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[lacrise666]

tom being that creepy neighbor watching harry with huge binoculars and muttering "so hot. i want him."

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Harry wanted to hate Tom.

He wanted to look at the young teen and see glowing red eyes or pale, scaly skin. He didn't want to see Tom, he wanted to see Voldemort.

It would make his job easier.

Ever since Harry had been thrown back into the past, just barely passing as young enough for Hogwarts, he had only one thought to keep him going.

One life for thousands.

Tom had to die.

But, Harry knows, he'd already have killed the boy if he still viewed him as Voldemort and not as the smart ass kissing teenager he was. He just didn't. Couldn't, really.

Because again, this was Tom.

He had hazel brown eyes that shown even lighter in the sun and he was still pale but in a more godly, angelic way.

But more over, he really was just a boy, not fully hardened by the world, a concept that Harry was intimately familiar with.

Tom hadn't torn his soul apart yet, Tom still wore his Hogwarts uniform with a Prefects badge attached to it. He still was forced to charm teachers and study for tests he would no doubt pass with flying colors. He still sat in the Great Hall and ate dinners with his house mates.

He did the normal things too, things that may or may not have had Harry in a state of shock for various hours afterwards, things like swimming in the Great Lake and laughing lightly at jokes, attending Quidditch games and broadcasting house pride, occasionally writing in his diary and actually showing some facial expressions.

And, yes, he could still be cold and he could still be rude, but he was no wanna-be-god just yet and certainly not a Dark Lord.

In fact, Harry recalled the knowledge that Tom had wanted to go out for the DADA position before becoming Voldemort.

Harry thought he would be incredible as a teacher if the way he directed the younger years was anything to go by.

He also thought that he shouldn't be thinking about Tom's future. If Harry's plan was to come to fermentation (which it totally was), Tom wasn't going to even have one.

Harry wanted to hate Tom. He wanted to think of him as the man who killed his parents, the man who raised an army and started a war, the monster who ruined his life.

But Harry didn't. Couldn't.

So he roamed the corridors of Hogwarts a few more times pretending he wasn't in his early twenties and wished desperately that Ron and Hermione were there with him, that he had actually gone through with his plan instead of becoming buddy buddy with Tom, the boy that was the furthered thing from Voldemort in his eyes.

He wished, but he didn't regret.

Because Tom was whole and just a boy, happy and ambitious, young and ready to take on the world.

And while Harry just couldn't kill him, he would do anything to prevent Tom becoming Voldemort.

Harry would die if he ever hated Tom.

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Too sunshine to be a Regulus kinny and to responsible to be a James kinny.

Life sucks.

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i will never, and i repeat, NEVER, get over how underrated Harry Potter is. i'm not talking about the book series or the movie franchise, i literally mean just the character himself. but more specifically i will never get over his trauma and how overlooked it is.

Harry Potter grew up in a literal cupboard under the stairs. a place in which his only friends were spiders and he couldn't even stand up straight. he experienced malnutrition all the while he was making meals for his relatives who beat and abused him for something he 1.) couldn't control and 2.) didn't even fucking know about.

'Harry hunting' was a sport that his own cousin started with a bunch of other obese children FOR NO REASON AT ALL.

could you even imagine being a child and just wanting to be held when your knees were bleeding and your hands were scraped. and just wondering what you did wrong. wondering why these people who were suppose to love you just hated you so much. Harry didn't get any love. he didn't get anything period.

and on top of all of that, he has to find out from a complete stranger that his parent's didn't actually die in a car crash, but were instead war heroes who died in hopes that their little boy would grow up and live a happy life.

"oh, and you're a murderer Harry, and if the dude you killed (who also is your parent's murderer ;)) comes back, you're gonna have to trust a prophecy you know nothing about and kill again, all for a world you also know nothing about"

this poor child hates his family so much that he willing goes with a half giant to get on a train and step into a world that just gawks and stares at him the whole time, thanking him for something he doesn't even remember doing.

then, instead of spending the next seven years having fun and FINALLY getting to be a child and just Harry, he goes through what can only be described as the most traumatic experience ever.

killing a man with his bare hands, getting turned on by everyone and accused of being something he is not, being chased down by a killer snake and finding out that he had been manipulated for a great portion of the school year by a book, being chased by a mad man who helped Voldemort kill his parents, finding out he has a godfather who within a few years time is ripped away and thrown into the Veil, being entered into a tournament in which children who had had even more training than Harry still died, having everyone turn on him AGAIN, this time including his best friend, he wasn't believed and ignored for so long- and i can't keep explaining what all he went through because it all is just down hill from 4th Year on.

all of this to say, HARRY DID NOTHING WRONG and these grown adults thought it would be okay to abuse his ignorance, teach him nothing, and willing sacrifice him to the darkest wizard ever just to save themselves. Harry didn't own anyone anything except for the few people that actually tried to help him.

he was ready to die. why though? why did he do it for them, for the people who turned on him time and time again, and the people who stood aside while he just suffered. i know he loved them, but i just can't fathom how he was just a boy and the weight of the world was always on his shoulders and no one seems to want to talk about it.

i'm depressed now. thank you for coming to my TED talk, good night.

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obsessed with the fact that tom riddle's three career plans were shop assistant, teacher, or murderous fascist dictator.

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When Tom fell in love with Harry, he thought he had fallen ill

But when Harry fell for Tom, he thought he'd gone mad

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i love the whole "tom riddle was hot" "tom riddle was so charming" "tom riddle was perfect" thing that a lot of fics got going on, but i would also like to take a moment for everyone to remember that tom was a fucking nerd.

it's no wonder it took him so long at Hogwarts to get the Slytherin's on his side when my boy went about scribbling in his diary and sketching skulls. he was emo and his best friend was a snake that his great great great + granddaddy left for him.

he had it out for an old man who fed everyone lemon drops and wore the most outrageous robes and later a twelve year old boy after tom became the child therapist to an eleven year old girl.

he literally fashioned himself a new name out of his old one when over half the kids at my school wouldn't be able to tell you what an anagram even is.

he got a whole ass award for being a tattletale and was a teachers pet. man was a genius, yes, but he was also dork who liked to hide out in a chamber only accessible through the girls bathroom and and called his little book club The Knights of Walpurgis.

i love him but occasionally i just have to laugh at him and think about how bbg he his.

everything is so fucking unserious.

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He's better then all of them.

He's known this since he was four years old.

Four years old and twitching his fingers, hoping that Elizabeth Swaths would drop her bowl of soup into her lap.

Four years old and watching how his twitching fingers had worked.

Five years old and running from the rocks that the other boys threw, some of the girls as well.

(Later, he would magically push all of those children into the small cave near the beach and watch them come out over an hour later, faces stained with tears and trousers stained with piss.)

Seven years old and being held down by dirty hands, forced to watch as Billy Stubbs crammed Tom's school books down the loo.

(Later, he would use his magic to hold Billy's head in that same loo until his heart beat was nearly lamented and his skin was white.)

Nine years old and finding himself once more on the floor, stilted in horror as two of the older boys dangled their spit over his face, eventually having to watching as it fell and graced the crease of his eye and his cheekbone, then soon slipping into his hair.

(Later, he would tell his magic to shove both boys down the stairs. He would leisurely walk down those same steps and think of an excuse for this freak accident. The accident also including their tongues mysteriously being carved out.)

It was all his revenge. Revenge for every rock thrown, every book drowned, and every filthy, disease ridden bit of saliva that had ever marred his face before.

He was better.

He had magic. He had brains. He had charm.

He had ambitions unmatched by any other.

He would do great things, regardless of virtue, of morals.

He had power.

And when he was eleven, being called a mudblood didn't change that. It never did, and finding out that he was actually a halfblood didn't change it either.

None of the others, regardless of wizard or muggle, understood the world in the way that he did and he didn't need them to. He would guide them. (And whether it was under an iron fist or as a merciful leader, he would let them decide that for themselves.)

He knew his plans were stone when he was fourteen and he was, once more, twitching his fingers, his teeth finally unclenching after a day of stress and exams as he watched a no name fifth year crumble to the floor, every other Slytherin too afraid to actually try and stop him.

He was a descendant of Salazar Slytherin himself at age fifteen.

He had achieved immortality at sixteen, efficiently defeating his demons and taking the name Voldemort in stride.

He had been turned away from the DADA position at eighteen and later went on long travels throughout his twenties.

He raised Hell at forty-three, now birthing the first Wizarding War into the world.

He then, after years of being the strongest, the greatest, was more assured than ever that he would rule over England in the way that he knew was right. The way that he wanted to.

He was ruthless. He was a murderer. He was a fucking God.

Nothing and no one would stop him.

*

On July 31st, 1980, a boy with green eyes was born, his fingers twitching slightly.

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Tom was in his house again.

Today, unlike a lot of days, Tom had fucked up.

He had closed the cabinet door that Harry had left open earlier that morning.

He had straightened out the rug that Harry had tripped over on his way out the door just hours ago.

And on top of everything, there was that feeling.

It was a feeling that always accompanies being in the presence of Tom Riddle. Sometimes it felt like eyes on his back or a crick in his neck. It was a good feeling sometimes, but in the house calls that Tom made, the ones like this one where Tom would invited himself in unannounced, Harry liked the feeling even more.

Harry walked the length of his foyer, his eyes carefully tracing the staircase leading up to the second floor. Tom always favored hiding upstairs at times like these. He said it had a more 'dramatic' effect. 'Tom, you psycho, breaking into my house isn't going to make you look any better in my eyes.'

A couple of feet from behind, a small ring sounded out, something small hitting the floor followed by footsteps from somewhere above his head.

A key.

Ton has thrown his damn key at him.

Harry vividly remembers giving it to Tom when they had first started dating. And then they broke up. A brake up that Tom had refused to acknowledge. And if Harry had been charmed enough to just let him keep coming into his house like this without calling the police, then, well, what was he suppose to do?

'This is childish, Tom, come down stairs or I'm keeping the key this time!'

Nothing. Then a door slamming shut.

This bitch.

Before he went upstairs, Harry managed a walk to his kitchen where he threw open all of his cabinet doors and then made his way back to the door, where he fully flipped the damned rug over.

The he set his way up to the second floor.

All of the doors were closed, another sign of Tom's presence.

'I know that you're here, Tom, why bother hiding?' Harry already knew why though.

'It's more fun this way, dear. Wouldn't you agree?' Tom's voice sounded out from Harry's bedroom.

Figures Tom would be hiding in there.

Harry walked to the door and laid a hand against the wood. 'Damn you, Tom.'

When he pushed it open, he, to no one's surprise, found Tom.

The man in question was sitting on his bed, one of Harry's pillows was being squeezed to his chest and a spare pair of Harry's glasses was resting on top of his head, pushing his curls away from his face.

'My beautiful Harry, how are you this fine afternoon?' Tom was smiling and Harry found himself being a little more than upset that he liked how much Tom's left canine was slightly crooked inwards.

'I'm just peachy, shitface. And yourself?'

'Better now that you're home, love.'

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As the professor continued to spout information that everyone in the class would forget within the hour, Harry stared at Riddle.

He wasn't shy about the intensity at which he viewed the older boy, and to be fair, Riddle stared back just as much.

Their eyes just seemed to gravitate to one another.

Harry could vividly remember the other day at dinner. Riddle had been sitting at the Slytherin's table, Harry at Gryffindor's, and although both of them had been surrounded by large groups of people, and the Great Hall was louder than ever, Harry Potter saw nothing but Tom Riddle.

It was a painful thing, the beauty that Riddle was.

Sometimes Harry didn't think it was fair that the boy had been gifted such looks and then threw it back in Merlin's face while on his quest for immortality. But that was Voldemort, and this was Harry's Riddle, here and now, who had yet to lose his looks and seemed to know that he was beautiful.

And what was Harry to do but stare.

He now had a better view of the boy then what he had in the diaries memories and Harry planned on abusing the new angles that were on display.

Every since he got thrown back into the past, Harry had given up on trying. Trying life, trying school, and trying to care. Being the chosen one came with a cost, and Harry found that it costed him his concerns.

Now, he was in a time where no one knew him and he was free to make his own decisions. And one of these decisions, it seemed, was to become as obsessed with Tom Riddle as Voldemort had been with Harry.

The insanity of it made Harry wheeze.

Regardless though, he found himself trailing after the older boy when class was finally dismissed, not really knowing where he was or why he was following him.

After passing many other students and a great deal of abandoned classrooms, Riddle finally stopped moving. Slowly, the boy turned around, an amused gleam shadowing his eyes.

"You are aware that what you are currently doing could be considered stalking, yes?"

"What?" Harry answered confused.

"This," Riddle gestured outwards, "following me around everywhere like you have nothing better to do."

"I don't have anything better to do."

Riddle paused for a moment, "Are you completely sure, Harry? We did just get an essay assigned for Transfigurations. Or were you not paying attention?"

Harry was aware that that was Riddle informing him the he knew Harry had been staring at him.

'Good,' Harry thought, 'Riddle should pay just as much attention to me as I do to him.'

"Umm, no. I really wasn't paying attention. I was actually looking at a rat in the classroom."

Irritation joined the amusement.

"Pardon? What did you just say, Harry?" Riddle spoke.

"Nothing. Would you like to work on that essay with me, Riddle?"

The boy contemplated that question for a moment. Then, straightening his bag on his shoulder, he came to a decision.

"Fine, but you do not touch the parchment and I make the final call on what is written."

"Deal," Harry smiled, mostly because when Riddle tried to be all controlling, he got this little look on his face that Harry found adorable.

"Deal." Riddle began walking past Harry and towards the library. When he pasted, he looked down at Harry with a challenging glint in his eyes, and maybe, just maybe, something a little bit fond.

Harry, retracing his steps from earlier, followed him blindly.

As he did, Harry thought, 'It really isn't fair how pretty Tom Riddle is.'

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Tom Riddle did not believe in love or attraction.

Everyone around him, whether at the orphanage or at Hogwarts, seemed completely entranced by the prospect of loving another human being. Why? Tom simply could not deduce. Out of all of the things he could understand, attraction simply was not one of them.

*

After a horrific two months at Wool's, Tom could confidently say that he was happy to be back in the safe arms of Hogwarts. A place where no bombs were falling and no children were asking for a hug. The world was right again.

Except it was not. Tom glanced up at Malfoy from the book he had been reading. The blonde headed boy had been animatedly droning on about his summer when he suddenly stopped, this having been the thing that had grasp Tom's attention.

Malfoy was gazing out of the compartment window with wide eyes and an odd look on his face. Tom followed his line of sight.

It was a boy.

He was sitting in the compartment across from theirs, staring out of the window, head only slightly turned towards them, just enough for Tom to see his face.

Dark brown hair, almost black, fell in unruly curls around circular lenses that glared in the daylight. Tom could not make out the boys eyes, but could view the rest of his face.

'He has pretty lips,' Tom thought. Then he momentarily paused. He had never considered anyone to be pretty before, let alone their lips.

He pulled his gaze away, slightly startled, and turned to look back at Malfoy. The boy still had that look about him.

"He's got quite a fetching face, does he not?" Malfoy murmured.

Black, having also stopped his actions to stare at the boy, quickly agreed.

'Is that it?' Tom wondered, 'Is that why Malfoy had that mien? Because he fancies the boy looking out of the window?'

Tom looked back at him, having gathered that the raven haired boy now had the sole focus of the group.

Just then, that same boy turned his attention away from the window and directly at Tom.

'Oh' Tom thought, 'He does have quite a fetching face, but his eyes, well they have to be the same color as the killing curse.'

The boy glared at Tom as soon as their eyes met. He seemed to be grounding his teeth and harshly clutching his seat.

'How peculiar. Have I done something to offend him? Not likely. I would not harm someone so pretty and forget the event.' Tom smirked because, well, the boy was very pretty.

Tom watched as he sprung up from his seat and opened his compartment door. For a moment he seemed to be caught infront of Toms own door, possibly trying to make a decision. Malfoy seemed joyful at the thought of the raven coming inside.

But he did not.

He turned sharply to the left and stumbled his way to the loo.

'What was that?' Tom wondered 'More importantly, who was that?'

Tom turned his head to look out of the window when he pieced together that the boy would likely not be coming back to his compartment.

In his reflection, Tom realized, he had the same besotted look upon his face as Malfoy.

'Wait? What?'