Summary: Harry Potter 'just knows' things. Tom Riddle just assumes he's an idiot. The things they couldn't have known… An odd sort of time-travel fic. AU. HP/TMR. slash.

A/N: An attempt at slash between Harry Potter/Tom Riddle, though currently almost completely imperceptible in this beginning. Probably no real plot or action until a few chapters in—if there even is a few more chapters because they are currently non-existent. Just a random snippet of something I had on my computer... Unedited. Yeah...

P.S. Have a problem? Read it anyways :)

Also, it doesn't hurt to leave a review even if it's a flame (though preferably not a flame).

...

What He Knew

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Chapter I

—

Tom Riddle is a bad boy.

Not a bad boy in the sense that he was some sort of broody, angst-ridden, James Dean wannabe. You know the type; often identified by characteristics or traits such as:

• Being the ones that girls fawn and flock towards despite their ice-cold personality, evident annoyance, and harsh disparagements.

• Being capable of inducing some sort of awkward hormonal craze in their victims, causing them to fall all over themselves just for a chance to suck him off (or something equally romantic) and sometimes these said victims even get the chance for a quickie, if they're really lucky. (Isn't that so much more romantic than just fellatio?) It's always so passionate and deep with these blokes (no dirty puns intended, you sick minded freaks).

• Being angsty assholes—to put it bluntly. They should come with a warning or caution sign stating that beneath the windswept hair, obscure ponderings, and soul-searching is an ass of epic proportions with one too many problems to list.

No, not in that sense at all. That'd be awkward on a few levels, sick in some, and just plain wrong on a couple more.

Tom was only six.

However, tiny four-year old Harry Potter could, and would, argue against such an assumption. ("It doesn't matter if he's six or sixty, badness has no limits!" "He is always icy-coldy and real mean!" "All the girls always chase him around like widdle puppies—puppies are so cute—with flowers and purty smiles, and it's just so…odd." "He is an ass—but don't tell the matron I says so, it's a baddie word! Just like Tom Riddle is a bad boy.")

After all, it was little Harry Potter who first realized Tom Riddle was a bad, bad boy. A proud discovery on his part, not quite worthy of an 'Eureka!', but a shining moment nonetheless.

He didn't know how he figured it out—none of the adults had, and they know everything… at least according to Amy Benson they did—but it was like he had a flash of genius and just knew.

He can still recall the very day his epiphany descended upon him—well, only some of it, really, but he'd insist that he remembered most of it to sound more credible. You couldn't exactly blame cute little Harry for forgetting some minuscule details, after all, it was also on that day that he got his first taste of chocolate; the sheer taste was almost enough to make Harry forget his own name.

But remembering only most of that day was good enough for Harry.

It was enough for him to know.

...

They had been on a wondrous adventure to Vauxhall Square, visiting that little patch of green grass and the old fountain that rarely spluttered out a single drop of water. Harry knew that it wasn't really an adventure—"Who'd ever go explorering somewhere so B-O-R-I-N-G?"—but he'd rather think it was in contrast to the reality of the truth.

Harry was surprisingly astute and astoundingly observant for a four-year boy.

Sometimes, he looked as if he could see right through you with his bright green eyes. Eyes that occasionally looked far too old to be worn upon such a young face.

It would have been more disconcerting if he hadn't such a short attention span, nothing seemed interesting enough to hold his attention for too long.

As it came off, the puppy-like behaviour and childish views eluded people into believing he was just a normal kid. It made them forget that this little boy was unsettlingly knowledgeable for such a young child. It made them to ignore how unnatural it all was, because the thought of anything else would be simply crazy.

That being said, it was unsurprising that no one noticed how Harry was smart enough to realize these little trips arranged by Mr and Mrs Cole—they weren't married, by the way; their last names were just a coincidence, as they always insist upon introduction—weren't really so innocent as they pretended to be.

They were sinister, these 'adventures'.

...

Harry knew the truth, but he didn't understand.

Or rather, he understood but just couldn't grasp onto the concept of why and, more importantly, how he knew.

The truth about Vauxhall Square was the first time Harry experienced having the knowledge of something that simply wasn't possible for him to have acquired on his own. Knowledge that was abrupt and unfamiliar in their complexities.

It was quite similar as to his realisation about Tom Riddle.

One second he would be oblivious, but in the very next moment, BAM! Then, afterwards, he just knew things.

It always happens suddenly, these strange conclusions. His thoughts were his own, and he was conscious of what was running through his mind, but it was like he had no real control of all the gears processing the information through his head.

It wasn't like he couldn't control himself; nothing ever forced him to think of certain topics or act upon specific impulses, it was just that sometimes he'd see something or someone and he'd understand things that he knew were far too complex for his average four-year old mind.

The fact that his four-year old mind could even come to such a realization was odd enough. The fact that his four-year old mind would ponder with in-depth inquiries about the source of this knowledge was beyond strange, and most certainly concerning.

It spooked him. Harry, that is.

In his head, there would often be the presence of certain logics and knowledge that couldn't be his under any circumstance. It simply was not possible due to both his young age and undeveloped mind.

But the way they lingered, with such an odd air of familiarity, all but confirmed that they were undoubtedly somehow his.

Harry knew that everything was wrong in a way, off-kilter like uneven gears. But while he wanted to worry about it like he probably should, it always ended up being such a complete pain in the arse that Harry simply decided he couldn't be bothered.

The strain of the complexities and contradictions always put little Harry in a grumpy mood.

He disliked being cranky; everything around him seemed to become alive in anger whenever it happens. Sometimes Harry reckoned he was more afraid of that—the effects of his ire—than the weird thoughts that flew through his head.

To avoid the headaches, and the odd anger that follows, he learned to just ignore the weird bouts of wisdom, taking them in with slight reluctance whenever they happened but accepting them as is.

Anything else was too troublesome—too serious—to deal with. Like said before, Harry decided he couldn't be bothered with such boring things.

Harry was only four after all. His interest in grave matters could only go so far.

Why bother trying so hard to understand and theorize about something so confuzzling when he had other, more important, things to worry about?

Like the horrifying lack of green crayons.

Now, there's an issue that always had Harry wondering for proper explanations and quick solutions.

They—those pesky greens—were so elusive that Harry had resorted to colouring his trees purple and the grass red. Even when there was the rare pack of new colouring crayons brought into the orphanage, the green would always be gone by the time Harry got there.

Every. Single. Time.

Harry would bet on his favourite plush teddy that it was Tom Riddle who took all the green crayons… Only he was capable of such a travesty.

Only Tom Riddle was so capable.

Pretty, vindictive, scheming Tom Riddle.

Ever since actually meeting him, Harry held an unnaturally strong dislike for the other boy, blaming him for simply everything and anything bad that ever happened.

Before that visit to Vauxhall Square, Harry had never interacted with Tom Riddle before, not having much of any opinion on the older boy.

However, Harry had noticed him though.

Unsurprising; it was hard to ignore Tom Riddle.

Whether for his appearance, aura or intellect, it was obvious that Tom Riddle far exceeded the norm.

Most take a single glance at his face, and its angelic quality was all that was needed to simply enthral.

But it wasn't the boy's pleasingly symmetrical face or eerily clear green eyes that little Harry cared for.

He could really care less about the older boy's pretty features and creepy eyes. In fact, the unnatural perfection within Tom Riddle's appearance almost made Harry slightly unnerved by its odd lack of flaws.

He knew why that was later on, and the realisation unnerved him even more.

Rather than appearance, it was Tom Riddle's charismatic aura and intellectual air that drew Harry in. Harry couldn't help but find something appealing about the dignified way the six year old held himself, almost envious and revering of the casual elegance the other child wielded.

Harry even contemplated on approaching him once or twice before.

Tom Riddle always sat alone with a heavy-looking tome opened upon his lap, making Harry wonder if the other boy was lonely.

Harry wouldn't be surprised if the other boy was—lonely, that is. Harry himself was quite so, despite the children he sometimes strove to surround himself with.

That was the thought that first inspired him to be friends with Tom Riddle—maybe even best friends, because Tom Riddle looked like a really cool bloke.

He'd be the other boy's very first friend, a thought that was appealing in itself.

However, while little Harry was rather open in his imaginations of friendship, the real Harry was quite shy. Unfortunately so.

With Tom Riddle being two years older than him, he had never managed to pluck up enough courage to approach the boy, let alone venture for conversation and propose to be friends.

Eventually, as time passed, the previous thoughts and ideals of friendship with Tom Riddle soon became sidetracked by the persistent presence of the other children at the orphanage, and the thought of approaching Tom Riddle became something unattainable. A mere whim of imagination.

That is, until Vauxhall Square.

Harry didn't quite know the meaning of irony, but he found it ironic. That, while Harry had been the one to fantasize about breaking Tom Riddle's bubble of cold solidarity, it was really in fact the opposite that occurred.

Tom Riddle became the one to approach Harry Potter first.

Very soon after, Harry regretted any aspirations of friendship he held prior to that moment.

...

Harry had been hiding behind the broken fountain, wedged in a shaded niche with a scrap piece of paper and a worn piece of charcoal, when he saw a dark shadow looming over him. He had jolted at the sudden absence of his light source, looking on in exaggerated horror as the subject of his sketch flicked its speckled wings and flew off into the wind.

He remembers watching in sadness as the small bird glided through the air and passing over the rest of Vauxhall Square in a few beats of its feathery appendages.

As the bird became a blur somewhere far off into the distance, Harry was free to indignantly turned his head up towards the intruder, only to find himself speechless at the sight of a sombre-faced Tom Riddle looking down at him with something akin to mild annoyance.

Licking dry lips and feeling them crackle under the pressure of his wet tongue, Harry cleared his throat and managed to hiss out an annoyed protest. "HEY—!"

He had probably dragged out the word for a few syllables too many as the older boy's face glowered down at him. Harry couldn't quite remember what the other boy then said, but he recalled the feel of the cold commanding tone and a firm grasp roughly pulling him out from the niche.

It was surprising how strong the six-year-old's grip was, but then again, it didn't really take much to move Harry—the tiny boy was beyond frail and malnourished.

Just one stiff tug and the little boy went stumbling and skittering onto the ground.

Tom Riddle didn't even spare a second glance at Harry as he calmly sat in the younger boy's previous place, opening up his thick leather-bound novel to a dog-eared page and began his reading. Like nothing just happened.

Like he hadn't just rudely thrown Harry to the ground over a place to sit.

Harry clearly recalled that it took all the willpower in his tiny body to hold back his teary-eyed tantrum.

Quickly springing up from the ground, he turned and hissed out something along the lines of, "That's my spot, you turd! You can't just take it! Gimme it back! You big, fat, turd-like meanie!"

He was completely ignored, much to his chagrin.

Tom Riddle didn't even flinch when Harry balled up his charcoal sketch and chucked the bunched-up wad at the other boy. Even if it had missed, landing pitifully in the empty fountain, Tom Riddle should've had the decency to at least spare him a glance.

But, of course, Tom Riddle didn't; as if he was unaware of his surroundings, Tom Riddle minded his own and went about by smoothly turning the page of his book, focussing all his attention upon the small text.

Harry had never been so angry before, but after a few minutes of being snubbed, he had to quell the urge to slam the other boy's repeatedly head into the stone fountain. Instead, Harry chose to stomp away angrily—knees scrapped and eyes watering—whilst petulantly glaring back at the silent boy.

Another moment in Tom Riddle's presence and Harry reckoned that he'd probably done more than give into his urge to bash the boy's head against the fountain.

From the slight tingle running through his chubby little fingers, Harry felt the temptation to take his tiny little hands and place them in an increasingly tightening hold around the older boy's throat.

While Harry and Tom Riddle's first actual encounter was, to say the least, hostile—at least on Harry's part; Tom Riddle didn't seem to be affected in any way, shape, or form, so it can't be said how exactly he perceived the incident—this was not the moment in which Harry concludes Tom Riddle is a bad boy.

No, it was in the moment of which Maggie Marple decided to take a tumble and crack her skull beneath a broken statue.

That is when Harry realizes.

Maggie Marple wasn't the sweetest girl.

There was no doubt about that.

With her bouncy gold ringlets and sweet rosy cheeks, she was the perfect picture of innocence; though it was quite clear that she was anything but the cute little angel she tried to portray.

Some of the other children would even go as far as to say that she was downright evil.

But children often exaggerate; Harry didn't think that she was evil, per say.

Harry liked to see the best in everyone, even when they had a penchant for selfishly hoarding all the colouring crayons and tugging at other people's toys until they broke. He liked to see the best in everyone, even Maggie Marple and her bratty tendencies.

No, Maggie Marple wasn't quite evil incarnate—Harry just thought that she was very, very annoying. A brat that was far too spoiled and proved to be far too full of herself for her own good.

In fact, she vaguely reminded him of someone else, someone twice as large but equally troublesome. He didn't quite remember whom, but something about Maggie Marple's brat-like behaviour struck that odd reminiscent cord within him.

Which made him find her all the more irritating for some reason.

Harry didn't exactly hate Maggie Marple, he just held a rather strong dislike for her; but still, he would never wish upon anyone what had happened to her.

It was gruesome, cruel. And he had seen it all.

The scene had given him nightmares even weeks after it occured, always making him wake in cold sweat as the chill of the air tickled against his tear-streaked cheeks.

Thinking back on it even now made little Harry shiver in fright, urging him to crawl onto his thin mattress and curl into his threadbare sheets until there was nothing but him and the darkness.

When it happened, ten minutes hadn't even passed since Harry had stomped angrily away from Tom Riddle.

Plopping down against a nearby tree trunk, he held a direct view of the older boy. Nursing his bleeding kneecap with the frayed edge of his too-big jumper, Harry had glowered with all his might at Tom Riddle, feeling sorely dissatisfied as the other boy calmly flipped through his book.

It was about five minutes into his one-sided glaring contest that he noticed a figure with bouncy gold curls and shiny red shoes approaching the niche where Tom Riddle sat.

Harry couldn't see very far—his eyesight always blurring whenever he tried—but the clickety-clack of those red shoes were a telltale sign.

Maggie Marple always bragged about them being a gift from her wealthy parents (who cares if they abandoned her in a dingy orphanage, they gave her shiny red shoes which made everything so much better). She loved those shoes very much, always spending an unhealthily long time rubbing them until their reflection shone with her pretty little face.

Those red, red shoes.

Harry had watched as her figure skipped closer and closer to Tom Riddle, a strange sick feeling in his stomach telling him that something horrible was about to happen.

He felt guilty now, wishing that he had trusted his gut and just called out to Maggie Marple.

Harry had been close enough to hear them speak, close enough for him to have effectively warned Maggie Marple away.

"Hey, Tom," she had greeted with a small smile, her tone rather shy for the little girl. Maggie Marple had a tendency to be loud and obnoxious, her voice always screechingly high-pitched and on the wrong side of melodious. Seeing her so soft-spoken was an odd thing for Harry.

He ignored her.

That hadn't surprised Harry, not as much as it did Maggie Marple.

She wasn't used to being ignored, especially not by boys. By neither the young nor old.

Maggie Marple was well-aware of her own pretty face, well-aware of the effect a small, sweet grin could have on people, all of them. It should've even worked on pretty boys like Tom Riddle, even if his face was a slight bit more perfect than hers (which was the only reason she approached him in the first place).

It was unacceptable that someone would deny her. Could deny her.

Maybe he just didn't hear me, she thought, placating herself, because the other children can be so loud and annoying sometimes. Yes, that must be it.

"Hey, Tom," she had spoken louder this time, twirling her golden curls coyly with a delicate finger.

Perhaps she was trying to be cute or coy, but Tom took no notice as he had ignored her once more. He didn't even bother to glance up.

He probably can't hear me over all those horrid, dirty little brats, Maggie Marple mentally assured herself once again. I should march right over to Smelly Ellie and Stupid Amy to tell them to stuff it with a sock!

She repeated herself once more, just a tinge of annoyance stinging at her self-confidence. This time she batted her eyelashes and practically purred like a cuddly kitten.

Harry had shuddered in slight disgust. Cooties, lots of cooties, he imagined.

Tom Riddle probably thought so too; you couldn't tell if you weren't looking closely, but little Harry was (not that he'd admit it), and he happened to catch onto what looked like a quick grimace flicker across the older boy's face. Seeing it, Harry had felt strangely gratified that Tom Riddle agreed with him on some level, no matter how large a prat he was.

Other than an odd smidgen of emotion displayed by the subtle clench of his jaw, Tom Riddle had continued to ignore his surroundings, flipping the pages of his book nonchalantly as he read with a surprisingly fast pace.

At least it isn't just me that he's a big meanie pants to, Harry thought with an odd feeling of satisfaction. Plus, anyone who isn't fooled by Maggie Marple is on the saner level of things.

Maggie Marple, however, was not satisfied with the response she was receiving.

Finally catching on that she was probably being ignored, her rounded cheeks puffed into a pout of annoyed disbelief.

"HELLO! TOM!" she shrilled loudly, clearly fed up with being ignored. "CAN. YOU. HEAR. ME?" Harry bet that the pitch of her voice was only a few decibels below that of which can only be heard by canines; it sure caused an odd ringing aftershock in his ears.

Harry had been surprised that Tom Riddle didn't cringe away due to the close proximity his ears held to the sound. Perhaps he was even a little impressed by the perpetual stone-face Tom Riddle managed to maintain in reaction to the high-pitched screeches.

Tom Riddle was definitely annoyed though, his impassive features didn't cover the irritation in his cold green eyes. Glancing up a fraction from beneath long dark lashes, his face still remained directed at the pages of the book, his obvious disinterest evident through the raise of a disdainful brow.

"Yes?" he inquired coolly.

Harry had wanted to squeal in irrational awe at the sound of the six-year-old's tone of voice—it was cool and mature, amazingly adult-like in the face of the terror known as Maggie Marple—but big boys don't squeal.

Harry wasn't sure what exactly big boys did, but it wasn't that and he didn't want that older boy Billy Stubbs to have another excuse to tease him. (He wasn't that small, and so what if he cried after dreams of bright green lights and pretty women with hair of flame—they were unsettling.)

Almost as unsettling as Tom Riddle.

Harry still remembers how that one quiet, composed word from Tom Riddle had sent Maggie Marple into a raging tantrum.

Her face had quickly turned from pale, pretty porcelain to cute, bubblegum pink to a surprisingly hideous shade of red. All in a single second.

Harry had almost been impressed by that more so than Tom Riddle's infallible composure.

Maggie Marple stomped a red shoe against the ground, childish in her indignation.

"I was talking to—" Tom Riddle didn't bother to hear the rest of her sentence, turning his apathetic gaze back towards his book. "OI!"

Harry himself thought it quite rude to brush someone off like that, but Maggie Marple had taken it as a blatant offense.

To her, it was some strange sort of declaration of war.

Harry would have grabbed her if he had known what she was about to do.

He had gotten shoved and scrapped up just for sitting where Tom Riddle wanted to. He didn't even wanted imagine what the consequences would have been if he had ripped that damned book up like he'd previously been tempted to.

Well, Harry didn't have to imagine much longer as that was exactly what Maggie Marple did.

Face scrunched into an angry semblance of a pout, she had reached forward almost quicker than the eye could ascertain and grabbed onto Tom Riddle's book.

As she gave the book a hard yank, the crisp sound of pages being ripped could be clearly heard, making Harry wince in abject horror.

Tom Riddle's face had been surprisingly blank as the book got wrenched from his grasp, pages being torn as the momentum of Maggie Marple's pull caused it to fly upwards.

Pieces of paper softly drifted downwards in a deceptive calmness.

All three of them watched as the book hit the ground with a muffled sound, a corner of it landing into a small nearby puddle.

Water began seeping with slow pace into the book's inked pages, almost torturing with its leisure pace; though the damage had yet to be seen, Harry could see the disastrous results.

It was really much like Tom Riddle's anger, slowly creeping upon them until the damages became blown out of proportion.

Harry had initially assumed that the older boy was uncaring towards the situation due to his blank features, but as Harry had continued to watch, he thought he noticed a darkness shadow across those clear green eyes.

It was gone in an instant, and Harry had been about to dismiss it—probably just imagined it—but something told him not to.

Maggie Marple looked unapologetic, but a sliver of guilt shone in her pretty blue eyes.

"I, I'm—" she began as if to apologize, hesitant and stopping before the words could exit her mouth. As if thinking twice about an apology, her lips pursed and her tone did a complete three-sixty, "I mean, that wasn't my fault. If you hadn't been holding on so tightly, or if you hadn't been, you know, ignoring me, that—"

"Leave," Tom Riddle interrupted, no inflection in his voice. Harry had been surprised the older boy didn't say more.

Maggie Marple had looked affronted at the dismissal. It probably sparked her anger once more. "Look here, Riddle. That was not my fault. It was all you. Like everything that ever goes wrong. It's your fault! I didn't want to do that, but you made me, okay? You made me do that. This is your—"

She hadn't been able to finish her rant as a distinct hiss interrupted her. Harry sucked a breath in as he realized it came from Tom Riddle, it frightened him.

"Leave," he had said, face still unaffected, but the tone he spoke in sent cold shivers down Harry's spine.

Harry didn't know why, but Tom Riddle in that moment reminded him of the frightening dreams about flashing green lights and scattered glimpses of red hair.

It clearly had a similar effect on Maggie Marple as she stared blankly at the boy, fear welling up in her eyes. "F-freak," she muttered beneath her trembling breath.

Tom Riddle did nothing but stare.

Clearing her throat, she roughly stumbled back a few steps before turning to bolt away with lagging strides.

For a moment, both Tom Riddle and Harry had watched as Maggie Marple turned tail and ran, the former in satisfaction and the latter with a dreadful feeling in the pit of his stomach.

As soon as Maggie Marple was too far into the distance for his eyes to clearly see, Harry had turned to look at the other boy, eyes widening in surprise to see clear green eyes staring back at him.

In that moment, Harry was frightened silly; not only by the odd nostalgic connection churning within him, but also by the sharp gleam in those light-coloured eyes. It had chilled his bones to the core, dread escalating each and every moment that their eyes remained connected, but somehow Harry hadn't been able to bring himself to drag his gaze away.

Then, Tom Riddle smiled.

(Rather, it was a cruel facsimile of a smile that painted itself beauteously across smooth porcelain.)

Harry felt himself grow completely cold, like there was ice that ran through his veins in the stead of warm blood. Droplets of sweat had begun surfacing from the pores of his forehead and neck, leaving a cool trail as it trickled down the column of his throat.

He had been beyond frightened at that moment, stuck in a horrified state of shock. Yet, while Harry was frightened—so very frightened—he still found himself much too fascinated to turn away.

It hadn't exactly been an unpleasant sight; Tom Riddle had pleasing full lips that pulled back just enough to show of gleaming white teeth and dimples that dotted perfectly into his shapely cheeks. In fact, his smile would melt a regular soul with its authenticity.

But that was exactly what scared Harry.

The smile had been so real, so genuine, but Harry could only felt a terrible emptiness at the sight—complete and utter emptiness.

It had seemed like hours had passed as they stared at each other—an odd scene with one boy looking like Christmas had come early and the other with clear abject horror scrawled across his face—but in truth only seconds had passed.

Tom Riddle turned away first, smile and all, leaving a frozen Harry staring at his profile.

He hadn't seen what happened next—too transfixed, too horrified—but a scream within the distance was all he needed to know.

The sharp shrilling sound would sometimes still echo in his head.

The sound snapped Harry from his stupor; he had quickly turned towards it, abruptly wishing he hadn't when his eyes met the scene.

Maggie Marple's body lay like a broken doll on the ground, motionless beneath a hulking mass of gray stone. Her red shoes stained with a deep crimson, slowly seeping from the entirety of her body onto the small patches of grass littering Vauxhall Square.

The ground itself looked as if it bled red, soaking in the blood just as well as the pages of Tom Riddle's book had the puddle of water.

Harry had absently wondered if there was some sort of symbolism to that. Poetic justice, perhaps?

He didn't know what had happened, but as Mr and Mrs Cole rushed onto the scene—from wherever they had previously been doing their 'business'—the other surrounding children had begun screaming and crying out attempts of explanation.

They had cried that the broken statues littering the Square had moved by themselves. That one had animatedly jumped onto Maggie Marple and crushed her like a bug.

Needless to say, the adults didn't believe a single word; one frantically going for help and the other scolding the children for such lies.

Completely horrified at the images that had rushed through his head—what had happened, suddenly clear—Harry snapped his head back to Tom Riddle.

He was calmly sitting in his niche, unaffected, his book placed in front of him as it reclined with languorous ease against his lap.

It seemed that in the few minutes Harry had taken to watch the ensuing chaos, the older boy had gotten up and fetched the book from a few feet away and collected all the scattered pages.

Harry was astonished to see Tom Riddle so strangely put together as he tranquilly arranged the torn pages into the book with deft fingers, almost nonchalant as he smoothed and straightened out the cover with the quick press of his hands.

Those clear green eyes leisurely flicked across the pages of his damp novel like nothing had even happened.

Like he couldn't see the sight in front of him.

Like Maggie Marple hadn't just been crushed beneath a statue of a crying cherub.

Then, Harry noticed it.

It had been almost imperceptible because of its subtlety, but it was definitely there behind the edge of that infernal book.

Tom Riddle was still smiling.

A truly genuine smile.

No teeth, no dimples. Just a simple quirk of full, red, red lips.

The simplicity expressed all that it needed to.

That is when Harry knew.

...

...

...

Tom Riddle is a very, very bad boy.

...