A/N: Wow! I'm really happy people like this so far. Thanks readers, and everybody who favorited, follows, or reviewed this work! I appreciate it.
So, uh, I really slaved over this chapter, and I'm nervous about it. If there's anything you think I could improve on or got wrong (haven't read the actual books in a long time, I admit) it helps a lot to let me know.
Enjoy!
Chapter 3
"Tut, tut, child!" said the Duchess. "Everything's got a moral, if only you can find it."
- Lewis Carroll, Alice's Adventures In Wonderland
Tom Riddle understands, for the first time in his short life, the meaning of the word 'bliss.'
He is practically floating the entire trip back to the orphanage, his hands in his pockets, his eyes bright. He has just met his father, the man who sired him, and he is not what Tom imagined him to be, but more. The boy's mind is drowned with endless replays of the encounter; the man's mannerisms, the way he stood, the way he spoke and smelled. He remembers his father's promise, his bewitching green eyes - and glows. The other children cast him wary looks but know better than to ask him any questions; they give him a wide berth as they walk.
Insects, he thinks, lifting his chin.
They certainly scuttle like ants, particularly fat Billy Stubbs and his friend, Eric Whalley. Billy keeps glancing back at Tom from his place by the drunk at the front of the little group, his face pale and scared.
Tom makes sure to meet his eyes, his mouth curling in a smirk. Billy sees it and stumbles.
As the other children laugh at the reddening boy, Tom's mood soars even higher. Soon he'll be free of the surrounding vermin, of scrubbing floors and tasteless meals and Wool Orphanage.
Father...
He could almost skip.
His mood is not even dampened when the drunk assigns he and Billy mopping duty of the upstairs floor. Billy avidly protests, earning him a wonderfully sharp slap, and he spends the rest of the time mopping in silence, casting Tom nervous glances. Tom hums to himself, mostly ignoring the other boy. It's hard to believe he was ever scared of him - or anyone in this dump.
He's learned, Tom thinks contentedly, catching the other's sunken eyes. They all have.
Billy shivers, turning away. Tom replaces the mop in the dirty water of the bucket, his smirk growing wider.
Are you afraid I'll do to you what I did to your rabbit?
In his mind the memory of the rodent's demise is still fresh; the rush of power, the rabbit's squeal as an invisible force tugged it from its cage, Billy's eyes wide and traumatized upon discovering its stiff body, hanging from the rafters. A shrill scream.
Who knew big, tough, Billy Stubbs could cry so pitifully?
Laughter bubbles in his chest, but Tom suppresses it. Composure is key.
Yes, they had all learned quickly who was boss - and if they hate him, well...
It doesn't matter, Tom tells himself, at supper time. He sits alone at his usual table amidst the chatter of the others, a book in one hand. It's open, but he's too distracted to read much of it, his leg bouncing and his fingers dancing across the table in barely suppressed excitement.
Composure, he reminds himself. But he can't seem to reign in on his emotions.
Father. His hands quiver at the memory of the man's arms around him, holding him tight in Tom's first real hug. He has never understood until that moment the point of the things. But warmth had flared in his cold insides at the other's touch, revealing to Tom a connection deeper than bone between them, solidifying his belief that the man is his father.
"Look for me by midnight. I'll find you, like I did today, and we'll be together...father and son."
A grin flashes across Tom's face before he can stop it. Nearby, Amy Benson moans softly, and Dennis Bishop begins to weep. He pauses, wondering disgustedly at their behavior, only to remember that he had worn the exact same grin - if a shade more sinister - a little under a year ago, when leading them into that cave by the sea...
Ah. Now that was entertaining. Tom's favorite memory before today, actually.
His reminiscings are interrupted as the usual bowl of gray slop is placed in front of him. Tom pushes it away without his usual scowl, ignoring the drunk' s demands that he eat it.
Soon I'll be free of this place, he thinks, and even the cow's shrill tone is not enough to quell his joy. Ten years within these dingy walls, trapped with these weak, snivelling vermin - well, he is meant for greater things -
Soon...
"Tom Riddle!" the drunk yells, and now the whole room is silent, watching. Despite his established rule over them all, Tom does not often butt heads with the matron, deeming it more trouble than its worth; yet he openly defies her now. They watch, wondering what will happen.
Continuing to calmly ignore her, Tom looks down at the words of his book without really seeing them. He does not have to listen to her, not anymore. Not ever again.
My father is coming for me.
There is a movement to his right, and the sound of a palm hitting flesh cuts the air. Tom's head swings to the side with the force of the blow. He sits there, stunned, his cheek stinging.
Any remaining chatter dies abruptly; the room is as silent now as the theater during the climax of some drama, every eye fixed on Tom Riddle.
Mrs. Cole looms over him, breathing heavily in her anger - and fear, yes, it's there - her face blotchy, as red as his. She has not slapped him since he was very young. She's never had to.
"I don't know what's gotten into you, boy," she says loudly. "But you won't disrespect me that way! You listen when an adult is speaking, do you understand?"
Tom does not answer immediately. He blinks, and he blinks, as though trying to comprehend what's just happened, and then his gray eyes raise to Mrs. Cole's. They are cold, and hard. They are not the eyes of a child.
"Yes, Mrs. Cole," he answers, in a soft, icy tone.
The air, once stuffy and hot, grows frigid.
Nearby, Dennis bursts into tears again. Billy gets up and leaves the room. Goosebumps erupt across Mrs. Cole's skin as the boy stares up at her, his face as smooth and blank as a marble statue.
But there is something in his eyes - something ugly and monstrous; Mrs. Cole looks in them and sees what she has not wanted to before, what she's always ignored. Like when she heard Billy's shriek, and found his beloved rabbit swinging brokenly from the rafters. Or when she discovered Amy and Dennis in that cave, their expressions distorted from trauma, and Tom smiling, smiling, smiling.
Freak, monster, devil. The other children whisper these so often in her ears, and, staring into stormy gray - at the rage and frost and emptiness there - Mrs. Cole suddenly believes them.
Slowly, she backs away. There is something building in the air now, worse than tension; it crackles like electricity against the woman's skin, clawing up her spine, as turbulent and foreboding as Tom Riddle's eyes.
He lifts his chin at her retreat, like a prince would a peasant, his face still holding the strange lack of expression. The pressure is building and building -
"Go to your room," she whispers, her face white. "Now."
He stares at her, unmoving.
"Go!" she yells, gesturing sharply, just as the lone light bulb above her head shatters.
Mrs. Cole screams as the room is plunged in darkness. She's not hurt, Tom's not stupid, but she scrambles away as though she is, and the others begin to cry and shriek, too, clinging to each other. Dennis is sobbing pathetically in the arms of Amy, who watches Tom in the darkness, frozen. There is the scrape of chairs as some run from the room, abandoning supper in favor of perceived safety.
Tom sits, still staring. Mrs. Cole has staggered to her feet, now, her hair in disarray, her eyes bulging from their sockets but unable to look away. She grips the nearest table with white-knuckled fingers, looking quite like the mouse right before the snake strikes.
Silence hangs over the room like a shroud, broken only by Dennis's terrified whimpers.
Tom's gaze is locked with Mrs. Cole's, who is trembling violently as that strange malevolence licks angrily at her skin, rolling off of him in icy waves. Her ragged breaths puff visibly out into the air, it's so cold.
"If you ever touch me again, I'll kill you," Tom says quietly. Mrs. Cole looks into his eyes - dark, empty, something missing in them, not the eyes of a child -and believes him.
The stormy gray hues are pinning her to the spot, the unnameable pressure wounding tighter and tighter, freezing the blood in her veins -
And then he looks away, his gaze sweeping across the room, his mouth tightening as he takes in Dennis Bishop, who has slid from his seat by now, curled under the table and still crying hysterically.
"Be quiet," Tom orders, his voice whip-like. Dennis's mouth abruptly snaps shut, but the shaking grows worse.
Satisfied, he stands and gathers his book, gaze briefly meeting Mrs. Cole's, who has sagged against the table. His mouth twitches downwards, hell still raging in his eyes, and without warning the bowl of slop begins to rise, floating in the air as though possessed.
A choked sound of surprise escapes the woman's lips at the sight. The pressure intensifies, and she cowers with a cry as the bowl flies at her, shattering at her feet and splattering gray slop all over her form.
When Mrs. Cole looks up again, trembling as violently as Dennis, it is to see Tom leaving the room, his back as straight as ever.
As the sound of creaking stairs reaches her ears, she pulls herself to her feet, wheezing loudly. She must call the police! She must...!
"It won't do you any good," a soft voice says from behind her. Mrs. Cole stops in her attempt to reach the phone in the sitting room. Amy Benson is curled with Dennis under the table, staring at the doorway where Riddle disappeared.
"No one will believe you," she continues quietly, and her tone is so even, so sure, that Mrs. Cole shakes her head, still covered in slop. She does not move to get the phone again, however.
"You don't know that," she says feebly, her voice barely above a whisper.
Amy looks at her. She has the eyes of one scarred, and unwillingly Mrs. Cole remembers that day in the cave, the look of mute terror on the girl's face. Even now, months later, no one knows what really happened, to change the two so drastically. Dennis could be mean and disliked Tom, but there was a charming boldness in him. Amy was blunt, and petty. But she used to smile a lot.
Now there are no more smiles, from either of them. Only fear.
"I do," the child says softly.
:::::::::::::
Composure is key, he tells himself, over and over, his nails biting painfully into the palm of his free hand.
The pain helps to ground him, and by the Tom reaches his room, the rage has almost simmered down to anger.
How dare she? A part of him roars, while the other works to control the power building at his fingertips, upsetting his surroundings in a frigid wind that ruffles his clothes and hair. The earlier bliss has given way to white-hot fury, one that not even the memory of the look on the old cow's face can soothe.
How dare she, old filthy drunk - should've killed her - should've made her scream - !
Nearby, hairline cracks begin to crawl up the surface of his window. His pillow explodes in a confusion of feathers. He can see his breath misting before him, and with clenched fists Tom forces himself to calm down.
She is nothing, he tells himself. Trash. As easy to cower as all the rest.
He knows that, if he doesn't reign in on his temper, something - or someone - is going to burn, and so Tom does his best to focus his attention on regaining himself. He breathes.
One day, Mrs. Cole will pay dearly for daring to strike him. But not tonight. No, tonight he has more important things to be concerned with.
Walking over to his wardrobe, he pushes aside frayed, secondhand clothing and retrieves his treasure box. Absently sealing the door with his power, he sits down on the lumpy bed, running his fingers tenderly across its surface before opening it and examining the trophies inside.
All of them - yo-yos and crayons and little soldiers and cards - have been collected over the years, mainly from the other children. Tom's not sure why he takes them, only that it gives him pleasure to do so, to see their faces twist with pain upon discovering prized possessions gone, stolen.
He...likes taking away their happiness.
It almost helps to fill the emptiness in his chest, the one that, until today, has eaten and eaten at him, like a black hole hovering constantly at the edge of his consciousness. A wall between him and the world.
But today, in his father's arms, that wall faded, just for a little while. He understood, in those brief moments, what he always perceived as silliness and stupidity in the people around him...
His chest was taut, with...something...
The world was bright.
And the connection between them, the one that alerted Tom to the man's approach in the first place, blazed; it was like when he uses his powers, only magnified times ten.
Wrapped in that hug, something clawed up Tom's throat, settled warm in the pit of his belly. He has not felt it since discovering his special abilities, and even then that was tempered with a darkness, a vow that no one would ever dare to harm him again.
But right then, in that moment -
He felt...joy. Exhilaration. Completion.
The latter in particular has solidified Tom's belief that the man he met at the park today is his father. How else can one explain this - this bond that simmered in him with the man's approach, as though they shared not only blood, but a soul...
Midnight, Tom thinks, his heart pounding.
Reaching into the box, he finds his pocket watch half-obscured by a small mirror. It belonged to Mrs. Cole, apparently her last reminder of her dead father, and was very precious to her, resting polished and gleaming in her desk every day. Tom took particular delight in collecting it, along with the uproar that followed. A malicious smirk curls his lips as he opens it now.
Ten-thirty.
Tom jolts with excitement. It seems the old hag has served supper late tonight - Father will be here in less than two hours...
Struggling to calm himself, he sets the pocket watch aside and reaches for the handmirror. The rage comes roaring back in a dizzying rush at the sight of the handprint on his cheek.
Staring at the mark marring the otherwise princely beauty of his face, it takes every ounce of his self control not to fly down the stairs and commit murder. He can do it. Tom knows from the hole in his chest that he can. The ugly thing whispers about it often enough.
He would look down into Mrs. Cole's glassy eyes and feel nothing.
But her death would complicate things. Though Tom prides himself on his excellent acting skills, he would be a prime suspect in the drunk's murder, thereby complicating the situation with his father. And no matter what, that can't happen.
He won't want a murderer for a son.
Tom looks into the mirror. His mask has fallen, and the ugly thing stares back. It lives in his eyes, in the curl of his lip; it thrives in the hole in his chest. It makes - no, helps - him do terrible things. It frightens other people away.
It reveals things to others that he'd rather they not know, and so Tom has perfected the mask that hides it - the evidence that he is very much unlike the other children. He does not regret, or pity, or -
With some effort, Tom smoothes the mask back into place. Once, long ago, he dared to show someone what he looked like without it...and it didn't go well. He has learned, since then. He is careful.
But he must be even more cautious now, because Father saw, just for a moment, as his mask cracked, struck first by excitement, and then the crushing disappointment and anger of having to go back to the orphanage. It is something that worries him even now, hours later. He saw, Tom knows he did, though there was no outward sign of horror or fear...
I must be careful, he resolves again, studying his expressionless face for any signs of pretense. He will not lose his father, not after so many nights wishing - praying - for the man's arrival. He and Tom will be together, if he must lock away every hint of his oddness, even...
It won't come to that, Tom thinks, smoothing down his dark hair. Father is like me. Special.
He suspected it the moment he looked into the man's electric green eyes, knew for sure once their skin touched and his power came roaring to life. He had felt his father's own power, rising up to meet his, much more controlled than Tom's - and strong, terrifyingly so.
Tom wonders what he can do. What he can teach him.
He wonders...
Against his will, images flood his mind; of his father taking him to the park to play catch, or to the pond to fish, or to a football game...And of his father reading to him, and laughing with him, and maybe even telling him those three silly words, words Tom has wondered at, scoffed upon hearing...longed for...
He abruptly stops that train of thought.
Fool, the ugly thing whispers, as a shuddering breath escapes his lips. He'll take you from this prison, sure, but once he learns what you're hiding...
His mouth tightens.
He'll abandon you. Just like she did.
Tom squeezes his eyes shut, shoving the memories away. He is infuriated with himself, at the pulse of pain in his chest. The ugly thing is right. It's always right. As elated as Tom may be to finally know his father, the man can never truly know him. No one can. He isn't like everyone else, and he never will be.
I'm special.
His hands shaking, he looks to the window.
Moonlight bathes his surroundings in an ethereal glow, highlighting the shadows that writhe in the far corners of the room. When he was smaller, he used to think monsters hid in that thick darkness, watching and waiting to drag him into its depths.
But he knows better, now. He knows that imaginary beasts mean nothing in the face of real monsters. A mirthless smile curls Tom's lips.
Like me.
The moon itself is rather high in the sky now, full and beaming. Tom doesn't need to glance at the watch to know the witching hour approaches. He wonders why his father could not simply come with him back to the orphanage and claim him as his birth parent. Then he remembers all the others who have clamored to adopt him over the years - warm brown eyes, dark curls, an accent - only to change their minds at the old drunk's whispers.
The ugly thing starts to whisper now in the back of his mind, trying to arouse doubt within him through reminders of the past. Tom stifles it. He won't allow what happened with that woman to interfere with his plans. If anything the whole experience serves as a lesson; a reminder that no must see beyond the surface. No one can see him. Looking back at the mirror, he focuses on softening the mask into something more pleasing and innocent.
He won't do anything to make his father regret coming for him. He will be good. He will be perfect. He will not let Tom Riddle Sr. see the rotten thing hiding just beneath his son's skin.
Tom closes his eyes, his chest tight.
Composure is key.
Replacing the mirror in the box, he stands and begins to pack.
Harry looks up at the grim shape of Wool Orphanage, his heart thundering in his chest.
His wand is clenched tightly in his right hand. His wand - holly and phoenix feather, not the hawthorn and unicorn hair he has come to think of as his own. Both wand and owner had been overjoyed to be reunited, much to Ollivander's curiosity. The man had asked some uncomfortable questions, many of which has Harry wondering even now if perhaps there is more to the old man than meets the eye.
And Gringotts...
Pushing away the memories and the swell of anger that accompanies them, Harry focuses on his task. His very sickening, very awful task.
This is necessary, he reminds himself. I can't turn back. Not now.
Ignoring the unease in his gut, he apparates into the building. Once he's in, Harry quickly forces back the nausea, his eyes scanning the dark, spotless halls for any movement. He sees no one.
Good.
Looking around, he can't help but find it jarring, being here in the flesh. Like dreaming about a house and then actually visiting that house. But this is no visit; Harry Potter is on a mission. Guided by the bond, he moves to the staircase, his steps as soft and soundless as a mouse's.
Stealth is a skill he and the others were forced to master quickly in his own time, after Voldemort and his Death Eaters overran Hogwarts. Once the Dark Lord learned of their base in the Room of Requirement, he had thrown everything he had in the hopes of entering, and soon Death Eaters were posted everywhere, trapping them. Eventually, they'd had no choice but to leave for food, as Voldemort intended - but he greatly underestimated the teenagers' ability to be utterly silent, and Hermione' s brilliant use of the Room...
Mounting the stairs, Harry steers his thoughts away from his friends. He is nowhere near finished grieving - may not be for the rest of his life - and when this is over he plans to have a nice, long crying session again; but he needs to focus now. As he's learned well, his emotions tend to hinder him.
Besides, once he does this, they'll be okay. And if the price is a little steep, well...
Bad things happen to wizards who meddle with time.
He's been thinking about Hermione's words since leaving the park earlier today, and has surmised that undoing Tom Riddle will likely undo Harry himself. After all, like it or not, he is who he is because of Voldemort; there can be no Boy Who Lived without the Dark Lord. Their fates are as deeply interwoven as the fabric of a quilt. Once Tom Riddle is destroyed, there's no telling what will happen to him, Harry Potter, as he is...
Unless, of course, the current events are part of a paradox, like in his third year. Meaning, he's already been here, and done this - and failed. And the gray-eyed liar grows up to be the insane mass-murderer, anyway.
Harry remembers the Riddle in the Forbidden Forest and abruptly pushes all thoughts of second possibility from his mind. He'd rather cease to exist in the process of saving his friends than explore the possibilities that lead up to that. Besides, the time-turner that's brought him here is very unlike Hermione's, or any other he's heard of. If it can disregard the laws of magic enough to send him decades into the past, surely it isn't bound by the same laws in this regard...
If it is, Harry will accept his fate, for the sake of his friends. For the sake of a lonely little boy living in a cupboard beneath the stairs. For a better world.
Memorizing the blue of the sky, he thought it about it for a long time, and has decided that, unlike his nemesis, he is not afraid to die. Not anymore.
There are far worse things, he thinks, scanning the second floor. Like your best friend sacrificing herself to save you. Or red hair (a blazing beacon, unreachable) being swallowed by a writhing mass of black. Or watching the light fade from the eyes of someone precious...
"Room twenty-seven," he whispers, in an effort to ground himself. Riddle's location; he remembers this from the Pensieve. Looking around, Harry continues on up to the third floor, his wand out, his eyes peeled for any insomniac orphans. The orphanage is very quiet, though the silence does nothing to calm his nerves.
Upon reaching the third floor, the pull in his gut is replaced with a pleasant warmth, and Harry frowns, murmuring "Lumos," as he begins to scan the doors.
Twenty-four...twenty-five...twenty-six...
There is the sound of a door creaking open behind him. Spinning, Harry brandishes his wand, his head spinning with a rush of adrenaline as the small shape of a little girl is illuminated in the doorway of room twenty-three.
They stare at each other for a long moment, Harry frozen and the girl blinking owlishly at him. She doesn't look surprised, oddly enough. Just solemn, and maybe curious. He's never been terribly good at reading people.
"Hello," he says, after a moment, raising his wand from where it lowered a second ago. He fully intends to Obliviate her, when the girl says quietly:
"You're here for Riddle."
It isn't a question. Harry gazes blankly at her, his mouth slightly open.
"I...yes."
She nods to herself, clutching the doorframe. He expects her to scream, or slam the door in fear, but all the girl says is, "Be careful. He's not what he seems."
And then she retreats into her room, the door shutting quietly behind her.
Harry blinks at the spot where she was standing, utterly baffled. After a long moment, he returns his mind forcibly to the task at hand, deciding to leave the girl alone. If she meant to alert anyone, she would have done so, and if she tells anyone, well...
He'll be long gone, by then.
Swallowing thickly, Harry turns and resumes his approach to room twenty-seven. The rush of adrenaline from earlier has not died; it simmers in his veins, sends chills down his back - in stark contrast to the steadily pulsing warmth in his chest.
Breathing deeply, Harry readies himself. He already has a story prepared, in case the boy has questions, and the next hour or so is going to be a severe test of his acting abilities. And tolerance.
Imagining the sweet scent of apples and cinnamon, Harry raises his hand to open the door. It swings open before he can touch it, and suddenly Tom Riddle is in the doorway, peering up at him with his piercing eyes.
"Hello," he greets softly.
"...Hello," Harry manages. Silence descends as they stare at each other, reminding him uncomfortably of his encounter with the odd little girl. Riddle is searching his face hungrily in a manner reminiscent of the diary horcrux, though his expression is open and pleasant. Intensely unnerved, he tries to break the silence,
"Um...how did you -"
"I felt you coming," Riddle says quickly. There is a pillowcase clutched in his right hand. His things, Harry realizes, pity and guilt sinking his stomach. He fights to keep the emotions off his face, looking beyond at the tiny room as a way not to look at the boy.
Riddle will not be staying with him anywhere. Riddle will not survive the night.
When he looks back at th child, it is to see him taking in Harry's new appearance, eyeing the dark robes with curiosity and...amusement? The strange eyes then dart to the wand clutched tightly in his hand, and he cocks his head.
"What's that?" he asks, pointing.
"My wand," Harry replies evenly. He decided before coming that he would not hide his magical abilities. The child should at least know of his heritage before the end.
Riddle does not seem terribly shocked; surprised delight flashes across his face as he stares at it, and Harry recognizes the same greed that the boy in the Pensieve wore towards Dumbledore's wand, though it's hidden well.
"Oh," Riddle whispers, unconsciously leaning forward. "And...and what do you use it for?
"Magic," Harry tells him, waving it. Riddle jumps as something struggles to break free of the pillowcase, his startled gaze darting between it and the wand.
"Open it," Harry tells him.
The younger male gives him a long, assessing look before obeying, his eyes narrowed. Upon seeing the source of the rattling, he pales.
"I...how did you do that?"
"Take it out, Tom."
Swallowing audibly, Riddle lifts the rattling box from the pillowcase, staring at it as though it contains some terrible beast. He purposefully does not meet Harry's gaze.
"The things in there don't belong to you, do they?" Harry asks, knowing fell well they don't. He is fascinated by the apprehension on the young Voldemort's face.
"...No," Riddle whispers finally, darting a glance up at the older male. "I took them."
His honesty surprises Harry. "Why?"
Riddle says nothing, only clutches the box tightly - protectively - against his chest. Harry sighs.
"I don't like thieves."
It is amazing, the change that comes over the boy, then; his eyes widen, his breath grows short, and the expressionless mask crumbles away, revealing fear.
"I-I'm sorry," Riddle whispers. The words are stilted, as though he's not used to saying them. "I didn't..."
Harry says nothing for a long time. He stares at Riddle incredulously. The Dark Lord has just apologized to him...Then the boy raises his eyes, searching his own with that same fear; the teen recognizes with a start the fragility shining in the cloudy gray hues - not quite as evident as it was in the man from the Forbidden Forest, but undoubtedly there.
Ignoring the prickle of unease, Harry tells him to set the box aside. Riddle stares at him, and the other thinks he won't obey, but then he turns and shuffles towards his wardrobe. Riddle raises the box, as if to set it atop it, but makes no further move.
"Tom," Harry says gently. "Leave it."
Riddle doesn't look at him. His fingers are curled around the ends of the box as though he is physically incapable of letting it go.
"Tom-""
"They're mine," he whispers. "My trophies."
"No, they're not," Harry replies, trying to keep the impatience from his tone. "You stole them."
"And if I did?" Tom retorts, looking quite similar now to the sullen boy from Dumbledore's memories. "I took them, so they're mine. The things in this box belong to me."
"They belong to the children you took them from," Harry returns, going to stand beside him. "Those 'trophies' aren't yours. Not really. When something comes into your possession fairly and willingly - then you can call yourself its owner."
He places his hand on the younger male's shoulder for good measure, suppressing a shudder at the warmth that floods through him. Riddle is not so prepared, and he starts at the touch, darting a glance up at Harry. He is clearly thinking about the teen's words.
"Tom," Harry urges softly. "Leave it. We have things to do." Like die.
That seems to do the trick; Riddle purses his lips and sets the box down atop the wardrobe, though it is a clear effort, before turning and retrieving his dropped pillowcase of things. His face is smooth and blank again, eerily so.
"Like what?" he asks dully.
Feeling an odd need cheer him up, Harry holds out his hand and says, "Magic."
And just like that, wonder blooms across Riddle's face again. Not looking quite as sullen, he glances at the silent box, and then the wand in Harry's hand, before accepting the proffered limb.
"Will you teach-"
The words are cut off as Harry apparates, morphing into a girlish scream that continues as the pair appear outside of the Leaky Cauldron. Probably should've warned him, the wizard thinks ruefully, while Riddle falls to his knees and vomits loudly. He's still got Harry's hand in a death grip.
"Are you alright?" he asks, kneeling. Riddle doesn't respond. "Tom."
"Where are we?" the boy wheezes. "How did you...?"
"It's okay, relax. We just apparated - and I really should've let you know beforehand..."
Absently rubbing the Riddle's back, Harry waves his wand again with a whispered spell, watching with satisfaction as the mess vanishes.
"Are you alright?" he asks, and nearly apologizes before remembering who it is he's helping to his feet. The amusement and concern dim with the reminder of his task, and Harry steps away as Riddle regains himself, though the boy keeps a tight hold of his hand.
"I'm fine," Riddle tells him, smoothing down his hair. He looks embarrassed, an emotion that again fascinates Harry, coming from the future Dark Lord. The younger male gets over it quickly, however.
Gray eyes are assessing their new surroundings, taking in the seemingly rundown pub and the Londoners who pass by them as though oblivious to their existence. Finally, they land on Harry, studying him intently.
"How did you do that?" he demands.
"I told you: magic."
"So then...you're..."
"A wizard," Harry says simply, studying the other just as intently. "Just like you, Tom."
Riddle stares at him, clearly gauging his expression in search of falsehood. Harry looks back evenly. He tightens his grip around the pale, thin hand, willing the boy to feel the magic swelling warmly between them, born of what he suspects is more than the unwitting contract he made in the Forest.
Am I as connected to the child as I am to the monster? Harry wonders suddenly, as Riddle inhales sharply. Could I see through his eyes...?
He sees the exact moment that the pale youth believes him. Riddle's eyes bulge, and his cheeks flush, and he grips Harry's hand hard enough to break his fingers.
"I'm..."
"There's an entire world you belong to, Tom," Harry explains gently, ignoring the spike of guilt the joy on the other's face is causing him. Soon that face will be blank, and even paler with death - lips tinted blue, gray eyes glassy...
Swallowing thickly, Harry forces a smile. "C'mon. I'll show you."
Riddle drops the blank mask the moment the brick wall parts to reveal Diagon Alley.
He is still clinging to Harry's hand, utterly silent, but his face is bright and red with awe, his eyes shining with delight as he takes in the bustling masses of magical folk. Even so late, the place is packed, and they pass a variety of characters; a one-eyed witch who stares at them, a wizard arguing heartedly with a shopkeeper, a young woman beaming as she leaves a shop with a forlorn-looking owl in tow.
A stout, middle-aged wizard is weaving intricate runes in the air with his wand that sparkle and shimmer and glow, much to the excitement of a growing crowd. Riddle watches that display, looking particularly enthralled, and suddenly he is bombarding Harry with question after question, all of which Harry answers with unusual patience. He finds Riddle's excitement captivating, and cannot help but marvel at the glow in the child's face as he takes in their surroundings.
He expected smugness - triumph - at the confirmation of Riddle's uniqueness in regards to his fellow orphans. A sort of calm acceptance, like when he witnessed Dumbledore' s demonstration in the memory. But right now, clutching his hand, the future Voldemort looks...exhilarated. Like a child upon entering Disney World.
It would be infectious, were it not for his coming task. Were the child beaming up at him with large (bright) gray eyes not destined to become the insane mass-murderer Lord Voldemort.
Struggling to keep his expression pleasant, Harry guides Riddle to his intended destination: Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlor. He'd passed it on the way to Ollivander's, and, struck by an almost crippling wave of nostalgia (and surprise), had decided to take Tom here. Voldemort or not, it feels...wrong to just take the boy somewhere hidden and kill him, just like that. It seems...abrupt. Cruel.
They should at least enjoy a bit of ice cream, before the end.
And it eases Harry's conscious, he can admit that to himself. Sitting across from his 'son,' he continues to answer the boy's seemingly endless stream of questions.
"What are owls used for?"
"Messaging. They take letters back and forth, and people often keep them as pets."
"Why do you all wear dresses?"
"Robes," Harry corrects gently. "And I'm not sure. I thought it strange, myself, at first."
"When did you learn you were a wizard? Did you always know?"
"I, well, no. I was around your age when I found out, actually. But others, "purebloods," grow up knowing of their heritage, and can trace their ancestry back centuries."
Tom thinks about that, while Harry watches him carefully.
"You're not a pureblood?" he asks finally.
"...No," Harry says slowly. "Half-blood. My mother was a muggleborn, and my father a pureblood."
"What's a muggleborn?" Riddle asks, and it is strange to hear that word said without scorn dripping from his lips.
"A witch or wizard born in a family of Muggles."
"Muggle?" the boy says curiously, again making the situation surreal.
"A...non-magical person. Regular people, like the ones you grew up with at the orphanage."
"Oh," Riddle says with a frown. "So then...I'm muggleborn?"
"What - no!" Harry would laugh uproariously if he weren't so appalled. Lord Voldemort - a muggleborn! "Your father - er, I'm a half-blood-"
"And my mother?" Riddle is leaning over the small table between them. "What was she?"
"A pureblood," Harry says, trying to hide his discomfort at the mention of Merope Gaunt. "The scion of a very old line."
"Oh," Rather than looking pleased, however, Riddle grows sober. He picks at the worn corner of the wood table, his eyes dark and troubled.
"How did she die, then?" he asks softly.
Harry, though expecting such a question, takes a moment to answer.
"Your mother...was very sick, Tom. She...She led a very hard life. She wanted, more than anything, love, and, when I chose to, uh, to leave her, she employed some very...questionable methods in order to get me to stay. When I realized what she was doing, I was horrified - so I left."
Tom's eyes have grown darker with each word.
"And?" he prompts.
"Well, um...I didn't, uh, I didn't realize how...attached, Merope was. Apparently, she couldn't handle the seperation...and she began to waste away. By then she was already pr-pregnant. From what I learned, she spent most of her pregnancy wandering the streets - she'd, uh, she'd run away from home. When she went into labor, she found the nearest orphanage, had you-"
"And died," Riddle finishes quietly. He is staring at Harry, his mouth tight. "I know that. What I want to know is how. If...if she was a witch, and she could do magic, then why didn't she save herself?"
"I don't know," Harry admits. It's something he wonders, himself.
Mrs. Fortescue - the future Florean's mother, he thinks - comes, then, with their ice cream.
"Enjoy!" she chirps, and with her departure a heavy silence descends. There is no wonder or awe in Riddle's face, now - he looks somber and closed-off. He doesn't touch his ice cream.
"Did you know about me?" he asks suddenly.
Harry blinks at him. "What?"
"When you left my mother - did you know about me?"
Riddle looks up at him then, and there is a flash of that same darkness in his gaze, though it is hidden just as quickly as before. Harry sees it and knows that he must tread very carefully. Quietly, he says,
"No."
Riddle studies him, searching for deceit. On any other person, that piercing gaze would've found it. But Harry has looked Albus Dumbledore in the twinkling blue eye and lied successfully before; in the last year or so, he's found he's particularly good at it when placed in dire situations. And so Riddle finds nothing.
"...Oh," the boy says faintly, finally dropping his stare. The moment passes. "How did you learn of me, then?"
"Well, I was tracking Merope. After so many years, I'd wondered what happened to her..."
"So you used magic to find her," Riddle guesses.
"Yes," Harry nods. "And...And I found you, instead."
"So today at the park-!"
"Exactly," Harry confirms, privately pleased at how nicely it all fits together. "Imagine how surprised I was, upon seeing you. My son!"
"You did seem shocked," Riddle agrees. A pleased flush reddens his cheeks, though his expression is perfectly composed again. Harry marvels at the sight. "But so was I."
"I knew right then I had to save you from those Muggles," he continues, internally wincing at his tone. "It...it must have been awful."
"It was," the boy says softly, finally reaching for his ice cream. He gives it an experimental lick, and Harry can tell from the widening of his eyes that Riddle has never had ice cream before. He imagines then, for the first time, what life at the orphanage must have been like. Drab clothes and drab surroundings - each day carried out with the hope of being rescued. Each night feeling that hope die a little more. Wash and weed and cook and clean, and then retreat back to the cupboard with only spiders for company, guests are coming, he must make no noise and pretend he isn't there -
Harry blinks, startled. Where did that come from?
What's wrong with me?
He hasn't thought of his aunt and uncle, or his stay with them, for a very long time. Mouth parted, he looks at Riddle, who has become preoccupied with his ice cream. He's got some of it on his nose. Harry's heart wrenches - because it's hitting him again, the weight of what he's about to do. Riddle is sitting there, eating the treat with childish delight, and there is no trace of that darkness, now, or that eerily held composure. No trace of smug triumph, or psychotic rage, or crushing sorrow.
He looks like a boy. He looks like a child.
"I'm sorry," Harry blurts.
Riddle pauses. He blinks at Harry, tilting his head like a curious puppy, and on another surge of impulse the teen reaches over and wipes the spot of chocolate from his nose. The younger jumps at the action, face growing redder upon realizing the reason behind it. Riddle sits a little straighter in his chair, eyes glued to the table, now. He is clearly considering something.
"...I used to pray," he says finally, still not looking at Harry. "Every night. That you'd come for me, father. And now that you have, I-"
He stops speaking, then, as though the words have caught on something, and Harry watches with confusion as his expression goes blank. "I'm grateful," he finishes coolly, but it's clear that that's not what he was going to say.
Harry doesn't press it, though; he is still marvelling at the first part of that sentence. Voldemort? Praying? The two are mutually exclusive. The only God in the Dark Lord's mind is himself.
But maybe that's not true for Tom Riddle.
And to add to the surrealism of the situation, Harry finds himself reaching across the table and taking a pale, thin hand. It's curious, how such cold skin can ignite such warmth within him. He looks into Riddle's eyes, and in his mind imagines them crimson, burning with hate and rage and insanity - and glee, murderous glee.
But the hues remain gray, shining with curiosity and something as close to innocence as his archnemesis could ever achieve.
"I'm sorry I didn't come sooner," he says softly, sincerely. Because suddenly Harry wishes he did. Maybe, if he was sent back early enough, he could've saved that sad young girl who still haunts his dreams, sometimes. Tom Riddle could've grown up with love...
His thoughts are interrupted as the boy's lips stretch in a smile. It is slow, and hesitant, but real, and as Harry's breath catches he is reminded how beautiful a child Riddle is.
After a moment, he smiles back. It's almost genuine.
After that, something changes in the air between them.
Riddle is more relaxed and open, though there are still moments when Harry gets the sense he's hiding something. The teen is surprised by how easily the conversation flows between them, the subjects ranging from wizarding money, to spells, to laws and ways of life, to Hogwarts.
Tom is especially enraptured by tales of the ancient castle, and after an eternity dscussing it, Harry checks the time and is astonished to find it is approaching dawn.
I can't put it off any longer, he thinks, with a sinking feeling. He looks at Tom, who stops in his listing of all the spells he hopes to learn.
"What's wrong?" he asks.
"We...we have to go," Harry mumbles. Standing, he sets a galleon on the table. "I want to stop by one more place."
He holds out his hand, hoping Tom won't notice how it trembles. Tom takes it, his expression wary, and then the world is blurring around them. Harry's insides squirm as he apparates into Hyde Park. To-Riddle recovers remarkably well, this time, and he is saved the task of having to clean up vomit, again.
As Riddle straightens, gauging their surroundings, Harry takes the time to compose himself. It's hitting him, now - the realization that he is really about to go through with this, and his heart is beating rapidly, sweat beading on his forehead.
This is necessary.
Pursing his lips, Harry's eyes fix to the familiar fountain some yards away. It'll take them a few minutes to get there. And when they do, he'll do it.
"C'mon," he says softly. They begin to walk. The park is quiet and deserted, the excited calls of crickets filling the warm night air. Above their heads, the sky is clear and vast, streaked with the first rays of dawn. Soon, the sun will rise to fill that great, endless stretch of stars...
But neither of them will live to see it.
"What's wrong?" Tom asks, his voice loud in the near-silence.
"Nothing," Harry answers. "I was just thinking...of how beautiful the world is."
Tom's hand tightens around his. "Oh. I suppose it is...beautiful."
He cranes his dark head to look at sky, eyes large and silvery. "But it's full of ugly things."
"And how would you know?" Harry asks. The fountain is getting closer and closer. Each step towards it feels terribly heavy, as though his feet have morphed into cement blocks. Not even the warmth from Tom's hand can soothe his racing heart. He swallows thickly.
"Children know lots of things," Tom replies, oblivious. "Adults just think we don't."
"...True," Harry says, impressed by his answer. "And what exactly do you know, Tom?"
"That most people are scum," Tom says easily. "Murderers, thieves, liars..."
Harry tenses at the emphasis on the last word, but when he looks at Tom, he finds the other lost in his own thoughts. It doesn't appear to have been directed at him.
"That's -"
"True," Tom assures him, as they stop at the fountain. His heart is beating so hard Harry fears the boy will hear it, but Riddle remains ignorant, releasing the teen's hand to go and peer into the shimmering waters. "People are weak, pathetic things, ruled by their emotions; they cling to eacb other like lifelines..."
This is it. Perfect opportunity. He can do this - I can do this -
I don't have a choice.
"We do," Harry says softly, studying Tom's back. His shoulders are hunched, his fingers curling over the lip of the fountain. He is seemingly transfixed by the coins glittering in the water. Slowly, hardly daring to breathe, Harry pulls out his wand. "But it's that dependency on one another that allows us to wield the greatest magic."
"And what is that?" Riddle whispers. He doesn't turn around. Harry wonders what expression he's wearing.
Blood roaring in his ears, he imagines Ron, and Hermione, and Ginny. He remembers Albus Dumbledore with his twinkling blue eyes, always honest, always kind. What would he say if he saw Harry now?
"I believe in you, Harry," Ginny says, amongst the sudden chaos of his thoughts. The words don't calm him, this time - if anything, they cause more turmoil. Harry raises his wand, breathing raggedly. He doesn't want to be a murderer.
"Love," he says quietly.
He doesn't want to kill a child.
If he'd been raised with love, Dumbledore said...
Forget Dumbledore! A voice roars in the back of his mind. It sounds like Ron. This is Voldemort! He killed your parents, tortured and murdered your friends! He's responsible for every tear you've ever shed! He's a psychotic mass-murder who enjoys hurting people. Unfeeling, uncaring. Insane. He deserves to rot in hell, like the one he put you through! He's a monster. Kill him.
And Harry's lips part to do just that.
But then Tom turns around. And as their eyes meet, green against silver, Harry hears a soft, clear voice amidst the pandemonium in his head. It is laced with weariness and sorrow, but most importantly a certainty - one drawn from many, many years of life:
"No one is born evil."
And Harry Potter drops his wand, feeling suddenly as old and tired as the man who spoke those words, as Tom Riddle looks on confusedly and the sun rises. The boy's death is necessary. For the greater good. But he can't do it.
I won't.
"Fa-"
"I'm not your father."
A/N: So. I didn't mean to leave this chapter a cliffhanger, but wanted to get this out as soon as possible and it was getting long. Feedback of any kind is really appreciated. It helps.
Till next time, and I hope you liked!