A/N: More than 100 reviews, favorites, and follows - wow, you guys make me giddy! Thanks so much, I'm sorry for the wait - thankfully summer's come up, so I'll have a lot more time on my hands. There are still lots of reviews I need to respond to, and I'm sorry about that, but please be patient with me!
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Chapter 5
"She generally gave herself very good advice, (though she very seldom followed it), and sometimes she scolded herself so severely as to bring tears into her eyes; and once she remembered trying to box her own ears for having cheated herself in a game of croquet she was playing against herself, for this curious child was very fond of pretending to be two people."
- Lewis Carroll, Alice In Wonderland
°° In Wonderland °°
He prays, in the darkness.
It is thick, suffocating, closing in on him like some sadistic beast that revels in his terror. In this way it is much like the man, the one who never smiles, who kicks and picks and screams at him, fat face purpling with wrath and perhaps a little insanity.
"Stupid little wretch!" the man often bellows, dragging him from the cramped little cupboard at strange, unpredictable times of the day, though the boy can never remember what he's done to earn the beatings. They hurt. They hurt so badly. His body is a hideous canvas of dark, blotchy marks, finger-shaped bruises snaking around his neck and white wrists. Long ago, he used to cry at the pain they brought him - at the darkness and the loneliness and the hate in the fat man's eyes.
One, two, three, four...
He would do anything for that loathing to fade. The man calls him bad - evil - devil, though he tries, tries so hard to be good. He makes no noise in the prison, and when the man pulls him out for his punishment, the boy does not resist, biting back the whimpers and the screams and hot tears.
But nothing pleases him. If anything the boy's submissiveness makes him angrier, and it has been four days now since he has eaten. His stomach aches terribly, but he dares not voice his suffering. He's learned very well that the man listens for such things.
One, two, three, four...
He's not sure what comes after four. He vaguely remembers that woman teaching him, her horsey face twisted with distaste, and another, significantly fatter boy sitting beside him, pinching his arm in a manner meant to inflict pain. But they're gone, now. He hasn't seen them in a very long time.
He didn't really like them - the woman never hugged him like she did the fat boy, and the fat boy liked to hurt him, too - but the man was nicer when they were around. He'd never touched the boy, then - merely yelled at him occasionally.
Now he is the source of his nightmares.
Knobby knees pressed to his chest, the boy closes his eyes against the moving darkness and the throbbing agony that lives in his skin. He presses his hands together.
He's not sure who he's praying to, or if he's doing it right, but the practice calms him. It makes the darkness a little more bearable, the shadow of the man not quite as fearsome.
"Please," he whispers, through cracked lips. "Please..."
But God doesn't answer. He hears, instead, the dreaded stomp of footsteps.
Tom lays awake, lost in thought.
He refuses to sleep, too frightened by the stiffness of his limbs, his body as unmoving as a slab of stone beneath the scratchy sheets. Some time has passed since his attempt on the liar's life, and the man lies just out of his view, now, sleeping soundly.
Loathsome maggot.
Tom still harbors a well-stoked hatred for the green-eyed imposter, but his earlier fury has simmered down to a deep resentment. It is well into the day, after all, and one can only hold on to homicidal rage for so long. Especially when one can't move. His current mood is one of contemplation as he stares at the ceiling.
He'd...acted foolishly, again.
No, not just foolishly - stupidly. What had possessed him to think he could take on one whose powers clearly outclassed his? Such impulsivity isn't like him, and as Tom studies a hairline crack in the plaster above, he realizes he needs to correct this. The near-suicidal recklessness, the childish gullibility that landed him here in the first place; all of these are prime characteristics of lesser beings - insects - and the very idea that he's lowered himself, even temporarily, to their level is enough to make his teeth grind.
Or it would be. If he could move his jaw.
But that line of thinking just makes Tom angry again, so he closes his eyes (the only part of him not frozen corpse-stiff) and counts, very slowly, to ten. It doesn't soothe the resurging agitation, but it does help to ground his thoughts...
And, because he's bored and angry, Riddle decides to hone that important muscle known as the imagination. Eyes still closed, he pictures the liar in the darkness of his mind, looming over him with his unkempt hair and weary, old green eyes.
He imagines those eyes going wide with realization, and then fear, and now the man is shrinking back, arms raised defensively as Riddle - the ugly thing roaring inside him - advances.
"Tom," the imposter starts to plea, though the action doesn't quite fit him. Even so, Riddle relishes the sound, covets the look in those dim emeralds as the liar realizes it's all useless. That Tom Riddle knows nothing of mercy.
Only retribution. Only revenge.
(For the pain and the humiliation and the hope that had come to life so brilliantly in his chest)
An eye for an eye, and all that.
I'm going to hurt you, Riddle thinks, and in his mind, he does. In his mind, Tom destroys the imposter, burns him with his magic, breaks each of his fingers (so gentle on his cheeks), bruises his colorless skin.
But through it all, the liar merely looks at him. His gaze, even in Tom's own mind, is piercing, and as Riddle stares back a flood of memories come back, unbidden.
"...and we'll be together, father and son..."
The liar's face, through the bruises, is tired.
"I'm not your father."
His eyes are sad.
"I'm here, Tom."
Pitying.
"I won't leave you."
Those last words in particular send something fierce and ugly spearing through Tom's gut. He wants to scream again - to howl and cry and kill something, specifically the maggot on the bed opposite his - but he can't move, he can't move, so instead Riddle turns back within himself, as he always has, focusing again on the - imaginary - imposter who stares unblinkingly at him.
Fueled by an animalistic fury and the strange ache in his chest, Riddle attacks the imaginary liar with all of his hate; he rips at the man, hangs him from the rafters, tears him limb from limb, gouges out those old green eyes.
And it is glorious - vivid - terrible -
But not enough.
No...after exposing Tom so thoroughly, after daring to stand over him and glare down as if superior...
Unacceptable.
Unforgivable.
He aches for more than fantasy, now. The ugly thing needs blood.
I'll kill him.
It is a raw, savage desire that eats at his insides like some ravenous beast, gnawing at his heart and the back of his brain, settling deep in his bones.
He will be the one to see the light fade from those eyes, Tom decides. After they're filled with a sufficient amount of suffering, of course.
With this goal in mind, the boy sits up. An inferno burns within him.
And the liar's magic falls away under the force of his hate, compressed now into an icy space within his ribs that tears away the rest of his binds. Eyes locked on the lump stirring restlessly in the bed opposite his, Tom tosses the sheets away from himself (quietly, quietly) and swings his legs to the floor.
Rising soundlessly, he pads with the stealth of a feline to the other bed, magic gathered tightly around him. He doesn't want to wake the liar up, not yet. Tom's homicidal, not an idiot. He's learned.
Pressing one knee into the bed, he waits for it to creak, for the liar to wake up and restrain him again. It doesn't. The man continues to shift as though agitated, but he seems to be asleep. Creeping forward a little more, Tom is about to restrain the imposter with his magic in a delicious twist of irony, when the older male goes completely still.
The change is so sudden that Riddle leaps back with an undignified squeak, sure the man has woken and is about to attack him. When seconds pass, and he remains unharmed, he takes a deep breath and crawls forward a little more, enough that his arms and legs are on either side of the sleeping man's body. His core is pulsing with slow, sweet warmth again, but Tom forces it back. However powerful the feeling is, his hate is much stronger.
Peering into the man's smooth face, he wonders at the sudden change. The other's body has gone rigid as a board, his chest moving up and down at such slow intervals that Tom wonders at first if he's breathing.
But the inexplicable connection between them is still flowing strongly, enough that it's getting hard to think clearly. The liar must surely be alive...
The stick, he remembers suddenly. Where is it?
A wand, the man called it. A mere flick of it had sent him flying, earlier, and as Tom glances around he wonders if he can use it for himself, once he's killed its current owner.
I'll look for it later, he resolves, turning his attention back to his soon to be victim. Leaning down so that their noses brush, he allows his magic to cloak the older male, restraining him, though Riddle knows somehow that it won't be necessary. Whatever occurs, the man won't be waking up any time soon.
So Tom studies him.
Gearing himself up for his first kill, he takes in the man's wild black locks, the thin face, the odd-shaped scar that keeps drawing his eye for no real reason. It is strange; a part of him longs to touch it, but a greater part does not, and so he decides to ignore it for now, returning his attention to the canvas as a whole. As much as Tom loathes the imposter, he can admit there is...a beauty in him, one that Riddle sees clearly but finds hard to describe.
And, however murderous he feels right now, Tom can always appreciate beauty.
He thinks that it's almost a waste.
His examination darts to the long black lashes that hide brilliant green. Tom wants to see those eyes, now. He wants to see them widen, with suffering and humiliation and...and betrayal...
Like the kind he'd inflicted on Tom.
Mouth twisting, he raises his hand, a strange impulse guiding him as he traces the lines of the man's face, fingers gentle with fascination.
I'm going to kill you, Tom thinks, his breath hitching. He's unsure what it is that's bubbling in his chest, hot and sharp, but he likes it, is thrilled by it, and with a heavy breath his forehead droops against the liar's. Through the sudden haze he registers that the other's skin is cool, nearly icy, but it is nothing compared to the frigid waves that roil from Tom's core. Pressing small, shaking hands to the older male's biceps, he closes his eyes and concentrates.
His thoughts are nearly drowned in a slow gush of warmth, but again Riddle pushes it back, focusing instead on the swelling pressure in his chest. It rose within him before, back when he killed that rabbit, but it is even sharper now, stabbing his insides. This is different. So different.
He is about to kill a human being.
The thought should sicken him, make him shy away in horror, but instead the hot, sharp feeling grows more intense, and his heart begins a rapid, excited rhythm as his magic presses down.
The liar immediately tenses, his eyes still firmly shut (much to Tom's relief and frustration) as his own magic rises up to clash with Riddle's. Tom is unprepared for the wild, scalding energy, but he refuses to retreat, instead using the man's unconsciousness against him and forcing wave upon wave of icy magic down on him.
Open your eyes.
Because he's winning, the careful control of his own power fighting and overtaking the chaotic magic of the other. All he has to do is press down just a little more, guide the frost of his magic down into the liar's lungs, around his heart...
Buy as he looks down at the groaning man, Tom finds he is still unsatisfied - it's not enough -
He wants to see his eyes.
He wants to see them widening with horrible realization, and then terror, and then rage. He wants to see bright green grow dim and glassy with death...
He wants...
Gritting his teeth, Tom squeezes his eyes shut, his nails digging into the other's biceps as he lashes downwards at the cool body beneath his. The man, still unconscious, hisses loudly. The sound leaves Riddle thrilled; but it's not enough. It won't be. Not until the liar opens his eyes and Tom sees, shining there in the vivid green, the same anger and pain and betrayal that tore at Tom's insides hours before.
Riddle wants the liar to suffer, but not just physically. No, he means to inflict that other kind, the agony that goes deeper than flesh. The kind that chills the blood and rots the tongue, shoved between the ribs like cold steel...
And from this seedling if vengeful desire, an idea begins to sprout.
Opening his eyes, Tom lifts the assault of his magic. His hands move from the liar's arms to the unruly black locks atop his head. He cards his fingers through them as the man did earlier in the park, his fingers deceptively gentle as he studies the imposter.
He does this for a very long time, the excitement of earlier simmering down to deep contemplation. His thoughts turn over countless images and nuggets of fantasy, adding and discarding, until the base outline of a plot takes root in his brain.
You will adore me, Tom thinks to the liar, his mouth parted slightly as the pad of his thumb brushes smooth, pallid skin. No - love me. And I will tear you apart.
It would be the sweetest retribution; a perfect combination of irony and base cruelty. Trick the man into caring for him, and then rip it all away - just as he'd done to Tom. He's already got it worked out in his mind, a game that will begin with sweet lies and roses blinding in their beauty - only to end with the truth and cold steel...because Riddle fully intends to destroy the man who dared to hurt him so. He means to do so thoroughly.
It won't be as easy as he's used to, but Tom's always had a silver tongue, a queer sort of charm that draws people to him like flies to flame. The liar will be no different, he's sure - but he will require effort.
Tom finds himself excited at the prospect.
Yes, the liar's ruination will be a game for him. A self-imposed challenge he is determined to fulfill. Tom will charm the man and dote on him in an elaborate farce - and won't it be so much more satisfying, then, to have the imposter settled utterly in the palm of his little hand, only to wake and witness as his angelic little Tom murders him without thought, without the slightest bit of remorse?
Laughter bubbling in his throat, Tom moves his hands to the liar's cheeks and presses a chaste kiss to the cool skin of the other's forehead, right over the peculiar scar. The moment his lips touch the rough flesh, however, something scalding runs through him, and in his mind blooms the strangest image: a woman with flaming hair and strikingly familiar green eyes. She is dressed in odd clothes, her arms spread protectively, shielding something - pleading.
"Not Harry, please no, take me, kill me instead-"
Tom jumps away from the liar as though burned, his heart pounding and a woman's scream ringing in his ears. His legs are unsteady beneath him as he climbs off the bed, stumbling back, panting and looking at his future victim with huge eyes.
What was that? he wonders, his mind racing as he struggles to collect himself.
Who was she?
The sight of that woman stirs something deep within him, something inexplicably archaic and terrible.
She had the man's eyes, he thinks, retreating slowly, sweat building on his skin.
Harry.
That was what the man called himself in the park, wasn't it? Harry, though Tom can't remember his last name. He pauses for a moment, trying to recall it, when he remembers that he hates the man and so his name doesn't matter. The liar will always be just that to Tom.
And so he moves back to his bed, sitting at the edge of it and waiting for the liar to wake up. It is well into the afternoon by now, and so he expects that should be soon. In the meantime, Tom must compose himself. He has a lot to think about, particularly that woman, though the memory of her makes him curiously ill.
Once the man awakens, though, the game will begin, and Riddle expects his current unease will drain away easily enough. He's always enjoyed a good challenge, after all. This one will be a bit more difficult, the stakes higher, but he's confident he will succeed.
A wicked grin splits his face.
And it will be glorious.
Harry opens his eyes, and is confused.
There is a brief moment of blissful ignorance, in which he wonders why the ceiling is so low, the room so quiet...and then he remembers.
Oh.
Yes, that's right, his friends are dead. Murdered by Voldemort and his servants. Oh, yes, and he's been sent back in time a couple of decades, in the late thirty's, actually, with a much younger, equally homicidal Voldemort under his guardianship, now.
Well.
A lesser man would've had a nervous breakdown by now, but Harry's used to being overwhelmed, and so he allows that familiar numbness to come over, washing out, at least temporarily, the pain that gnaws mercilessly at his insides. Sitting up, he reaches instinctively for the wand under his pillow, only to come up with the time-turner.
An odd feeling takes hold of him as he studies it again, examining closely the characteristics that set it apart from the one Hermione owned. Frowning, he brings it up to his eye. He feels like he's forgetting something.
"I will find you," someone whispers in the back of his mind, and with a chill Harry looks for his wand. He finds it resting a little further under his pillow, close to being swallowed by the crevice between the mattress and the headboard of the bed, and with a murmured spell he dons his robes, tucking the device in his pocket. He'll devote more time to discovering its secrets, later. Right now...
Standing, Harry winces at the still-stinging pain on his back. His eyes dart to his new charge, and he freezes.
Riddle is reclining on the other bed, watching him. But his arms are folded across his chest, his legs crossed at the ankles. His head tilts freely to the side under Harry's wide-eyed stare.
"Good morning," he says quietly, no trace of darkness in his eyes. Rather, Riddle's face is curiously blank, hiding masterfully any of what he might be feeling as Harry continues to look dumbly at him.
"Good morning," he returns, finally, his tone just as even. He raises his wand.
"How did you get free of my spell?"
Tom's eyes dart to the wand, and something flashes in his eyes. Head still tilted, he asks,
"What would you do if I told you I don't know?"
"...I would say that you were lying," Harry tells him. "I am very good at spells, Tom. Particularly this one. I've used it to topple opponents much bigger than you. It doesn't lift unless I will it - or someone manages to free themselves."
It's happened before. Harry's petrified many Death Eaters in the past, and only the most powerful have ever managed to lift it by themselves, be it on purpose or through sheer bursts of angry magic. He can't believe a ten-year-old would be powerful enough to manage such a feat, though.
And if he did...then Harry has been sleeping, completely defenseless, while the child who attempted to murder him earlier has had free use of his limbs. Swallowing back a pulse of fear, he resolves to check himself for any abnormalities as soon as this interrogation is finished. But surely he's fine. He would know if something like that was done to him.
Wouldn't he?
"Tell me the truth, Tom," Harry says, his magic, sharp and agitated, filling the air. He hasn't forgotten the assault (both of them) from earlier this morning, either, and its not helping foster any good feelings towards the kid he's supposed to be raising, now.
"Tell me the truth," he repeats. "Or I'll petrify you again. And you'll stay that way, this time."
"You wouldn't dare," Tom says softly, sitting up.
"Don't. Try me."
Riddle pales, and Harry almost feels bad. He isn't going to actually do such a thing, but he's gotten horrifically good when it comes to threatening others. Few risk calling his bluffs. Tom is no different, it seems, and his mouth twists as he admits,
"Fine. I broke the spell myself. I was still very angry from before, and my magic rose up...and suddenly I was free."
He lifts one thin shoulder in a shrug, and Harry studies him, surprised. He didn't honestly think Riddle would give in so quickly - or that he'd actually broken free himself.
Well, the latter doesn't surprise him so much.
I'll need to watch him carefully - this is (no, would've been) Voldemort.
Suspicious, he steps closer and asks,
"What did you do once you were free?"
Tom's legs fold to his chest, his chin resting on his knees. His eyes are not bright like they were before, but they sparkle now with something that leaves Harry deeply unsettled, and his hand tightens around his wand as Riddle tells him honestly,
"Well, I was going to kill you."
Harry scowls, the color draining from his face. He isn't terribly surprised - only confused as to why he didn't immediately wake up. "And why didn't you?"
"Because," Tom drawls. "Your death would hurt me in the long run. I refuse to go back to the orphanage; I want to learn more about the wizarding world. As it is, you're the only wizard I know, and thus you are too useful to kill."
Now, is the unspoken word that Harry hears, but he forces his expression to soften with supposed ignorance. Tom is staring innocently up at him, probably smug inside, confident he's secured Harry's belief with his honesty.
Well, he may not be the brightest bulb in the box, but he'd like to think he's no longer as dense when it comes to these things. Tom means to kill him, Harry's sure of it. The hairs on the back of his neck are standing up like they've done so often in the past, when he was in the midst of battle and through the chaos spotted him, Voldemort, green clashing with crimson -
This time, the color is different, but the eyes are the same. Tom thinks he's hiding it well, the pretentious little twat, and were he dealing with any other person, he would be. But Harry knows what to look for. He sees that familiar glimmer, and barely manages to keep his own mask in place.
Ungrateful little...
But Harry is supposed to be setting Tom Riddle on a different path, and cursing him will most certainly not achieve that. They're already off to a terrible start...
I'll just have to keep an eye on him, Harry decides. Tom is extraordinarily powerful for his age, but the teen is still superior in overall skill. He'll have to use that to his advantage. Once Tom learns to hone his abilities, however...
I'll worry about that another day.
For now, he needs to see about their living arrangements. Harry doesn't relish making a life in this time, when the world is even more flawed, but he's resigned to it. He'll raise Tom to be better.
"Yes," Harry says slowly. "I'm...glad you understand that. And...and I apologize, for all this. For lying to you."
The words are sour on his tongue - if anything, Riddle should be pleading for his forgiveness, after trying to kill him (twice!), not to mention the still stinging burns on his back - but Harry knows that forcing an apology from the boy will do nothing but make the tension between them infinitely worse. If he must swallow his pride to appease Riddle, then so be it. Doesn't make him any less irritated, though.
"Alright," Riddle says, neither accepting nor denying the apology.
They assess each other in silence for a moment, before Harry sighs and turns away.
"Well, we've got a long day ahead of us, Tom. Do you think you could refrain from trying to kill me while I find us a house?"
Tom stills. "A house?"
Harry gives him an odd look. "Yes. You didn't think we were living here, did you?"
Tom's blank look says he did. Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Harry murmurs a cleaning spell and then flicks his wand at Tom, who tenses as Harry's magic washes over him.
"What did you do?" he asks suspiciously, rising from the bed. The oversized t-shirt hangs off his thin frame, swallowing it like Dudley's t-shirts once did Harry's. The boy before him is a far cry from the neatly dressed, carefully composed child of yesterday and early this morning. Harry resists the weird and sudden urge to smile.
"Cleaning spell," he murmurs, waving his wand again. Tom gasps as the pajamas transform into the drab gray clothes assigned to him by the orphanage.
"I'll buy you a proper set of robes later," Harry assures him, turning away to gather their sparse possessions. All he really has is his wand, the time-turner, the burn ointment, and a sizable sack of galleons which he means to spend shortly.
I know where we can go, he thinks, his heart rate speeding up. I know the perfect place...
Handing Tom his pillowcase full of things, he tidies up the room, transfiguring the extra bed and the large mirror back to their original forms. It's all done absently; Harry's mind is consumed now with that place, and he wonders, his wand hand shaking with excitement, why he didn't think of it before.
But could I do it? he ponders, frowning. His eyes slide to the boy. Is it right to bring him there, of all people?
It takes first prize for irony, certainly...
"C'mon," he says softly, holding his hand out to Tom, who stares at it distrustfully.
"Where are we going?" he asks, frowning.
"To a very special place," Harry tells him, hand still extended.
Tom's eyes narrow. He looks around the room, considering, and then slowly, carefully, places his hand in Harry's.
Harry closes his eyes, calling the area to mind, and apparates.
The coolness of their room is replaced abruptly with the pervading heat of summer and the faint trill of birds. Harry opens his eyes. A familiar mixture of warmth and sadness fills him as he looks down the cobblestone road leading to the quaint village he's seen so often in his dreams. In his nightmares.
"Where are we?" Riddle asks, tugging his hand away. Harry, not at all offended, looks around for any muggles who might've witnessed their arrival. He sees no one. Good. Walking forward a little, the teen closes his eyes, breathing deeply. He can almost smell the muted scent of winter, spoiled by the odor he and Hermione hadn't recognized, hadn't known...
His hands are trembling, and he senses Tom's stare, so he shoves the memory away. It's irrelevant, now - a vivid remnant of a distant world.
I'll make new memories in this place, Harry thinks, looking down at his new charge.
I'll erase the stain that lingers here - and what better way than through Tom Riddle's salvation?
"Where have you taken me?" the boy whispers, his brow furrowed.
"Godric's Hollow," Harry tells him, as the sun beats down above.
Home.
"Godric's Hollow," the liar answers, his voice soft and strange. Green eyes slide to him as though the words should have some significance, but they mean nothing to Tom. Frowning up at the man's colorless face, he takes his hand again. It's annoying, but necessary.
The sooner he plays nice, the sooner 'Harry' dies.
Surprise and something else twists the liar's expression, and Tom is sure he'll snatch his hand away; to the boy's surprise he doesn't, his face smoothing as he walks forward a little more.
"C'mon," he says, refusing to meet Tom's eyes. They begin to walk, and for a long time the only sound is their steps on the cobblestone. Tom is unbothered by the silence, his attention rapt on the nearing village, on the thick trees that tower over them and the earthy scent that fills his nose. It's all so different from the noise and bustling of London, plagued by the potent odor and restlessness that fills all cities...
"Godric's Hollow," he whispers to himself, and the man's hand grows clammy as they pass through the gates. Tom casts him an odd look. He is not the only one. People are pausing everywhere, looking at them; children playing in dirt, mothers scolding those children, old men and young women halting in the middle of loud conversation, voices lowering to whispers.
Tom narrows his eyes.
Could they know we're special?
But there is no awe, no horror, in the villagers' gazes - only confusion and mild amusement. Tom follows their stares and realizes they're looking at the liar. Or rather, his robes.
And they are unusual, especially in this weather.
Scowling, he whispers, "They're looking at us."
The liar hardly spares him a glance. "So?"
"Aren't you supposed to be hiding your existence? Blending in?"
A faint smile. "Yes. But I hardly think they'll discover what we are through an unusual choice of attire, Tom. Don't worry."
"I'm not worried," he sniffs, lifting his chin. "Merely curious. There is a difference."
"Of course," the liar agrees, and there is a patronizing lilt in the words that makes Tom bristle. He forces himself to relax. It'd be counterproductive to snap at the man, right now. Pushing the anger to the back of his mind, he focuses instead on the warmth that trickles from their joined hands to the rest of his body. On the curiosity that spurs his steps.
"Where are we going?" he asks.
The liar doesn't answer. They are passing a small graveyard, now, and his steps have grown quick and hurried, his posture stiff as he refuses to look anywhere but straight ahead. Tom struggles to keep up, even with their hands joined, and finally he snatches his hand away, scowling impressively.
"You have problems," he hisses, but the liar isn't even looking at him. Tom follows his gaze, annoyed, and sees a large house looming over them from behind a short, wrought iron fence. A stone path leads to a heavy, rich oak door, and the grass is lush green despite the searing heat from above. It's a very nice house, but the darkness peering out at them from the bare windows indicates that it's empty.
Tom's anger dissipates as he looks at it, replaced with the same sense of disquiet that filled him upon hearing that red-haired woman's dying scream. Unconsciously, he steps closer to the liar, his hands clenched into fists. Riddle hopes the man will continue walking, but he doesn't. He is instead completely still as he studies the structure; Tom looks at him and is surprised to recognize the same unease in the older male's face.
"...Alright," the liar starts, after an eternity of silence. His voice is low and hoarse. "This is...this is it..."
Riddle's eyes grow huge.
"What?" he demands, his tone sharp. "This is...we're going to live here?"
"Yes," the liar answers absently, searching for something amongst the folds of his robes. Tom sets his pillowcase down, wiping at his sweat beaded forehead as he stares at his companion incredulously.
"Are you daft?" he wonders aloud. "Or just blind? A house like this must cost - cost thousands and thousands of p-"
"Here we are," the man mutters, pulling from his robes a bulging, clinking sack of what can only be a ridiculous amount of coins. He presents it to Tom with an infuriatingly placid expression, just as a man appears to the left of them with a loud popping sound.
Tom jumps away with a loud cry of surprise, and the liar tenses, his hand moving to a place within his robes.
"Good afternoon," the newcomer greets, smiling pleasantly. Tom glares at the man. He is clearly a wizard, dressed just as strangely as the liar in a set of light blue, shimmery robes. A lined, narrow face is home to deepset blue eyes - which are locked rather firmly on the sack the liar holds.
"Good afternoon," the liar says, studying the newcomer in the way a lion might when approached by a potential threat. There is a brief, charged pause, and then: "Do you need something?"
The man is still staring, rather rudely, at the sack. "That's quite a lot of galleons to be handling on your own, boy," he murmurs, ignoring the liar's inquiry. The latter's eyes narrow.
"I asked you a question."
"Ah - you did, you did. Forgive me, it's rather hot today - " he wipes absently at his forehead " - heat addles the brains, you know."
The liar grunts in reply, still watching the stranger - scanning him - with caution in his eyes.
"You own this house?" he asks after a moment, thought it's really more of a statement than a question.
"I do," the man confirms, straightening. So enamored is he with the sack, he has yet to look up. Licking his lips, he inquires, "Why do you ask?"
"I'd like to buy it," the liar says. "Are you perhaps willing to do business?"
Watery blue eyes dart up to the liar's face. The man's smile widens. "Perhaps. But there's quite a bit to real estate, boy, contracts and the like - and you seem...rather young...to be house-hunting."
"I'm eighteen," the liar grits, startling Tom. His head swivels to his companion, but the older male ignores him. "And if all that really mattered to you, sir, you wouldn't have bothered showing up."
"I was curious," the man shrugs. "We don't get many visitors at this quaint little village of ours...and I sensed you on my property." Small eyes fix to the sack again.
"I'm Doyle," he murmurs, holding out a thin hand. "Doyle Diggins. You are...?"
The liar is silent for a moment, clearly considering something. Just when Tom thinks he's going to ignore the offered hand, he takes it, green eyes shining with purpose.
"Harry," he says softly. "Harry Potter."
Doyle starts with surprise, before a great grin breaks out acoss his face. Shaking the other's hand now with unnecessary vigor, he murmurs,
"Potter, you say? Oh my, why didn't you say so, my dear boy? To be the scion of such lineage...It is very nice to...to make..."
Doyle quiets abruptly, his mouth slightly ajar as he stares, transfixed, into 'Harry's' eyes.
"...Sir?" the liar prompts, frowning.
Doyle continues to stare dumbly at him, still holding his hand.
"...Beautiful," he whispers, and the expression on his face reminds Tom of a moth being helplessly drawn to the lethal light of a flame. Intrigued (and a little annoyed that he's being ignored), he glances between the two, wondering silently if the liar did something to cause this sudden change in Doyle, but 'Harry' looks just as confused (and disturbed) as Tom.
"Um," he tries to take his hand back, but Doyle is still clutching it, his eyes very wide. His mouth is hanging open, giving him a stupid, struck-dumb look. The man looks as though he's seen a ghost - or perhaps an angel. The liar forces his limb away, stumbling back a little.
"Will you sell me the house or not?" he growls.
Doyle blinks owlishly for a moment. He continues to stare, transfixed, at the liar, before jumping a little, as though startled.
"I..."
He rubs his forehead, looking dazed.
"What...?"
"Mr. Diggins," the liar says forcefully. It's clear he's run out of patience. Doyle snaps to attention, pale eyes glued almost helplessly to the other male's face.
"Y-yes," he stammers, pulling out his wand. His expression is clouded with what Tom realizes is fear. Fear, and rapture - and something else. "O-of course, Mr. Potter. Of course."
Doyle fumbles for his wand. "H-here."
Tom's eyes widen as a short length of parchment appears in the air between the two.
Eying Doyle warily, the liar steps forward to read the neat black ink.
"This is the deed?" he asks, brows raising.
"I - yes - it's - it's yours."
Mr. Potter gives him an incredulous look.
"You're - hold on - you're giving it to me?"
"Yes, sir," the thin man nods vigorously, his eyes very large in his face. "Yours."
"...You don't want the money?"
"I-" Doyle mouth twists, but then he meets Harry's gaze again, and his expression goes strangely relaxed, becoming almost dreamy as whatever he was about to say dies on his lips.
"Yours," he breathes again. "All yours..."
The liar looks dumbfounded. He and Tom exchange a glance, and the former's face is so utterly baffled that the boy has no choice but to believe it is some other force behind the strange enchantment on Doyle's face.
"...Thank you," the liar says eventually. "You're...you're very kind."
Slowly, cautiously, he reaches up and takes the deed, tucking the bag of money back into his robes.
The moment his hand makes contact with the parchment, the gate to the house swings open, and various lights turn on from within. The liar watches this, swallowing thickly.
"Th-thanks," he says again. "My - my brother and I are...extremely grateful..."
He draws Tom to his side, and the boy is too startled to resist, staring up at the green-eyed man incredulously.
"Anything for you," the man promises, swaying slightly, and the liar frowns.
"Well, we'll be seeing you," he says quickly, turning and guiding Tom towards the house. "Uh...thanks, again."
"Of course," Doyle breathes. His eyes follow them all the way into the house. "Of course."
Tom turns on the liar the moment he closes the door.
"What was that?" he hisses, as the older male sags against the rich oak.
"I...I don't know," the liar mumbles. He is staring at the paneled wood floor, looking deeply troubled.
"I should've given him the galleons anyway," he mutters, ignoring Tom's appalled look. "Basically robbed the poor sod, just now..."
Sighing heavily, he glances at the deed. "But we really need the money. It's not safe to stop by Gringotts again, not right now, and I'm not even sure if I can get a job, here..."
He closes his eyes. "I really didn't think this through..."
Tom crosses his arms, silent. He's not really sure what to say.
"You didn't...cast a spell on him?" he asks slowly, his eyes roving the interior of the house. It's spacious, utterly bare, and really very nice; Tom glances down the short hallway, leading into what looks to be voluminous living room, and feels his heart pick up speed.
He had once - not long ago - dreamed of something like this. Of being whisked away from the orphanage by his father, the two of them living comfortably in a big house with all the happiness Tom deserves...
His mouth tightens, and he turns to glare at the liar, when he finds the older male looking back - studying him in the same wary manner he showed Doyle Diggins, just now. As though he were a puzzle.
As though he were a threat.
Tom, startled by the knowledge, stares coolly back, though it is curiously difficult to hold the liar's gaze, to look into those old green eyes...
"No," he intones, and for a moment Tom doesn't know what he's talking about. "That's illegal."
"...Is it?"
"Yes. It's also wrong."
"It got us the house, didn't it?" the boy remarks, a shrug in his words. The man narrows his eyes.
"I told you I didn't do anything to him."
"Really?" Tom tilts his head. He knows the liar is telling the truth, but the defensive lift of his chin is interesting, and Riddle's always loved to push. Besides, the two of them are basically strangers - Tom knows next to nothing about his new guardian, and that puts him at a distinct disadvantage on the chess board. Knowledge is power; the more he uncovers of the liar, the more he can use against him. Learning - and testing - Potter's boundaries is a good start...
"He seemed rather...spellbound, once he got a good look at you," Tom comments lightly. "And last time I checked, people don't just give away houses. None so nice, at least..."
The words, chosen carefully, don't get quite the reaction Tom was hoping for; the liar merely looks at him, unmoved.
"You're trying to make me angry," he observes. "But I did nothing to cause the change in that man, Tom. I know I didn't, and I think you know that, too. Now, if you're quite through being childish..."
He pushes off from the door, his shoulders sagging and his eyes hooded as he observes the bare house. Something strange crosses his face for a moment, and then the liar's walking away, pointedly ignoring Tom's icy glare.
"We'd better start fixing this place up," he mutters, his voice reverberating softly against the creamy walls.
He glances over his shoulder.
"Go on, explore the house. You can go ahead and pick a room, if you like..."
Eight hours later, as the sky deepens to midnight blue with the arrival of the witching hour, Tom collapses at their newly-made kitchen table with a heavy, highly undignified sigh. Potter crashes in the chair opposite him, his hair horribly unkempt and his chin resting heavily in his hand.
Around them are piles of various household items, many of them transfigured from pebbles and blades of grass found outside: there are dishes and a few eating utensils, a sofa that has yet to be stationed in the living room, where it should be, some lamps, a coffee table, and many other odd little items Potter believed would be useful to them. On the second floor, Tom has already chosen the largest bedroom near the stairs. Mainly he'd done so to annoy Potter, certain the man would protest, but again the older male had disappointed him; Potter had merely shaken his head, smiled a little, then went and chose the room at the very end of the hall. It's the smallest bedroom, and Tom had looked at the liar oddly, but the man seemed to have forgotten he was there entirely.
That curious expression had covered his face again, his mouth tightening and his brow furrowing and his eyes dimming with an emotion Tom was unable to identify. It had unsettled him, though - the entire room had made his stomach clench with unease, honestly. The area, bare as it is, strikes him as...familiar, somehow, though this is surely impossible; he's never even heard of Godric's Hollow until today.
"Are we done?" he mumbles.
While procuring their new furnishments was easy enough, it was moving them that's really exhausted the two. Positioning them in a way that was satisfactory to both of them took hours, though Tom wonders grudgingly how it is Potter is possibly tired. All he's done all day is stand around and wave that wand of his, while Riddle actually had to work; though he's good at unleashing his magic with the intent to harm or defend, it is much harder for him to focus it into something as mundane as lifting objects.
He has a splitting headache, as a result, and it makes him very uncharitable as he slumps across the table, waiting for Potter's response.
"Yes, for now," the man says around a yawn. "All we really have left to do is the living room and some of the kitchen."
He pauses, his eyes darting down to the surface of the table and then back up to Tom's.
"Perhaps," Potter says slowly. "when we're finished, tomorrow, we could take another trip to Diagon Alley. You could purchase some books and...and other things. For your room, and maybe the rest of the house."
Tom is silent for a moment, gauging the older male's face for deceit, an ulterior motive. Potter just stares back. He looks tired - weary, like an old man worn well by the weight of the world.
I'm eighteen, he'd told Doyle earlier, and now that Tom looks, he sees the clear imprint of youth in the softness of the other's face, the way he slouches carelessly (much like Riddle himself) in his chair. He...the liar doesn't look much older than Tom, and again the child wonders at his own foolishness; how could he have ever believed, even for a moment, that this man - this boy - was his father?
"Alright," he murmurs finally, looking up. It excites him, the thought of visiting that place - Diagon Alley - again, and he's willing to play nice, now, even if his head feels ready to explode.
"Alright," Potter echoes, smiling faintly. It's not real - more a forced quirk of his lips. "Tomorrow - oh, it's midnight, isn't it? Er, today, then."
Tom nods, and Potter nods, and because there's nothing else to say, Tom stands. He moves to turn around and head for the stairs, when he remembers that he's supposed to be pleasant. Repressing a frown, he glances at the older boy.
Potter is still sitting at the table, his gaze burning holes into its surface, and it's clear from his face that he is not here in the kitchen, with Tom, but many worlds away. He's probably already forgotten Riddle's presence, and this more than anything, makes him utter, "Good night, Harry."
The name is foreign on his lips, tastes strange on his tongue, but it gets (for once) the desired reaction: Potter's head snaps up, his expression confused, almost dazed. Their eyes meet, and as Tom looks into glazed green the oddest sensation fills his body, tightening his chest and shortening his breath, tickling something instinctual - archaic - in the back of his brain.
Tom's mouth grows dry; those eyes...are otherworldly, twin windows into the magnificent - the impossible -
"Tom," someone breathes, though no one in the room has spoken. The voice teases him, birthing brief flashes of color and touch and scent, skirting his conscious like the wisps of a mostly-forgotten memory...
"Goodnight, Tom," Harry returns, the words soft - deafening - in the silence. At his voice, the spell breaks, and Tom recoils, a deep, shuddering breath escaping him as he turns and retreats up the stairs.
Riddle makes sure he's out of sight before pausing to lean on the railing, his dark locks plastered to his forehead.
What was that? he thinks, trembling.
For a moment...for a moment the green eyes of Harry Potter were the world.
Tom remembers the man, Doyle Diggins, how he'd met Potter's gaze and was awed...
Could he have done that on purpose? he wonders, recalling the fear and repulsion that had roared in his mind, the adoration that had filled his heart.
No, Tom decides. No.
It was clear from Potter's face that he had no idea what he was doing, if he was doing anything at all. Which means...
Something else is going on, here, he realizes. I must be careful.
There's something...not quite right about Harry Potter.
A/N: I had hoped to start getting to the good stuff by now, but alas, it must be next chapter. Thanks to those sticking with me, and I am eternally grateful for all your support!
Something Important: I feel I should point out that this is, in fact, slash, and while nothing is happening between the two main characters now, it will in the future. Things will also get significantly darker, at least they will in the current direction I'm taking this. So, y'know. Be warned.