A/N: Finally! This chapter was really difficult for me, guys - the beginning was originally from Harry's POV, but after four failed attempts at starting it, I just decided to go with Tom. He's more interesting to write, anyway. I hope the length (11,000 words!) makes up for it. Enjoy!
Chapter 6
"Curiouser and Curiouser!"
- Lewis Carroll, Alice's Adventures In Wonderland
°° In Wonderland °°
One day, as the boy lies bruised and hungry on his cot in the shifting darkness, a strange fantasy plays against his skin. It takes the form of fingers, long and thin, running gently up his arms, caressing the mottled flesh in a faint, tender manner that the boy finds foreign - and wonderful.
His heart skips a beat, something odd stirring in his chest as warm breath puffs against the back of his neck, soft lips mouthing a name against the skin there. The boy thinks it might be his; blood roaring, he tries to turn and see, desperation and longing churning in his gut.
He wants to know, to hear the name that years of darkness and the force of the fat man's fists have washed away. Here, in this prison, he is 'brat,' and 'devil,' and 'freak'; but the boy thinks - knows - he was more, once, and he yearns for the possibility as much as he does the warmth of sunlight, the scent of spring.
But the fingers grow alarmingly tight when he attempts to roll onto his back. Only years of practice keep him from crying out in pain as sharp nails dig into his already aching limbs.
"No," a voice breathes in his ear. It seems to be that of a boy's. "Don't move. Stay like this, stay..."
The voice sends a chill down his spine, and the strange feeling grows stronger in his chest as he obediently stills. There is a soft sound of approval behind him (his heart leaps - he's never been approved of, before) and now the hands are running gently down his arms, again.
How strange it is to be touched so softly, without the intent to hurt.
Who are you? the boy wonders, but dares not speak. The man - the man always hears, always knows, and though the voice at his back has yet to rouse the dreaded footsteps, the boy fears he himself will be heard, anyway.
"You," the voice answers, as though hearing his thoughts.
He freezes.
"You," the voice murmurs again, honeyed silk against his ear. The hands lengthen into arms, long and thin, wrapping around his torso tightly enough that it almost hurts, and now he is being pulled to a warm chest, another's heart thundering against his back.
"I am you," the voice whispers, "And you are me."
One hand presses against the boy's heart, the other raising to a spot above his right eye. He blinks owlishly, catching a glimpse of white flesh and a clean blue sleeve before his body seizes up, his mouth falling open and his back arching as agony - vivid, real - sears through his being.
A scream claws up his throat, threatening to break free as fire licks at his insides, scalding the flesh of his forehead where the stranger's fingers brush him. There is a sharp intake of breath behind him; the hand falls away, and now the arms are tightening, tightening, like twin serpents around his torso, and the voice is whispering frantically in his ear "harry, harry, harry," but the boy doesn't hear, doesn't know what that is -
His eyes squeeze shut, and in the darkness of his mind he sees a flash of blinding green light, hears a woman's dying scream.
"No!" he wails, and for the first time in years tears escape his eyes, his small chest heaving with great sobs. "No!"
"Harry!" the voice hisses, "Be quiet!"
The arms feel oddly...faint, around him now, but the boy is too distraught to care. It is only when a familiar bellow reverberates throughout the house that he goes rigid, the sound dying abruptly in his throat.
"BOY!"
He sits up, and now the tears fall from his eyes for a different reason. A whimper escapes his lips as the floor above his head groans under the weight of stomping feet.
"Harry," the voice is rushed against his neck. He wants to turn and look at him, this other boy, but he can't seem to move. "Harry, listen to me."
The stairs are whining now under the fat man's deafening footsteps, and the boy trembles. He knows, from the man's screeching, that the upcoming punishment will be terrible.
"I'm going to take you away from here," the voice promises. "Not now, not now, but soon. I swear to you-"
"Little brat!"
"- I swear! And he'll pay dearly for hurting you, for all of this - I'll kill him myself!"
The rage in those words frightens the boy, almost as much as the approaching beating, and he turns to look -
"He'll pay."
But no one is there. His visitor has vanished, leaving behind naught save that dark promise.
Perhaps he was never there at all.
The small door is yanked open, and the precious rays of day flood the cupboard, blinding him.
"I see you haven't learned your lesson," the man snarls, fat fingers catching his arm in a crushing grip. "We'll just have to re-teach it, then, won't we?"
The boy says nothing, water filling his eyes as he is pulled roughly into light - and pain.
Life at Godric's Hollow is, for Tom, like a dream.
July bleeds smoothly into August, and the memory of his dull life at the orphanage recedes further and further with each day; he has all he could ever ask for, here - shelves and shelves of books, a bright, airy home, enough food to fill his belly, and even a radio, which he listens to often on days when it's rainy or too hot to go outside.
Potter, the fool, is ridiculously doting; he gives Tom everything the boy requests, even the most unnecessary things: Riddle now owns an extensive wardrobe of tailored robes, three huge collections of parchment and quills, a child's potion kit, a Lionel Electric Train Set, and a Velocipede. Tom was particularly delighted by the last two, though he hasn't ridden the Velocipede yet. Potter watched him fawning over the bicycle with something akin to confusion, as though he found the sight bizarre.
Yes, his plan is going fairly well, if the way the older boy treats him is any indication. But sometimes...sometimes Tom isn't sure. Sometimes, when they're sitting together in front of the fireplace, Tom reading and Potter seemingly lost in thought, he will look up and find the other watching him, an odd expression written on his tired features.
Potter always looks tired.
It's not immediately evident, but Tom prides himself on his excellent observation skills; he has noted, with some interest, the curious slump of his guardian's shoulders, how he shies away when the other villagers come to extend their friendship, and, in many cases, something more.
Those guests always make Tom feel distinctly uncomfortable, especially the bolder ones, though he can admit to himself that their (oftentimes) infatuation is understandable. Potter is...exceptionally attractive; with his aquiline nose and red lips, striking green eyes glowing from underneath a melancholic brow and wild black hair, the man exudes mystery and promise - an almost rugged charm - though it seems to be unintentional. Potter, Tom has found, doesn't really like the attention.
He is always polite, always kind when rejecting his admirers - only Tom notices the clipped quality of his words, how his hands wring and his shoulders set and his eyes stay glued to the floor.
The latter, in particular, is jarring; Potter always makes a point of holding Tom's gaze whenever they meet, gray clashing with green in one of their unspoken battles for dominance. He always wins, Tom is ashamed to admit.
There's just something about those eyes...
He's gotten mostly used to the strange power they hold, now, though the emerald hues still unbalance him, sometimes. The sense that his guardian is not quite right, however, remains firmly intact.
Tom can't quite pinpoint it, but there is...an air...about Harry Potter, an odd quality in the way he moves and speaks that tells of something - foreign, which is really the only word he can equate the feeling to.
Others have noticed it too, that Potter is Different - and not just in the magical sense. Some, upon sensing this, have been even more persistent in their attempts to establish some sort of connection to the man; Doyle Diggins is one such pest.
Honestly, Tom would've hurt him already if he weren't so dedicated to destroying Potter.
Diggins seems to have forced a friendship on his guardian, showing up everyday around lunch time with scones and a ridiculous grin. The scones are always tasteless, Diggins's chatter endless and grating; both he and Potter, if the latter's expression is any indication, have come to dread the sound of the doorbell at noon. But the green-eyed fool refuses to turn the man away.
Tom is consistently baffled during these moments. Potter, however Tom detests him, isn't stupid; though he's certainly no prodigy (like Riddle), the man is surely not so thick as to be oblivious to Diggins's clear infatuation.
It's disgusting and pathetic, really, but Tom, to his frustration, must hold his tongue on the matter. His plans have been going so smoothly, after all, and he'd hate to see his hard work ruined while arguing a point on which Potter clearly refuses to budge.
Really, it's none of his concern; right now, his sole focus is revenge.
It consumes his thoughts, a fire lit constantly at the back of his head - an itch so maddening beneath his skin that he hardly bothers considering what he'll do in the aftermath of Potter's death. It's another, perhaps less sound quality of his - the ability to focus wholeheartedly on a task until its completion, to the exclusion of all else.
But he's no fool. He's learned the folly of attacking a full-grown wizard head-on; this time he will make sure he is prepared. He has spent the past few weeks absorbing all the man will teach him about magic, which is a fair amount, though he's been careful about what type of spells he asks to learn.
The fool even lets Tom use his wand - and how exhilarating that was, to close his fingers around the holly and phoenix feather and feel his magic spike and rise, burning hot beneath his skin.
This is what I was made for, Tom realized, as water spewed from the tip of the wand, gathering at his will into a shimmery sphere. This is my calling.
To do magic, any magic, at all times on all days through all years, for there is no greater feeling in the world, no deeper pleasure (save the heat that wells within his soul at the brush of Potter's skin).
He was outraged when he found he would not be receiving his own wand - at least, not anytime soon.
As soon as your letter comes, Potter always tells him, but that is far, far too long a time to wait in Tom's eyes. So he practices in secret when he's alone, imagining the pillow his magic tears apart is his guardian's face.
Lately, though, the activity hasn't been much fun.
Potter is just so...nice.
He takes Tom everywhere: just last week they went to see a film in London, and Tom stared at the moving pictures with patent fascination, laughing uproariously despite himself, along with the rest of the theater, while Potter sat watching him, quietly amused.
The week before that they went fishing down at the lake just outside of the village. Tom didn't much like that activity, as he had trouble figuring out how to work the fishing line, and the depth of the lake made him nervous. Potter, though, looked strangely relaxed, baiting the fish with ease. He examined his prizes curiously with each catch, before releasing them wordlessly back into the water.
"Why are you doing that?" Tom asked, puzzled.
Potter studied him, before calmly countering, "Why would I not?"
"Well, you caught it, didn't you? Isn't that the whole point of this - to catch the slimy things and eat them?"
Potter looked appalled. "Why would I do that? We've got plenty of food at home."
Tom frowned at him, his pleasant facade dropping for a moment.
"So? If you're just going to release them back into the water, then the whole purpose of this trip has been defeated. Why waste our time?"
Potter's lips quirked in the ghost of a smile, adding to the muted melancholy that even now hangs about him, to Tom's endless fascination.
"But that's not true," he murmured. "Fishing, for some, is about the food, but for others it's about the atmosphere, the sense of calm and...peace that the practice provides."
He paused. "At least, that's what I've read. And I can enjoy a period of in-depth reflection without killing a few fish, thank you. It's unnecessary."
"Unnecessary?" Tom echoed, staring at him.
Harry nodded. "Unnecessary."
Then he turned his strange eyes to Riddle, and there was a queer light in them as they roved the other's face.
"You shouldn't hurt another living thing unless it can't be avoided," he said suddenly, leaning close enough that Tom could feel his breath, see the little bits of gold that flecked bright green. Something lurched in his stomach. "Unless you have no other option. Those who kill, who hurt others for the sheer pleasure it gives them...are despicable."
And Tom's throat had closed, his heart hammering in his chest as he looked into emerald and realized the man knew - knew about Dennis and Amy and all the others he had hurt - knew about Billy Stubbs and his stupid rodent, how it had hung, limp and dead, from the rafters -
Panic parted his mouth and dotted his forehead with beads of sweat. It took all of his self-control to keep the mask in place, not that it mattered, because Potter - Potter -
How?
The question boiled at the tip of his tongue molten lava, but to voice it would have been confirmation, something he has no intention - in this world or the next - of giving.
Despicable.
It was disgusting, the sting that word caused him. Even worse was the part of him wondering frantically if the term was directed at him. Did Potter think him despicable?
I don't care if he does, Tom told himself, his fists clenching. I don't care what he or anyone else thinks of me.
And he didn't hurt the other children for pleasure, of course not. Their pain was necessary, vital to the consolidation of his own power. Their subjugation was Tom's survival. And was he not superior, anyway? The other orphans were frail, ordinary - was it not the way of things that such creatures be stomped into submission?
Forgetting himself, Tom rasps, "Is that what you think?"
Potter leaned back, green eyes searching his face for something before darting back out to the murky waters of the lake.
"It's what I know," he said softly. His fishing line jerked, and the teen reeled his newest prey from the water, his face relaxed and colored with mild curiosity as he took in the flailing bass attached to the end of the line. Carefully, he lowered it back into the water, watching as its dark shape detached from the bait and sped away.
"But everyone has their despicable moments, Tom," he continued quietly, sitting back.
Tom looked at him, his hands balled into fists. His own fishing line lay abandoned near his thigh.
"Even you?" he asked sharply.
Potter didn't even flinch. Instead he turned his dark head to the sky, his face lit by the sun, and Tom was confused at the flutter that arose in his stomach at the sight as the older male's eyelids closed. His lashes cast little shadows on his cheekbones, but they couldn't hide the deep bruises beneath Potter's eyes. Tom was struck again by just how tired the man looked, as though he hadn't slept in many years.
"Even me," his guardian confirmed.
Tom remembers the sorrow that laced those words, and wonders again at the source. After weeks of replaying that conversation over and over in his mind, he finds himself no more enlightened than he was that day at the lake. And the curiosity is maddening; with each day that passes, the desire to learn more about the one whose house he shares only grows, especially upon realizing just how little he actually knows about the man.
Oh, Tom, through careful observation, has gleaned some things: Potter bites his nails when he's nervous, and frowns when he's really considering something. He combs his fingers through his hair in an absent, useless attempt to tame it whenever he's stressed, and bites his lip when deeply troubled. He likes coffee, the bitter sort, and seems uncomfortable in the trousers and suspenders he buys alongside Tom at a "muggle" shop in London.
Potter is also a very...restless...man. He's fairly good at hiding it, but Tom has noticed, how he paces and fidgets when left with nothing else to do, his eyes darting every few minutes to the windows and the doors. He looks over his shoulder constantly, no matter where they are, and often scans the bustling masses in Diagon Alley with a caution bordering on paranoia.
And Potter and his wand are inseparable; he carries it with him to the washroom, has it tucked into a holster hidden in his robes on their outings, sets it within easy reach during supper, and is generally never parted from it. Tom has only recently joined the wizarding world, but he's fairly certain such behavior is not normal...
It's all very mysterious, and Tom doesn't like mysteries. He's decided to try and solve this one before Potter's death -
"Tom," a familiar voice calls, pulling Riddle abruptly from his thoughts. Potter's head pokes into his room. "Are you ready to go?"
"I am," he mutters, tugging irritably at the short, loose material of his bathing suit. As exposed as he feels standing there in nothing but a poor excuse for trunks, Tom can admit to himself that he is both nervous and unbearably excited in regards to this latest outing -
Swimming.
He's never been before, unless one counts that cave by the sea. And he was rather occupied, then...
"Alright, then," Potter says, approaching him with a large bag on his shoulder. He is wearing an identical pair of too-short trunks, and looks entirely uncomfortable in them. "Shall we go?"
Tom nods, his eyes darting surreptitiously up to the man's chest, where the pale skin is marred by quite a few old scars. Many of them look to have been deep.
Curiouser and curiouser...
Could the man be a war veteran? Tom wonders suddenly, as Potter offers him his hand. He takes it without thought, his mouth twisting as that blasted warmth blooms within his chest again, shortening his breath and weakening his knees.
Potter raises an eyebrow at the red Tom knows is creeping up his neck, but doesn't comment.
"Hold tight," he murmurs, and now they're spinning, the world blurring into nothingness for a brief, weightless second, before rearranging itself into light and heat and the muted whispers of water.
Tom immediately breaks away from his guardian, his heart racing and his stomach churning from familiar nausea. He sways for a moment, steadying himself, before looking out over the lake. The waves gleam welcomingly under the sun, easing the anxiety that tickles the back of his mind, and he starts for the water, his steps quick but careful, sand parting under his toes.. He has just reached the edge when Potter calls,
"Wait, Tom! Don't go in yet."
"What?" he demands, turning impatiently. "Why not?"
Potter sets the bag he's brought with him to the ground and begins taking things out. "Come here."
"Why?"
"It's important."
Tom's eyes narrow. "Can't it wait?"
"I'm afraid not."
He huffs, sparing one last glance at the water before walking over to where Potter has settled on a towel, spreading another one beside him. Patting it, he says,
"Sit."
Tom does, but not happily. He looks up at his guardian, reminding himself that he is supposed to be playing nice. Schooling his face into its pleasant mask, he murmurs,
"What did you want?"
To Tom's confusion, Potter looks more displeased than charmed at the change. Frowning, he intones,
"You need some protection." At Tom's blank look he adds, "From the sun."
The boy blinks owlishly. For once in his life he is honestly confused. "...The sun? Why?"
"Because it burns you," Potter explains, looking at Tom as though he should know this. "Its rays...uh, see there's this thing called ultraviolet...erm, well, they're not good for you, I can tell you that much. With skin like yours, you're especially vulnerable."
"Skin like mine?" Tom frowns at him, his face scrunched up. "What's wrong with my skin?"
"Nothing!" Potter says quickly. "It's just - you're really pale. You could get sunburned very easily, and it's not pleasant. I'd rather that not happen..."
Why? Tom wants to ask, staring. Why do you care?
Why are you doing all of this?
It is a question that has kept him up some nights, staring at the ceiling while his body lays at ease on his soft, pliant bed. He hungers for the answer and is deathly afraid of it at the same time. After all Tom knows of the world, he finds it hard to imagine someone going to such lengths for an orphan, for someone they don't know.
Not unless they have another goal in mind.
But what? What could Tom Riddle have that Harry Potter could possibly want? Could there be a task of some sort - a purpose only Tom can somehow help with? He rakes his brain for the millionth time, and for the millionth time comes up with nothing.
Riddle is at an unacceptable disadvantage now in that he doesn't know his opponent, doesn't know what Potter intends for him. For once, he is the pawn, the one left in the dark - and he doesn't like it. He doesn't like it at all.
Deeply unsettled, Tom studies the older boy from under his eyelashes. He says nothing as Potter raises his wand and mutters one of his spells, though he can't repress the shudder that runs through his body as a cool wave of magic washes over him.
"What was that?" he demands, when the sensation recedes.
"Protection," Potter says simply. He pats Tom's arm, seemingly unaffected by the spikes of heat that strike Tom's insides at the other's touch.
"I hope you don't expect a 'thank you,'" Tom snaps, pulling away. His cheeks are growing hot again, and he's not sure why.
Potter lips quirk in that ghost-smile.
"Of course not," he murmurs, looking pleased again to Tom's confusion. "Go on, be careful. I'll join you in a minute."
Huffing again, Riddle turns his back on the other male and resumes his venture to the lake's edge. It's so hot, he imagines his skin could be burned, but the water is cool...
Breathing deeply, Tom takes a tentative step forward. And then another, and another, until his ankles are submerged. His heart is racing, and silently he berates himself. It's just water. Not even deep. So long as he stays near the shore...
Swallowing, Tom walks further, until his knees are submerged. Then he sits, wincing slightly as the water kisses his chest and arms.
He stays like this for a long time, kicking his legs lazily, his gray eyes glued to the other side of the lake, where the fish dwell and the water is impossibly deep.
"You alright, there?" a voice at his back inquires. Tom jumps, his head snapping to the speaker. Potter is standing entirely too close behind him, peering down at him curiously.
"I'm fine," Tom snaps, a scowl twisting his face when the other male seats himself in the water beside him, wincing slightly. "What do you want?"
"Not feeling up to acting pleasant today, are you?" Potter observes, instead of answering. The boy stiffens.
"What are you-"
"Are you afraid of the water or something?" the man interrupts. "I've never seen you so hesitant before."
Tom's fists clench.
The plan, he reminds himself, but his irritation is spiking the longer Potter looks at him, and he's always had trouble containing his own emotions, once they reach a certain level.
"I'm not afraid," he sneers, his eyes hard. "I just don't feel like swimming, right now."
"I can see that," Potter comments. He reaches up, tugging lightly on one of Tom's curls, and Tom is too shocked at his audacity to protest.
"Completely dry," he murmurs. The hand moves down to his neck. Riddle grits his teeth, struggling to hide the effect the man's touch has on him, though it is immensely difficult to ignore the hot thrills crawling down his spine. Seemingly oblivious, Potter continues, "You seemed so excited to come here, Tom. Are you really going to just sit there?"
"Move your hand," the boy growls, instead of answering.
"And if I don't?" Potter retorts, tilting his head. There is an odd gleam in his eye, and were Tom not so irritated, he might've paid closer attention to how the other's fingers shift on his skin.
Instead, he bristles.
"Then I'll-"
The words die on his tongue as his head is forced underwater.
Tom screams in surprise, his mind struggling to comprehend what's just happened as great gulps of salt water fill his mouth and nose. It burns his throat and nostrils, and he tries to sit up, but the hand on the back of his neck is a steel vice, holding him down, drowning him. Above, someone is laughing; Tom thrashes about wildly, panic and shock boiling in his veins, clutching his heart - he can't breathe - he can't breathe -
The hand falls away. Tom shoots up, leaving the sluggish world underwater for the sun and sweet, sweet oxygen. He scrambles to his feet, coughing madly, his knees weak and his heart racing. Adrenaline pumps throughout him, making his head light and his muscles stiff. The rage grounds him, though, and his eyes zero in on Potter, the loathsome cockroach, swimming away and laughing loudly.
He has just tried to kill Tom, and the git is laughing!
"You bloody wanker!" Riddle screams after him, and the laughter dies.
Potter pauses in his retreat, turning back to look at Tom with wide eyes. Green hues are searching his crimson face with confusion and dawning apprehension.
"Tom?" he calls uncertainly.
Riddle sneers at the puzzlement in the other's tone.
"You just tried to kill me!" he spits, stalking forward. Tom can't reach Potter - the water's too deep where he's fled to, the coward - but he can't stay out there forever...
Tom allows his magic to rise, chilling the air, and Potter does a double take.
"What?" He shoots Tom an incredulous look. "What?"
"Don't play innocent, you tosser," Riddle growls. "You held my head underwater. You were going to drown me!"
Potter looks at him, his mouth open and his brow furrowed, as though Tom is the stupidest creature to have ever lived.
"You can't be serious," he says.
Tom flushes angrily. "Well, what else do you call what you did just now?"
"Oh, for the love of - I was dunking you! It's a common game when swimming!"
"Ah," Tom hisses. "Excuse me, then. I didn't realize attempted murder was considered a pastime."
"Attempted-? You're being ridiculous!" Potter exclaims, scowling. "Why would I want to kill you?"
He wades closer. "Why in Merlin's name would I go through all the trouble of the last month or so, just to drown you in the lake? What sense does that make?"
"Well, you're not very bright," Tom snaps, by way of explanation. He crosses his arms, annoyed, because Potter has a good point. But he refuses to believe that forcefully holding another person's head underwater is considered a game.
"I could say the same about you," Potter retorts, ignoring the frost of Tom's magic as he closes the distance between them. "Honestly, I don't know what I was thinking. I should've known you'd throw a tantrum..."
He stops just before the boy, looking regretful and frustrated. The expression sends a curious discomfort through Tom, who remembers suddenly how the man had looked just a few minutes ago, at ease as he tugged almost playfully on Tom's hair. No one has ever touched him so casually before - except that woman, and the reminder of her makes his mouth twist involuntarily, his hands ball into fists.
"I'm sorry," Potter says softly, startling him. "I...it was wrong of me to do that to you without proper warning. I apologize."
Tom says nothing. The harsh lines of his face soften a little, however, and his hands unclench. Silence hangs between them, tense but not quite hostile, anymore, and then Potter continues, "Do...do you want to go home?"
Tom thinks about it. Something devious - petty - unfolds in his head as he looks into green, and it is hard to repress a smirk as he answers, "No. I think we should stay...but only if you do something for me."
"What?" Potter asks, his eyes narrowing.
The boy lifts his chin. "Sit."
"Wha-?"
"Sit," Tom repeats, and his tone brooks no argument.
Potter stands there for a long moment, anyway, watching him suspiciously, before slowly lowering himself into the water. On his bottom, the water rises up to his stomach, and Tom pauses, wondering if he'll regret this sudden boldness.
"Well?" Potter prompts, looking up at him, and Tom finds he is pleased at the sight - to be towering over his guardian for once...
"Close your eyes," he orders.
They narrow further instead, green slits peering warily from under unkempt jet-black hair.
"Why?"
"Just do it."
Potter studies him, emeralds roving his face with strange intensity. Then he closes his eyes.
Tom, his earlier anger melting away to a strange giddiness, places his hands on the other male's shoulders. Warmth, fierce and intoxicating, rushes through him, and he is surprised to see Potter's brow furrow, as though he feels it, too.
"Tom..."
"Just relax," he murmurs, wondering privately if he's strong enough to do this, what Potter will say if he succeeds. "Relax..."
Potter does, reluctantly, and Tom waits patiently until the other's shoulders loosen under his hands before summoning all his strength (with some magical aid, of course), and pushing. He hears Potter's gasp as he falls backwards, the sound dying when his head is submerged. Tom goes with him, knees on either side of the man's waist as he presses down on his shoulders.
He can see Potter gasping, struggling for air, and for a brief moment the ugly thing rises in his chest, whispering to Tom for the first time in weeks. It tells him to stay like this, to force Potter's shoulders down until the bubbles stop coming. His death would be a little earlier than planned, yes, but it would also be infinitely satisfying. He should just get it out of the way, now...
Too soon, Tom tells it, releasing the man's shoulders. Not yet.
Potter shoots up, causing Tom to rear back as the green-eyed male sucks in large, greedy gasps of air. Riddle moves off his lap, getting to his feet and watching warily while the other quickly regains himself.
Now he finds himself staring into sunlit emeralds, and Tom tenses, privately preparing to be scolded and punished. Potter continues to look at him, however, silent. And then, just as the tension threatens to gnaw at his sanity, Potter grins.
It breaks across his face like the sun through an overcast sky, vibrant and breath-taking and real; Tom's heart leaps into his throat as he witnesses it, this captivating transformation, the weariness that typically clouds his guardian's visage falling away like dust to reveal youth and something beyond simple attractiveness or charm.
Harry's eyes - his eyes are glowing, crinkling at the corners as he beams up at Tom like a fool, and when Tom looks into them his soul quivers with something he does not understand. It feels...it feels like the rush of adoration he felt in the kitchen on his first night in Godric's Hollow, when he met the man's gaze, then, but - but -
The fire that constricts his chest now is a thousand times that moment in strength, searing his insides and fraying his soul, his thoughts, his mind -
Because Harry Potter is more than handsome.
He is beautiful, so beautiful, grinning up at Tom with his dark hair sticking up oddly and droplets of water clinging to his eyelashes...
Tom Riddle stares at him, and covets.
"You got me," Harry is saying. He shakes his head, beaming still. "I really should've expected that."
"...You were right," Tom manages, his voice thick. "Holding you underwater...was highly enjoyable. I think I shall make a habit of it."
The words earn him a pause, and then a chuckle. It is a low, rich sound, as enthralling as Potter's grin, and as the air warms between them Tom wonders what Harry's laughter sounds like - if it is as powerful as his smile.
He heard it before, as he rose from the water, but he'd been too angry then to really process the sound...
His mouth open, Tom leans closer. His chest is so tight that it's hard to breathe, and that fire is still scalding his soul, wild and ravenous - like the ugly thing, only, where the latter craves suffering, the former burns away all else within him, leaving nothing but fathomless yearning...
He wants...
"Tom?" Harry's voice cuts into the sluggish nature of his thoughts. "Tom, are you alright?"
"I'm - I'm fine," he rasps, stepping back.
"Are you sure?"
Studying him intently, Potter glides towards Tom. He takes the boy's hand, his smile dimming to a shadow of its earlier magnificence, and murmurs,
"C'mon, let's go swim."
Tom is so drunk off the contact of their joined hands that he doesn't immediately register Potter's words, and it is only when the man begins to pull him further out into the lake that he halts, his face losing the little color it has.
"I - no," he mumbles, shaking his head. Potter shoots him a puzzled look.
"Tom?"
"I...I can't swim," Tom confesses, his face hardening. His head is clearing, now, and all he wants to do is run - run far away from Harry Potter. The fire still burns within him, antagonized by the pulsing warmth emitting from their joined flesh, and it makes everything sharper - brighter -
But his mind is muddled and scattered, his thoughts lagging at a pace far too slow for the normally sharp-minded Tom. It's hard to think, hard to breathe. This can't be normal, or natural...
A spell?
No, he assures himself. Potter wouldn't.
Would he?
Tom remembers how Potter looked when he asked him about Diggins, if he had anything to do with the man's sudden fixation. The man's expression was appalled and affronted, as though he was never so offended in his life, and however much Tom...dislikes Potter, he can't imagine him casting such a spell.
But surely he is not alone in this. Surely Potter feels this too.
And when he looks, he sees it; the barest tightening of his guardian's jaw, the shallow, rapid rise and fall of his chest.
So I'm not the only one affected, Tom concludes, storing the thought away for further analysis. Potter's just better at hiding it.
The knowledge ruffles him; if there is anyone good at hiding their emotions, it's Riddle. He's a master. Only, his mind is a little clouded, now...
Potter's brows disappear into his hair.
"Is that so?" he says softly, his fingers tightening around Tom's. He frowns, deep in thought. "How about I teach you, then?"
"What?" Tom blurts. "Why?"
"Well, you're nearly eleven years old. Don't you think swimming is a valuable skill to know?"
Tom scoffs, but doesn't step away. "There are far more important things."
"Like what?" Potter asks him, gliding backwards.
"Well," Tom begins, moving with him. "Skill in words is essential, isn't it? And one must be adept in the art of fear. If they want to be powerful, at least."
He immediately wants to strike himself the moment the words leave his mouth. Sure enough, Potter's gaze sharpens.
"Hm," he says, taking Tom's other hand. They're moving out now into deeper waters, and the boy swallows thickly, his knuckles turning white as his grip on the older male tightens. "An interesting viewpoint. But fear, while effective, tends to blow up in the oppressor's face, as history has proven..."
"And?" he argues, despite himself. "Those who have ruled through fear in the past let their own power consume them. They became needlessly cruel and sloppy. If one was to come along who could subjugate his people without letting his reign go to his head..."
"It wouldn't end well for them, anyway," Potter insists, frowning. He pulls the boy closer, and Tom does not resist, too frightened by the disappearance of the ground beneath his feet. "Humans don't like to be subjugated, Tom."
"Yet history has proven time and time again that it is the most effective system," Tom mutters, his face white. "Take me back to the shore."
"Why?" Potter asks. "We haven't even begun your lessons."
"I don't care," Tom snaps, scowling. There's nothing under his feet, nothing to stop the water from swallowing him whole and crushing the breath from his lungs. A shudder racks him at the knowledge. "Take me back."
"There's nothing to be afraid of," Potter assures him, instead. "Just kick your feet."
Grudgingly, Tom does. He kicks and kicks, but the action does little more than unnerve him further as he realizes just how deep they've gone. His toes brush nothing, no matter how far he stretches his legs, and Tom unconsciously draws closer to his guardian, his eyes huge.
Should Potter let go of him now, he would drown.
"Too deep," he whispers, tearing one hand away from Potter's so that he can clutch at the man's shoulder, instead. His left hand quickly follows suit. "We're going too deep."
It's embarrassing, clinging to Potter like a frightened child, but Tom fears the water more than he loathes the other male, and so he allows his mask to fall for a moment, his gaze glued to the placid surface of the lake.
In his peripheral vision, he notes Potter is staring unabashedly at him, looking curiously awed.
"You're scared," he murmurs, his green eyes round in his face.
"I told you I can't swim," Tom growls, glaring at him.
Potter's brow furrows. "There's nothing to be afraid of, Tom. You won't drown; I wouldn't let that happen."
He wraps his arms around Tom's waist as if to prove his point, ignoring how the boy stiffens. Quietly, he promises,
"I've got you."
Tom stares at him. His breath doesn't catch at the words. His heart doesn't resume its frenzied gallop in his chest, and the fire from earlier does not reignite, burning through him from his head to his toes.
He is not affected at all by the promise, or the silent message behind it. He does not care - he will not care -
And if Tom falls silent, his face not quite so pale anymore, it isn't because he is assured by Potter's words, of course not. He is simply lost in thought. Potter appears to be pondering something as well, and for a long time they simply float, carried along in languid circles by the water and Potter's lazily kicking feet.
It's...tolerable. Strange, to be so close to another, but tolerable. Tom's eyes rest on Potter's for a while, before drifting down to the shimmering surface of the lake. The constant undulating of the water hypnotizes him, and before he really knows what he's doing, his arms are wrapping around Potter's neck. The man tenses, only to relax just as quickly.
"This isn't so bad, is it?" Potter whispers against his hair. Tom doesn't answer at first, his head drooping to the warm crook between his guardian's shoulder and neck. The sun is hot on his back, but it is no match for the heat bubbling within him, as Potter's heart beats strong and steadily against his own.
It's a shame I'll have to stop it soon, Tom thinks distantly, his eyes closing.
"Even worse than I imagined," he mumbles in answer, his voice thick and low with half-consciousness.
Potter laughs quietly again, and the sound follows Tom into sleep.
Things change after that.
Potter does not look quite so guarded around him, anymore, and the ugly thing does not roar as loudly as it used to whenever Tom looks at him.
The air between them is...almost comfortable, now, and it unsettles him, how easy it is to forget that Potter is his target - that Tom is supposed to kill him, soon. He still means to do so, of course - just...
Perhaps he should wait. Find out more about the one who's taken him in before killing him. It's only wise...
After all, Potter could have friends or family that will miss him when he's gone, and Riddle would rather get away as cleanly as possible...
But after more than a week of careful probing, Tom doesn't think this is the case. Potter never mentions any relationships or familial ties; in fact, he is curiously tight-lipped about the subject, and will lash out when pressed, as Tom has learned.
A few days ago, he was a little too persistent in his questioning at dinner. Potter grew more and more tense with each inquiry, finally throwing down his fork and storming out of the kitchen upon being asked if he ever had a sweetheart.
Tom was left startled; Potter has never come across as the type to flee, or suffer emotional outbursts. It only reinforces his belief that something dark lives in the older male's past; if only Tom knew what.
The answer makes itself known on the 11th of August.
Tom awakes from another strangely vivid nightmare, this one involving a tall, hooded figure whispering to him in a voice like stained velvet. He lays in bed for a while, clutching his soft sheets in an attempt to calm his shaking hands and racing heart; despite his efforts, it takes him almost an hour to fully recover.
Every time he thinks he's calmed down, he remembers the figure - how it loomed over him, radiating menace and power, speaking fervently of a device - surely you must have it, child, you must know where it is, tell me, tell me, I will find you -
I don't know, Tom told it, shrinking away. He was afraid, terrified of this creature, how it reeked of the incomprehensible - the impossible - and he thought of running away, but something told him that would be unwise. And where would he go?
There was nothing in sight but fog, so much fog, as far as the eye could see. And the doors.
They were numberless, stretching orderly and identical in rows as unending as the fog. Tom was even more frightened of them than he was the figure, and did his best to avoid even looking at them. Every time his eyes swept over one, some raw instinct swelled in the back of his mind, whispering urgently that he stay away, that he not venture too close, lest something unspeakable happen.
The same instinct lingers now in the back of his head, and with a shuddering breath Tom sits up.
Just a dream, he tells himself, ignoring the sense of foreboding that twists his gut. The light streaming cheerfully into his room helps to calm him, and he smoothes down his dark hair with a grimace, firmly pushing the nightmare from his head.
He glances at the clock on his bedside table as he stands, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. It reads eleven-thirty. Tom frowns.
They've begun a routine, he and Potter, one that consists of the man coming to rouse him for breakfast at eight o'clock, after which they'll go swimming, or, depending on Tom's mood, out to London. Recently, Potter has talked about taking him to Hogsmeade, a prospect Tom is hugely excited about, since he'll get to glimpse Hogwarts, too.
Perhaps they can go today.
But where is he? Tom wonders, donning his clothes for the day. It's possible Potter slept in, but so far the man has shown an almost obsessive dedication to rising early and making Tom breakfast. Not to mention Tom's growing suspicion that Harry Potter hardly sleeps at all - how else can one explain the circles that live under his guardian's eyes?
Maybe he has nightmares, too, Tom thinks, leaving his room. As he suspected, the house is deathly silent, and the smell of breakfast does not deign to grace his nostrils...
Frowning, he looks down the hallway, at the door to Potter's room. Could the man really have slept in? He decides to investigate.
Quietly, Tom moves down the hall, his eyes narrowed and his stomach grumbling. Potter's door is closed; he hears nothing inside.Well, Tom thinks, reaching for the doorknob. He's just going to have to get up...
He opens the door slowly, wincing slightly at the low whine that pierces the silence, only to stop short. Potter is not asleep, as Tom thought; he is instead sitting curled in the window seat directly opposite the boy, his forehead pressed to the glass as he stares unseeingly outside.
Tom opens his mouth to announce his presence, only to pause upon really looking at Potter. The man's appearance leaves much to be desired; he is wearing the same clothes from yesterday, rather than pajamas, and they hang rumpled from his thin frame, as untidy as his hair. His eyes are even dimmer than usual, and shadows haunt his face. He looks...lost.
Tom clutches the doorknob, silent. He understands immediately that something is wrong, and that he should probably leave Potter alone. The man is clearly in another world, right now - especially if he didn't hear Tom enter.
He moves back, intent on retreating, when his eyes are suddenly dragged downwards, to Potter's lap. Tom pauses. Potter is clutching something in his right hand, a gold chain spilling from his fist, and something about the sight makes Tom's insides quiver unpleasantly.
The longer he stares at the chain - at Potter's closed fist - the more the feeling grows, until the sense of foreboding is back in full force, eating at his thoughts, along with that figure's silken voice, promising dark things...
I will find you.
Tom releases a ragged breath, and Potter hears.
The man starts as if struck, his head whipping around to Tom, who straightens as the other's green eyes brighten at the sight of him with an emotion that is not quite anger, but close.
"Tom," he acknowledges quietly, his face utterly blank. Tom stares at him and realizes that he is looking at a mask not unlike the one he wears daily. "Was there something you wanted?"
"I..."
Tom pauses, unbalanced. For once, he doesn't know what to say. His presence is clearly not wanted, right now, and the knowledge annoys him for reasons he doesn't want to examine too closely.
His eyes darting to Potter's hand, again, he ignores the chill running down his spine and considers asking about breakfast. Or, he reconsiders, looking up into haunted eyes. Maybe he'd appreciate it more if I just left.
Not that Tom is all that concerned about Potter's appreciation, no. But it is difficult to ignore what's sitting in front of him: a hardened, tired man. And while Potter looks like this most of the time, it is especially pronounced today. It's...sad. Tom looks into his desolate eyes and murmurs,
"You're in pain."
Potter blanches, looking away. "I'm fine."
"No," Tom insists, studying the other through narrowed eyes. "Something's wrong. You were acting strangely yesterday, too, now that I think about it - you hardly spoke..."
"Do you honestly care?" Potter snaps, startling Tom into silence. He is pressing himself against the window, his shoulders hunched, staring at the boy like a cornered lion. There is anger and bitterness in those green eyes as they look at him - as though he were the source of everything wrong in the world...
Tom, ignoring how his chest tightens uncomfortably at the look, lifts his chin. He is offended, surprised - not hurt. He doesn't know the source of Potter's sudden ire toward him, and, if that's how the man feels about his concern (which Tom doesn't give lightly), then he doesn't care.
"No," he says coolly, turning to leave.
"Tom," Potter calls half-heartedly. Making a rather disparaging sound in his throat, Tom ignores the older male, shutting the door loudly behind him.
"To hell with him," he grumbles sourly, passing his room and descending the stairs. Potter clearly wants nothing to do with him, today. Tom will oblige him.
He is furious, however, to find his heart speeding up at the knowledge.
Maybe he's realized, Tom thinks, crossing the living room in his journey to the foyer. Maybe he knows that I'm not...not normal. Not even by Wizarding standards.
It's a very real possibility, one that makes Tom's palms sweat profusely as he raises them to the handles of his Velocipede, which is stationed unobtrusively near the front door. He opens the door and wheels the bicycle out, one hand patting the seat of it almost lovingly.
He's always wanted a bike.
And the desire is a perfectly normal one. Plenty of children his age dream of riding their very own Velocipede. What sets Tom apart is his fantasy of running over Billy Stubbs's - or better yet, Mrs. Cole's - face with the contraption. Repeatedly.
He has learned to curb his violent urges, or at least hide them very well, but sometimes...sometimes he slips up. Sometimes, very rarely, people see behind the mask. The woman was the worst of these offenders, for she saw - and Tom told - of the even worse thing within him, lying deep beneath the violence -
And she had looked at him, stark white and terrified, as though he were a monster -
Tom grits his teeth, forcing his breathing to even out.
That woman - that blubbering, foreign cow - means absolutely nothing to him. She is - was - not worth the dirt on his boots. He really shouldn't allow her the honor of gracing his thoughts.
Nodding to himself, he smoothes the scowl from his otherwise angelic face and sets about rolling the bike down to the dirt path near the woods. It also leads to the lake, not that Tom intends to go that far. The last time he ventured past a certain specified point, Potter had appeared, reprimanding him about the dangers of going out unsupervised.
The memory brings a fresh scowl to his face, and he considers going down to the lake, anyway, but Tom would really rather not have to look at Potter, right now...
So he instead concerns himself with mounting his bicycle.
Tom has no past experience with the contraptions; this is actually his first serious attempt to ride the thing, what with how often he and Potter have their outings. To his dismay, the thing keeps tipping over whenever he tries to ride it, and after several failed attempts, Tom dismounts.
Scratching absently at his chin, he studies the Velocipede. He's read before that riding one is a difficult skill to learn. If Tom remembers correctly, the key to remaining upright is balance.
Easy enough.
He is a genius, after all.
Twelve tries, ten curses, and two skinned knees later, Tom learns that it's not quite that simple. No matter what he does, he simply cannot stay upright. His elbows ache and his cheek is bruised from a particularly nasty fall, but he is too annoyed at the impossibility of such a seemingly simple task to care.
The sun beats down mercilessly overhead, mocking him each time he fails. Sweat and dirt cling to his once-immaculate clothes, doing very little to improve his already considerably foul mood. It is hot and he is dirty and he needs a Band-Aid (a couple, actually), but he can't go inside, not yet. Such an action would mean defeat.
Unacceptable.
Gritting his teeth, he picks himself again for the thirteenth try. He heard once that thirteen was an unlucky number, but Tom likes to think he's beyond luck, and with a heavy breath he hoists the Velocipede back up into a standing position
Success, this time, he tells himself, hopping onto the seat. I will not be bested by a bicycle...
Staring determinedly ahead, Tom takes a deep breath and focuses on balancing himself. He places one foot on the pedal. His fingers tighten on the handlebars, and then his foot is pressing down, and he's moving forward. Excitement wells within him as the opposite pedal comes up, and he presses down on it with his other foot.
And he's doing it - he's riding the bike, it's obeying him -
Tom's excitement is abruptly drenched as the bike wobbles, following his unbalanced body as his torso leans dangerously to the right.
No, he thinks desperately, as he loses control. Damn it, no, I had it, I had it -
Then the ground rises up to meet him, and Tom squeezes his eyes shut, expecting pain - but none comes. Instead the bike halts in its fall. The boy sighs in relief, assuming his magic has intervened, until a warm hand settles on his back, sending familiar chills throughout his body.
Tom's mouth twists. He didn't even hear the man's approach.
"Potter," he says cordially, though inside he is sneering. "Thank you. Was there something you wanted?"
The hand on his back tenses, and Tom cracks an eye open in time to see discomfort ripple across Potter's (absurdly close) face at the echo of his earlier words.
"I'm sorry," he mumbles, steadying the bike with his other hand. "That was...unfair of me, to act that way towards you."
Tom just stares at him. The apology is decent in the way of appeasement, but he wants an explanation as well - something Potter clearly doesn't intend to give. It's also rather apparent from the way the man's looking at him that he hopes Tom won't press. Tom does anyway, of course.
"Why did you act like that?" he asks, as Potter sighs. "What's wrong with you?"
He gets off the Velocipede, batting the older male's hand away none too gently. Potter blinks owlishly at him, opening his mouth, but then his eyes zero in on Tom's cheek, and he stills.
"You're hurt," he says softly, frowning down at the boy in a way that makes Tom's mouth dry. He tenses as Potter touches his face, thumb running carefully over the darkening skin on his cheek. There is too much familiarity in that touch, and Tom slaps his hand away with a scowl.
"I'm fine," he grumbles, ignoring Potter's wide-eyed stare. "Leave me alone."
He steps back, crossing his arms, only to immediately regret the action when green eyes dart down to his legs.
"Tom," Potter hisses, taking out his wand. Tom makes an indignant sound as Potter advances, grabbing his arm and kneeling in the dirt to better examine his knees.
"I'm fine," Tom insists, staring at the top of the man's dark head with a mixture of confusion and annoyance. He tries to pull away, but Potter's fingers tighten warningly around his bicep. Glaring down at him, Tom growls, "They're only scrapes."
"You should be more careful," Potter says, shooting Tom his own impressive glower while he raises his wand. His eyes have reverted to that curious darkness as they take in the blood drying on his abused knees. He mutters what Tom assumes is a healing spell, and the boy watches, fascinated, as the skin knits back together, the sting vanishing.
"C'mon," Potter murmurs, standing. He starts to pull Tom back towards the house.
"No," Tom says, refusing to move. He glances at the bicycle. "I don't want to go inside."
Potter follows his gaze, frowning. "There'll be plenty of time for you to learn how to ride the bike later, Tom. I'll even help you, if you want. But I need to clean you up first. Come on."
He's using that tone again, the one that brooks no argument, and Tom sullenly allows himself to be pulled towards the house, muttering curses all the while.
"Are we going somewhere?" Tom asks, studying Potter with veiled interest as the man wipes the blood from his knee.
"Hm?" Potter says absently.
"You're wearing a suit," Tom points out. "'Muggle clothes, as you call them. Are we going to London?"
Potter hesitates, busying himself with the dirty rag in a transparent avoidance of Tom's eyes.
"I am," he says lightly. "I...I need to pick up some things."
Tom's gaze sharpens, and he studies Potter intently as the older male sets about cleaning his other knee.
"Like what?"
"Just - things. Nothing important-"
"So then I can go with you."
Green eyes dart up to his, startled and forlorn.
"No," Potter says softly, quickly looking away. "No, you can't."
"Why not?" Tom demands. Potter's behavior is deeply confusing to him, and annoyance furrows his brow. Clearly, there's something going on here, some tidbit of information that he isn't aware of...
"I'll be back within the hour," Potter says tightly.
"All the more reason I should go-"
"I said 'no,'" Potter snaps. His jaw clenches. "Just...I'll be back in an hour, Tom."
Tom glowers at him, silent. They have a brief staring match, and it is Potter who loses this time. Running his free hand through wild black hair, he steps back.
"There," he says, tossing the rag into the sink. "You're all cleaned up, now. I trust you'll change your clothes."
Tom hops off the counter, ignoring the older male as he exits the washroom.
"Tom."
He doesn't turn, or even stop.
"Tom."
"What?"
Potter stares at him, looking lost, again. Something ripples across his face, but it's gone before he can properly decipher it.
"You," he pauses, biting his lip. "...You know I wouldn't leave you, right?"
Tom glares at him. "I wouldn't care if you did."
"But you know that I wouldn't, right?" Potter presses, stepping forward. "I'll be back within the hour. I just - I need to get something. And I need to be alone when I do it. Okay?"
"Of course," the boy says coldly. He walks away. There is a sigh behind him.
"Don't go past the wards."
A loud 'pop' whips the air. And then Tom is alone.
Peter Periwinkle looks up at the sound of a bell penetrating the silence of his workplace, announcing a potential client. His pale eyes widen a little.
A young man, hardly out of boyhood, stands uncertainly near the doorway, peering hopefully at him with magnificent green eyes. Peter pauses under the weight of them, his mouth going dry. Blinking owlishly, he says,
"Why, hello. You must...be Harry Potter."
The boy nods, his black hair shifting to reveal, albeit briefly, a most curious scar.
"I am," the boy says softly. Walking closer, he extends his hand and says, "It's a pleasure to meet you in person, Mr. Periwinkle. I've heard only great things."
"I'd hope so, my boy, I'd hope so," Peter laughs. It is not as real as it could be. Up close, the boy's eyes are terribly distracting, soft and gleaming with the impossible -
"Is...is it finished?" The boy, Harry, asks, pulling Peter from his thoughts. Though his client inquires casually enough, the old painter does not miss how his hands tremble, ever faintly, at his sides, and with a soft smile he answers,
"Yes - yes, it is. I just added the finishing touches! You'd like it now, yes?"
The boy's eyes shine. "I would," he breathes, looking away from Peter to the assortment of paintings arranged behind him. Wondering privately at the sudden confusion of his thoughts, Peter nods and moves to the short counter at his left, next to his Pensieve, where a small frame sits in clear wrapping. A vial filled with a clear, wispy substance lies beside it.
Peter retrieves them both, his grip careful as he moves and presents them to his client, who tucks the vial away, staring down at the mini portrait with a clenched jaw.
Peter pauses. The boy's shoulders are hunched, his head bowed as he gazes at the painter's work. Periwinkle frowns a little.
"Is it...not to your liking?" He's quite proud of it, himself.
But the frown melts as Mr. Potter looks up. There are tears in his eyes.
"It's perfect," he says faintly. Shaking fingers brush lovingly across the waving figure in the painting. "She's perfect."
Tom is picking up his bike, trying to decide how best to stay on it, this time, when he hears it - a soft, sibilant whisper that should not exist outside his nightmares:
"Tom."
He drops the bike.
"Who's there?" Tom asks sharply, sweat building on his brow as he scans his surroundings. There is no one in sight, nothing out of the ordinary, but cold fingers rake down his spine as he looks down the dirt path to his right, where the trees of the wood sway restless and beckoning.
It was nothing, he tells himself, even as something in the back of his head whispers otherwise. Just my imagination...just a nightmare...
He steps back, only slightly comforted, his eyes glued to the trees. The sense of foreboding from earlier is so strong within him, now, that it makes his breath catch. Swallowing audibly, Tom scans the forest one last time, his ears straining for the slightest sound. Though he hears nothing, sees nothing, the knot in his chest does not unwind. He turns away, toward the house.
"Tom."
The voice is stained velvet and torn silk and very real, reverberating in his head like a scream in the bowels of a cavern. Tom freezes, his blood hardening to ice in his veins.
No, says his rational side. No, impossible, not possible, it can't be -
"Come."
And to Tom's utter horror, his body turns.
Suddenly he is looking not at the house - but at the woods, though he's sure he didn't tell himself to about-face. And now his feet are moving, though he gave them no such order-
No, Tom thinks, panic and disbelief warring within him with each step. The woods are getting closer, and the same raw instinct from before is swelling in his head, urging his heart into a frenzied gallop that makes it nigh impossible to think clearly.
Don't go, don't go, the instinct shrieks, adding to the panic. No, stop, don't go into the woods, he's there, he's found you -
But no matter how he struggles, his body will not obey; it is as though his limbs have been attached to invisible strings, marching him forcibly towards the puppeteer. His eyes huge, Tom tries to summon his magic, to break free as he did Potter's body-binding spell, but his mounting consternation makes it hard to concentrate, and cold waves of magic roll uselessly off his person.
"Come," the voice whispers again, and Tom can do nothing but watch, helpless and infuriated, as his feet move faster, as though desperate to reach the speaker.
What's happening? he wonders frantically, as the trees close around him. What spell is this? Release me now!
An amusement not his own ripples through him, icy and foreign, and the color drains from Tom's skin. He closes his eyes, the only part of him still under his control, but his legs keep moving, and now he feels it: a second presence coiled within him, crooning softly,
"Little one, little one, come to me, come, come. There is...so very much to learn."
No, he thinks desperately. Potter.
He said he would be back within the hour, and it's already been at least thirty minutes, maybe-
There is another twinge of amusement, laced with a much darker emotion that Tom cam only describe as hatred...mixed with an almost...hunger.
The Boy Who Lived, the creature murmurs. Seductive, is he not? Alas, he will not reach you in time, little one. This is...between you, and me.
Tom's throat closes, his pale eyes the only clue to the sudden terror that possesses him at the words. Even more horrifying is the presence, the source of the words, because it's coming from within him, not outside, as he first thought.
And now the presence is expanding, seeping into his head, clouding his thoughts and muddying his mind like a drug. It feels similar to that day at the lake, when he grew drunk off the combined power of Potter's touch and smile - only much, much more sinister.
Now his body is relaxing, his eyes hooding despite himself. A smile quirks Tom's lips as calm washes over him. There is nothing to panic about, nothing to fear. He is going to meet a very special friend, after all. If anything, he should be excited! Beaming brilliantly, the child continues to walk. Ignoring the faint voice screaming in the back of his mind, Tom tilts his face to the sun, enjoying its rays. Such a beautiful day. It stirs up recollections of long-forgotten things...
Tom whistles a low, lilting tune (though he doesn't know how to whistle), his mind filled with the ancient memory of a scrawny, green-eyed boy, clumsy hands, and the softness of that boy's lips on his.
Beneath his feet, the grass freezes, and the woodland creatures flee. Above, birds abandon their nests, screaming shrilly in their flight. He ignores it all, uncaring, a deep calm pervading his being as the trees part and the dirt path widens into sand.
The lake moves restlessly under the sun, as though affronted by the figure standing calmly atop its surface, watching him. Tom studies it in turn, his smile widening. Tall and cloaked, it is beautiful, incomprehensible, all-powerful. It is the essence of his nightmares. It is -
Magnificent.
The figure raises a long, black-clad arm, beckoning silently.
Tom obeys, walking forward, his red eyes glued to the figure - to the air that shimmers around it with something that is not quite magic, or at least the sort he's accustomed to. He steps out onto the water, taking a moment to look down in awe when his feet don't sink through, and the brief flutter of fear is squashed as he resumes walking.
There's nothing to be afraid of, Tom knows, as he looks at the figure. It would never hurt him, never - for he is Tom Riddle, precious and treasured. There is nothing to fear. Nothing.
But his heart begins to race the more he nears his friend, who is standing quite far out. Tom is close enough, now, that he can feel the raw power rolling off the dark form in frigid waves, and goosebumps break out across his skin as he stops, his mouth hanging open in awe.
"Tom Riddle," the dark form whispers. It looms over him, black and terrible, so tall that he has to crane his neck just to see into its hood. What he glimpses is a punch to the gut, a bucket of ice water dumped on his head; Tom's heart stutters as the calm is torn away, horror and confusion and fury flooding his being, along with cold, consuming terror.
"What?" he breathes, his eyes huge. "How...?"
"Hush, child," the monster murmurs, touching his cheek. Its hand feels more like that of a snowman's, rather than a human being's, and the contact freezes Tom in his tracks, preventing any sort of escape. Any sort of protest dies on his tongue; he can only breathe raggedly, for there are no words in his vocabulary capable of conveying the fear - the revulsion - this monster inspires in him, right down to the threads of his soul.
And it's face -
"So much to learn," it purrs. "Alas..."
The monster leans down, still holding his face, and Tom has a moment of sick realization as the water shimmers beneath his feet. He looks down, and then back up at the monster, his face white.
"No."
Bloody eyes gleam at him from within the hood.
"I am...in need of you..."
No, no - don't - Potter-!
The hand releases him, and Tom has but a moment to scream before he is sinking...sinking...into darkness and water and death.
A/N: And there you go! Sorry to end it on such a note - I'm cruel, I know. Thanks for the support so far, and reviews are always appreciated (they got me through this monster chapter XD)!
Edit: I promised a couple of reviewers that I would address this story's tags, mainly the tragedy one; I'm not going to change it. This story will be dark, and there will be some death, but I'm currently undecided as to the fates of the main characters, so I'd rather not change the tags just yet. While I can't promise anything, I can honestly say that I DO like happy endings, just as much as I like drama. We'll see where it goes.
Thanks again, and till next chapter!