Chapter Text
The street in front of Wool's Children's Home was dark and silent, the snow swallowing every sound in the oppressive night. Despite this rare blessing of calm in a city that was normally filled with traffic sounds at all hours, one window on the second floor was still lit. Behind it, a nine year old boy was lying on his bed with his eyes wide open. Tom Riddle — because it was his name — knew he should try to sleep. It was already past midnight, and if he was too tired tomorrow, the others could take advantage of it.
But he was far too busy making Jack Renshaw's toy car swirl in the air above him.
The toy was shaking a little, but Tom still felt elated. He was practicing his gift every night since he had gotten his new room and was making leaps of progress. He could control it better and better.
In the private corners of his mind, he was secretly calling it Magic . It wasn't, of course. Magic was for children who believed in Santa Klaus and in fairy tales. His gift must have a scientific explanation. Who knew, maybe he was born of a secret government experimentation program, like in the animated series that passed on the telly on Sunday mornings.
But Tom was, after all, a child, and "scientific experiment" wasn't as wondrous or alluring as " Magic ".
Wherever it came from, whatever it was, Tom was determined to master it.
This was why, when the quiet night was pierced by a cracking sound and a bright green-ish light zapped outside the window for a second, Tom was the only one to notice. He startled and the toy car fell none too gently on his face. Groaning and rubbing his nose, he got out of bed and went to the window to see what it had been. A car accident, maybe?
The strange light was already gone, leaving behind a darkness that Tom's eyes could barely parse. There weren't many street-lamps in the neighborhood. The street was silent once more, no sign of a car except for those that had been parked all night with a layer of snow on them. There was strictly no movement outside.
Tom frowned. A less self-assured child might have thought he had dreamed the sound and the light, but Tom was perfectly confident in his senses. The universe was trying to pretend that nothing had happened, but it couldn't fool him. He narrowed his eyes and stuckhis face against the icy glass, scrutinizing the street with determination.
His heart gave a jolt when he caught sight of a small shape, just in front of the steps of the Children's Home. It was lying in the snow, barely visible in its stillness.
A trickle of curiosity seeped through his wariness. What was this? Had it produced the sound and the green light?
Tom wasn't one to restrain himself when something caught his interest. Before any more questions could come to his mind, he had put on his shoes, grabbed his scarf and coat, and was out of his room. He avoided the cracking steps of the wooden stairs with practised ease and soon found himself opening the window next to the front door. The latter was locked after seven o' clock, but the supervisors never thought to secure the window — a well known secret amongst the older kids.
The light from the hall fell on the form that was slowly being covered by the snow.
It was a child.
Tom boggled for a moment, taken aback. Then he went down the steps and lowered himself near the head of the child.
He didn't recognize him from Wool's. It was a boy roughly his age, with sweet features and dark hair. He was in nice blue pajamas and his eyes were closed peacefully, like he was simply sleeping instead of courting hypothermia.
"Hey," said Tom, slapping him softly on a cheek that was still a little warm.
The boy's head lolled, but he didn't react. His chest was rising and falling, so Tom knew he was alive. Though maybe not for long, considering the biting cold.
A breathless thrill ran through Tom as he looked down on the boy. This child was at his total mercy. If Tom left him to die here, he would be found in the morning and nobody would know Tom had been here at all. Tom had never seen a human being die, not with his own eyes, not for real. Wouldn't it be interesting to watch? It was the perfect opportunity, really.
He darted a look at all the windows around the street, worried that someone might be watching. No, there was no one in sight. And surely, if an adult had seen them they would have intervened by now.
Tom's gaze went back to the boy's face. He kept staring as the snow fell on them.
He didn't know why, but the more he looked at the boy, the less he wanted to just let him die. It felt like a waste, somehow. And wasn't the way he had appeared suspicious, with this sound and this green light? If Tom let the boy die, he would forever wonder what had happened.
His decision was made before he even realised it. After a last curious glance at the boy, Tom got up and went back inside to get help.
After all, if there was something Tom could never resist, it was a mystery.
֍֍֍
He was floating in the clouds, gently drifting in an ocean of peace.
He had been floating since… forever, probably, but lately, things had started to change. The clouds were becoming brighter, some weird shapes appearing and moving behind them. There were sounds reaching him, now. And sensations too : softness, warmth, a dull pain that disrupted the peace…
"Hey, there," said a soft feminine voice. "You're finally awake. How do you feel?"
He remembered that he had eyes when he opened them. The clouds went away slowly as he came back to the real world. White walls and the blurry face of a young woman with freckles and bright blue eyes appeared above him.
"You slept a long time, Mister," she said with a smile.
Harry noticed that he was in a white hospital gown and that an IV was pumping a clear liquid into his right arm. The room they were in was quiet, though other voices and sounds could be heard outside, like the hospital was quite animated. He was glad these people weren't here right now; his head was throbbing .
"I'm Martha," said the woman gently. "I'm a social worker at Wool's Children's Home and we are at Queen Mary's Hospital. What's your name, sweetheart?"
"Harry," he croaked, before hesitating. The name had rolled off his tongue without any thought, and he was learning it at the same time as the woman. In truth, he couldn't remember if that was really his name.
He couldn't remember… anything.
"Hello, Harry," said the woman. "Can you tell me your surname, also? We found you in front of the Children's Home, but you didn't have any ID or papers with you."
They had found him? Harry searched inside his mind for an explanation, and panic started to rise when he couldn't find anything. Not just his surname, but who he was, where he was, or anything about him! He felt like he had lost something huge, like he had lost a whole universe, but he could only feel the edges of the hole and not what had been inside.
"I don't know!" he whimpered, tears gathering in his eyes. "I don't know!"
"Shh, shh…" said Martha, petting his head with a worried frown. "It's alright, Harry. What do you remember?"
"Nothing! I remember nothing!"
The hand on his hair stopped with a shocked silence. Martha leaned more toward him.
"Nothing? Not even your parents?"
The question was a blow to his stomach. Parents? He understood the word, no problem there. People were supposed to have parents, he knew that. But when he searched for his own, he only found a terrible emptiness.
"No!" he cried.
"Shh… shh… do you remember how you arrived at the Children's Home?"
"No!"
What was happening to him? He knew, knew in the deepest part of his heart that there were people who loved him somewhere. People that he loved in return. But where were they? Why couldn't he remember them?
His crying was about to fall into hysterics but the woman took him in her arms, whispering soothing words in his hair while she rocked him slowly. "Shh, Harry, shh… It's alright. Maybe the memories will come back later. Don't think about it right now. I shouldn't have asked right away. I'm going to fetch a nurse, tell them you're awake."
When Harry managed to calm down a little, Martha did just that and returned with a male nurse who took his vitals and cheerily announced that he was "fit as a fiddle." His face, though, fell in shock when Harry revealed that he didn't remember anything apart from his name. The man gave him some painkillers when he complained about his head, and then left, saying that a doctor would come in shortly.
"Shortly" ended up being two hours later. Harry filled this waiting time by making small talk with Martha, or rather, she making small talk while he nodded from time to time. After his earlier fit of tears, she didn't push him to participate or ask any probing questions, for which he was grateful. Bone weary, he ended up falling asleep again, waking up occasionally to find Martha reading a magazine peacefully beside his bed.
Finally, the doctor came and Harry endured his visit by shutting out most of what the man said. He was nice, but seemed obsessed and worried by the fact that Harry's identity was unknown. He was pestering Martha with questions, not Harry, but it didn't make much difference. The memory loss was also clearly troubling him, which made Harry think: at least we agree on something . Harry had to get a brain scan and do several weird tests, like pressing stress balls in his hands or writing down the alphabet. This took most of the remaining morning and beginning of the afternoon, and at the end the room was quite crowded, with two doctors and three nurses alongside Martha and him.
"He's healthy," said the original doctor to Martha while scratching his head. "The brain scan is normal, the motor and cognitive functions are working. It's like his unconsciousness left him perfectly functional but erased his personal memories."
"Will I get them back?" asked Harry.
The doctor gave him an awkward, pitying smile. "It's entirely possible. Young brains recover better than old ones. But I can't tell you when, or… or even if it will happen. The best would be to find a familiar environment to jolt your memories, but…"
He ended his sentence with a grimace, and everyone present imitated him, Martha and Harry included. A familiar environment . Harry probably wouldn't recognize a familiar environment if he saw one, in the state he was in.
"If we could at least find someone who knows him…" said a woman, the second doctor.
Martha sighed, looking apologetically at Harry. "The police are trying. But no one reported a missing child matching Harry's description yet. All they can do is go door to door in the Children's Home neighborhood to show his picture and ask if someone recognizes him."
"Maybe someone will come forward," said the nurse from before with an hopeful tone.
"I'm sure they will," said the woman doctor. She was wringing her hands, but when she noticed it she stopped abruptly.
In the end, the doctors announced that they couldn't do much more and declared him ready for discharge. The question was, of course, where he would go.
Two women from Social Services came to the hospital and asked Harry many questions, to which his answers were almost always "I don't remember". After some debate, it was agreed that he would go to this Wool's Children's Home where he had been found, at least temporarily. When asked, Harry gave his agreement. Maybe seeing the place would "jolt" his memories. He tried not to think too much about the fact that Children's Home sounded a lot like Orphans' Home . A place for orphans. The word seemed to fit him in a scary, familiar way, like well worn clothes. Had he not had parents before? But then, why did he feel a hole in his mind where he was sure his memories of them had been?
Martha and Harry left the hospital around 5 p.m. The hospital had found him some discarded children's clothes so he wouldn't have to leave in the pajamas that were his only possession. Well, almost.
"That's a pretty necklace," said Martha when he removed his hospital gown to put on the yellow sweatshirt he had been given.
He looked down, following her gaze. Indeed, a pendant hung on his chest on a simple, rough string. Harry took it in his hand and followed with a finger the metal symbol in which it was carved. A stick, inside a circle, inside a triangle. The metal was hot from resting against his skin, and Harry felt some foreign emotion swell inside him while looking at it. Some part of him recognized this symbol. He tried to follow the feeling, but it was like grasping at strings of smoke. All he could gather was one predominant impression: important .
"Thank you," Harry finally said to Martha, before putting on his new sweat and tucking the pendant under it.
Then, they were off. They took a bus and after that had to walk ten minutes to Wool's Children's Home. On the way, Harry caught the looks that Martha was giving him regularly. She was on alert for any sign that he remembered something.
They stopped when they arrived in front of the big, tired, grey concrete building that was Wool's. Harry felt…
Nothing. He had apparently been there last night, and yet he could have sworn he had never seen this place. Martha noticed his disappointment and visibly stifled her own.
"Don't worry," she said with a bright smile, rubbing his back. "It will come back. Come on, let's get you to Mrs Cole. She's the Director."
The hall of Wool's was clean but clearly in lack of funding. The paint had maybe been green some decades ago but was now slightly evoking the color of vomit and was peeling off in flakes. The linoleum had had some decorative designs that were now completely faded, and the front desk, bench, and false plants all seemed depressed to be here. The place was empty, but voices and movement could be heard beyond the hall and on the upper floors.
Martha led him to a door on the side with a plaque reading Lilian Cole, Chief Director . After knocking, a curt voice invited them inside.
An older woman was sitting behind a desk buried under piles of paperwork. She had a sharp, severe face with brown hair cut at the jaw. "Ah, you brought him back already," she said to Martha, looking at Harry. She then addressed him directly: "Harry, is it?"
Harry nodded shyly.
"Martha tells me you don't remember anything apart from your first name?" she asked in a demanding tone.
Harry's chest constricted, but nodded again. This time he was able to let out a breathy "Yes".
"Hmm…" she said, eyeing him critically. "That's unfortunate. But I'm sure it will come back to you. The hospital suggested that it could be amnesia caused by shock, so Social Services recommended that you see a psychologist to talk about it. We'll get you an appointment as soon as one frees up — they are quite swamped, so it may not be right away. In the meantime, you'll stay with us. God knows we are already bursting at the seams, but it can't be helped. Martha will show you to a dormitory. Did she explain how this place works?"
Harry shook his head, sending an apologetic glance toward Martha. Mrs Cole nodded and continued in a well practised speech.
"Here we shelter children or teens that can't be with their families and don't have a place in foster care. We value respect, independance and hard-work, so we don't have a janitor — we all do our share of the chores. You'll have to participate each day in one duty: either cleaning, laundry, cooking, gardening, or helping with the smaller children. You'll also go to school as soon as we get a feel for your education levels. I suppose you don't remember in which class you were before…?" Seeing Harry's look, she shook her head. "Alright, no matter. The school will test you. You'll be expected to do your homework seriously and ask for help if you need it. Otherwise, you will have free reign to do what you want in the confines of the establishment. Only kids above thirteen have outdoor rights, so you'll stay inside or be punished. There is a yard, a play room and a study room. No shouting, no running inside, and no stirring up trouble with the other children. Understood?"
Harry nodded shakily.
"Good." She looked back down into her paperwork, dismissing them with the air of someone who had a thousand more things to do before the end of the day. "Martha, you can take him to the Blue dormitory. I don't think he's much older than 8 or 9."
They left her scribbling furiously at her desk and Martha led Harry down the hall, past a room where children were lounging on a sofa in front of a telly or playing babyfoot in what looked like a fierce competition. They went up to the second floor, coming across children of all ages that were chatting in their rooms with the door open, mopping the floor, or chasing each other, causing Martha to scold them for running inside. Harry received many curious stares that made him want to hide, but luckily they soon arrived at the door of a long room on the second floor. The pale blue walls on each side had a row of beds aligned against them, and a blond boy of Harry's age was cleaning the only window at the end. He turned toward them when they entered, and his eyes widened excitedly.
"Oh! Is it the boy from last night?"
"What did I tell you, Dennis," said Martha while guiding Harry to a bed near the door. "We don't talk about people like they're not here, it's not polite. Finish your chores and then you can talk."
"Sorry," mumbled the boy named Dennis. He turned back toward the window, but kept giving side-looks at Harry while working.
Martha went to a big wardrobe and brought linens and sheets to the bed. "Here," she said. "Do you know how to make your bed, Harry?"
"Yes." Once again, the answer came from an unknown place inside him--one he couldn't have found if he had wanted, but that seemed to volunteer information when needed. Well, some information. It was apparently very selective.
"Great! I'll leave you to it, then. I'm sorry, but I must be off. Lots of work to do." She petted his hair once more. "Find me if you need anything. Supper is downstairs at seven, the bathroom is on the other side of the hallway, and bedtime is at nine. I'll find you a toothbrush before tonight. Alright?"
Harry nodded, even if he felt a little lost at the idea of losing Martha. She was his only security in this strange new world.
He watched her leave, and then turned to unfold his linens. As he worked to cover the thin mattress, he noticed the blond boy — Dennis — approach him.
"Is it true that you were in a coma?" he asked with ardent curiosity.
"I… don't know if it was a coma," answered Harry. "They told me I was unconscious, but…"
"What happened to you? Did someone hit you on the head?"
Harry clenched his teeth, lowering his eyes to the pillow he was trying to stuff into the pillowcase. "I don't think so." It was true that his head had hurt earlier, but the doctors would have noticed if he had been hit, wouldn't they? He passed a hand on his scalp absent-mindedly, but didn't feel any bump or wound. "I don't remember anything. Only my name."
"Wow! Really? That's dope!"
To each their own, Harry guessed.
The voice of another boy suddenly came from the door behind him. "I don't believe him. I bet he's lying because his story is too pathetic to tell."
The entrance was crowded with two other boys and a girl. The tallest one, a boy with curly hair and a crooked nose, was looking at Harry in disdain. The blond girl in braids next to him hit him in the arm. "Don't be mean, Eric. He just arrived!"
The boy named Eric advanced toward Harry, followed by the two others. "So what's the story," he asked harshly. "You the son of junkies, or what?"
Harry felt himself flush in embarrassment and anger. He chanced a look at the others, but they were watching him avidly, waiting for his answer. He straightened and glared at Eric. " I don't remember . You deaf, or what?"
Shock passed through the children. For a moment, all was silent and even Eric looked at Harry in surprise.
And then, he laughed.
"I like him!" he said, hitting Harry playfully on the shoulder. "He's not a pushover."
The other children relaxed while Harry eyed Eric with a narrow gaze, not sure that the affection was mutual.
"Maybe Tom made you forget," said the remaining boy, ginger-haired and smaller than even the girl. He looked at Harry with fright in his brown eyes. "He can do that, you know. Maybe he did something to you."
"Tom?" asked Harry.
"Tom Riddle," whispered the girl like it was a secret. "He's the one who found you."
Tom Riddle . Why did this name sound familiar?
"You should avoid him," said Eric. "He's bad news."
"Didn't he save me?" said Harry, nonplussed.
"Must have hit his head or something," mumbled Dennis. "In his normal state he would have been more likely to pile more snow on top of you."
Harry looked around the dormitory. "Does he sleep here?"
Eric shook his head. "Thank fuck, no. He used to, but he got Mrs Cole to give him one of the private rooms last summer. I don't know how he did it, since the rules say you have to stay in the dormitories until you're ten, but good riddance anyway."
"He used to give us bad dreams," said the ginger boy, shivering.
Harry wondered if they weren't exaggerating a little, but didn't voice this thought aloud. The girl introduced herself as Amy Benson and the ginger boy as Billy Stubbs. The three boys slept in this room also, and Dennis even had the bed next to Harry, which made him glad. Being surrounded by friendly faces helped to mute the voices inside his head that kept screaming: Where am I? Who am I? Where do I come from? What happened to me? The feeling that he didn't belong here wouldn't leave him.
But then, who belongs in an orphanage? he thought.
The little gang showed him how to do his bed according to Mrs Cole's standards, and then it was time for a tour of the building. Harry met some of the other children while his new friends took him to the kitchens ("The most important place to know", assured Dennis), to the dining hall ("Meals are at seven thirty, noon, five and seven everyday", Eric helpfully informed him. "Don't be late, or there won't be any food left for you."), the yard (a big but dreary patch of land at the back of the building, filled with wild grass, a meagre vegetable garden and a rusty swing), the laundry room ("The worst chore," moaned Amy. "I hate Tuesdays, that's my day of rotation."), and to the play room--the one with the babyfoot, the telly, some old toys in baskets, and a few books on the shelves ("Our age group has television rights from five to six on mondays and fridays, but you always have to kick out the Year Nines before," said Eric. "They always hog it to death.")
A tall and burly man with dark hair and beard stopped them at some point, telling Harry's friends to get to their chores. Dennis and Billy were apparently supposed to be on cleaning duty, Amy on homework duty for the younger kids, and Eric on cooking duty.
"See you at dinner, Harry!" said Amy, while the others waved and went on their way.
The tall man watched them go before rolling his eyes. "Any excuse to avoid their chores, these ones," he said with an undertone of fondness. He turned toward Harry, having to look down quite a lot. "You're the kid they found last night, ain't you?"
Harry nodded, a little intimidated. The man smiled.
"Name's Percy. I'm the handyman, though God knows that's not all I do here. You have a problem with your stuff or the building amenities, you come to me. Alright?"
You don't look like Percy , was the immediate thought that came to Harry. But who was Percy and what he looked like, nobody knew.
Harry nodded again with some delay, and Percy-not-Percy gave him a critical look.
"If you don't have anything to do, you should go lie down, kid. You look a little pale in the cheeks, if you don't mind me sayin'."
Harry agreed, afraid he was going to be drafted to one of the Children's Home duties if he didn't. He returned to the Blue dormitory — which was now empty — and sat on his bed. Soon, the weight of the day's events was pushing on his shoulders and he found himself on his back, gazing up at the cracked ceiling without really seeing it.
He was more lost than he had ever been before. He didn't remember anything of his previous life, but he was certain of that.
He pressed the butt of his palms against his eyes, willing them not to shed any tears. Remember , he had to remember ! The other children here were maybe separated from their families, but at least they had a past. Harry might as well have been born today. He had nothing, apart from a necklace.
With a desperation akin to fury, he dug and dug through his mind for any sliver of memory. The headache returned full force, but he kept going relentlessly, exhausting himself.
He didn't notice when he fell asleep. A forest came to take the place of the cracked ceiling, its thick foliage letting some moonlight pass through and bathing the place in an eerie atmosphere. This forest was very familiar. It felt not like home, but almost like the woods at the back of your house. It had always been dangerous, but tonight he knew (how you knew things in dreams) that a danger of another kind had invaded the place. A danger that he was walking straight to, sad but determined.
I'm gonna die , Harry suddenly remembered with a mounting sense of horror. I'm gonna die tonight.
"Will you stay with me?" he heard his own voice say in the ether.
"Until the very end," answered a man whose face was invisible but whose voice brought confort, love and sorrow all at the same time.
Then red eyes, and a flash of green that dream-Harry didn't try to dodge. When it hit, he sat up in his bed with a gasp. He blinked, and the outline of the dormitory slowly came into focus. He tried to calm his breathing.
I'm not dead. I'm not dead.
"Are you alright?" asked the voice of a boy.
Harry startled and whipped his head to the side.
Tom Riddle was leaning against the doorframe a few feet away, arms crossed and observing him with concern. Harry had never met the dark-haired boy, so he wasn't sure how he knew that this was Tom Riddle. But he knew .
"Nightmare," he croaked.
Riddle nodded. "It seemed like it. I was about to wake you, but you did it on your own."
Perhaps it was because the boy was leaning against the doorframe without showing any sign that he had been about to move, perhaps because of the same intuition that had given him his name, but Harry knew that Riddle lied. He hadn't been about to wake him at all.
The boy straightened and closed the gap between them, hand thrust forward. "My name is Tom Riddle," he said with a nice smile. "I'm glad that you are better. Everyone was very concerned, when you were taken to the hospital."
Riddle's eyes were dark and fathomless. Harry felt himself pulled in like they were black holes and, in a flash, he saw Tom sitting on a bed in front of a man in a purple suit. They were both turned — of all things — toward a burning wardrobe.
"He scares the other children," floated Mrs Cole's voice.
"You mean he's a bully?" asked the man in purple.
"He must be, but it's very hard to catch him at it."
Harry blinked, coming back to the present moment. Tom Riddle still had his hand out, but he was starting to frown at Harry's lack of reaction.
What the hell? thought Harry. Was he crazy, as well as amnesic?
"Maybe I spoke too early," said Riddle in a worried tone. "You are better, aren't you?"
Harry gulped. If the other children hadn't warned him, if this… flash… hadn't just assaulted him, he would have been fooled by Riddle's nice exterior. Now, though, all the hairs were standing on the back of his neck and he just wanted to get away from that gaze.
He forced himself to smile and stand up, finally taking Riddle's hand and shaking it briefly. "Hum… yeah. I'm still a little out of it, sorry."
He tried to take back his hand, but Riddle hung on to it. "That's understandable," said the other boy, staring at Harry intensely and not seeming to notice his efforts to free himself . "When I found you, you were a few minutes away from dying of hypothermia. It can't be brushed off that easily."
"Yeah…" said Harry slowly. "Hum… thank you about that, by the way. For saving me? I'm… grateful, really."
A gentle smile quirked Riddle's lips, though the relentless stare made it a little unnerving. "You are lucky that my window looks directly on the street, or I wouldn't have noticed your arrival. Strange, the way you showed up, isn't it?"
Harry felt his heart spike, forgetting his trapped hand for a moment. "You saw me arrive?" he asked avidly. "Did you see who brought me here?"
Riddle didn't respond right away, continuing to stare at Harry with that unflinching gaze.
"You don't know?" he finally asked in a deceptively mild tone.
"I don't remember anything," confessed Harry for the umpteenth time.
"I heard," said Riddle.
Harry frowned. "Then why do you ask?"
Riddle's smile didn't seem so gentle anymore. "Strange, isn't it?" he repeated. "To leave a child lying in the snow like that."
Harry hadn't let himself think about it. The fact that the people who had brought him here cared so little about him that they hadn't even bothered to ring the bell to put him inside was making his throat constrict and a hollow feeling open inside his stomach. And why had he been unconscious to begin with? Had they hurt him?
Somehow, Harry really hoped he had been kidnapped and dumped here afterwards. Because if his own parents had done that…
"And the way you arrived…" continued Riddle in a leading, almost taunting voice.
Harry gave a particularly sharp tug and finally slipped his hand from Riddle's grasp. He took a step back.
"If you have something to say, say it."
Riddle's face didn't seem to really change, and yet it hardened undeniably. "Don't play dumb to me. How did you do it?"
Gone was the nice facade. Harry preferred it that way.
"How did I do what?" he asked with irritation.
Riddle's eyes glinted dangerously. "The green light. The zapping sound. The way you just appeared out of nowhere. I saw it all, so don't lie."
What the hell was he talking about? For a second, the image of the green light that had woken him up from his dream shot before Harry's eyes.
"I did… what?" asked Harry. "So you didn't see who brought me here?"
Harry suddenly felt cold and oppressed, like an invisible force was pressing down on him from all sides. Riddle took the step that was separating them and, to his horror, Harry found out that he couldn't move. Literally. His muscles worked alright, but they were restrained.
"You want me to believe that you forgot how you came here?" sneered Riddle. He was only a little taller than Harry, but right now, glaring down at him, it seemed a lot more. "How convenient. How quaint."
Genuine fear was now coursing through Harry's veins. What was happening? What was this invisible thing trapping him? And why couldn't somebody come into the room right now?
"That's not convenient for me, if you must know," Harry gritted out, pushing against the invisible mold. He was relieved to hear that his voice sounded angry rather than scared.
Riddle put a cold hand around Harry's throat. He didn't squeeze, didn't do anything more, but its mere presence was an unspoken threat. "But it is, if you want to avoid questions," he said in a low tone. "Except that you won't be avoiding them from me ."
It was too much. Who did this guy think he was? Harry's outrage flowed over his fear, and some strange force soared within him to match Riddle's own. He pushed, and the cold cocoon restraining him stretched and cracked . Harry, now free, raised his arm and slapped Riddle's hand away from his throat.
"I'm the one with the questions, not the one who avoids them, you prick!" He looked up toward the clock on the wall and saw that it was already five to seven. "Now, I have better company to seek, so bye. Don't talk to me again."
He walked away, leaving behind a Tom Riddle who seemed shell-shocked. He had been since Harry had slapped his hand away. But he seemed to come back to himself as Harry was reaching the door, because the latter heard behind him:
"This is not over."
Harry threw a look over his shoulder, toward Riddle who was still standing by the bed, eyes resentful but weirdly gleaming on his pale face.
"Sorry to break it to you, but it really is," said Harry in a definitive tone.
And on these parting words, he left toward the dining hall. Despite himself, he looked behind him several times to make sure that Riddle wasn't following him. The other children hadn't been lying about this guy.
And this cold force… What the hell?
Harry had to have imagined it, right? It must be a side effect of his coma, like the memory loss. Riddle had seemed shocked when Harry had broken out of it, but that was maybe just because nobody had stood up to him before. No way he had been the one to create it. That would be, like… supernatural, or something. Nonsense.
In the dining hall, he took a tray and went to get food from the serving lady before sitting next to Amy and some of her girlfriends. The other boys were at an already full table, but Dennis waved at him from afar. Amy introduced him cheerfully while he cut through his washed out cauliflower and a slice of pork as thin as a paper sheet.
Tom Riddle came in five minutes later, and Harry pointedly did not look when he sat at a small empty table in a corner of the room. He felt his dark eyes boring through his forehead as he ate, though.
"Tom Riddle," he said.
The girls' conversation was interrupted immediately, almost shockingly. Amy and the others were looking at him with wide eyes. Glad to have gotten their attention so easily, Harry continued:
"Is he, like… sane?"
Amy chanced a look toward Riddle, and averted her eyes straight away as if burned. "Harry," she hissed, "why is he looking at you like that?"
Predictably, all the other girls followed her example and looked. Despite himself, Harry found himself exchanging a glance with Riddle, who had now narrowed his eyes.
"He cornered me in the dormitory, saying some crazy things."
"What crazy things?" asked Amy.
Harry had no reason to hide it from them… and yet he found himself reluctant to share Riddle's claims. The green light of his dream was still frightening him.
"It doesn't matter," he said. "Just… Is he known to be troubled, or…?"
Hailey, one of the girls, snorted before stopping herself and throwing a worried glance toward Riddle. "Troubled?" she mocked in a low voice. "Yeah, he's troubled alright."
"So he's crazy," checked Harry, already feeling relieved. If he was, then what he had said about appearing out of nowhere in a green light could be dismissed. This would just be a coincidence.
"He's not crazy," said Amy in a wary voice. "He's… weird."
"Weird how ?"
She was looking down at her plate, not meeting his eyes. The other girls didn't appear very eager to enlighten him either. In the end, Amy said, "Do you remember what Billy said earlier? That he could do things?"
"What, like magic?" half-joked Harry.
The other girls laughed nervously. Amy didn't, and Harry's smile slowly slid from his face.
"You're not serious," he said.
"I don't know what it is, alright," said Amy, a bit miffed. "Maybe he's just really good. But… some things happen to you when he's mad at you. Some things that can't be explained."
She was talking from experience, Harry realised. The way she kept her eyes down, the way she gripped her fork tightly to stop her hand from trembling… She was scared of Tom Riddle. Genuinely scared.
"Some things like… a force that stops you from moving?" he asked in a low voice, sensing his anxiety rising. The other girls were now very silent.
Amy looked up at him sharply. "He did it? He did it to you?"
Harry threw an hesitant look at the girls, but none seemed ready to mock him. They were waiting for his response as avidly as Amy. "He… yeah," admitted Harry.
"You must stay away from him, Harry," said Amy with urgency. "He's dangerous. Don't get on his bad side."
The dark eyes of Tom Riddle were still piercing holes on the side of his face. Harry wondered if it wasn't already too late.