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: Hi. I updated. Again. Yeah. Hope you like it. The story's still slow. But there's more Tom/Harry interaction. Yup. Yes. Yeah.

P.S. Oh, and next chapter is Tom's PointOfView. So, wait a bit, yeah?

P.S.S. Thanks for all the reviews, favourites, follows :)

Read, review, do what you want!

...

What He Knew

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Chapter V

—

Harry managed to ascend the stairs with relative functionality, but at the top of the flight, his graceless exhaustion caught up to him. His shoe scuffed dangerously against the edge of the step, making him stumble and totter precariously backwards.

Harry successfully found hold on the wooden banister, but it was with his injured hand. A sudden jolt of excruciating pain made him jump as it wracked through his entire body, his feet slipping from the step. His fingers helplessly followed after the rest of his body, fluidly falling away from the railing as he helplessly thought, Just my luck.

For a moment, a resistance of air seemed to grasp furiously at him, trying to impede his fall, but Harry could do nothing but look down as gravity took hold.

That's a long way down… he noted absentmindedly, too tired to comprehend or care for the fact that he was about to tumble to his very premature death.

He closed his eyes.

Too. Tired.

Oddly enough, instead of feeling the rough snap of his neck and spine against hard wood, twin grips grasped tightly at his shoulders and roughly shoved him forward, almost making him break his nose in place of his spine as he tumbled violently towards the steps above him. Luckily though, Harry managed to turn his body and stumble sideways onto the floor of the landing, legs hitting against the edges of the top few stairs.

It didn't hurt as much, but it still hurt.

But on the bright side, at least I didn't get the permanent 'ouchie' of death, he thought. No one could ever kiss that better.

Harry heard soft footsteps climb up the staircase behind him while he slowly righted himself onto his feet with a painful wince. His hands pulled at the banister as he turned to stare at Tom Riddle, who languidly ascending the steps with an easy elegance as he quickly covered the distance between the bottom and top stairs.

Harry blinked, scrutinizing the older boy. He knew that it could've only been Tom Riddle who'd saved him—much to his dismay, and hesitant disbelief. He couldn't help but wonder how that was possible when the boy hadn't even been close enough to do so. There was no way the older boy could have reached Harry that fast and supported his weight—because despite how mature Tom Riddle came off as, he was still a six-year-old boy with short, fragile limbs.

Tom Riddle brushed by him coolly, sparing him a quick once-over before continuing down the hall.

Wait. No... Harry trailed off in thought, thoroughly astonished by a sudden realization. Were the grasps on my shoulders... he didn't know what to really think.

And like the older boy could read minds ("Who said he couldn't?" Harry would petulantly insist if given the chance), Tom Riddle's voice echoed smoothly down the corridor as he answered Harry's unspoken questions without missing a beat, "Yes, it is probably as you suspect. No, I won't tell you how. And no, you can't know why."

Harry attempted to conceal his baffled expression as the other boy managed to accurately predict the series of questions he'd wished to ask.

However, when Tom Riddle turned back around and briskly stepped right into Harry's bubble of personal, he couldn't help the utter astonishment that quickly coloured his expression. And when Tom Riddle reached forward to grab onto Harry's uninjured hand ("So, maybe it was just the forearm—but close enough...") with his own, the four-year-old's mouth automatically fell open into an unattractive gape of bewilderment.

Cold fingers dug their presence through the thin wool of Harry's ratty old jumper, making him shiver involuntarily.

Harry tensed as the grip tightened, uncomfortable and slightly fearful of the thought of Tom Riddle's hand anywhere on him. After all, the older boy's hand had previously found itself a comfortable spot on Harry's scrawny neck before trying to wring the air out of him. Harry's neck still ached in pain.

Let go. Let go! his thoughts screamed in panic while his face completely blanched. Don't hurt me again...

He opened his mouth to protest. Or plead, he wasn't quite sure.

"No," Tom Riddle cut in before Harry could start, grip relaxing. "Do not speak. I'm not going to let you go, and I…" His clear green eyes were severe, matching his strangely earnest tone. "I won't hurt you again."

Harry didn't know if he was more astonished by Tom Riddle's uncharacteristic voice of consolation or the fact that he had, once again, taken Harry's thoughts right from his head. Either way, little Harry felt intensely uncomfortable and somewhat violated.

Maybe Tom Riddle really could read minds, Harry thought persistently, trying to distract himself from the discomfort he felt. Maybe he can hear my thoughts and is feigning emotion to draw me into a vulnerable state only to reveal himself as a super meanie once more. He nodded his head, letting his pondering run wild, Yeah, that sounds 'bout right. Tom Riddle would never be nice. This is all an act because he's probably a telepathic alien come to mind-probe me...

"I'm not telepathic nor am I trying to feign emotion to lull you into a false sense of security. That's almost as idiotic as whatever scheme you're probably imagining in your mind right now," Tom Riddle commented with a subtle roll of his eyes. Hearing the other boy's condescending tone made Harry feel a bit better for some reason, its familiarity soothing him much more than the consoling purr from before. With a shrug, the older boy continued, "I can read everything off of your foolishly expressive face, if you're still uselessly wondering."

Harry opened his mouth to splutter comment ("But, but, but, you…"), but with a quick scathing look from the other boy, he let himself be shamefully silenced. He hadn't forgotten the consequences of being a complete and utter blabbermouth around Tom Riddle; the reminder—a stark, mottled purple handprint branded into his pale throat.

Right. Shut up or die, Harry recalled. Shutupshutupshutup… he chanted to himself, scrunching his features with concentration. Wow. This is hard. He pursed his lips into a dissatisfied pout but remained silent.

Looking expectantly upwards at the other boy, Tom Riddle simply gave him a mocking pat on the head in response. The silent, condescending "Good boy," was implied as pale fingers carding roughly through Harry's tangled locks.

Harry couldn't help but fidget as an uncomfortable tingle of warmth persisted at his scalp. The cool touch against his hair wasn't affectionate, nimble fingers sharply ripping through knotted hair with little care for Harry's winces of pain, but he felt a twisting heat of attachment clench at his heart anyway.

Tom Riddle seemed to hold a fascination with his hair, pulling and ruffling the untamed locks for a curiously prolonged moment before finally regaining sense. Harry frowned as the cold fingers swiftly disentangled themselves, unconsciously leaning forward at the loss of the cool pressure against his scalp.

The older boy gave him an inscrutable look as his pale hand fell limply at his side. He was almost angry in his scrutiny, but before Harry could make anything of it, Tom Riddle swiftly spun around with a turn of his heel. He dragged Harry along behind him with an unrelenting grip, heading for the next set of stairs.

Harry caught a curious glimpse of the thunderous frown upon Tom Riddle's customarily blank features.

...

Allowing himself to be led up another flight of stairs, Harry was surprised to note that Tom Riddle seemed to slow his pace to suit Harry's shorter limbs. Harry was even more surprised when Tom Riddle decided to lead him into his own room rather than Harry's.

As the door swung open and the older boy shoved him brusquely inside, Harry didn't know if he was supposed to feel as surreal as he did or more frightened than he was.

Stumbling over graceless limbs for a moment, the door slammed shut behind him. Righting himself, Harry took a moment to curiously examine Tom Riddle's lair.

Harry didn't know what he'd been hoping for, but either way, he was quite disappointed—and rather disillusioned.

It was just a normal room—nothing fancy or positively diabolical, not even a single medieval torture device in sight.

Unsurprisingly, it was also a whole lot neater than his own.

However, although Tom Riddle's room was definitely no 'Castle of Doom' and whatnot, Harry did feel rather uncomfortable—out of place, even—standing in the midst of it.

It might've been his imagination speaking, but the small boy swore that the longer he stood in the room the cooler the atmosphere surrounding him became.

And it wasn't just the temperature that was frigid and uninviting, but the whole arrangement of things.

It feels like everything's reminding me that I shouldn't be here… Harry noted warily, glancing about through narrowed green eyes. Like I don't belong, and everything knows that.

Yet, there was nothing overtly wrong with the meticulous little room.

The standard grey bed was impeccably made, sitting stiffly against a wall. The iron bedstead was aligned horizontally to the only window; a glimmer of the setting sun crawled through the space between the neatly pulled curtains, though its light was washed out and pale as it fell over the starched sheets and faded scratches littering across the floorboards.

An old wooden chair sat beside the bed, rigid and uncomfortable. Offhandedly, Harry thought it rather lonely in its complete solitude; he frowned at the notion.

The chair's worn wood was a stark contrast with the lovely walnut wardrobe that sat partially behind the door, taking up a large portion of the room as it spanned a third of the wall. Harry found himself furrowing his brow and frowning as he examined the exquisite lines of wood. Feeling a sudden chill wash down his spine, he swiftly turned away from it; he didn't like the familiarity it evoked.

Harry would've asked about the strange-feeling wardrobe—because curiousity was something that ruled over fear—but something sensible within him knew that he shouldn't pry into such a subject. For once, he listened to the logical part of himself and firmly kept his mouth shut.

Taking in the whole of the room, Harry noticed that everything was pushed up against a single wall in a peculiar fashion, leaving the other half of the room oddly barren and unpleasantly bleak.

"Are you done with your scrutiny?" Tom Riddle finally prompted, pinning Harry with a blatant look of disapproval when bright green eyes shot towards him. "Or do you and my room need a moment of privacy together so you can continue your incessant examination of it?" he asked with bland sarcasm.

"Well, actually—" Harry started indignantly.

Tom Riddle didn't give Harry the time to finish his sentence as he swiftly tugged the smaller boy into the adjoining bathroom with an irritated huff.

...

Harry didn't know what exactly happened after that, but within the next moment he was bent of the edge of the tub by the other boy's weight and was privileged enough to find out just exactly how frozen-over the pipes at the orphanage were getting as winter approached.

He hissed in pain as the icy flow of water from the faucet washed over his swelled wrist, tears welling up once more. He sniffled. Trying to twist his arm from the other boy's firm grasp only earned him a harsh squeeze upon his forearm as Tom Riddle held it still.

Both their sleeves were becoming soaked through, sticking against the skin it covered; Harry shivered violently, partly from the cold and partly from the his proximity to the older boy.

After a moment of excruciating cold gnawing into his delicate skin, the steady stream became rather soothing. Harry turned towards the other boy, hesitance written into every inch of motion. Nevertheless, a small grateful smile touched at his lips.

"Th-thanks," he muttered, blushing despite himself. His teeth chattered noisily from the chill.

The other boy's breath tickled at his ear as Tom Riddle merely gave him a short mocking scoff in response.

"I mean, I still hate you," Harry found the need to clarify with hurried words, ears reddening as unimpressed green eyes focused upon him expectantly. "I mean, you did strangle me."

Tom Riddle shrugged. "I know."

"We're still no longer friends," Harry continued, hoping for more of a response. "If you couldn't guess, friends don't do that to other friends and get easily forgiven, yeah? Actually, scratch that; friends don't do that to friends, period."

"Alright," Tom Riddle acquiesced easily with another half-hearted shrug.

Harry huffed, "Can't you say more than two words in response?"

"I could."

Harry groaned, annoyed by the curt responses, but he didn't fail to note the teasing gleam in the other boy's clear gaze. It was barely there, but what counted is that it was.

"Hey, you're being awfully nice to me," he stated. "Do you have a soft spot for me or what? Are you regretting strangling me and making us break up our blossoming bloom of flowery friendship?" he spoke lightly in clear jest, though his tone was uncharacteristically malicious. "I mean, you held my hand and everything just now, and before that you saved me from the ultimate d—oom!" Harry howled out the last word with childish petulance, now fully aware that Tom Riddle hated immature embellishments like that.

"Stop being so dramatic, brat," Tom Riddle remarked with a short, derisive chuckle. The sound had Harry beaming in delight before he could help himself, the warmth in his tummy increasing rapidly as he replayed the sound within his mind. "After all, it would do me no good if something other than myself put an end to you," he commented offhandedly.

"But, why…" Harry trailed off with a frown. Tom Riddle prompted him to continue with a impatiently raised brow. "Why would you even care?"

"I don't," the older boy automatically snapped, almost heated in his denial. His expression wiped clear of any previous emotion before he continued, "I won't ever care. You should do well to remember that and cease from harbouring those fruitless thoughts of finding friendship with me."

Harry's frown deepened. "What if I don't, then? Don't stop trying to be friends with you?"

Tom Riddle gave him another odd, inscrutable look. His stony expression cracked as a sliver of curiousity shone through.

"Why would you attempt something so hopeless with knowledge that nothing you do will ever get you anywhere?" he inquired, words smooth upon his tongue but cutting harsh as they left. "Nevertheless, don't you 'hate' me?" he mocked. "I've done nothing to change such thoughts, and I highly doubt I ever will."

"I know you haven't changed," Harry quickly said, too stubborn to feel dismayed, "but, maybe—just maybe—you don't have to if I can be the bigger person and change myself instead."

"'The bigger person'," Tom Riddle scoffed, like simply saying the words had dirtied his tongue. "Why would you ever change your own character for another?" the other boy asked with distinct disbelief. "Have you no sense of self or identity?"

"What wrong with changing myself for you? People change all the time to fit in with others," he said obstinately. As if to vindicate himself, he insistently added, "I mean, I think anyone with half a brain in their noggin can tell that even if he thinks himself a Mr. Tough Guy, Billy Stubbs secretly loves everything about singing princesses and dancing tutus—he owns a bunny named 'Sir Bun-Bun' if it ain't obvious 'nough. And, and, and, um," he paused to think, "Amy Benson sure ain't as prissy as she appears to be—she has a habit of stealing things ev'rywhere she goes and enjoys framing others for the theft. If they can change themselves into a wannabe hard-nosed bloke and uptight, po-faced brown-noser, I should be able to change myself if I want to." His soft features pulled into a determined frown. "If all those others can do it, so can I."

If he was impressed by the younger boy's observations, Tom Riddle didn't show it. Lips slightly downturning, he remarked coolly, "Except, you forget that you are not like 'all those others'."

Harry felt a blush deepen against his pale features at the other boy's words. His ears felt positively on fire beneath the matting of his wild dark hair. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Tom Riddle shrugged with easy nonchalance. "Nothing. I am just stating a fact. One that you must know as well as I."

"Well, yeah, I guess. I mean, if you're talking 'bout how I'm not a girl and I don't resemble a rodent-toothed giant like Billy Stubbs, then yeah, I guess I do know what you're talking 'bout," Harry said, tone matter-of-fact and slightly more petulant than necessary. "But that much was obvious, Captain Obvious. Duh."

The other boy huffed irately, rolling his eyes. "I did not mean it in such an obvious sense, you imbecile," he sneered.

"Oh," Harry replied shortly, briefly frowning at his lack of eloquence. "What did you mean, then?"

"That you are fundamentally different, and not only in the physiological sense."

Harry furrowed his brows, rolling the unfamiliar word along his tongue, "Phy–, physi–, physiological… Weird word, yeah?" He pursed his lips. "Whatever though, I know me and all the other children—"

"The other children and I," Tom Riddle interrupted brusquely with slight frown.

Harry paid it no mind, rolling his eyes and continuing as if the other boy hadn't spoken, "—are different, but I also know that I wouldn't change myself for anyone other than you." Harry cringed with embarrassment as he noted how that sounded, face immediately flushing a red that was almost as bold the declaration that had parted from his lips. "Uh," he stammered, "I mean… That's really, really, really not what I meant. Um, whatever you thought I meant, that is. I mean, it is what I meant, but not in the sense that you think I meant, y'know, um..." Harry sucked his cheeks in sharply, anxiously biting at the insides in mortification. He breathed through his nose while attempting to stop the heat of his face from spreading anymore than his neck.

"Your avid denial speaks volumes," Tom Riddle noted, eyes glinting dangerously. "How interesting you might actually prove yourself to be." He tilted his head inquisitively. "Tell me though, why just me? Why would you wish to change yourself for none but me?"

Harry couldn't stop himself from replying, words spilling forth earnestly, "I don't know how I know, but I just know things… and I feel like we're connected somehow, or something…" He bit at his lip unsure of whether or not to continue. However, the words brazenly left his mouth before he could do much to filter them, "You're special. I know you're special. Really special." He pursed his lips tightly, trying to stop himself from continuing with no avail, "Different, special, and some kind of wonderful that's as terrible as it is amazing." He looked away, cheeks feeling as if they might just burn right off from due to shame.

Tom Riddle's eyes momentarily widened with uncharacteristic wonder, visibly bemused in response to Harry's words. Then, his clear green gaze narrowed dangerously, a pretty smile slowly spreading itself seamlessly across his features. A violently cold shudder suddenly wracked through Harry's frail frame, and he assumed that it wasn't from the ice cold water upon his skin.

Tom Riddle looked at him like he was an interesting creature that the older boy just couldn't wait to dissect. "You're an odd little thing, aren't you?" he purred indulgently. His smile widened, straight white teeth glimpsing at Harry coyly. "Perhaps…" he trailed off thoughtfully. "Perhaps becoming 'friends' might be a possibility between us."

Harry blinked, suspicion welling up within him at Tom Riddle's sudden change of heart; he could hear the mocking quotations surrounding the word 'friends'. However, despite that, he couldn't keep the excitement from seeping into his speech, "Really?"

"Of course. Would I lie?" Tom Riddle drawled with barely susceptible mockery.

Yes, Harry thought in immediate reply. Yes, you really would.

"I'm wounded, brat. I thought you wanted to be friends," the other boy said, feigning hurt. Clear green eyes pinned Harry down with a sad tearful look.

Harry furrowed his brow, wondering if he'd spoken his thoughts aloud. Opening to his mouth to speak, he was quickly cut off.

"Yes, yes, you did."

Harry pursed his lips childishly. "You didn't even know what I was going to say."

"Yes, yes, I did," Tom Riddle retorted. "In fact, I bet you were going to demand the obvious and ask me whether or not you had spoken your thoughts aloud," he said, smooth and eloquent despite his rapid pace of speech. "I cut down the amount of time you would have wasted asking such a question and briefly answered it before it could even think to arise. So, therefore, you're welcome," he finished with a condescending sneer.

Bristling at the tone, Harry snapped, "You don't have to be so mean all the time."

Barely rolling his eyes, the older boy retorted, "Spare me the juvenile name-calling. I'm merely being practical." He lifted a shoulder in a nonchalant shrug. "If I was 'mean', as you so call it," he mocked, motioning quotations with the hand that wasn't holding Harry's beneath the faucet, "then I would've initially replied with something similar to, 'I knew what you were going to say before you opened that predictably daft speaking device you'd like to think of as your mouth because as I've just said, you're predictably daft. In fact, you should be thanking me for graciously stopping you before you managed to enhance the already astounding level of your idiocy by revealing the completely witless being of your existence.'" He smiled. "See, comparatively, I'm rather agreeable, if I do say myself."

Though he only truly understood about half of what the older boy said, that understandable half left Harry feeling highly offended. He openly gaped for a moment too long before he gathering his wits.

"'Practical'? 'Agreeable'? Uh, right, as if," he scoffed. "More like, you're 'merely being an arse'. And if you're 'agreeable', then I'm a bloody saint."

Tom Riddle coughed, smothering a patronizing laugh. "My, my, my. Such language."

"Coming from you?" Harry hissed with heated annoyance. "That's funny."

Tom Riddle raised an unimpressed brow, as if to say with that contemptuous tone of his, "Oh, really?"

Pursing his lips into a semblance of a pout, he said, "You're the one who dropped all those F-bombs before." Harry wrinkled his nose, recalling the less than enjoyable circumstances of that situation.

The older boy scowled darkly. "You pushed me," he snapped, all traces of banter vanishing from his tone.

Harry frowned in response. "You tried to kill me," he retorted waspishly.

Tom Riddle's clear green eyes narrowed dangerously, throwing away Harry's hand in an instant. "A pity I didn't succeed then," he sneered.

Harry's eyes widened, tears gathering at the corners as his lips began to tremble. I mean, I knew he was thinking of something utterly horrible while strangling me, but... he trailed off in thought. I've never actually had someone say, that, to my face.

"What? Are you going to cry again?" the older boy taunted cruelly.

Hearing Tom Riddle's jeering tone, Harry quickly steeled himself, wiping at his eyes with his free hand. "No," he barked defiantly. "I'm not gonna cry, you utter dunderhead! I don't know what's your problem but you shouldn't take it out on other people," he berated harshly, a few drops of liquid unwillingly spilling down his cheeks. He exclaimed furiously, "I get it, okay?"

The other boy gave him a thunderous frown, hissing through gritted teeth, "You don't get a single thing, brat."

Harry bit down on his lip, stopping the petulant retort eager to bloom from the tip of his tongue. "No, I do get it," he said earnestly with a softer, shakier voice. "I do, I promise. I, I," he paused, trying to find the words. "I know you're different, and I'm..."

Still visibly hostile, Tom Riddle prompted with cold, calculating eyes, "You're..."

Harry sighed. "I... I know that I might not get things like you do—I don't think anyone will ever get things like you—but, I know what it's like to be... different," he finally admitted after a pause. "I've never told anyone this—and I'm pretty sure you'll use it against me, but at the moment, I really don't care—I can feel the stark, uh, what is that word, um, contrast between everyone else and me. I might not be exactly like you, with your magic fingers and all that, but whenever I'm surrounded by everyone else... I just feel wrong, like I'm out of place." His lips trembled as he mumbled, "Too different to belong."

Tom Riddle's features were still set into a frown. "I have no need to belong anywhere," he said, almost sounding petulant in his denial.

Harry's bright green eyes pinned him with a look, clearly sceptical. "Everyone wants to belong somewhere, don't they? I know I do, because that's what always truly frightens me." He continued quietly, "I'm scared I'll never belong. I feel like I don't belong and never will, not even when I try so hard to fit in."

Eyes narrowing, the older boy snapped, "I'm nothing like you." Voice harsh and clear, he sneered, "I'm not scared of anything."

Harry frowned. "Everyone's scared of something," he stated, matter-of-factly. "But," he relented, "perhaps you're scared of less than I am."

"I am not scared," Tom Riddle denied with a disgusted curl to his lip. "People fear me, not the other way around."

"There's more to fear than the people around us." His eyes softened as he gave the older boy a humourless smile. "I think we both know that."

"Perhaps I shall admit to such," Tom Riddle scoffed. "But that doesn't change the fact that I think fear is but yet another useless sentiment that does nothing but impede your logic. I do not fear, as I have no use for it."

Harry let out a soft chuckle. "Always with your logic and certainty." He smiled sincerely, continuing, "But I think that's what draws me to you. I want to be brave and unyielding, I want to have no care in the world for what others think, and you're everything that I want to be."

Tom Riddle stared silently at Harry, allowing him to proceed with an intrigued look in his clear green eyes.

"Not that I want to be cold and cruel like you," he clarified, quickly adding, "No offence." The older boy merely raised an unimpressed brow. "I mean, no one can be as cold and cruel as you..." he trailed off, realizing how that sounded. Harry amended nervously, "I didn't mean that as anything but a compliment, 'cause that kinda sounded pretty mean, but it really wasn't really to be... Promise." He bit at the peeling skin of his lips. "But, yeah, other than that about you, I think you're brave and unyielding, and never seem to care what others think. You're always so certain about yourself with your big words and confidence. I like that, and it's why I wanted to be friends. I think, maybe..." Harry pursed his lips uncertainly before continuing with more conviction than before, "There's something wonderful about you, and you only need someone to accept it rather than fear it."

After a tense moment of silence, Tom Riddle scoffed derisively, "And that supposed 'someone' is you?"

Harry nodded once, features incredibly severe for one so young. "Yes. You don't need no more than one person to believe. You don't have to have anyone but me."

Momentarily stunned, Tom Riddle gave Harry an odd look of intrigue before bursting out into laughter. It was soft and mocking, but laughter nonetheless; Harry felt something warm clench at his heart.

"You sound awfully possessive, brat," Tom Riddle remarked through a short chuckle. But as quick as the laughter came, the older boy's features swiftly sobered with a confused frown before falling into its familiar, impassive state. He scrutinized Harry silently before finally speaking, low and brusque, "However, as amusing as your little confession was, I think I've had enough entertainment for the evening." Standing up, he exited the bathroom with quick, exact strides. "You can show yourself out," he said cooly over his shoulder.

Crumpled on the cold tiles of the bathroom floor for a small while longer, Harry felt the heat of shame and rejection spread red across his face and neck. Quickly gathering himself up, he booked it out of the bathroom and slammed open the door.

Pausing for the briefest of moments in the doorway, he peeked back. Tom Riddle stood still in the middle of the room, features visibly distracted as he refused to meet Harry's eyes.

"I meant what I said," Harry said, ignoring the burn of his cheeks. "I said I'd change for you, and I will—but it won't be just for you. It'd be for me, too! To prove that I can." He steeled his gaze in determmination. "The world doesn't revolve Tom Riddle, y'know. But Tom Riddle's a challenge and I'm more than brave enough to take the challenge on. Plus, heroes always win in the end." The other boy scoffed in evident disgust but Harry continued on with little regard, boasting, "Because you think I can't, that no one can, I will change so I'll always be able to accept you, no matter what!" Smiling tentatively as the older boy's clear gaze finally swept towards him, Harry's sentiments encouraged him to speak with more vindication, "You said you don't care about belonging somewhere, but there's wrong with wanting to." His face felt especially hot beneath the cold green gaze. Clearing his throat and pushing aside the self-consciousness, Harry stated quietly, "Just think about it, Tom Riddle."

At that, Harry bolted from the room as quick as his stubby little limbs would take him.

Rushing into his room, he slammed the door closed, collapsing helplessly against the it.

While Harry's wrist still burnt with an eager scald of pain, it was the echo of running water and cool green eyes that lingered upon the forefront his mind.

...

The next morning he awoke to the quiet click of his door closing shut.

Opening his eyes drearily, Harry rolled out of his bed with exaggerated reluctance. Short limbs flailed uselessly as his legs were caught by the swath of starched bed sheets and the threadbare blanket.

Tumbling to the floor with a pained yelp, he noted a small plain box resting in front of his door.

Slightly apprehensive, Harry tried to get a closer with the blankets still tangled around him, though with little avail. Groaning helplessly, he decided to drag the bundle with him as he crawled closer to the box.

Resting on his knees in front of it, he stared at the bland brown cardboard with uncertainty. Hand hesitantly reaching forward, he quickly flicked the cover off before burrowing into his swath of blankets for cover.

Seeing that nothing overt had happened in reaction—no big explosion or terrifying jack-in-the-box—Harry peeked through his blanket, bundling it closer around his head for comfort. The wild curls dusting his forehead smoothed across his temples as his rosy little cheeks puffed out in suspicion.

Tentatively leaning forward, he peered into the small container; a faded piece of paper sat innocently at the top, folded neatly to fit perfectly into the box. Harry picked it up curiously, unfolding it delicately with clumsy fingers.

Eyes widening, Harry realized that the paper had once been a page of a novel—most of the minuscule words were rubbed out by a water stain but small printed letters still lined the edges with a sad partiality. The centre of the page lay mostly stark, apart from a few lines of neat script written with fine black letters of print:

—

Harry Potter,

Let me clarify.

This is not an apology.

You are immature, irritating, and unreasonable.

Perhaps even slightly obsessed with me.

Comprehensible but inconvenient.

However, I can understand your logic. Perhaps.

Please take in mind that I am adverse with acquainting myself with those who lack self-preservation.

I've also heard idiocy is contagious.

Keep that in mind, too.

You're welcome.

Tom M. Riddle.

—

Harry read through the letter twice, some of the more complicated words stumped him for a bit before he could guess what they meant through the context. Tom Riddle seemed to favour big words, which wasn't that surprising if you considered his ego.

Upon the third read through, clear understanding dawned upon Harry. Understandably, he found a familiar mixture of anger and indignation work itself up within him. Tom Riddle seems to have a talent for inciting such emotions.

How dare he? Harry seethed, wondering how someone could manage to shove all their cruel, patronizing condescension so accurately into a few lines of written script. Thinking about it made Harry twice as irritable.

Crumpling the note within his fist, he was prepared to storm into the room next door and give Tom Riddle a right clock to his face. He certainly wasn't undeserving. (Harry still hasn't quite forgotten—or forgiven—the other's attempt at asphyxiation.)

A huge, black boo-boo to Tom Riddle's eye will be the least of his problems when I'm done with him! He headed for the door with little thought.

As he stood, blanket and all, Harry jostled the box that had held Tom Riddle's note with one of his socked feet. He had forgotten about the rest of its existence—too wrapped up in Tom Riddle's sneering words and condescending attitude. As he caught himself before short limbs could trip over the edge of his blanket, Harry realized there were more things in the box apart from the note.

Momentarily stilled, Harry focussed his attention back onto the small cardboard box.

Previously covered by the folded page, lay two rolls of neatly turned bandages. Harry's heart clenched at the sight, wanting to coo obscenities at the dubious proof that perhaps Tom Riddle does care (even just a teensy, weensy, tiny bit).

Lifting them out, Harry simply couldn't restrain his squeal as he noted what was lying beneath the paper and the bandages.

A set of seven, unused colouring crayons were lined perfectly across the bottom. All in various shades of pretty, pretty green.

I knew he took them all. See! I knew it, I knew it, I knew it! Harry thought triumphantly, openly squealing with delight. He leant forward to look closer. Unused, green, and perfect! I can't believe he'd actually give them to me!

So happy, Harry actually felt tears well up, excitement taking him for a turn. Sniffling, his smile shone brighter than ever, the warmth in his tummy insistent and tumultuous. He was almost certain that he was going to puke from delight.

Carefully smoothing out Tom Riddle's note with a guilty pout, Harry then proceeded to neatly tuck everything back into the box before gingering placing it upon the worn, wooden end table next to his bed.

Still clad in slightly large pyjamas, little Harry flung open his door with as much force as possible, small feet bare as they pattered quickly to the room next door.

Pounding thunderously on Tom Riddle's door with his one good hand, he cried out, "Open up! Open up! Open up! Open—"

He was cut off as the door swung open, revealing a fully dressed Tom Riddle, complete with an annoyed glare.

"What?" he demanded. "Wh—"

Harry didn't give the older boy a chance to finish as he let himself tumble forward, wrapping his short, slender arms around the other boy in glee as they both fell back into the room.

Harry didn't know what came over him in the next moment, but all thoughts of the fingerprints branded into his necks faded into idle noise, his self-preservation completely fleeing as he pressed himself into the older boy's slender boy.

Pouty, pink lips were wet, chapped and anxious as they pressed themselves onto a smooth, pale cheek.

"Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!" Harry squealed into Tom Riddle's ear. "Y'know, when I say it three times—"

"—You really mean it," the other boy finished with a harsh sneer. "Yes, I know already."

Hearing Tom Riddle's irritated tone, Harry suddenly came to terms with what he'd just done—what he was doing at that very moment. Quick but clumsy, he frantically tried to disentangle himself, which proved harder than it seemed.

Tom Riddle raised a hand, making Harry swiftly flinch away from the threat. He's gonna blast me off and into the wall, I bet, Harry thought, scrunching into himself as he steeled for the bout of pain sure to follow.

Then—rather astoundingly—instead of exacting expected punishment, the older boy merely brought his hand through his already ruffled dark hair, sighing in exasperation as he lay still beneath Harry's fidgeting form.

Peering down at him, Harry noted the subtle curl to the other boy's lips. It looked oddly out of place when paired with the older boy's coolly exasperated features and calculating eyes, but its peculiarity did not stop the butterflies from fluttering wildly in the depths of Harry's stomach.

Emotions humming loudly, Harry could think of nothing but grinning back brightly.

...

...

...

Harry Potter knew that he probably shouldn't give Tom Riddle another chance.

(But he's always been a rule-breaker at heart, hasn't he?)

...