A/N: I dedicate this to Areen for being the most awesome email buddy ever and whose reviews have always left a warm and very fuzzy feeling inside. This is for you!

First part is somewhat introspective, after the "xXx" mark, that's where the somewhat-not really-slash starts rolling in. The second part takes place in the oh-so-famous Chamber of Secrets and I claim no ownership with this scene. That beautiful scene belongs to the wonderful JK Rowling. If you don't like slash, please refrain from reading and go somewhere else. If you do like slash, and think that Tom/Harry is awesome...ignore the rest of my babbling and go read.

Thank you to my wonderful beta, Jello, for betaing this. Where would I be without you?

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.

Extraordinary

Tom Riddle had never liked his name.

That was an undisputed, obvious and most perceptible fact.

It was ordinary, and virtually unappealing, a name unadorned by fluid arcs of decorative designs, or even vivid jabs of inked importance. It was plain and terribly normal, the three minute letters cloaked only with the common-everyday ink that one bought, perhaps, at a local wizarding shop. It was black, watery, and mundane in every aspect, and the imprint of the name "Tom," upon white parchment constantly evoked a sense of disgust that gnawed and chewed relentlessly at his mind.

Tom Riddle had never liked his name.

There was an unnatural quality to his appearance and physical features. His raven black hair served as a stark contrast to the grey, lackluster tone of the surrounding world. His pale skin hinted of the cool and extraordinary feel of unicorn blood, while his eyes gleamed with the perpetual glint of inherited skill and exceptional intelligence. Logically, there was no reason as to wonder why a mere glance of his exterior would render a person speechless and utterly tone-dead.

Tom Riddle had never liked his name.

Not only his astonishing appearance, but his almost uncanny ability to charm and delight distinguished him from the general mass as a whole. His tone of voice, smooth and fluid like liquid paint, held the remarkable skill of beguilement and captivation. From his mouth spilled an endless flow of wholly articulated speech, each individual word spun and assembled with a precious ambition embedded within its very core.

Tom Riddle had never liked his name.

Tom, Tom, Tom, Tom. He hated it, he despised it. He wished to peel the offending signature from the very skin of his identity. He desired to grasp at the insignificant thing of a name, grasp it so that his own ten individual fingers could mold and shape the diminutive entity into something quite –different-. Flexing and manipulating the inked word, he would conceive a silken cocoon around its very being, and literally transform what had once been of the ordinary… into the extraordinary.

For the name Tom spoke of the bland, the unappealing and most importantly, of the normal. And he knew that he, as an individual was not, in fact, normal.

No…no, no, no, no. He was not usual, but unusual. He was not common, but uncommon. He was not ordinary, but extraordinary.

Yes…yes, yes, yes, yes.

And perhaps, it was this intricate and complex obsession with the extraordinary that ultimately drew Tom Marvolo Riddle to Harry Potter.

xXx

Tom Riddle stood there, eyes observing the slight form of a boy, the slight and seemingly unremarkable form of a boy who was pleading desperately with the whispers of life and creeping death. Pleading, shaking and attempting to revive the still and deathly form of a young girl who now only consisted of cold, lifeless and inert flesh.

"She won't wake," he said softly. His low tenor of a voice slipped quietly over the hurried cries of the boy, wrenching him out of his panicked state and into a manner of stilled surprise.

The boy lifted his head and turned, casting his eyes towards his own form.

A vivid green haze, consisting of viridian and unsullied emerald, doused the entire spectrum of his vision. The color tinged the corners of his view, dappling his sight with shades that diverged and twisted; bright and brilliant with their bottle green thrust of unexpected vibrancy.

That was the first thing he noticed about the Boy-Who-Lived: the color of his eyes.

Such an unusual color, it was, really.

Then…there was the second thing. Not first, as one might assume, but the second thing he noticed: his scar.

It was thin and lightning-shaped; a faint wisp of a mark, as a matter of fact, with its peripheral gap of inked crimson.

Ah, yes, that remarkable scar.

These two aspects, the color of viridian green and unmistakable slash of faded-red, intrigued Tom Riddle beyond everything. He felt drawn and lightly fascinated; the length of his lithe fingers inwardly flexing from the need to touch…to skim across the jagged mark and pale eyelids of the young boy.

"Tom—Tom Riddle?" came the nearly imperceptible quaver. The tone was a small slip of a voice, mildly soaked with a tender mixture of disbelief and evident amazement. The boy's brilliant green eyes widened a bit more, the feverish glint of subdued color sharpening into a vivacious shock of emerald force.

Tom Riddle frowned faintly at the mention of his first name; resulting in a minor downturn in the curve of his lips. He nodded once with mechanical inclination; continuing his gaze upon the boy's face while paying particular attention to the vivid greenness of his eyes.

The young boy, oblivious to the odd and concentrated beam of narrowed scrutiny, clutched at the fallen girl in an act of desperation. The green was now even more defined.

"But…but how—you're actually—how is this possible—?"

The boy was stuttering, at a total loss for words for the seemingly impossible scene at hand. His eyes flickered with brief flashes of confusion. His scar shifted as wrinkles of puzzlement crumpled forth from pale white.

Tom Riddle smiled, the eerie act quite unnoticeable in the wavering light.

"I am a memory," he stated simply, as if the materialization of his 16 year old self was nothing out of the ordinary. "Preserved in a diary…this diary…for 50 years." He detached himself from the wall and swept his hand idly towards the tattered book. "Nothing more, nothing less."

The boy appeared to sink into a momentary lapse of thought. Yet, the instant passed as quickly as it had come, and the youth, once again, heaved at the body of the young girl.

"Listen—Tom—"

Tom Riddle's eyes narrowed, a delicate hint of distaste tarnishing the clarity of his eyes.

"—you have got to help me—Ginny here, she needs to be taken care of as soon as possible—we have got to—"

The boy's attention towards him was slipping away. And Tom, being who he was naturally, disapproved of it.

"Do you know—" Tom Riddle began suddenly, interrupting the flow of words with flawless ease, "—do you know what an unusual person you are, boy?" He shifted his head to the left, his peculiar curve of a smile emerging once again at the mention of the word "unusual".

The boy, still attempting unsuccessfully to lift the girl's body, shot him a look of utter disbelief. The dash of incredulity kindled a spark of acid green within his eyes and appeared to enhance the smudge of red upon his forehead.

Fascinated, if possibly, even more with the two distinctive traits, Tom Riddle took a step forward.

"Look, Tom, I don't have time for any of this now—" A hint of impatience had crept into his voice. "We can talk about all of his later—"

"No," Tom Riddle enunciated firmly.

The boy looked up surprised.

"No," he said again, demandingly. The heels of his shoes made contact with the stone floor in chilly confrontation, resulting in an echoing pattern of clicks and muffled thuds. He was, perhaps, a mere five feet away from the boy. "We will talk right now."

The boy had released his hold upon the girl, and was slowly rising to his feet. He was now eyeing Tom Riddle with a wary gaze, a flicker of suspicion adding its zest to the already known presence of green confusion. "What…?"

Tom Riddle flexed the tips of his fingers, a fleeting movement of pale skin against the immovable grey of the surrounding walls. He fixed the boy with an almost pleasant flash of a smile, yet its soothing effect was ruined by the zealous glint of unblemished hunger within his eyes.

"We will talk right now," Tom Riddle repeated softly. "I've waited a long time for a moment like this…to see you, to speak to you." His eyes gleamed eerily. "To meet the extraordinary…Harry Potter."

The boy known as Harry Potter instinctively slipped his hand to the side, where his wand, smudged with his fingerprints and essence, lay quietly within his pocket. Feeling a strange sort of unease, yet unable to determine what exactly irked him so disturbingly; Harry took an uncertain step back.

"What?" he blurted out stupidly, bewilderment once again peppered within the feel of his words. "I mean—but…but why?"

Tom Riddle chuckled quietly, his own laugh gingerly flavored with the lightest dab of amusement. There was no mistaking the uncanny smile upon the older boy's lips, or even the peculiar glimmer of undulated want within his eyes.

"Oh, Harry, Harry…Harry Potter," murmured Tom Riddle, emphasizing the last bit, the boy's full name with lacquered appeal. "I should think that it would be obvious, especially to you."

He was perhaps a mere foot away from the younger boy.

"Considering your more than, how shall we say it…" Tom Riddle paused and flicked his gaze towards the boy's eyes and than to his scar; his eyes now gleaming with an almost frightening flash of engrossment, "…fascinating history, it would be only natural for one to have the desire to meet you… Harry Potter."

At the mention of the name "Harry Potter," something seemed to snap within his mind, like an unnaturally taunt violin string when pressed with the right amount of pressure. Tom Riddle, eyes glittering and breath increasingly accelerated, snatched at the boy and crushed him against his form. His arms encircled the youth's body with an elegant fluidity that was reminiscent to the coils of streaming wind; the right going around the waist, the left pressed against the neck.

Harry gasped and let out a surprised cry. His wand clattered onto the floor with the dull click of an object gone astray.

The hands upon his neck and waist tightened dramatically, the white fingers pressing against his skin in a sort of harsh caress, individual digits slim and dreadfully cool to the touch. Harry let out another strangled hiss, and unfortunately, for the boy, that was all he could do at the moment. Gasp and maybe, breathe.

"Yes, your oh-so-intriguing history—" Tom Riddle continued, almost darkly, "— as the Golden One, the Boy-Who-Lived, as Harry Potter…as the one individual who was able to escape from…to defeat the greatest known wizard –ever- within the history of mankind…!"

His breath, unnaturally cold and yet, at the same time chillingly moist, coated Harry's neck, giving the boy the damp sensation of wispy tendrils of unsubstantial fog but—no, no, no, that wasn't right, it coated his neck like…like ink, yes, like liquid red ink dribbled gradually upon white parchment with a certain intention and carved purpose in mind…

Harry couldn't move, dear god, he dared not move—

"Yes, you, Harry Potter…" Tom Riddle hissed, his icy draft of a whisper drifting lazily now near the curve of Harry's ear. His hand, gripping the boy's neck, snaked its way treacherously deep within Harry's messy sprawl of jet-black hair, and toyed purposefully with the untidy locks. The older boy's tone, bitter and frigid a moment before, then softened into a dangerous stroke of a tenor, the quality intrigued and engrossed, once again.

"…Harry Potter…" Tom Riddle tilted Harry's face upwards, upwards so that the weak light brought the boy's green eyes and marvelously thin scar into clear view. "Questions, questions…" he murmured faintly, "…I have so many questions for you, Harry Potter."

Harry, at last, was able to find his voice, though wishing that it were the same case with his arms and legs. "Why do you care so much?" he gritted out, his mind screaming for his body to struggle, for his body to get out, get out and to just get out. "Why do you care? Voldemort was after your time, Tom, so why do you—?"

Tom Riddle flinched, and his eyes darkened into a subdued gleam consisting of oil and black obsidian rock. He had backed Harry into a wall, and pushed him, none too gently, against the hardened feel of solid stone. "Don't call me Tom," he said softly, a precarious hint of anger saturated within his tone.

He hated it, he despised it…

Harry, at the moment, too panicked, too scared and too angry for his own good, didn't notice the sudden ice-spun expression at hand. "Damnit! I can call you whatever I want, Tom and I have no idea what sort of sick game you're playing at over here I have a few questions of my own to ask you, thank you very much and—and just—just damnit let me go, T—!"

At that moment, at that precise moment, the boy's eyes flashed a sudden acid green, wide and brilliant eyes now a vibrant shade that twisted and shone with an unnatural spark, with an unusual spark that spoke to Tom Riddle, hinted to Tom Riddle of the answer to all of his questions. The key to his lock, the missing piece to his puzzle, the discovery of something truly atypical, the boy's green eyes gleamed with the unmistakable flare of what was truly different, what was truly unique and most importantly, what was truly extraordinary.

He wanted to own it, he wanted to manipulate it, he wanted to grasp what ever it was that shone so marvelously bright within those green eyes and seize it with his own ten fingers and possess it-and dear god, he did not want to hear his name—that despicable, wretched and disgustingly common thing of a name, for it would taint and sully that remarkable glow of the extraordinary with the dullness of its normality —

Tom Riddle wrenched Harry Potter's chin upwards and kissed him.

There was nothing in the kiss that was truly romantic or even remotely loving. The kiss was harsh, cruel and unflinchingly desperate. Tom Riddle broke through Harry's mouth with the strength of a man that was dying of unquenchable thirst, catching the boy off guard and rendering him into complete and utter shock. He pressed against Harry with a feverish want that consisted of poison green light and blood red scars, pressed against the slighter form until he could vaguely hear the distant scrap of soft skin against solid, age-marked stone. Tom Riddle could not stop it, and when he intertwined his slender fingers within jet-black hair and ruthlessly plundered the mouth of the victim at hand, he did not think that he even wanted to stop this uncontrollable burst of ardent want.

Absentmindedly tracing his fingers over the eyelids and scar of the boy known as Harry Potter, Tom Marvolo Riddle trembled the slightest bit.

He had never, ever, liked his name.