to tug along an exasperated Tom Riddle while trying to avoid jostling his hurt wrist.
...
Boy, was this harder than what Harry had first thought. He strained against the resistance the other boy put forth.
Attempting to be friends, that is... Not the act of tugging along the older boy—but that was quite hard, too.
It seemed that after introducing himself, nothing he said or did could get the other boy to respond. No snarky jabs or cheeky remarks could pry those impassive lips open.
Harry didn't exactly want to be bullied, criticized, or harshly reprimanded, but even Tom Riddle's snarky little remarks would more favourable than the complete silence.
Apart from their quiet footsteps, the air hung tense and quiet. The longer the silence, the more nervous Harry got; an edge of anxiety slowly crept up on him.
The uncomfortable tension should have made Harry wish to release the chilling fingers he still had clenched within his own perspiring ones, but he held onto them tighter in defiance. He was unwilling to give in to such a vague challenge of unease, no matter how awkward it made him feel.
As the two reached the bottom of the main stairs, the bare few minutes of silence seemed to resemble more hours than minutes. It was so unbearably tense that Harry was ready to give up and let go.
It was going to happen eventually, he reasoned, if not because of his really sweaty hands (which are sort of really gross) then because Harry was almost willing to give in just so he didn't have to stand another moment of agitating silence. Harry prayed that it'd be because of the former rather than latter though; he found it more slightly more dignifying—well, as dignifying as a four-year-old could find it.
But then, like some god somewhere decided to answer his prayer, Tom Riddle opened his mouth to speak just before they reached the dining hall, where they would have to inevitably part ways.
It was barely a shift of the bottom lip, but Harry was rather intent on the other boy's face.
"Yes?" Harry spat out in a flurry, words tumbling out of his mouth quickly and revealing his excitement. "Yes? Yesyesyesyes?"
Tom Riddle blinked twice, shaking his head and shutting his mouth.
No, Harry protested, nononononono.
"You were going to say something right?" His hand tightening a fraction more, he was surprised the other boy hadn't lost circulation, but he supposed it wouldn't be obvious anyways if you were to judge by the normal temperature of Tom Riddle's hand (freezing). "Tom? Tom? Tom? Tom? Tom? Tom?"
A barely visible crease appeared between Tom Riddle's dark brows.
Oh, shoot, I'm really annoying, aren't I? Harry mentally berated himself, watching as the older boy's upper lip began to curl in irritation.
"Oh. Um. Sorry. I'm really annoying, aren't I?" The lack of response seemed to urge Harry on for some reason. "I'm reallyreallyreally—that's a triple-really, so feel really special, okay?—sorry, Tom? I'm annoying, right, Tom? Tom, you don't have to be shy, just say it out loud. Don't keep it in, Tom. Tom?"
With each call of the other boy's name, the crease between his brows became more and more prominent, but Harry seemed to ignore it as he continued to prod for an answer.
Prod. Prod. Prod.
Somehow, for the third time that day, Harry ended up getting shoved into a nearby wall. It wasn't that surprising, but he still winced as his head clunked against the peeling paisley wallpaper.
Good thing he had the sense to shield his wrist before impact, awkwardly placing it between the two of them as his other hand remained clutching at Tom Riddle's pale fingers.
Tom Riddle was proving to be quite a violent little boy as he slammed a closed fist into the wall, just an inch from Harry's face. It was a visible act of intimidation.
Harry stopped himself from twitching away in fear, eyes subconsciously brightening at the challenge.
Tom Riddle must have seen his defiant expression, as his impassive face broke into a visible frown.
His own green eyes suddenly lightened with anger, and he brought his fist back down for another strike against the wall. The fist barely grazed Harry's chubby cheek as the sound of the impact resounded loudly into his eardrum.
The whole thing probably would have had more of an impact upon Harry's nerves if Tom Riddle wasn't only six with small six-year-old hands.
The action of Tom Riddle punching the wall just ended up being an awkward cross between a childish tantrum and a murderous threat, which Harry didn't find all that frightening (compared to the boy's smile, it couldn't even compete).
However, he—quite smartly—didn't voice his thoughts out loud.
God knows what he'd do then, Harry shuddered, remembering the older boy's earlier threats of strangulation. It's a wonder how I'm persisting… Insert a mental pat on the back because no one else seems up for it. The kid even said he'd do me in worse than Maggie Marple. How is anything worse than getting flattened into a pancake like a bouncy pile of dough?
Harry didn't want to find out, gulping softly as he opened his mouth to speak when Tom Riddle showed no sign of movement or inclination to speak.
"To—?"
The single syllable didn't even dare finish exiting Harry's mouth when Tom Riddle's hissing voice cut in, cold and to the point like a well-sharpened dagger, "Do. Not. Call. Me. That."
Harry should have just shut up and waited for Tom Riddle to back off.
He was practically useless up against the older boy; having both hands incapacitated—one, injured, and the other, unwilling to let go—plus being nearly two heads shorter than Tom Riddle should have been a good indication that any further provocation was not advisable.
But like a true victim of word-vomit and bravado, Harry soldiered on as he let his dubious hold on survival go, just to take hold of the rather useless sentiment of bravery.
Good job, Harry Potter. Give yourself an insincere pat on the back, a snide little voice commented. Harry ignored it, obviously.
"What're you gonna do if I do, Tom?" And so, the words tumbled out before Harry could list all of the many good reasons such a cheeky retort was inappropriate in his current situation. The taunt of 'Tom' at the end sounded so obnoxious and ignorant that even Harry wanted to hit himself.
Why do I this? Harry mentally whacked himself over the head, sighing profusely at his conditioned tendency to provoke people in verbal communication. Harry wondered why he always ended up responding in such a way when people use a certain type tone with him. What a spiffy way to make friends, he sarcastically commented to himself. Let's just hope I don't end up six feet under before the actual 'friendship' part of it all starts.
A cold hand cut off any further thoughts of friendship.
Or rather, a cold hand cut off any further intake of oxygen as Tom Riddle's icy touch bit into the skin of Harry's scrawny neck.
"I just might snap," he said, his tone much calmer than what his darkening eyes suggested—eyes full of hatred and something else, something softer, sadder.
Snap? Harry focused on the emphasis; he was all nerves now, not knowing whether Tom Riddle meant 'snap' as in temper-wise or 'snap' as in his neck. Better not find out, because I bet one will lead up to the other…
"I, I'm sorry, Tom," he said, or rather croaked. It would have been much more sensible if he hadn't unknowingly let the other boy's first name slip into the apology. "I d-didn't wanna make you mad or nuthin'. P'weaze leg'go!" he bit out his words more urgently as oxygen was quickly exiting his body, not caring for pronunciation or annunciation as black began webbing into his vision.
Tom Riddle had been steadily tightening his small hands against the younger boy's delicate throat.
A stark white began blooming across the pale skin stretched across Harry's neck, the press of Tom Riddle's fingers made harsh imprints as they forced the blood to rush around them.
Tom Riddle leant in, putting more force into his hand, looking into Harry's watering green eyes with his own rage-filled ones.
Harry thought he saw an edge of dejection somewhere amongst all that pure, uncontrollable hate—but it was probably only the lack of air that was making him see stuff, he reasoned.
Tom Riddle would never have that look…
Tom Riddle stayed there for a moment, watching as Harry gasped and gasped, the angry frown softening as the corner of his lip began twitching up into something that suspiciously resembled a smirk.
Harry, on the other hand, was in pure agony.
He could feel his lungs pulling uselessly for air, heaving heavily against his chest as his heart rate quickened, pitter-pattering hard against his ribs. His need for air made him want to scream but the pain against his throat prevented it as it ripped into his vocal cords. His vision was doubling; the black webs surrounding the edges beginning to branch in like ominous cracks on ice.
He managed to direct his gaze at the boy who was now almost impassively strangling him, meeting his blurred green eyes in a hazy apology. He felt his mouth form soundless, senseless words, hoping that one of them was a 'sorry'.
He didn't know why he felt the need to apologize (he was the one being strangled), but some baseless sentiment of guilt had somehow crawled in just as his breath left him. Harry just knew he should feel some sort of regret for some reason—it was as if he could somehow understand Tom Riddle's anger.
Which is impossible! he fervently denied to himself.
Harry found himself desperately wishing to match the amount of anger Tom Riddle was exuding, to lash out and beat the boy over the head until blood welled to the surface, all in a fit of childish rage. However, something within him—something older, wiser—was just as keen on making him acknowledge and understand the older boy's hatred and rage.
Harry didn't understand, he didn't want to understand; he just wanted to hit back with his own rage.
But he couldn't.
And all he was left with was unsettling feelings of guilt and regret.
He hated it, but his desperation allowed those feelings through, making him whisper barely intelligible words of apology to the very person who was strangling him. It made it even more unbearable that the words he was attempting to whisper were actually heartfelt even in his desperation.
Sometimes Harry wondered if there was a god somewhere out there who just hated his guts.
It wasn't even funny; he was being strangled, and yet, he was still making a sincere apology to the boy who flew off into some unexplained rage over something trivial like a first name.
Or was it trivial? Harry found himself asking himself uncertainly. His mind was telling him something, but he didn't want to listen.
Then, like salvation of the grandest degree, oxygen gradually reentered his system, leaving Harry to gasp in air like he had just learned to breathe. He ungracefully flailed about against the wall as he coughed up what felt like his right lung.
All previous thoughts of regret and apology were buried as Harry's fury kicked in; everything crumbled beneath his wrath.
I can't believe he tried to kill me, Harry thought, caught in angry shock. I can't believe he tried to strangle me. I can't believe he tried to strangle me to death.
"I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU TRIED TO MURDER ME BEFORE I'VE HAD DINNER! IN SOME DINGY HALLWAY! BEFORE I'VE EVEN LIVED TO SEE MY FIFTH YEAR OF LIFE! BY STRANGLING ME!" Harry shrieked, breathing quick and panting as he was still trying to regain lost oxygen. "I HAVEN'T EVEN HAD DINNER YET!" he rehashed the accusation like it held some sort of special significance.
Harry noted that he was clenching his hands tighter and tighter as he screamed into the taller boy's face, yet for the moment it seemed as if he was immune to the burning pain heating his swollen wrist.
When the burn truly hit his nerves, he looked down with a sharp yelp. Harry realized he was still clutching at Tom Riddle's right hand with his left—gripping so hard that his fingers made bold, chalky imprints on the already pale skin of the other boy. Brows furrowing angrily, he threw the hand away with a large incensed flourish, like the limb had been the dirtiest thing he had ever had the misfortune of touching.
Screw being friends! he thought, furious. Screw Tom-freaking-Riddle! Stupid prat! Stupid, murderous, two-faced prick! Wanking wanker! Pricking prick! Prating prat!
"We're not friends anymore, you prat-faced wank!" Harry screeched, unmindful of the vulgar choice of words (he had heard them used by Mr. Cole on a bad night, and now he had an opportunity to use them as well—hoorah). "I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU TRIED TO KILL ME!" he yelled once more, like repetition would garner some sort of answer or explanation.
In his anger he didn't notice the rapid flickering of the lights.
Tom Riddle slowly stepped away from Harry, anger and hatred flushing from his features, his pretty face became impassive once more. Blank—simply staring.
"I can't believe you tried to kill me," insisted Harry, softer and more incredulous. "I, I, I can't b-believe you tried to k-kill me." Cold, wet tears began sliding down already damp cheeks. He blinked hard, trying to clear his vision with no avail. Long, dark lashes stuck together, weighing down on his tearful green eyes. "I can't believe you tried to..." he trailed off helplessly.
His sentence remained unfinished as the quick flow of his tears began blinding his vision, his nose running as snot clogged up his ability to speak.
The shock of it all, paired with the scalding pain of his injured wrist, made Harry blubber out hideously, tears tumbling down ruddy cheeks at a frightening pace.
Harry was crying, snivelling, and wailing like he hadn't ever before.
The tears just came and came as he tried to breath through his clogged up nose, breath catching and crackling through his throat.
Through tear-bleared eyes, Harry could see Tom Riddle still standing two feet away, still staring at him.
But instead of the cold, remorseless look from before, his clear green eyes held what seemed to be an uncharacteristically exposed collection of shock, disbelief, and complete befuddlement, as if asking, "What the hell do I do with a crying little brat?"
The confusion was distinctly out of place upon Tom Riddle's frozen features, and that was what made it all the more comical.
If little Harry hadn't been busy unashamedly crying out what almost seemed to be a literal river (it was gathering at least a small puddle by now), he probably would have chortled uncontrollably at the sight of stiff, straight-faced Tom Riddle looking utterly stupefied.
Tom Riddle looked as if he was about to move forward to do something, anything, but a twitch of his forefinger was enough for Harry to dramatically flinch away whilst attempting to messily wipe at his face with the entire forearm of his sweater.
Tom Riddle almost looked rejected, but Harry didn't care as he flashed angry teary eyes up at the other boy. How dare he look rejected! he mentally screamed and thrashed at the sight of the look. How dare he look at me like I'm in the wrong! How. Dare. He.
Tom Riddle stepped back further, almost looking apprehensive—yet another odd emotion coming from the older boy.
"Stop," he commanded. His tone was unfailingly imperious though spoken a bit too desperately to hide his lingering uncertainty. "Stop crying. Now."
In response, Harry sobbed with even more fervour than before, anger and frustration encompassing him as he wailed at the unfairness of the situation.
How dare he tell me what to do! He didn't even apologize for all the bad things he did, Harry thought, feeling himself tremble with emotion. Why hasn't he apologized? he demanded silently, his mouth too busy crying out senseless noises to truly speak. I had to, had, had to, apologize to him when he was strangling me! So, where is his? Where's my apology?
"W-where?" he managed, a choppy blubbering noise that could have been taken as yet another sob. When there wasn't a reply, Harry cried even louder, "W-where? I, I, I, I—" he paused to catch his breath shakily. "H-how dare y-y-you!? W-w-w-where is it, you stupid a-a-ass, uh, stupid, a-assclown?"
Tom Riddle really looked clueless now. Emotionless mask crack as his eyebrows lifted in a sort of incredulous surprise, confused at what exactly was being demanded from him.
This look should have made Harry laugh in glee for finally cracking the stone-face of Tom Riddle, but it made him more furious than ever.
"I, I, I HATE YOU, TOM RIDDLE!" he screamed, not minding the volume. "I REALLYREALLYREALLY HATE YOU! T-TOM RIDDLE, I HATE YOU! WE ARE NO LONGER FRIENDS! I HATEHATEHATE YOU!"
Tom Riddle had the gall to look affronted, but as he was about to reply to the proclamation of hatred, the dining hall doors slammed open to reveal an angry Mrs. Cole.
Harry knew that this where he was supposed stop sobbing like a little girl, but it seems as if the signal–response function within his four-year-old brain just doesn't work that way.
...
...
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Harry Potter hates Tom Riddle, and there was nothing else to know about that.
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